Tell me there's a morgue in your story?
Halloween, ya' know?
You asked for it.
A true story I haven't thought about in years.
New Year's Eve, 1971, I admitted myself to the Army hospital in West Berlin. Spent two months there, where they decided I was no longer fit for active duty, and sent me back to the States. I couldn't sleep for squat, and got to know the night staff of the hospital pretty well. OK, better than pretty well. They had some hash that really helped me sleep. One night, after a few of us toked up in an empty patient room (remember, this was an Army hospital (I loved those guys!)), one of them suggested to the others that a field trip was in order. They got all covered up in fatigue jackets and boots, but I had to go with my hospital jammies and slippers. We walked across the courtyard in a couple of feet of snow.
To the morgue.
OK, I'm started to freak out a bit. They said "no, wait!" Once inside, another key on the ring opened an unmarked door that revealed steps going down.
We went down...to a Nazi autopsy room! It was empty except for a large marble slab on a pedestal and a large painted swastika still on the wall.
And me in a hospital gown and slippers.
They all got a good laugh out of my discomfort.
I still got the best end of that deal, with them cutting me in on their nightly puff club.