Jelly, Rigor, and the Reaper's High-Five
“You get used to the smell,” Bartholomew 'Barty' Bumble declared, not unkindly, to the new intern, Agnes. “Or you don't. And then you usually quit.”
Agnes, whose face was a fascinating shade of puce, clutched a rather flimsy-looking surgical mask. They were currently attempting to prep old Mrs. Higgins, who, despite her advanced years, had clearly possessed a will of iron – and an even stronger rigor mortis.
“But... but her arm is sticking straight out,” Agnes stammered, gesturing towards Mrs. Higgins, who looked less like she was resting in peace and more like she was enthusiastically hailing a spectral taxi.
Barty sighed, a sound that conveyed decades of grappling with the deceased. “That's Mrs. Higgins's final act of defiance, I imagine. Her family mentioned she was quite the stickler for punctuality. Probably trying to flag down Charon.” He expertly applied a significant amount of pressure, and with a rather undignified *thwack*, Mrs. Higgins's arm relented. “There. Much better. Can't have her looking like she's about to high-five the reaper.”
Agnes visibly winced. “High-five the reaper?”
“Figuratively speaking, Agnes,” Barty clarified, adjusting his spectacles. “The point is, the family wants 'peaceful repose,' not 'enthusiastic semaphore.' Now, about Mr. Henderson from last week – lovely fellow, but he had a rather unfortunate incident with a lawnmower. His head, you see, was... well, let's just say it had an impromptu encounter with a spinning blade. Most people don't realize how much *jelly* is involved.”
Agnes took a shaky breath. “Jelly?”
“Oh yes. And the trick, Agnes, is not to think of it as a person, but as... a very, *very* complex DIY project. With a strict deadline and emotionally compromised clients. And sometimes, you just have to accept that some parts are beyond repair and invest heavily in a good scarf.” Barty paused, then added, “Or a rather fetching high collar. We're very good with accessorizing.”
He patted Agnes's shoulder. “Chin up, dear. Or rather, *their* chins up. It's all about presentation. We're not just embalmers, Agnes. We're dream weavers. We just happen to weave dreams from people who are, let's say, *permanently napping*.”
Agnes, still pale, managed a weak smile. “Permanently napping,” she repeated, the morbid humor finally starting to sink in, albeit faintly.
“Precisely,” Barty said, turning back to Mrs. Higgins, whose expression, he noted, now looked less like taxi-hailing and more like she was simply pondering the mysteries of the afterlife, or perhaps, what she'd left on the stove. “Now, about these eyelids...”