The Enthusiastic Undertaker

Bartholomew "Barty" Blackwood, proprietor of "Blackwood & Sons, Est. 1888 (We've Been Dying to Meet You)," wasn't like other funeral directors. While most exuded a somber professionalism, Barty possessed an almost theatrical zeal for the departed. "Ah, Mrs. Henderson," he'd declare, gazing at a recently deceased client with the same admiration a sommelier reserves for a fine vintage, "what a magnificent shade of pallor! A connoisseur's corpse, if I ever saw one."

His consultations with grieving families were legendary. "Now, for Uncle Reginald," he'd begin, flipping through swatches of satin casket linings, "do we envision a 'Restful Raspberry' interior, perhaps a 'Celestial Sapphire'? Or, for the truly adventurous, our new 'Everlasting Emerald,' which truly brings out the subtle greens in post-mortem skin." He'd then lean in conspiratorially. "And let me tell you, his rigor mortis is setting in beautifully – perfect for that contemplative pose you mentioned, dear sister."

One time, a new intern, young Timothy, fainted during an embalming demonstration. Barty merely tutted. "Such a delicate constitution! Reminds me of old Mr. Finch, who keeled over just last Tuesday during his morning constitutional. Though, I must admit, Mr. Finch possessed a far more interesting array of internal organs. Timothy, my boy, you must learn to appreciate the artistry. Every body tells a story, and it's our privilege to ensure their final chapter is, shall we say, utterly 'to die for'." He'd then offer Timothy a calming cup of lukewarm tea, brewed, as per Barty's habit, with a rather unsettlingly dark and woody aroma. "It's a special blend," he'd wink, "helps with the... 'settling'." Timothy never touched the tea.