The Last Word, and It's About Mildred

Agnes adjusted her spectacles, scrutinizing the spreadsheet on her laptop. "Coffin, mahogany, polished to a mirror sheen, not that ghastly matte finish Mildred chose. Honestly, did she think 'rustic' was a suitable aesthetic for eternal slumber? The woman had no taste, even in death."

Agnes wasn't dying, not imminently anyway. But one couldn't be too prepared for the inevitable grand exit, especially when there was a neighborhood reputation to uphold. Her funeral wouldn't just be a send-off; it would be a posthumous masterclass in elegant superiority, a final, definitive mic-drop in the perpetual rivalry with Mildred next door.

The music selection was crucial. No dreary hymns or tear-jerking ballads. "Something... uplifting," she murmured, typing furiously. "Perhaps a jaunty polka, or 'Another One Bites the Dust.' Irony, darling, is a lost art."

The eulogy instructions were particularly detailed. "Under no circumstances is Brenda from book club to speak. She'll only drone on about my impeccable rhubarb pie recipe, completely missing the point. The point being, of course, that I lived a life of discerning taste, unlike *some* people who think beige is a personality trait." A subtle dig at Mildred, of course.

Her grand finale, Agnes mused, would be a spectacle of controlled theatricality. The floral arrangements? "Orchids, naturally. None of Mildred's pathetic carnations, wilting like her ambition." The catering? "Tiny, exquisite quiches, not those industrial sausage rolls that always felt vaguely accusatory."

And the seating chart for the wake? "Mildred, of course, must be placed directly opposite the largest portrait of me, taken during my prime, looking particularly radiant. I want her to have a commanding view of what she's missed." Agnes smiled, a glint in her eye. Death, it seemed, was merely the ultimate opportunity for one-upmanship. And Agnes, even in her absence, intended to win.