The Perils of Post-Mortem Petunias
Bartholomew wasn't a murderer by trade; he was more of a 'things just happen' kind of guy. And 'things' had definitely happened, currently occupying his bathtub and considerably less alive than last Tuesday.
His first attempt at solving this rather… 'inert' problem involved a shovel, a moonless night, and his prize-winning petunias. He'd barely broken ground when he realized two things: one, the soil was far too soft, making a proper burial less of a grave and more of a muddy suggestion; and two, the neighborhood watch cat, Chairman Meow, was staring at him with an unnervingly judgmental gaze. The deceased, he noted, seemed to be holding its breath. Which, technically, it was.
Next, a trip to the local butcher. 'Just wondering about jointing a particularly stubborn ham,' Bartholomew stammered, avoiding eye contact. The butcher, a man whose forearms resembled small oak trees, merely grunted, brandishing a cleaver the size of a small surfboard. Bartholomew purchased the cleaver, along with an uncomfortable feeling that he'd just been profiled.
Back home, the cleaver proved disappointingly ineffective. Turns out, 'rigor mortis' isn't just a fancy Latin phrase; it's a solid, unyielding reality. He ended up with a slightly dented bathtub, a very blunt cleaver, and a newfound respect for the structural integrity of the human femur. A bone saw, he mused, might have been a better investment.
His final brilliant idea struck him during a commercial for oven cleaner: cremation! He wrestled the 'problem' into the industrial-strength oven in his garage. An hour later, the garage smelled vaguely of burnt hair and regret, the oven was irretrievably ruined, and the 'problem' was merely… crisped.
Defeated, Bartholomew slumped onto his sofa. The deceased, still somewhat intact and now slightly smoky, seemed to mock him from the bathtub. Perhaps, he thought, the best solution was the simplest. He put on a podcast about competitive eating, grabbed a fork, and began to contemplate the sheer volume of Mrs. Henderson’s annual ‘Mystery Meat’ bake-off entries.