Agnes and the Afterlife's Aftermath

Agnes Prudence-Pristine considered herself a woman of impeccable standards. Her petunias bloomed with militaristic precision, her hedges stood at attention, and her life, frankly, was a perfectly manicured lawn. So, when Mr. Henderson, her next-door neighbor, finally kicked the bucket (a phrase Agnes found distressingly vulgar but apt), her initial reaction wasn't grief, but rather a mild annoyance. The paramedics had left tire marks on her verge. Unacceptable.

The real problem, however, began a few days later. Mr. Henderson, a man whose passion for oversized vegetables bordered on the obsessive, had quite literally succumbed in his greenhouse, amidst a particularly robust crop of prize-winning pumpkins. The delay in discovery, combined with an unseasonably warm spell, meant that Mr. Henderson was, shall we say, 'over-ripe.' And his pumpkins, bless their blighted hearts, were beginning to show an unnatural fondness for his decomposing person, their vines creeping with alarming alacrity. The smell, dear heavens, the *smell*. It wafted over Agnes's pristine petunias like a malevolent, organic cloud, threatening their very existence.

Agnes, a woman of solutions, not complaints, decided a practical approach was necessary. Conventional disposal was slow, bureaucratic, and involved far too many forms. She simply couldn't wait. Recalling a documentary on sustainable gardening, and noting the astonishing fertility surrounding Mr. Henderson, an idea blossomed. With a shovel, a wheelbarrow, and a surprising amount of fortitude (and a gas mask she usually reserved for particularly virulent rose black spot), Agnes spent a rather productive afternoon. By sunset, Mr. Henderson, his prize pumpkins, and the offending aroma had all been neatly 'recycled.' Her petunias, she noted with satisfaction, looked particularly vibrant the following spring. 'A little boost never hurt anyone,' she mused, adjusting her gardening gloves. Especially not the deceased.