Agnes and the Atmospheric Exit

Agnes hummed a jaunty little tune as she considered Mr. Henderson. Or rather, what was left of Mr. Henderson. The family had requested an open casket, a decision Agnes suspected they'd made before Mr. Henderson had, shall we say, *expressed* his final wishes via several weeks in a swamp. "Optimistic bunch," she muttered, adjusting her mask. "Like trying to reassemble a particularly stubborn jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces missing and a distinct aroma of disappointment."

She poked gently at a particularly spongy section. "Honestly, Mr. Henderson, a bit of decorum. Did you have to go out *quite* so... atmospherically?" She sighed, reaching for her special blend of floral air freshener and industrial-strength disinfectant. "And they wonder why I'm single. It's not exactly 'come hither' when your work clothes smell faintly of formaldehyde and existential dread."

Agnes paused, a small smile playing on her lips. "Still, at least you're quiet. Most of my clients are. Except for that one time with Mrs. Gable's pacemaker... that was a bit of a jump scare. Literally." She chuckled, picking up a specialized tool. "Right then, Mr. Henderson. Let's make you look presentable. Or, at the very least, less like a forgotten science experiment. For the sake of your loved ones, and my lunch."