Barty's Lasting Impressions

Bartholomew "Barty" Gribble considered himself an artist, not merely a mortician. "Every body," he'd often declare to his bewildered intern, Percy, "is a blank canvas waiting for its masterpiece!" Percy usually just nodded, trying not to look directly at the canvas, especially when it was Mrs. Higgins. Mrs. Higgins, bless her recently departed soul, had been a woman of routine, beige cardigans, and an aversion to anything remotely exciting. Barty, however, saw potential. "She was dull in life, Percy," he chirped, adjusting a tiny sombrero on her head. "But in death? Oh, in death, she shall be *vivacious*!"

Percy choked on his coffee. "A sombrero, Mr. Gribble? Her family requested a dignified, open-casket viewing."

Barty tutted. "Dignified, yes, but dignified doesn't mean *boring*. Imagine! Mrs. Higgins, known for her prize-winning petunias, now embracing her latent Latin spirit! We'll call it 'Fiesta Forever!'" He gestured grandly at the deceased, who now also sported a sequined shawl and a rather large, slightly askew moustache drawn on with permanent marker.

The viewing was, predictably, not a success. The Higgins family, a stoic bunch, stared in stunned silence, then horror, then a kind of resigned bewilderment. Mrs. Higgins's son, a man who shared her penchant for beige, finally spoke. "Mr. Gribble," he whispered, his voice trembling, "my mother... she hated anything spicy. And she was allergic to sequins."

Barty beamed. "Ah, but now she's embracing new experiences! A journey beyond the mundane! A posthumous personality transplant!"

Later, as the family left in a huff, threatening legal action, Barty merely sighed contentedly. "Some people," he mused to Percy, "just don't appreciate art. But I daresay, Mrs. Higgins left quite the impression, wouldn't you agree?" Percy, scrubbing furiously at a sequin stuck to his own cardigan, could only agree that it was certainly *an* impression.