Grave Doubts

Bernard "Bernie" Gravemaker considered himself a connoisseur of the deceased. Not in a creepy, taxidermy-in-the-basement way, but in a professional, "every cadaver deserves its best final ensemble" sort of way. His funeral parlor, "Eternal Rest & Beyond," was struggling, mostly because people kept having the audacity to die cheaply.

His latest client, Mrs. Agatha Periwinkle, was a challenging canvas. She'd requested, via a meticulously pre-written will, to be interred with her prize-winning collection of garden gnomes. All 347 of them. Bernie had tried to explain the practicalities – coffin size, weight distribution, the sheer *volume* of ceramic kitsch – but her nephew, a twitchy man named Nigel, was adamant. "Aunt Agatha loved her gnomes more than she loved oxygen, Mr. Gravemaker. It's in the will. Every last one."

Bernie sighed, calculating the structural integrity of his largest oak casket. "We'll need a reinforced base, and perhaps a staggered seating arrangement for the gnomes. The 'Hefty Horticulturist' model might just accommodate." Nigel nodded, wide-eyed.

Then there was the case of Mr. Henderson, a retired butcher who wanted to be vacuum-sealed and displayed in a walk-in freezer at his favourite deli. "He always said he wanted to be 'preserved for quality inspection'," his widow sobbed, clutching a side of beef. Bernie, surprisingly, managed to talk them down to a more traditional embalming, but not before suggesting a tasteful meat thermometer accessory for the deceased's lapel. "A subtle nod," he'd explained.

His greatest challenge, however, came from the estate of local eccentric, Bartholomew "Barty" Bumble. Barty had passed away mid-juggling act – flaming bowling pins, no less – and his will stipulated he be cremated *with* the still-smoldering pins. And then, his ashes were to be launched via a homemade trebuchet into his neighbor's prize-winning petunias.

Bernie stared at the scorched pins, then at the blueprints for the trebuchet, provided by Barty’s equally eccentric niece. "You understand this is… highly irregular?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level. "We're licensed for funeral services, not siege warfare."

"It's his dying wish, Mr. Gravemaker," the niece chirped, adjusting her steampunk goggles. "He wanted to go out with a bang, and a bit of horticultural vandalism."

Bernie ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Right. So, the deceased, flaming pins, trebuchet… and the petunias. Are we sure we can't just scatter him in a nice, quiet memorial garden? Perhaps one *without* legal repercussions?"

The niece shook her head vigorously. "Barty would haunt us. Horribly. And he was a very creative haunter."

Bernie considered this. He'd seen enough strange things in his profession to believe in the persistence of… intent. He imagined Barty's spectral form hovering over his perfectly manicured lawn, silently judging his lack of commitment to morbid pyrotechnics.

"Fine," Bernie said, pulling out his "Special Circumstances" ledger. "But I'm charging extra for the biohazard suit and the potential trespassing fines. And I get to choose the trajectory calculations. I always wanted to work with a trebuchet." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. In the world of the dearly departed, Bernie Gravemaker was slowly but surely, losing his mind. And finding his niche.