The Mortician, the Corpse, and the Inseparable Gnome

Bartholomew 'Barty' Butterfield, mortician by trade, was having a rather vexing Tuesday. It wasn't the rigor mortis, which was always a bit of a wrestle, nor the pungent aromas that occasionally wafted from the cooler. No, it was Mrs. Higgins. Mrs. Higgins, now decidedly less lively than she had been, had somehow, in her final moments, managed to secure a death grip on a particularly garish garden gnome. Barty had tried everything: gentle persuasion, increasingly less gentle persuasion, a crowbar (discreetly, of course), and even a quick Google search for 'post-mortem gnome extraction techniques.' Nothing. The gnome, a porcelain atrocity with a chipped hat and a leer that seemed to mock Barty personally, remained firmly clasped. 'Honestly, Mrs. Higgins,' Barty muttered, tugging again, 'did you really need to take Reginald with you? He's probably quite happy in the petunias.' He sighed, eyeing the embalming fluid. 'Alright, Reginald,' he conceded to the gnome, 'looks like you're coming for the ride. Just try not to hog the casket.' He paused, then added, 'And for God's sake, don't you dare chip the varnish.'