The Splintered Smile

Mortimer "Morty" Grave hummed a jaunty tune, meticulously dabbing at a particularly stubborn patch of... well, *splinters* on what used to be Mr. Henderson's chin. "Remarkable resilience, wasn't he?" Morty mused, nodding towards the general vicinity of the deceased. "Fell into a wood chipper, they said. Most chaps would just... give up."

Penny, his new intern, looked greener than a freshly mown lawn. "Give up? Mr. Grave, he's in seventeen distinct, biodegradable sections! We're practically sweeping him into a dustpan!"

Morty tutted, adjusting his spectacles. "Details, Penny, details. Think of the ecological footprint! Hardly any need for a large casket, just a tasteful urn for each... *assembly*. And imagine the savings on cremation fuel! We're practically offering a bespoke, pre-packaged scattering service." He gestured with a tiny trowel. "Look at this fellow here," he said, indicating a particularly well-preserved ear. "Still perfectly capable of hearing all the wonderful things his loved ones will say. A true listener, Mr. Henderson was. Even in... *pieces*."

Penny pinched the bridge of her nose so hard it turned white. "He's not listening, Mr. Grave. He's a bag of... organic mulch, and that ear is currently resting precariously on what I believe is his tibia."

Morty chuckled, his eyes twinkling over his surgical mask. "Ah, but the family won't know that. We simply position the best bits strategically. A bit of wiring, a dash of industrial adhesive, and *voila*! A man who truly gave his all. And think of the conversational icebreakers at the wake! 'Remember when Uncle Bernard fell into a wood chipper and became the life of the party?' Priceless." He winked conspiratorially. "Plus, think of the upsell opportunities for novelty keychains. We could make a fortune with tiny, commemorative wood chips."