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Alone in the middle of the parking lot, in my future husband's white corvette with red leather interior, I called out for some kind soul to come and administer first aid. I could still hear a vague rattle emanating from his mouth. Seeing that no one was coming, I began to give him improvised mouth-to-mouth on his chapped lips.

However, I wasn't used to this kind of exercise, and instead of giving him a breath of life, my tongue got stuck in his dentures, which I had to pull out of his mouth. At this point, some firemen miraculously passing by, seeing me panic, stopped and one of them, hyper-muscular, hyper-hot, came to attempt an energetic cardiac massage. He was so forceful that his hands fractured poor Scott's ribcage and he died instantly.

Seeing me totally distraught and at the end of my rope, the firefighters from firehouse 108 in Old Las Vegas offered to let me spend the night there while I recovered from my strong emotions. They were very accommodating, seeing that I couldn't pour water from a boot. While Travis, the strapping hunk, gave me an ingenious relaxing massage, his colleague Bill prepared me a fricassee of mushrooms from the local Iceland. My benefactor was racking his brains to find an immediate solution to my money problem. And after a multitude of phone calls, he finally found who to send me to. A vague cousin of his who worked as a mortician on the other side of town. She owned a funeral home and was looking for someone to help her prepare the deceased. It wasn't fun-fun, as he told me, but it paid well and was available immediately. The next day I went for the job, where I met Rosie, a small, round, bubbly young woman from Puerto Rico who clearly didn't give a damn about the job she earned her living with. She immediately put me at ease and spent the whole day training me, explaining how to proceed with corpses, a real theory course with slides. That's what she called them, and that's what she asked me to call them, to keep an emotional distance from people I didn't know. She immediately asked me to prepare a guy who had died the day before. His family was coming in less than an hour for a final goodbye and a brief mass to be held here on the spot.

Rosie left me with it and went off to run an errand around the corner, she told me. Although she had explained to me how to prepare the dead man, I hadn't received any practical training. And the more time went by, the more I panicked at the idea of doing anything. So, ten minutes before the deadline, noticing that the guy had a long, beautiful head of hair, I made a surprising decision. I disheveled his hair, dressed him in a black latex jumpsuit that had been lying around, and equipped his hands with large pairs of scissors from the household gardening equipment to make him into Edward Scissorhands. My choice paid off in more ways than one, as it turned out that the gentleman in question was a movie buff, and a Tim Burton fan in particular. Delighted, the family warmly embraced me and presented me with several hundred-dollar bills to salute my audacity and for having given their beloved such a lovely send-off. Far more than the money earned, it was the joy of having been able to create some joy, at a hard and bitter time for families, and to transmit to them an ultimate image of joy and serenity, that filled me with joy. I was determined to do my job well, bearing in mind that I had come to the United States to get my hands on the man who had put me into sexual orbit over twenty years ago.

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