The Scene: a mortuary van on the move, somewhere in outer-metropolitan Melbourne.
"This uniform business. The white shirts are a mistake. How are we supposed to keep them clean? It doesn't make any sense."
We have to look clean. White shirts look smart, respectable...
Unless we get messed up. Then we'll look like smart, respectable, homicidal maniacs.
They drive in silence for a time.
"We should be wearing black."
The Boss (horrified):
"Yes! Black from head to toe. Chisel-toe boots. Designer shades. All black, except for midnight-purple silk ties. Nick Cave meets The Shadows. Who says mortuary drivers can't be cool? And.....(she adds, pointedly).... black doesn't stain."
Shula is deeply satisfied by this combination of aesthetics and practicality. Inspired, she wanders happily, in her mind, through a world where ordinary people gape in awe and admiration at a Vision of Cool: the slow motion approach (to the soundtrack of something suitably Tarantino) of the impeccably shaded, retro-suited demi-gods who have come to take Grandpa downunder.
The Boss (patiently):
"Shula, we can't walk into someone's house wearing black. People will totally freak out. They'll think we're the Grim Reaper."
More silence, while Shula ponders this unwelcome snag in her Death Industry Makeover Plan. Then, in a sudden Flash of Realisation, she jabs a thumb towards the cargo in back and exclaims triumphantly,
"DUDE! What the Hell are you talking about?
We ARE the fucking Grim Reaper!"