Ten cents and a femur bone

The price of a call to the afterlife is ten cents and a femur bone. Just so you know, I don’t make them rules. But I can tell you how to bend them a little. Nowhere in the admissions guidelines does it say whose femur it has to be. I’ve seen all kinds, animal, and human, and some are nastier than others. Let’s just leave it at that.
 
It’s tricksy business facilitating those calls. I’ve had people meltdown in more ways than I thought possible. I had one guy literally combust when he talked to his dearly departed wife. Combust! All his bits flew into the receiver and I can only assume that they ended up on the other side of the line surprising the heck out of his wife. That wasn’t my favorite day having to clean up the mess left on the mouthpiece.
 
Who am I? I’m the one who makes the appointments and collects the payments. Been here as long as I can remember. Decent hours and good healthcare.
 
What do I do with the bones? The femur bone goes to someone on the other side. I ain’t seen the person’s face and I don’t want to. Listening to his chainsaw voice once a month to settle the monies is more than enough. But I know I’ll see that face one day. When I’m the one on the other end of the line, I’ll see who belongs to that voice.
 
I ain’t looking forward to that day. No siree.