It's a cold, metal table and it's icing his back. There's no circulation; there's no blood, except for in his black fingertips and deep purple elephant ears. All that mattered is taped down and glued shut: his bright blue, enchanting eyes, his dinosaur teeth rimmed with metal, his heart that lapped up blood steadily for decades. There's nothing but a casing, a void, a volume, filled with embalming fluid. A body suffering of rigamortis. A cold, naked, hard body. A patriarch that ruled over 4 houses, that sat at the head of the table each night with a piece of buttered bread beside his meal, now lying on his back with nothing real left in him.
A good man died this day.
