They'd brought back, for a change (or perhaps it was simply to create the situation below), beheading. Outrage! many cried, and barbaric! While a quiet few said "about time" But many were of the opinion that this could be A Good Thing They saw sudden, mortally proportioned death as an invitation to study the abyss if that was what it was It could very well be a rose garden, some would mention A chance to definitely and discretely define life To place a full stop at the end of one's final breath as if to say "There. My sentence in history has been written." One of these men (we'll call him Albert, his crime, if you can call it that, is of no consequence) was prepared for the event, but for one single thing. His legacy. There was no way, he was sure, that he could experience the remnants and the aftermath of his existence being, as he would be, quite quite dead. And so he came to realise that he must savour for himself and himself only what had now been determined as his last moments alive. He'd asked that his head be placed in a jar full to the brim with WHISKY. Partly "just in case" he would say and partly "to show that rogue Damien Hirst that being dead and in bits is no excuse not to do things in style" His head was placed under a shining blade the crowd (neither booing nor cheering) studied intently Albert and each other. Albert did not put on a show he remained quiet and thought to himself nothing Quickly, he thought, it can't be like this I can't end so quickly having learnt so little Think think think but of what? and as the blade came down his pnultimate thought (which he thought were his last) concerned the rather tricky 7 down in that morning's crossword Huh. He thought shrugging a shoulderless shrug How disappointingly apt.