Larry Pillsbury was a wreck, and that’s putting it mildly. His face was nearly unrecognizable beneath streaked coats of dirt, with even the whites of his eyes shrouded by dangling unkempt hairs. His shirt bore the stench of death itself, and Jefferson wasn’t sure if the man’s hands were stained red by the iron-rich soil or by blood.

“Larry. Larry! Calm down.” Jefferson was trying to persuade the beleaguered mayor to breathe at a healthy rate. It was pointless. The pack of cigarettes in Larry’s front pocket throbbed visibly with every fervid heartbeat.

“Larry, just take a deep breath and tell me what’s got you so worked up. You hear me? Drink some more a’ that water.” Larry picked up the glass on the table and choked on a swallow; the glass fell to the floor with a crunch.

“Dead!”

“What?” asked Jefferson.

Larry’s eyes bulged. “Dead. Dead and buried! I done it!”

“Done what, Larry?”

“I done it!” Larry’s pulse accelerated. Gagging, he vomited all he had drank and fell dead himself, upon the broken glass.