please don't yell.
camera pushes, low angle, into willaim bludworth, an african-american man, early 50's, dressed in dark suit and tie.
you'll wake the dead.
chemicals in the vascular flush create cadaveric spasm.
i know who you are. the mortician eyes alex, understanding. alex senses this and eases. clear moves toward tod's body, examining the neck area.
i crafted a reconstruction of the laryngeal prominence region with velvetone surgical wax and permaseal.
cuticle lacerations.
in death.
 there are no accidents. no coincidencess. no mishaps. and no.  escapes.
suicide. murder. plane crash. what does it matter? he was going to end someday. from the minute you're cut loose from the womb.  it's a one way ticket on a trip to the tomb.
you may not realize it, but we're all just a mouse that a cat has by its tail. every single move we make, from the mundane to the monumental.  the red light we stop at, or run; the people we have sex with, or won't with us; the airplane we ride, or walk out of.  is all a part of death's sadistic design leading to the grave.
if life is like a box of chocolates.  death.  death is like a big milton bradley game of "mouse trap." the day you're born is just the boot, hanging from the streetlamp, kicking the marble to get things rolling. growing up is only the marble rolling down the curving chute. you feel immortal having survived school, sex, drugs 'n' rock 'n' roll, but you've really only upset the big hand holding the steel ball that falls into the bathtub. marriage and kids and career seem to make it all worthwhile until the ball hits the see-saw and flips the diving man into the big barrel. in the old folks home or the hospital you just see the big cage rattling down until it captures.  the mouse. game over.
you already did that by walking off the plane. now you gotta out when and how it'll come back at you. play your hunch, alex. if you think you can get away from it. but beware the risk of cheating the plan, disrespecting the design.  could iniciate a horrifying fury that would terrorize even the grim reaper. and you don't even want to fuck with that mack daddie.
no harm. no foul.
camera pushes into the mortician, pleased the message has been recieved.
i'll see you soon.