There is a bucket. It sways above your head like the mouth of a god. You are on Angelwood's best stage, and they are cheering for you, calling you their Queen, their Prom Queen. And you are dead soon. It's Prom Day. The metal bucket is swaying. Over you. Drenching your white pristine dress in guts and gore red. They aren't cheering anymore. They're gasping. But not screaming: oh, no, not in respectable Angelwood. God. You didn't think a pig's intestines could feel so cold. You are dead when the bucket falls — crushes your skull — caves you open — drenches you and drenches you, drowns you, fells you and kills, kills, kills you. And the last thing you see --- Is their eyes.