Death was a blood-stained affair.
Over the years, the colour of his guillotine’s frame had changed. So many rolling heads conspiring to turn the once peanut-brown pine wood into a neck rest that now bore a distinct burgundy tinge. The condemned deserve better.
If Seth had been inclined to sentiment, it might have brought a tear to his eye. Instead, as a highly practical man, he set about staining the wood with leftover pancreatic intestinal fluid. There was a method to the madness, not to mention a sizeable amount of stain-removing enzymes.
It restored a measure of dignity, he thought.