"Newfangled Motor Contraption Claims First Victim"

—Die Ingolstadt-Zeitung

It is a wonder he even fits on the slab,

he is so huge and gangly; and

while most of the debris

from the collision has been removed

in the preliminary cleanup,

there are still pieces of metal

embedded in his neck.

About his body, beneath a lividity

that seems to defy gravity (more gray

than blue, and universally distributed),

a broad scourge of stitches runs from

head to heel, yet are not battlefield silk.

Interestingly as well, his penis seems already

to have suffered partial decomposition,

rot-soft, like an eel left too long

in a summer creel.

His papers, however (if not forged

or stolen), proclaim him to be old Europe;

a baron's son if you can believe it,

but it is still hard to imagine him in a

beer garden somewhere, singing lieder

beneath the shadow of the Alps,

attempting to seduce a local fräulein

or two (although this might explain

the French gout).

How he managed to evade conscription

into the Kaiser's army is probably

a tale in itself; the leverage of his father's

connections or money; or perhaps he was

simply bereft of mind. The burgomeister's

report claims he was stumbling about

the lane out near the graveyard when

he met his ill-fated end, in all likelihood

besotted. Laboring nearby, the sexton

wanted to fetch a priest, but feared

doing so would only further damn

the wretch, his last words profaning

not only God, but his mother,

both of whom, he apparently believed,

had abandoned him.

The driver of the automobil, one Victor

F______, was shaken, but largely unharmed.

While remorseful, he also vowed he would

continue to pursue his new "hobby," no

matter how dangerous or life-threatening

to the rest of mankind; this, in his

opinion, was how progress worked—

despite the roadblocks, one Promethean

spark at a time.