When you're rife with devastation, there's

When you're rife with devastation, there's a simple explanation. You're a toymaker's creation trapped inside a crystal ball. And whichever way he tilts it,

you dance the grotesque dance of life, a false smile painted on your face. Your sad eyes, little toy, speak the truth. Dance, little toy, dance! You have no choice.

For if you were to stop, you would hang there on your strings for an indefinite amount of time, lifeless. And you can't allow that thought into your little wooden head, can you?

the dummy's head slowly turned to face him. That toothless grin. Those arched eyebrows. Wearing his threadbare plaid suit that smelled of whiskey and the broken dreams of an era

. "It's been a long time bucko! Youse forgets your pal? Your friend?" The man responded. "TV replaced Vaudville. I had to work." The dummy glared, "Whose talkin?"

A woman passing by gave the man a strange look and he quickly hid the dummy away. He had always known his passion for ventriloquism would get him in trouble one day.

But he didn't know it would happen so soon. He thought about his past mistakes and shuddered. All the bodies he's buried... They've come back to haunt him. He ran inside and cried.

The trick for his alter ego was to find a body to bury alive that wasn't already dying too much. The real points came from how many years you cut a life short. The Dead Book value.

According to the Dead Book, a body having top value was…one exactly his age. He would fetch 500 points easy. Dejected, he entered the coffin and instructed the lid to be nailed on.