The prophet resembles a bioluminescent Steve Buscemi. His anatomy, two inches outside his photo in the yearbook, yields something corrugated. “Refreshments will be served after the singularity,” reads the caption.
Below is the photo of a ghoulish chimpanzee declaiming something homophobic in broken, stuttery chimpanzee language. “Man-made objects branched, as they could only have branched, and as indeed they must branch, at the turn of this century, from the past decade's Victorian upskirt.”
Almost prophetically – for levels spread in relation to their connection to doors and windows, not unlike the windows and doors the various mugs in the spooky yearbook seem framed in, depths; layered holes a singularity's grave-digging nail can easily plumb – excessive foreign bodies handicap and like birthday cake candles litter the toddler in the next photo.
“I brought the wart on my cheek back to life with a wrench,” boasts the lady in the next photo, “its lobes seemingly dropkicked by a sort of splay-toed messiah.”
The MRIs of today would strain over the many tiny fractures in the skin transplanted onto the photo in the left corner of the page in the yearbook and eclipsing the unknown presence underneath, twisting with the effort of maintaining a hold, the skin's tortured leather moreover beginning to slowly turn blue as well, as a result.
And the caption grants only this clue as to what's going on beneath the skin: “The sensations in my tentacles are being reversed by black magic. Healed, as when an infectious hunger strike reaches the twin yellow horizons of flesh-eating bacteria.”
Finally, just before the cadaver claiming to be frightened of air-freshener, there's a famous rock star – “Which radio DJ's jawbone pooped these parts?” In the pantheon of common gripes, his stands in the third row from the back.