Mandrew Goblet sharpened the tumbler with his grindy teeth, placed it on the table, placed the side of his neck on the sharpened tumbler and pushed down. He died instantly, but by the time the body was discovered, the skin had grown over the tumbler, hiding it in his neck, and no-one could pinpoint the cause of death. (Skin continues to grow after people have died. The Hollywood myth of skeletons having no skin is a Hollywood myth, created by Hollywood, and it's nothing more than a myth).
"I don't know how he died," said the corona.
"Neither do I," said My Sharona.
"I'm not sure what I saw," said Thomas.
"My neck hurts," said Mandrew Goblet's mouth as the dead body gases pushed past his lips and tongue, making them move in a highly coincidental way.
"He's dead, so there's no point checking his neck at all, even though he says it hurts," said a doctor from a Cairo practice.
Mandrew Goblet's funeral was a solemn affair, as most funerals are. The clowns and the wet t-shirt costume were cancelled at the last minute after consultation with local community groups. The local community groups were drowned after consultation with people who didn't much care for them. The water used to drown the local community groups was pumped from their lungs and used to water the plants. The plants grew to be healthy, strong and poisonous; they proved popular with young children who enjoyed chewing them until they died of unknown causes.
"With all the children dying, this town's had its soul ripped out," said Mandrew Goblet's continually flatulent mouth. "They were our future, and now they're all dead, so we have no future. We can't afford to buy any more children. What are we going to do?"
"We could try drinking?" suggested Rummy Joe, the town drunk, who neither drank rum nor was called Joe, but the town elders (now deceased) had passed a bylaw making him change his name to something nice and quaint so people didn't focus on the unfortunate incident where he'd beaten his wife to death with a particularly tough wine bottle.
"We could try minking?" suggested Trapper Joe, the town mink farmer, who did drink rum, and was called Joe, and who also had beaten his wife to death with a particularly tough wine bottle, but also killed lots of animals so people just thought it was something in his nature, and thought it polite not to press him on it.
"I don't think either of those are particularly good ideas," said a high lease/sale lassie. "They won't get us any new children, and so the town remains soulless and futureless. All we can do is drink to forget."
"Forget what?" asked Rummy Joe. His last words.