Angio

*Ching,* chimed a dropped golden coin; Angio's last moment played under the dead of night – a summoned mist swallowed the area. Amidst vague outlines, to and fro's, and chatter, a contraption tied the man's head onto a solid table, a lever turned at slow intervals – a plunger-like hat pressed, tightening by each shake of the lever. 

 'Why didn't they listen to me,' pressure increased, '-why didn't anyone want to hear what I said, why me, why not them. My lord,' an involuntary gasp escaped, cranial pressure amplified – the church used morbidly interesting ways of '-cleansing,' the unfaithful. One of bishop Greg's favorites was the head-crusher, a straight-to-the-point contraption.