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Eric Donovan Mitchell (the fourth) was an artist. No, an ar-teest! He had a vision, a skill beyond words and no one appreciated him. No one but his newest patron who so willingly, so generously gave him exactly what he needed to make his masterpiece.

The nine (two grown men - both blond with waist length hair; two grown women - both red heads with waist length hair; two boys exactly four foot tall with black hair to their shoulders; two girls exactly three foot nine inches with brown hair to their shoulders; one old man age fifty-one that looked exactly like his father had before he passed) sat in chairs behind him, strapped there with clamps on their wrists and ankles. They would be witness and a partner to his masterpiece.

He began by covering his canvas, leaned against the wall opposite them, in white primer. Art couldn't be perfect if the base was not clean. He followed this with long sweeping strokes of an eggshell blue. He didn't even wait for the first coat to dry before he was moving the old man across.

He was heavy, but the chairs had wheels and each person had been drugged to keep them from putting up too much of a fight. The old man would be the centerpiece. A Jesus allegory, nailed in a cruscifiction pose. He had to hold the man against the canvas with his whole body until the first nail was through the left hand and dug deeply into the wood beyond.

The old man had little energy to cry out, only able to produce a stream of tears that the Eric chided him for. His masterpiece did not call for a tear streaked Jesus allegory. Once the second hand was nailed and the man was secured, Eric went about cleaning those tears away.

Then he brought out his sculpting knife, sharpened to sculpt the only material worth sculpting. With a careful cut along the line of the old man's sternum, the artist began to pull the skin to one side. A Jesus allegory with butterfly wings made of the sins of flesh.

His masterpiece.