The half-abandoned town of Chrysler, Arkansas (population of 3), was swiftly decommissioned as I noticed a characteristic bright yellow birthmark on her hand. “You have to choose” — I said, “unavoidable and painful death, or decommissioning and relocation. You live in a charred shed anyway.”

Prince The Elephant caught steelpox in 1937. It was alone in its compartment, locked out, as the evil fungus was slowly and painfully turning its body into cast iron. Rusty but ornate, 19th century metal throne was there too. The Throne was talking to Prince. When it spoke, it could put its words into your head as commands, as if there were your own thoughts. It did it so authoritatively that it seemed like the language itself was different, but it wasn’t.

The throne was coercing Prince into fusing together, cast iron to cast iron. Every day we heard Prince’s screams as steelpox was mutilating its body, as well as awful banging as Prince was stomping on The Throne, trying to silence it. The Throne didn’t budge. It just kept talking. Over the course of four months, it won Prince over.
Prince’s final agony was unbearable. As its throat and eyes were ironified, [dream fragment lost].
French public was largely empathetic. Throne-Prince was definitely still alive, although differently.

The American public, however, nicknamed it The Iron Freak.