They are made from texas-muffin tin sized chocolate cakes- fluffy, dark and studded with chocolate chunks. You then shape pairs of the cakes into a roughly oval anatomical heart-shape (see the picture with the cakes on top of the fondant), stick them together with smears of smooth chocolate buttercream and wrap the red fondant up and around the them, molding out arteries at the top...
When staff finally took Rainey out of the stall, his skin seemingly melted off — a condition known as “slippage” caused by prolonged exposure to water, humidity and the “warm, moist” environment, the autopsy reported, sources said.
Here are some clinical details about death by near-boiling:
After being removed from the shower, staff administered CPR, with one a nurse registering Rainey’s internal temperature at 102 degrees, well above the normal temperature of 98.6. The autopsy report states that 12 hours after his death, Rainey’s body still had a temperature of about 94 degrees.
And "[a]ccording to an inmate working as an orderly in the prison, Rainey could be heard screaming, 'I can’t take it no more, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.'”
The same inmate described something that sounds close to a torture chamber:
Harold Hempstead, an inmate-orderly who was in a cell almost directly below the shower... told investigators, including those with the Justice Department, that the rigged shower was used on several other inmates with mental illnesses to terrorize them and keep them in line. The plumbing was dismantled after Rainey’s death.
Remember that the war on drugs is terrible, a Gothic exercise: "According to court records, Rainey was serving a 2-year sentence for cocaine possession at the time of his death."
These aren't full readings, but impressionistic mixes, using excerpts from the stories to anchor audio brooding.
Get into your isolation tanks, at Matt Howarth used to say, and listen:
Madness rides the star-wind . . . claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses . . . dripping death astride a Bacchanale of bats from night-black ruins of buried temples of Belial. . . . Now, as the baying of that dead, fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings circles closer and closer, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnamable.