Their eyes were stricken... despairing. The three men were not armed, loathing any kind of weapon, but Sheol nevertheless had her way with them. One dug his fingers into his eyes, wriggling them in as far as he could go until he dropped dead on the ground. Even then his fingers continued to worm. Another took a great stone from the ground, and beat himself over the skull with it. When he, too, dropped dead to the ground, his hand continued to smash it against his skull until the crackle of wet bone gave way to the dull thud of pounded meal. The third merely tore a wrist-thick branch from a sturdy bush and impaled himself on it. His body heaved up and down on the blood-soaked stick in a parody of love long after he had ceased to breathe.


Now, who agrees that this sounds wicked?