The Mud Room

I hiked miles into the mountains to find the workshop of Elias, a sculptor whose hyper-realistic busts are coveted by the world's elite. The gallery was cold, but the hundreds of clay faces lining the shelves seemed to be sweating, filling the room with a wet, rhythmic squelching sound. I stopped in front of the bust of a famous, saintly philanthropist. His clay face was twisting in agony, the smooth forehead bulging outward, and thick, black bile was weeping from his eyes. "Did you use bad clay for this one?" I asked, covering my nose. Elias didn't look up from his carving. "The clay is perfect," he whispered. "But the man himself... he's currently in his basement, and he just picked up the hammer."