|Image courtesy of John Boyer|
Cobham West had the look of a weasel about him, albeit a well fed and self satisfied weasel. His naturally thin features had filled out as a result of the high life he’d been living for the last few years and it made him look slightly wrong, like a bad photoshop of himself. He took the towel from the stage hand and mopped the back of his neck as he left the stage, the applause of the credulous still ringing out. Always leave them wanting more he had been told, and he always did. Not a dry eye in the house by the time he’d finished his show. The living consoled with messages from their departed loved ones, words of wisdom passed on from the great beyond, a few cryptic messages of uplifting import to inspire the world toward blah blah blah. It had been a good show.