Shat His Heart out.

This piece came out of a high, late-night spiral — A friend told me about someone he knew: a guy who overdosed on snow and passed away mid-defecation. Stroke hit him while he was alone in the bathroom, pants down, body frozen in one final grotesque clench. By the time they found him, it was too late — a literal crappy situation.

At first, I laughed — hard. The absurdity of it was impossible to ignore. But beneath the humor was something disturbingly poetic: the raw, undignified truth of death catching us in our most human, most helpless moments.

I imagined it all through the chaotic, splattered lens of Ralph Steadman — jagged ink, anatomical distortion, and surreal exaggeration. In the corner, a Khomeini look-alike appears, holding a traditional water vessel, as if to ritually cleanse the mess. But even he can’t wash this one away. It's a twisted purification scene gone wrong — as if the filth isn’t just physical, but deeply symbolic, embedded in the whole damn system.