Martin Luther King’s body now lacks its organs, they’ve been scooped out, replaced with hay and potpourri. The bones drilled at the joints so wires can be tied through, allowing articulation now his dessicated tendons are of no use. His skin is patched with leather in the places it has split, weathering and formaldehyde makes it hard to see the seams. String is looped around his limbs and head at various places, snaking up above the stage.

Jerkily he struts about the stage, dancing and parading about as he sings aloud his condemnation.

There was a crowd here once, raucous to hear how the rebels of today are of a different breed; evil, violent, uncivil, and unjust in their cause. But now it has thinned, scant collections of men in suits who stop by to cheer on their lunch break.

The marionette man looks upon his empty square, paper tumbling in the wind. He picks up his shovel, and with a sigh lopes away. There is much work to be done before his next show.