Her legs. Boa legs. A belt of legs. A belt around his neck. Where her legs used to sit. Where children were supposed to ride. Where the windpipe constricts. Restricts. The paramedic who revives him will call it a homemade noose. She will call it typical. He will become a comedian. He will make a joke about it. Something about his neck being thicker than her waist. Something about her leaving the belt when she moved out. Something about experimentation. Asphyxiation. And then he will make a joke about her legs. And a snake joke. And one about children. The jokes will be epic. Other comedians will do covers of them. He’ll have imitators. Impersonators. His most popular show will be titled No One Isn’t a Comedian. Because audience members will be invited on stage to tell his jokes. No one won’t be there. She will be there. Her legs over the back of the seat in front of her (a child in that seat). A belt tattooed on her neck. She’ll be one of the joke tellers. She’ll fuck up the punch line. He’ll notice the tattoo on her neck is a snake. He’ll punch the snake in the apple in its mouth. Her windpipe will constrict. Restrict. The audience will think it’s a joke. No one won’t laugh. There will be covers. He will be the father of snuff comedy. He will eventually hang himself with a microphone cord noose. No one won’t make a joke about that.