[Cohen, from the chest up, takes up most of the frame. He's covered in flecks of drying plaster, and stained with something brownish-red and something else that's sickly orange-yellow. What looks like slimy candle wax has left a sheen on his shoulder, hands and sleeves. It's cooled fat.
He's wearing a black and gold
rabbit mask. Behind it, his left eye is squinting and bloodshot.]
Attention, all who dwell in Wonderland!
[Oh boy. Cohen sounds pretty incensed.]
If anyone else should choose to tell me that death lurks over my shoulder--
[He tilts the wall comm's screen to the side, so that it takes in the life-sized plaster statue of a man that now stands in the middle of Cohen's room. The statue is posed with one arm raised, lifting a glass beaker. The upturned face has been given a long thin beak on its front and two frankly disturbing big buggy eyes on its temples. Plaster, blood and other mess is splashed on the floor around it.]
--let them know that I intend their doom to be the same as his.