A most remarkable autopsy.

The procedure had been what many a medical doctor might have labelled ‘textbook’, all the way from the first incision, right up until the chest cavity. It was around here that things got interesting.
Before that skin had behaved as skin and was cut by the sharp things doctors play with. The lower intestinal organs had all performed their parts in this play perfectly: arriving on queue and saying their lines like they were no longer just in a 5-12 year old children’s production of Oliver, that no one was watching. They were on Prime Time and had an audience that cared and well paid parts in adverts where looking and behaving like real organs was what was needed of them and that was what they had done.
Their agent was smiling himself to sleep every night on a bed of blood money.
But that was just the lower intestines.
‘What about the rest of it?’
‘Of him?’
‘Of her’ ?

It was a him. He was the king of rock and/or roll when he was alive and still had a huge fan base of people who believed he wasn’t dead despite the current autopsy and all the photographic evidence and other evidence to the contrary.
Some people are crazy; they believe in things even if they make no sense in this world.
CRAZY.

He was the king of rock and/or roll and he had perfectly choreographed innards right up to his solar plexus which is when shit got weird:
His chest cavity was not full of lungs and hearts and rock and/or roll. Not at all.

When he got there after examining the lower body while trying to watch his shows, the coroner was heard to speak: ‘Jerry… come have a look at this’. He was not talking about his shows.
And his friend Jerry, who was not a medical doctor for people who had already passed away but was for some reason in the morgue at this time. His friend Jerry was heard to say: ‘Wow’.

That might not sound like much, but if I told you that that ‘wow’ was because of what he saw where the heart and lungs and other medical/life type organic devices should have been, then maybe you’d agree?

Let me:

Jerry, for all his non-life-medical expertise was more than suited to the diagnosis of the cause of death of the king of rock and/or roll; it was well within his area of life-knowledge.
‘That’, said Jerry, who was not intentionally drawing out his diagnosis for suspense. Not. One. Bit.
‘That, is… odd’.
John looked confused — that’s the coroner — he wasn’t sure what Jerry’s job was. But he couldn’t argue with him.
‘I think’, spake John, ‘that one is off of his last album’.
Jerry concurred, and, pulling out the long sheet of paper an holding it up to the light, started to hum:

‘Hmm hmmm hmm hmm hmmmmmmm
Hmm hmm hmm Hmm Hmmmmmmm
Hmmm hmm hmmh mh mhmmm hmm Hmm hmmm hmm hmm hmm’.