The Barrow

Okert wasn’t a particularly fascinating man. His life was actually very ordinary by general standards. Except for his near manic obsession with his barrow. Yes, his barrow. An old wooden cart that he used to carry around his most treasured possession. His colleagues became accustomed to him lugging his wheeled wooden treasure chest with him wherever he went and even put up with his occasional demand for good parking space for it. The only problem, besides the rancid stench, was the skin slippage evident on the severed head perched atop the pile of limbs that used to be his wife.