I can see it now; Jimmy staggers to bed one night, drunk on his own dementia, jabbering to himself about "fixing it" for a bunch of children. Neglecting to remove his crusty shell-suit, his cigar teetering dangerously over his bottom lip, he slips into a blissful state of pissed-up unconsciousness. A final murmur of "now then, now then" emerges from somewhere deep in his throat, causing the still-burning cigar to drop graciously from his mouth onto the nylon kindling of his shell-suit. Within seconds Saville is aflame, and the room fills with the acrid scent of hot skin bonding with melted nylon. He doesn't have time to scream.
Now, 'ow's about tha' then?
Predictor: Laura Swan, London
Mortality Status: DEAD
