The second guard steps closer to the iron bars for a better view of the Wax-Man, who sits motionless on the desk’s attached stool, his ass barely clinging to the seat. His legs are stretched out under the desk, but with toes touching the floor, as if his ankles were snapped.

His head is drooped toward the desk, with just an oddly bent arm wedged between his cheek and the desk’s cold metal surface. While his stringy gray mop of hair covers most of his dry, cracked, chalky white face, his glazed-over, wide-open eyes and creepy, unmoving grin are still visible.

Looking closely, the second guard finds the Wax-Man’s only detectable sign of life – a middle finger on his hand behind his head, that twitches slightly as it taps against the metal surface of the desk’s top.