Sean Bean got shot in the face. He had been at the pub and a row ensued over a woman, typical pub row stuff. Voices had been raised. Faces reddened. A glass fell to the ground and shattered. “Let’s take it outside, friend,” the other man had said, menacingly. Sean Bean didn’t say crap. Sean Bean didn’t blink or say crap or nothing. He just nodded his head. Kind of. Maybe not even. His head might have moved a tiny bit up and down, that is what some people who were there said later, but other people swore that Sean Bean’s head did not actually move at all. That he had simply continued to stare at the man, with the corner of his mouth spread in a tiny sideways grin, and that when the man stormed out of the pub, Sean Bean had followed him, still with that grin and without practically even responding basically, except in the response of following him out. In the street, things only got worse. The man pulled a gun and shot Sean Bean in the face. Ouch. The man stood over Sean Bean’s body and shot him three more times in the chest, shouting down at him, “what now?!” he was shouting. “What now, Sean Bean?!” But that was only the beginning.
The man chopped off both of Sean Bean’s legs and threw them down a sewer drain. He peeled the skin from Sean Bean’s body like an apple skin. He set his fingers on fire. He dipped each one of Sean Bean’s fingers in gasoline, and set them on fire. The woman who was at the center of this dispute–if it could even still be called a dispute at this point–stood in the doorway, her hands covering her face. The other man continued.
He drilled holes through Sean Bean’s body with an electric drill. He hammered nails into his eyeballs and poured acid into his mouth. The man broke a beer bottle and dug the raw end into Sean Bean’s palm. He cut out chunks of Sean Bean like Sean Bean cookies. He severed both of Sean Bean’s arms and tucked them in the sleeves of his own shirt and walked around going “Hahaha, I have Sean Bean arms! Look at me! Mr. Sean Bean Arms!” He tied Sean Bean’s body to a rocket and shot it up into space where it froze in the stratosphere and when the rocket fell back down to earth Sean Bean’s frozen body shattered upon impact. The rocket also blew up. He was charred and cracked and had no legs or arms.
“Hold him back,” Sean Bean’s friends told each other, wrapping their arms around Sean Bean to keep him from attacking this man and doing something he might later regret. And always with that grin. That grin!
The man chopped off Sean Bean’s head and rolled it down a bowling lane. He played volleyball with Sean Bean’s head and put it in a basket and carried it around in the basket like it was a fresh-baked loaf of bread. He stuck Sean Bean’s head on a stake and carried it through the streets, pumping it up and down like he was leading a parade. “BUM-BUM-DA-DUM!” he shouted, making his own parade music. The man boxed Sean Bean’s head in a cardboard box full of packing peanuts and sent it to the “Will It Blend?” guys with a note that said “Will Sean Bean’s head blend?” The “Will It Blend?” guys didn’t think it was funny, but they also don’t back down from a challenge. The thing about the “Will It Blend?” guys is that they don’t really know sometimes whether something will blend or not, and they’re not too worried about it either way, it’s just a fun way to publicize their product and also indulge in the childish enjoyment of destroying things. So, they put Sean Bean’s head in one of their industrial strength blenders and posted the results on YouTube. The answer: no. Sean Bean’s head will not blend. They mailed the head back to the pub.
At this point, the man had gone home. Even with expedited shipping, it was a couple of days later. “Wanker,” Sean Bean’s head said, eyeing the door. “Bloody wanker!” Then he ordered another drink.