made to slaughter

this 1953 tale from the crypt asks: "what could be worse than dying a hundred horrible deaths?"

(story by bill gaines and al feldstein, art by joe orlando)

'come and look at him!' the brothers cried, and they each took one of alice's hands, and led her up to where the king was sleeping.

'isn't he a lovely sight?' said tweedledum.

alice couldn't say honestly that he was. he had a tall red night-cap on, with a tassel, and he was lying crumpled up into a sort of untidy heap, and snoring loud — 'fit to snore his head off!' as tweedledum remarked.

'i'm afraid he'll catch cold with lying on the damp grass,' said alice, who was a very thoughtful little girl.

'he's dreaming now,' said tweedledee: 'and what do you think he's dreaming about?'

alice said 'nobody can guess that.'

'why, about you!' tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. 'and if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?'

'where i am now, of course,' said alice.

'not you!' tweedledee retorted contemptuously. 'you'd be nowhere. why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!'

'if that there king was to wake,' added tweedledum, 'you'd go out — bang! — just like a candle!'

— lewis carroll, "through the looking glass"