Large (11"x14") and small (4"x6") art prints on fine art photographic giclee.
Wicker snorts. “Buried? Yeah, right. Little shit’s got a tomb, with all its special engravings and weeping angels and private fucking monthly concerts, performed by yours truly.” He tips the bottle back, a bitter curve to his mouth. “When I die, Father will probably dump my ashes into the sewer. Thank god. Can’t even die around here without having a schedule drawn up for you.”
