Somebody said let's get a picture, and this is what happened.
Look at him in front. The jacket is new. The sunglasses are new. He has been dead and reassembled since before the automobile, and he has decided that this year he is the coolest thing in the graveyard, and nobody has the heart to tell him the shades are a size too small.
Behind him, in order: the one who does the talking, the one who does the biting, the one nobody invited, and the fellow at the back who was told there'd be food.
Four hours they held that pose. Not one of them casts a reflection, so not one of them has the faintest idea how it came out.
Wait till they see.
