From Milady 3000 by Magnus. https://www.lambiek.net/artists/m/magnus.htm

   I took both the birds out to the shed where we kept the apparati.  I put the carriers on a table, speaking in low tones to the injured creatures.  Then I picked up a plastic box with a lid and a brass fitting attached with heavy glue to the side.  I opened the box, then went back to the table and opened one of the carriers.  The iridescent black duck inside was laying on one wing, injured foot in the air.  I put the lovely creature in the plastic box while I stroked his head.  Closing the box, I took the tube running from the tank and plugged it into the fitting on the box.  No, that's wrong, I connected the tube before putting the bird in, no point in adding any more fear than needed.  The duck was looking at me while I did this.  I opened the valve on the tank, then opened the tube gate.  I made myself watch every second of what I was doing to the duck.  He thrashed about some, and stopped moving after about 20 seconds or so.  At 30 seconds I shut off the tank and

  He was not alone. There was nothing to indicate the fact but the white hand of the tiny gauge on the board before him. The control room was empty but for himself; there was no sound other than the murmur of the drives—but the white hand had moved. It had been on zero when the little ship was launched from the Stardust ; now, an hour later, it had crept up. There was something in the supply closet across the room, it was saying, some kind of a body that radiated heat. It could be but one kind of a body—a living, human body. He leaned back in the pilot’s chair and drew a deep, slow breath, considering what he would have to do. He was an EDS pilot, inured to the sight of death, long since accustomed to it and to viewing the dying of another man with an objective lack of emotion, and he had no choice in what he must do. There could be no alternative—but it required a few moments of conditioning for even an EDS pilot to prepare himself to walk across the room and coldly, de

Paul K Davis in his lair With malt induced beatific stare. Beguiled by those who stagger past, Seen through the bottom of his glass. No grandkids crowding on his knee, Not for him a family. Grasshoppers fiddle through the summer, Responsibility is a bummer. His skills were honed by these low habits, And you too can learn to pencil rabbits. So: This is the story that I heard told, Mr. Paul would not grow old. It does not require a sleuth, To know someone has wasted youth. Ya wanna make art that's semi-par? Just move into your local bar! Photo by Steve Davis - https://www.instagram.com/sdavis.howdy/

Here we see Alexander III of Macedon.  He is on his way to a bash where, after a heated argument, he will kill his General and companion Cleitus.  He is holding the thrusting spear that will do the deed on the unarmed and angry officer.   The unusually tall officer behind him would be about  five foot ten in our measurement.

 No one grieves for dying rabbits, either. https://misterscribbles.blogspot.com/2023/04/commonplace-but-still-sad.html