In the clay vessel in which the putrid-smelling bone stock was rendered, from the bones of slaughtered animals, to be brushed on the horses with a crow's feather around the eyes, nostrils, and belly to protect them from the mosquitoes and horseflies, the skeleton of the deceased lies over the skeleton of the pastor and religious painter who, as he had preceded her in death, was unable to give her his final blessing; the mortal remains of the shepherd of souls were driven in a black Mercedes from Carinthia to Upper Austria by the same people who took the woman's corpse, found in a wheat field with countless broken bones, from Pulsnitz to the morgue in Grofibotenfeld.

Thanasis Panteloglou, a biochemical engineer, and Father Yannis, the local priest, are crusading to make authorities take action over the polluted Asopos, where the putrid-smelling water occasionally also runs red and black.

When I awoke I found myself in total blackness in a damp, putrid-smelling room.

Since then, the bodies of men with fatal bullet wounds to the head and the back are among the near daffy deliveries to the putrid-smelling city morgue, where cadavers rot because the refrigeration unit has been on the fritz for two months.

Most persuasive of all, it expels a green putrid-smelling substance from its anal glands.

In the clay vessel in which the putrid-smelling bone stock was rendered, from the bones of slaughtered animals, to be brushed on the horses with a crow's feather, around their eyes, nostrils, and bellies to protect them from the mosquitoes and horseflies, Maximilian, the bone collector, rearranges the skeletons of Willibald and Hildegard Zitterer, laying the skeleton of Hildegard over the bones of her mother, Elisabeth Kirchheimer, who, after long and painful suffering, a few days after she'd asked the thirteen-year-old Maximilian, who sat on the sunken-in, urine-scented sofa flipping through his Karl May book, whether he had heard the Tschufitl, the death-bird, cry out, died in the farmhouse under the eyes of her son and the family doctor.

Standing near a black, putrid-smelling mud puddle the 70-year-old peasant farmer watched the judge talk.

In the clay vessel in which the putrid-smelling bone stock was rendered, from the bones of slaughtered animals, to be brushed on the horses with a crow's feather around the eyes, nostrils, and belly to protect them from the mosquitoes and horseflies, lies the skeleton of Willibald Zitterer--who ran stumbling from the bathroom with his hands raised and his pants around his ankles, then fell over and expired, his face in a pool of his own urine--over the skeleton of Aunt Waltraud, who died of a heart attack at the pastry shop in the Lindwurmplatz in Klagenfurt.