The Tongue

Robert Pastorelli’s been dead for years, but that didn’t stop me from dreaming about him.
His corpse had been torn to pieces and I had stumbled across his tongue, a throbbing slab of redness inchworming its way along the pavement.
I placed a resonating gadget to its tip and it spoke of his death and subsequent desecration.
When I found the rest of his head, I placed the tongue back inside and it babbled nonsense.
Why I dreamed of Robert Pastorelli, let alone his severed head, tongue torn out, I have no idea. I haven’t watched Murphy Brown in years.