Slushplunge

Distinctly extinct, the last mink is on the brink, toes curled round a spring board over an ice rink.. the warm blood of his family slushing the surface and resembling candy, no way out but down, or can he shuffle his limited vocabulary eloquently to achieve a level of adequacy resulting in he being allowed to see more days but the onlookers have retreated behind a soundproof pane, his cries in vain, years of torment, once congealed in his brain start to liquidize and flow down his face like heavy rain.. his clan below have stopped squirmin' , death has set in and now aims for his sternum, he still can't get a word in and it's so unnerving that his knees snap back and he feels the ice burnin'.