"Assistant!" shouts the proprietor.
"Yes, sir?"
"What was his name?"
You swallow hard, they're speaking about you in the past tense. Your skin seems to be sticking to itself, your body is sticky and heavy, and it feels like you're melting.
The assistant reaches into your pants pocket and pulls out your wallet. "Clay..."he answers, but before he can finish the proprietor unleashes a raucous laughter.
"First or last doesn't matter. Clay! Hah, who says the fates don't have a sense of humor? They've got irony down pat, hehehe," he composes himself and continues, "Clean up this mess. Dispose of Clay's clothing, it won't be needing it anymore. Kneading! Hehe! He'll get kneaded soon enough. Take him to my sister's studio, she'll know what to make of him!"
The proprietor retires behind the counter.
"Your bad luck, sir. I complain about that rickety shelf thing, but they never listen. Third accident this month. The first was a giant chicken, and the second was a cow. You're the first inanimate. Not that you probably care anymore."
You groan or try to, all that happens is an air bubble escapes with a hiss.
"Less talk, more work."
"Yes, sir. But what if someone comes looking for him." He glances at the amorphous mass that was you, and which he is pounding it the shape of a clay block.
"Just refer them to me, I'll take care of any snoops. Now get that clay to my sister, and mop up the floor after that. Chop! Chop!"