Buntport mined an odd little piece of Victorian history for this play. Washington Irving Bishop was a mentalist, possibly a bit of a fraud. He collapsed on stage one night, and an autopsy was immediately performed. His mother, Eleanor Fletcher Bishop, was convinced that he had been cut up while still alive, murdered by a doctor's curiosity about his brain. She wrote a book called A Synopsis of Butchery of the Late Sir Washington Irving Bishop (Kamilimilianalani) a Most Worthy Mason of the Thirty-Second Degree, the Mind Reader, and Philanthropist and dedicated her life to the search for justice and the prevention of similar catastrophes. There is only one certain proof of death, she informed us sternly in the play: putrescence. Fletcher Bishop took to the road in a series of lecture-performances, and this device shaped Buntport's play, which is kind of funny and kind of creepy and reveals both the woman's monstrous, smothering egotism and her genuine grief. It was the smartest, most interesting locally written piece we'd seen in quite a while.