So I think the hardest job if you were a torturer in historic times would have been trying to shut the double-doors with the nails on the inside on that standing-coffin iron maiden thing.
Say you were further along in your career and maybe a little battered by time like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler, and all your torturer buddies were hanging around to catch your act (I picture it being a real chummy scene, like being a stand-up comic or a vintage-car collector), and your liege or lord or feudal chief or county nobleman or whomever the condemning adjudicator was is there, so you're totally nervous already anyhow.
Plus you failed to sharpen and smallpox-bedaub the nails (YOU IDIOT!), since you were out partying the night before, which is a strictly amateur mistake because if the nails are blunted or dull or flesh-covered from previous use, they don't puncture nearly as well, and that's what's happening now!
Because to make matters WORSE, your client / patient / customer (I don't know what you'd have called him) inside the coffin is a young, strong, burly, portly guy who's really too big for the damn thing anyway, and he's pushing back, the bastard!
PLUS he's a really popular Man-of-the-People / Robinhood rebel type who steals from the rich and gives to the poor (after taking his own cut, of course) and has hoomped half the local female population, so you REALLY look like a chump!
So there you are shoving on this thing with your aching, tired-ass shoulder, trying to look cool and nonchalant but wheezing and panting and sweating buckets and breathing heavy as hell and feeling a numbness in your left arm, and ...
... and I imagine it would be like trying to push shut an overstuffed suitcase, you know? But your underwear are huge and screaming and bleeding and pushing back and also super-popular with the ladies and the peasantry.
