Written for the #Writers-Workshop 3rd Person Limited Narration Workshop.

Received a bunch of useful suggestions. Implemented some. Picked up a couple of other things while doing so.

Changes mostly grammar and sentencing adverbs to death.

The original text below
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The Architect stood admiring his creation. The blood, sweat, and tears that had gone into the structure were just immeasurable. Well, technically it could be measured, he supposed. All that would be needed was some sort of drainage system to collect the fluids. But really, to what end?

The Architect shifted his thoughts back to more important things -- simply beholding his greatest work.

'Beautiful!'

'Magnificent!'

'Cutting-edge!'

'Innovative use of new materials!'

That was how all the critics had described it.

Well, almost all. There was one guy who described the work as, 'An unprecedented vulgar atrocity that accelerates our society's decline into barbarism.'
That heathen stopped complaining after the structure was slightly renovated, so the alterations must have resolved his issue with the design.

The Architect stood in exactly the right place to take in the full grandeur of the edifice. The beautiful structure glistened wetly in the sparkling sunlight. It oozed and writhed organically. The patchwork matrices of interlinked limbs, bolted together, gave the building a brutal, intimidating ambiance.
The structure excelled not only in aesthetics. It was also technically advanced, using the most energy-efficient bio-tech ever invented.

He proudly nodded his head, his serious expression spreading into a tight-lipped smile. He created this glorious structure, and soon the Oligarch would decree an annual pilgrimage to visit it. A testament to the virtue of hard work and endurance for the benefit of the nation.

Suddenly the putrid smell of formaldehyde decay violated the Architect's nostrils. He grimaced, blocked his nose with his sleeve, and breathed through the fabric. Horribly unfortunate that the wind changed direction.

The architect felt a little sad, as he turned away from his creation, and took long strides to escape the malodorous, grasping tendrils of rot. The bad smell was the only problem that they couldn't solve. Maybe if they'd had more time, more funding from government. Should it not have been perfect at all costs, this Man-Made Structure Made of Men?

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Eyesight breaks through his fevered delirium. Eyelashes flicker, but eyelids clamp tightly against the cornea-etching brightness.

At last his free-will -- contextual freedom; Ha Ha; not really a laugh at all; a sub-vocal cackle; Ha -- overcomes his reflexes, allowing him to see.

He regrets his decision. Briefly, convulsively, he rails against this nightmare his eyelids no longer conceal.

What the fuck is going on!

Is it a thought? Is it shouting? It should be shouting because his muscles strain against the thick bolts and wires that pierce his flesh and bind him to the others. His dried-out mouth is open, and air from his lungs wheezes out.
Shouting though? SHOUTING! What is shouting?

The convulsion ceases. His body falls limp again. Light-sensitivity, constant dehydration, insomnia, delirium, cramping. He knows these new friends to be side-effects of the drugs. What violation here isn't? The grim reaper would bring him peace without the drugs, but no grim-reaper. Just grim. Got it on discount! Ha.

Except the man bolted to his right arm. Death came for his right-arm bolt-buddy. Poor bastard hadn't moved for days.

Moved? Moving to Alaska would be lovely. It's cold there. Less rotting. Less of the bad smell. Numb too. Surely?

He notices a tiny insect way down on the ground. It stands still, looking up at the atrocity he forms part of. It's not too small as to be unrecognisable. His leg breaks free from one of the higher parts of the building, and his heel descends and squashes the bug with extreme force and prejudice. The ultimate critique of the Architect's work.

The Critic stops violently convulsing. He feels additional pressure in his arms and one of his legs, and notices that he hangs off-balance. Wonderful tidings! His right leg is now free. Unfortunately his foot is nowhere to be seen, and a blood spurts rhythmically from the tattered remains of his lower leg, spatterng on those below.

The Critic looks back down at the Architect-bug, walking hastily away. Disappointment! His foot must have missed it. Only scared it away. What the fuck! The Architect ate his foot!

Oooh. Dizzy.