You wake up in a puddle. It is raining? It seems like it is raining. The puddle is water... on asphalt. Asphalt you are lying face down in the puddle.
You are surrounded by seven men in white undershirts holding lead pipes, awls, hammers and chains. Their mouths are fixed slack in frowns and their Vishuddi are turned inside out, tongues pulled through slit throats and stitched back up again. Such clean work. The surgeon must have been a genius. Their dessicating tongues bob up and down as they approach.
They wheeze in unison while they beat you with the heavy objects. Your brain notices that it's definitely going to die and as it initiates the process of ejecting you into the next stage of your Bardo you start to hear something in the voices of your killers. Some much subtler surgery has been done in the roofs of their mouths. As they render your body into pulp a complex web weaves itself out of their wheezes and you're caught. No death for you yet.