Page 13

"Goodbye, Blue Skyyyyyyyyy."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. One-up, loser: you're a killer, too. What'd you do, fuck her to death?" Bill guffaws, somewhere unseen.

I attempt a yodel, and this is cut off when Bill deftly wields a pair of pliers versus a special fingernail of mine. I let out a wicked squeal, despite being somewhere in my head. Personally, I don't physically register it.. regardless of the related hyperventilating. I giggle between gasps. Hey, I'm tied, execution-style to an obviously homemade wooden chair. Seeing as I'm more or less obvious to what this implies, I'm suitably impressed by the solidness of this massive throne. The dark stains slip my mind. Something about them alerts me in to surveying my surroundings a little more closely. It is a basement, a very soundproofed-looking one. It's a basement filled to the brim with faceless, nameless, scary-looking tools. The walls, where I can see them, are stained a beautiful dark sea green. It's a rather calming, and pleasant green, I suppose. It seems very deliberate, the whole room. Details, like the shiny, easy-to-clean linoleum, the tools, the happy green.. Jesus, where am I?

"Shut the fuck up. Yes: cement stains, and that's why the brilliant use of lino. If you don't like the motif -- decor? -- then shut the fuck up. Seriously, Bill. This shit's killing my mood. The fucker is planning his own designs for our kill-room. When we bring people to The Cave, we expect them to have a little respect and awe, right? This guy seems like he's contemplating life, philosophizing on our asses. I expect the guy to preach, and pray next, fuck..." Travis spins in a swivel chair, stopping outside of my reach to stare at me.  He grabs my chin. "If he starts breaking in to bad renditions of Michael Jackson songs.. I'm just going to off him. I really will. Fuck Jimmy; fuck protocol."

"Fuck yeah!" Bill hoots, and pumps a fist in the air, a la Breakfast Club.

I'm just close enough to hear, "Fuck, man. Always noncommittal. Your unfocused support does nothing for me." Being that I'm amazingly high out of my tree, I assume that Travis said to me, "Duckman. All days noncommittal; yore! Un-locused supper-port duz nuth. Thing. For me?"

"Holy Batman, an English drop-out deviant!" I cry, in response to what I think I hear.

"Now what the fuck is he on about?" Bill leans over to get a better look at me. He now sits atop a bar stool, next to a small wet bar, stocked with all sorts of wonderful, beautiful liquor bottles. What a fuckin' joint this is! Par-tay!

"I dunno," Travis says. "Apparently, he thinks I'm British, and fuck Irish goats, or some shit." He sits back in the swivel chair, studying me.

"This Daisies shit ain't conducive to a workin' mood." Bill scratches his chin with the tip of the pliers.

"Well put, Billy-boy."

"Can't say it any better yourself," Bill says, twirling the pliers like a boy's toy airplane.

"Agreed," Travis says, firmly.

"Let us agree to disagree, brethren!" I add in.

"Shut the fuck up," they say in chorus.