>>
|
defceb.jpg
Singing Basket
defceb
and even prod the dark stain on the carpet without finding anything noteworthy.
You flip through the books absentmindedly and pull one out at random. ‘The Post-Re-Modern Condition’, a book best described as hefty, voluminous, or a potentially lethal bludgeoning weapon.
You play the tape. It crackles to life with the noise of a struggle. A man’s voice rises up over pained gasps in the background.
“Hey, it’s Engineer Kirkman again. Today’s date is, uh… what was the date again, Rudy?”
“FUCK YOU!” A deeper voice shouts over gasps for air.
“So rude! Although, I guess manners are hard to come by when I’m… strangling? Choking? I get the two mixed up. Hey Rudy, what’s the difference?”
“This isn’t you! Your brain chip-”
“THIS ISN’T ME!? THIS-” Each word is punctuated by a sharp, wet gurgling noise. “ISN’T.” Chain clinks loudly against itself. “ME!? Well neither was the skin graft but that DIDN’T STOP YOU PEOPLE. I WAS SET UP, THAT THIEF IS THE ONE WHO'S AT FAULT. IT’S THEIR FAULT THAT WE’RE STUCK DOWN HERE. IT’S THEIR FAULT THAT EVERYTHING'S GONE TO HELL. IT’S THEIR FAULT THAT I GOT BURNED.”
Someone bangs loudly against the door. A barely muffled voice shouts: “Kirkman, we know you’re in there! Open up!”
“Rude! I am TRYING to have a CONVERSATION in here!” A painful crack fills the air. “Now, Rudy, where were we? Uh, Rudy, you’re being awfully quiet there. ...Rudy?”
Splintering wood and chaotic shouting punctuates the end of the tape.
You hear the sound of footsteps just outside the doorway.
|