The door opens quietly; the short pudgy balding man steps cautiously into the room. He has a Van Dyke beard, thick glasses, and is wearing a white smock with reddish-brown stains on it. He is holding a very large book. Behind him are two official looking men in cheap suits.
"Attention! Attention everyone," he cries out, "I am Dr. Tiny Johnson from the Internet Psychiatrist Consortium. Your neighbor called about the noise and automatic weapons fire, and, well...
(calmer now, with a fatherly voice)
"I'm terribly sorry, I'll try to put this in a nice way, but this has gotten way out of hand. You have no idea what you are dealing with, this is very dangerous indeed. We are going to have to..."
>
>
>
>
>
BLAM ! BLAM BLAM ! pocketta-pocketta-pocketta BLAM ! BLAM !
[thud...thud...thud]
[rustle]
[rustle]
[club soda bottle opens, pours]
[towel wiping]
[door opens]
[sound of dragging]
[door slams closed]
Sorry, Rambi. I know you said leave the weapons at the door. let's just say I'm paranoid. Chips? Soda? Where were we? |
