Doors. Bolted and locked.
Light bulbs. Unscrewed.
Escape is impossible.
As impossible as trying to slam a revolving door.
That’s just about as impossible as it gets.
I have the handcuffs oiled.
The tape taken out of its packaging.
Camera poised to record this artistic masterpiece.
Much more cultural than a bunch of uncoordinated strokes.
Could I ask you a question?
A quite intrusive question. Very. Personal.
Are you proud of the wrongs you’ve committed?
Did they deserve them? Yes?
This would make a great screenplay.
Ranking the not-so-must-see movie of the year.
It would make bucket loads.
Of bad critique news articles.
Our names in big neon lights.
A two person hit list composed by the producers.
Prestigious awards given in snazzy venues.
Awards made of plastic. Venues wired up to be destroyed.
I’ll should just walk away. I will. But not yet.
I have a game to finish.
Mind games are best played without an aim.
I plan to fuck you over. For no reason at all.
You delivering me cold pizza or jumping ahead of me in a queue.
Would be reason enough.