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You take out the stick of 'Bad Faith' lipstick and move towards the typewriter.
"What are you doing?", asks the dreadlocked man, nervously.
"I'm going to apply lipstick to all the vowel keys on your typewriter", you tell him, "and after that, comrade, you're going to give me all your fork handles."
"I only have one fork! They only let you have one fork here!", he says, and watches in horror as you smudge lipstick on the 'O' key. "Leave my typewriter alone!"
He makes a grab for your wrist to stop you putting any more lipstick on the typewriter keys. Without thinking, as if by instinct, you smack him in the forehead with the ashtray that is still held in your other hand. He goes down like a sack of bricks, wailing.
While he lies stunned on the floor, you attempt to tie him securely to the nearest table leg with his dreadlocks, but they're just too greasy to get any purchase on. You settle for seizing hold of him by the throat, and holding the thermos over his head, laughing like a maniac.
"Spill the beans, comrade!", you yell. "Tell me about your work and this island! Who's in charge here? What does that letter mean?"
The dreadlocked man splutters and struggles, both hands trying to prise loose your grip on his neck. As his attempts grow weaker you realise you won't get much information out of him if he dies, so you release your grip. Gasping for breath, he manages to get out:
"I'm j-just a scientist... I work for Comrade Gregory! He runs this place... He runs a lot of things on this island! Please... I just work on the genetic splicing formula, I don't know what they do with what I give them! I... I'm not allowed to know anymore!"
"How do I get out of this place?"
"G-go North through the Science Labs. Room... 23."
"Tell me more!" His thrashings are becoming more violent again.
"I can't... They programmed me too... Like they do to the children! I... I've said too much already... Please... Please! NOT THE COFFEE!!!"
His eyes roll back in his head, and he starts to foam at the mouth. You release him, and he flops down onto the ground. You assume he's lost consciousness, until you realise his lips are moving. You lean in to listen, and realise he's singing a song in a listless monotone:
"Father Abraham... Had many sons... Many sons had Father Abraham... I am one... And so are you... So let's all praise the Lord..." |
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