Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Shit, Bill, I'm not gonna last long in these short shackles. Hell, my muscles cramp up when I sit on the toilet too long, and this, well--this is way more uncomfortable than sitting on a toilet. And what's that dripping on my neck, battery acid?
Jesus Christ, Doug, would you quit whining for a second and look over here?
Yeah well he isn't in it, is he. They must be yanking out his thumbnails.
No, look. See this chain? It's hanging in the air.
So? That's what chains do when you suspend them from the ceiling. They hang.
Not at a thirty-degree angle to the floor, they don't. This is being pulled by something.
I don't know. And look at these ankle shackles. They're being held up too, somehow. You don't suppose--nah ...
That's Sanctiblogger's here, but invisible, or something?
If he was invisible, he could hear us. "Dr. Sanctiblogger! Are you there?"
Maybe he can hear us, but can't answer back.
Maybe they ripped out his vocal chords.
Maybe you just can't use em when they're invisible.
Maybe his visible body's in some parallel universe, or something.
Or in the Ding-an-sich. His visible body escaped into the Grounds of the Groundlessness of Being, and left only his shape in the short shackles.
Maybe. But shit, Bill. My muscles are on fucking fire. I can't believe you let that Bush demon get reelected.
I let him!? What about you?
I live in Mississippi! What could I do? You were in a swing state! It's all your fault! If only you'd campaigned harder, gotten out the vote better ...
Shut up, Doug. You're delirious. Let me think.
What's there to think about, you vile fuck?
How Sanctiblogger escaped into the Ding-an-sich. If he can do it, so can we.
But we've got no insurance! We've got no digitally remastered pain! We're unprotected!
I know. But--