[doomey stands in front of his cherrywood, fist-knuckles on hips, chin raised and slightly tilted, and he's glaring at the ruined section of tube where rorschalk's mug had hung just prior]
deal with it, ted. jeez.
[he relaxes, turns, and he pulls from inside his suit coat the current cap. he focuses on the last few lines, and then he taps the cap straight and neat on his grotesque, fume-wafting, ear-bulbed desktop]
quick and cool, this be, like the sproutings of a soon-to-be blooming orchid, me thinks. mike phillips has crafted...
[he leans and cranes his neck and looks into the television camera that only he can see. he smiles]
...in my opinion...
[he stands up straight, arches his back in a stretch. and then he paces in front of his glowing, hillock-fungied desk]
...a nice little ditty here. the technique works, the crafting is tight, and there's a little snicker behind the narrative, or at least i heard a snicker. nothing wrong with this, and i like the characters. i do not have high hopes for the phillips cap, i am thinking the Terminali might dismiss it, might even snicker themselves, but i like it.
[doomey stalks over the blasted tube. no need to say the magic word. doomey simply lifts the cap up to the ragged hole bulleted into the upper-stretch of tube, and the pages are sucked from his grip and launched upward]
i hereby decree mike phillips' blood of the sacrifice Terminaled.
[doomey moves back toward his desk. his shoulders are slumped, his head hung low, his feet dragging. he's looking spent. he holds one hand against his stomach, and with the other hand he loosens his already loose tie]
christ jesus. something's wrong with me.
[one foot slides in the muck covering the glass tiles and the delicate balance he'd been maintaining slides with it, and the other foot slips the opposite direction and his hands fly up and he...tell the truth, i've had quite enough of this. let our hero roll around in his own vomit as long as he wants. i refuse to watch and report]
