Not Even For 5 Minutes...

(So much for restful sleep, ever. You're welcome.)

You like'a da word sprints, eh? The word sprints, she is a'good, no?

I give you more word sprints.

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“For the love of all that’s good and holy, if you don’t tell your insipid, whatever, friend, to stop talking this very instant, I promise you, what he will awaken to in the morning will make that scene in Godfather look like an outtake from the Care Bears.”

“Jesus, Terry. That’s kinda dark.”

“Why is he still yammering?”

“Jack, shut up. You’re hurting his nib’s feelings.”

Jack, who had been listing, in chronological order, every provable lie Donald Trump had told since announcing his presidency on that iconic escalator ride in June, 2015. He’d been talking more than an hour and had just gotten to August of ’15 when Terry reached his limit.

Terry was an effete gentleman. He was also a dangerous one. His threat to Jack wasn’t baseless; he had used that scene with the bodiless horse as the motivation for several of his pieces. Or contracted revenge murders. Whichever.

He was currently tied to a chair with a rope which, frankly, was really only there for the aesthetic. First, have you ever tried to tie anyone to anything with rope? You can never tighten it tight enough for it to do any difference. If Terry stood up suddenly, he’d be free. Plus, Tony couldn’t tie knots for shit. Second, and probably should’ve led with this, Terry is basically Superman without the moral code. Seriously. Those two idiots are about to fucking die.