08/05/11: Escaping Sunday
Tonight, someone wants to know what you’re made of.
The first thing he does when he wakes up is not to wonder where he is or why it feels like a gnome is sitting on his brain and kicking the back of his eyes-one of those headaches, like a hangover mixed with dire exhaustion-but to scramble around for his hat and sunglasses on the dusty floor, which he soon find and put on.
Instantly he is placated. It could be worse.
It’s a dark room he’s in; it smells below the ground, some kind of basement. Wearing sunglasses probably isn’t helping him figure out what’s happening but Elwood’s never cared much for knowing what the living hell is going on. He gets to his feet and dusts himself off. The basement has old, mostly broken furniture littering it, not that he looks closely.
“Hey, uh, is that Jake’s crazy ex?” he calls through the door, which he’s discovered to be locked. “’Cause I know he left you at the altar but it’s really, like, not cool to keep trying to kill me. What’d I do?”
No response. Well, it seems like the perfect time to sulk. He pulls out his blues harp from an inside pocket and sits moodily on the steps up to the door. He doesn’t bother looking around the basement. Another fine mess.
The first thing he does when he wakes up is not to wonder where he is or why it feels like a gnome is sitting on his brain and kicking the back of his eyes-one of those headaches, like a hangover mixed with dire exhaustion-but to scramble around for his hat and sunglasses on the dusty floor, which he soon find and put on.
Instantly he is placated. It could be worse.
It’s a dark room he’s in; it smells below the ground, some kind of basement. Wearing sunglasses probably isn’t helping him figure out what’s happening but Elwood’s never cared much for knowing what the living hell is going on. He gets to his feet and dusts himself off. The basement has old, mostly broken furniture littering it, not that he looks closely.
“Hey, uh, is that Jake’s crazy ex?” he calls through the door, which he’s discovered to be locked. “’Cause I know he left you at the altar but it’s really, like, not cool to keep trying to kill me. What’d I do?”
No response. Well, it seems like the perfect time to sulk. He pulls out his blues harp from an inside pocket and sits moodily on the steps up to the door. He doesn’t bother looking around the basement. Another fine mess.