Theatrical Muse
Fucked up dreams where he's fighting himself: a body with no face; smooth like a Barbie Doll's crotch. Contractually obligated flashes of skin ripping away. His. Tucker's. Andrew's. His. The skin is knee deep in places.
The robot swings and lands punch after punch hard into Warren's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The sun beats down from overhead, and sweat rivers run down Warren's back and face. He raises a hand to wipe at it and finds an inexplicable beard there.
Nice one, subconscious. So he's the evil twin, is that it? And wearing a red shirt too.
The bot has a face again, when Warren looks up. It opens its mouth and Warren finds himself swallowed whole and screaming as Tucker looks on and tells him he deserves it.
Never should have trusted him.
In the nursery, the lone Frioh watches him thrash and flail on the floor. Stupid human. You can't get out that way.
The demon resumes gnawing on the cage.
The robot swings and lands punch after punch hard into Warren's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The sun beats down from overhead, and sweat rivers run down Warren's back and face. He raises a hand to wipe at it and finds an inexplicable beard there.
Nice one, subconscious. So he's the evil twin, is that it? And wearing a red shirt too.
The bot has a face again, when Warren looks up. It opens its mouth and Warren finds himself swallowed whole and screaming as Tucker looks on and tells him he deserves it.
Never should have trusted him.
In the nursery, the lone Frioh watches him thrash and flail on the floor. Stupid human. You can't get out that way.
The demon resumes gnawing on the cage.