I got a feelin' that something ain't right
The jukebox had been an asshole for the better part of the day, and Freddy had given up on lounging with a stack of comics like he'd been planning for. At first it hadn't really been that bad, just seventies pop hits in an hour long block before it started repeating the same shit time after time. One minute he's absently humming along to Sandy Rogers as Spider-Man gives Rhino a swift kick to the jaw, the next he was noticing that the lime and coconut song that had haunted him for his first few months on the island was on repeat. A guy could only keep up the mental effort of glaring and willing whatever demonic organ grinder monkey that was turning the gears in there to die for so long.
It'd changed before he walked out, but not for the better. He hadn't heard that song in over a year, almost on it's way to two. He hadn't wanted to hear it either. Too much came back, first just the stark shock of it hitting him and making him stand still, then the knowing creeping in, settling down on his mind as his brain processed the lyrics. Flashes of memory, snippets of words that had somehow managed to get through the haze his mind had been dragged down under. It'd been like being caught under warm jello, his lungs heavy and his mind numb and sleepy even with his entire body on fire. Marvin Nash had known who he was, he had fucking known but even when he was getting his ear hacked off he'd kept his mouth shut when he wasn't screaming. Blonde might not have been asking for it, but it would have taken the focus of the torture off of himself, given him some reprieve, just enough for the focus to get switched and time to get wasted before the other guys had come back. He might have saved him from Blonde, but he'd fucked up anyway. Stupid rookie was still dead, and Blonde had still sliced him up like an Easter ham before Nice Guy finished the job.
He was stalking out of the room before it was even halfway done, the chorus on his heels as he got the fuck out of there.
Yes, I'm stuck in the middle with you
And I'm wonderin' what it is I should do
It's so hard to keep this smile from my face
Losin' control, I'm all over the place
Clowns to left of me, jokers to the right
Here am I stuck in the middle with you
The rest of the day he'd avoided the inside of the Compound. He didn't go back to his hut, but just took the time to chill out. Smoked a cigarette, took a walk, just didn't think about things. It wasn't even the song that got to him, hell, it'd be stupid if that was the case. A song couldn't do anything to hurt a person, it's just some prerecorded crap that pops up on the radio from time to time. There were lots of songs he could have memories of and be fine. His mother's favorite song was Rainy Days and Mondays by the Carpenters. He'd hated that song, but she'd sing along to it in the kitchen if she was cooking or while doing laundry. Knowing her, she probably still did. But even while there was a clear black and white memory, and he could likely list off every lyric, it was just a shadow in comparison. Singing and music followed by screams, muddy distorted memories that were clouded by pain. He wondered how Joe and Eddie could have been so blind to what Blonde was, a psychopath lurking in plain sight and still Joe could see the cop in him but not the sadist in the other. It was confusing and disconcerting that a guy could pull the wool over the eyes of a man like that.
Then again, with thieves a psycho was probably the one you wanted to trust. There was no way he'd ever rat you out to the cops.
"Maybe I was playin' the wrong kinda crook." He thought out loud, settling down to the side of the path against a tree and lighting up a new cigarette.
It'd changed before he walked out, but not for the better. He hadn't heard that song in over a year, almost on it's way to two. He hadn't wanted to hear it either. Too much came back, first just the stark shock of it hitting him and making him stand still, then the knowing creeping in, settling down on his mind as his brain processed the lyrics. Flashes of memory, snippets of words that had somehow managed to get through the haze his mind had been dragged down under. It'd been like being caught under warm jello, his lungs heavy and his mind numb and sleepy even with his entire body on fire. Marvin Nash had known who he was, he had fucking known but even when he was getting his ear hacked off he'd kept his mouth shut when he wasn't screaming. Blonde might not have been asking for it, but it would have taken the focus of the torture off of himself, given him some reprieve, just enough for the focus to get switched and time to get wasted before the other guys had come back. He might have saved him from Blonde, but he'd fucked up anyway. Stupid rookie was still dead, and Blonde had still sliced him up like an Easter ham before Nice Guy finished the job.
He was stalking out of the room before it was even halfway done, the chorus on his heels as he got the fuck out of there.
Yes, I'm stuck in the middle with you
And I'm wonderin' what it is I should do
It's so hard to keep this smile from my face
Losin' control, I'm all over the place
Clowns to left of me, jokers to the right
Here am I stuck in the middle with you
The rest of the day he'd avoided the inside of the Compound. He didn't go back to his hut, but just took the time to chill out. Smoked a cigarette, took a walk, just didn't think about things. It wasn't even the song that got to him, hell, it'd be stupid if that was the case. A song couldn't do anything to hurt a person, it's just some prerecorded crap that pops up on the radio from time to time. There were lots of songs he could have memories of and be fine. His mother's favorite song was Rainy Days and Mondays by the Carpenters. He'd hated that song, but she'd sing along to it in the kitchen if she was cooking or while doing laundry. Knowing her, she probably still did. But even while there was a clear black and white memory, and he could likely list off every lyric, it was just a shadow in comparison. Singing and music followed by screams, muddy distorted memories that were clouded by pain. He wondered how Joe and Eddie could have been so blind to what Blonde was, a psychopath lurking in plain sight and still Joe could see the cop in him but not the sadist in the other. It was confusing and disconcerting that a guy could pull the wool over the eyes of a man like that.
Then again, with thieves a psycho was probably the one you wanted to trust. There was no way he'd ever rat you out to the cops.
"Maybe I was playin' the wrong kinda crook." He thought out loud, settling down to the side of the path against a tree and lighting up a new cigarette.