a pundit without a voice is like a fish without tartar sauce.
Stephen knew something was wrong when he woke up to silence instead of Joey's horrible and overly-cheerful singing. At first he had the hopeful thought that maybe he was actually home, but the second he opened his eyes he could see he was wrong about that. Ugh, the basement. That horrible basement with those horrible people.
Still, it was quiet. So then he thought that maybe Joey had died, or someone came in in the middle of the night and smothered him with a pillow.
It wasn't long before Stephen realized the truth.
He couldn't talk.
His voice was his livelihood! Sure, he wasn't actually paid on the Island of Socialists, but that didn't change the fact that Stephen talked. He talked at people all the time, even when he was being told by certain people to shut the Hell up. He talked nonstop on the radio. He talked to himself when no one was around, because, let's face it--his voice was fantastic. He loved the sound of his own voice.
And now it wouldn't come out, no matter how hard he tried. Oh, and he tried; he tried until he would have gone hoarse from trying on a normal day. So at least his voice wasn't in pain. It just didn't exist.
Which was pretty much the same thing. Basically.
So there he was, silent and sad and angry, sitting on the Compound steps. Chloe was pacing at his feet, giving little doggy-grumbles, because even she clearly missed the sounds of Stephen's voice. Of course, then she started trying to eat a bug, and Stephen couldn't even yell at her to stop, and she obviously knew that, because she seemed smug.
Stephen would die before this was over.
Still, it was quiet. So then he thought that maybe Joey had died, or someone came in in the middle of the night and smothered him with a pillow.
It wasn't long before Stephen realized the truth.
He couldn't talk.
His voice was his livelihood! Sure, he wasn't actually paid on the Island of Socialists, but that didn't change the fact that Stephen talked. He talked at people all the time, even when he was being told by certain people to shut the Hell up. He talked nonstop on the radio. He talked to himself when no one was around, because, let's face it--his voice was fantastic. He loved the sound of his own voice.
And now it wouldn't come out, no matter how hard he tried. Oh, and he tried; he tried until he would have gone hoarse from trying on a normal day. So at least his voice wasn't in pain. It just didn't exist.
Which was pretty much the same thing. Basically.
So there he was, silent and sad and angry, sitting on the Compound steps. Chloe was pacing at his feet, giving little doggy-grumbles, because even she clearly missed the sounds of Stephen's voice. Of course, then she started trying to eat a bug, and Stephen couldn't even yell at her to stop, and she obviously knew that, because she seemed smug.
Stephen would die before this was over.