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[WAR MACHINE]

Upper Modern Originale: Ante Up

The hand had ended. He wasn't sure if he had won. Atarah had piled the chips he bet on her side of the table. He assumed that was the winning pile that she'd give him when they were done.

“Karz, could you get WAR a beverage of his choice?” she asked him.

War waved his hand at Karz in dismissal, with a look on his face that said 'don't be silly'. "DO NOT BE SILLY," War said. A blue can was in his hand. It was hard to tell where he had been hiding it, or if maybe he had produced it out of thin air.

It appeared to be an energy drink. Or perhaps shark testosterone.

On this can was a picture of the man himself, dressed eerily similar to his current attire, holding the exact same can. Each successive can had the same image on it, and thus the bizarre picture was projected into infinity.

“Where were we? Oh yes… I was wondering about the origin of your name.”

"MY NAME...?" War seemed to struggle with the question. His brow furrowed. His right hand paused in midair with the drink, yet, oddly, his left hand continued to play blackjack. He tapped the table for another card. He may have been coming up with some fantastical story explaining the origins of his title, or perhaps he truly didn't remember, or didn't find anything particularly unusual about his name and found it odd she should question it. "...WHAT IS IN A NAME? A ROUNDHOUSE KICK TO THE FACE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD STILL CRUSH YOUR FACE. ARE YOU DEFINED BY YOUR NAME, ATARAH KOBAIN?"

[Atarah Kobain]

Upper Modern Originale: Atarah’s Ante Up

Just like she predicted, he was losing. And loosing fast. Matter of fact, he was hemorrhaging cash. But for some reason, WAR didn’t seemed phased by it all. Was he so clueless that he couldn’t see that the pile of chips that were his was fading and the pile that were hers was growing?

Karz had tried to get WAR a drink, but WAR had covered that himself. He brought his own.

This is so not a BYOB kind of place, Atarah found herself thinking, almost annoyed at the fact that he did bring his own.

Luckily, it turned out that it was one of his private labeled energy drinks. Passers by would see the ridiculously bright colored can and know that it looked out of place in her luxurios, classically decorated, gaming establishment.

Atarah smiled slightly once she noticed that WAR (the man in front of her), and WAR (the man on the can) were dressed identically. She wondered if Karz noticed it as well.

Then he had oddest reaction to her asking about his name.

"MY NAME...? WHAT'S IN A NAME? A ROUNDHOUSE KICK TO THE FACE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD STILL CRUSH YOUR FACE. ARE YOU DEFINED BY YOUR NAME, ATARAH KOBAIN?"

His given name is probably Percy or something like that.

“Well, I can say that I am a little more subtle than a roundhouse kick, but yes, my name makes up part of who I am,” she said as she dealt the cards. “Your name does as well. Think of it as brand recognition. After all, where would products like that energy drink be if your name were not on it? Would your fans adore you like they do now if your name was Bob Smith? Your name gets you noticed.”

Atarah shifted her weight from one foot to the other, causing her hips to sway in the process, but the game never stopped.

“I make a great effort to be noticed *well, not really*, I want to stand out *absolutely*, so my attitude, my appearance, the way I dress *I would dress like this even if I was destitute*, it all goes towards being noticed. I am Atarah and this is Atarah’s Ante Up. You know my name and you’ll be able to find my business and if you’re the gambling type, you will want to come here to do it.

“The Ante Up has what other places don’t. An enjoyable experience, an honest game and me.

“And I want my clients, their guests and even my employees to have a good time while they are in this room.”

Atarah looked back at Karz, as the beads in her dress floated across her skin as she turned.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Moto?”

She then turned back to WAR, smiled warmly and asked another question in order to make him feel comfortable. Most people liked to talk about themselves and no one sang their own praises like WAR did.

“So, besides gambling, and of course, participating in these tournaments,” she inquired. “What do you enjoy doing? Maybe I can offer some recommendations of various places on the station that might meet your needs.”

*The fact that WAR is losing dreadfully has been done with Jeth's permission.

[Karzelli Moto]

War dismissed him, one would think rather rudely, but for a gambler at a table, it wasn't all that out of place. "DON'T BE SILLY," War said. And he had something Karz was only able to make out enough to understand it was his own marketed name brand.

Atarah then went into her own perfect routine, her spiel perhaps; except she did it in the most perfectly sincere way. 'It is sincere, so then,' Karz smiled, if he was judging her correctly, he was seeing her as she actually was. He would have thought that would have brought a twang of disappointment, that she seemed to be so open and free as to who she was; that their should be something hidden, something she feared showing.

Karzelli moved again, away from War Machine' line of sight.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Moto?”

"Absolutely Miss Kobain." He cocked his head just a bit, as though reconsidering; 'there was that one moment', where she had been, 'threatening'.

He reconsidered. She may be open, she may be just who she portrays; but 'no, there was much more to her.'

Karzelli turned away and walked around the front of the casino. He looked around as though making sure all was well, no impending disturbances, but mostly to hide the doubt. That if she had even an inkling of who he was, what he'd done; he'd not only be out of a job, but all the wild imaginings of getting closer to her would never be realized.

Karzelli Moto took up his receptive stance on the opposite side of War Machine so that she could see him, so that he could see her, and that War Machine would not be distracted. Karzelli tried his own limited effort at sincerity, he watched her, body and face and spirit; and hid nothing of his admiration, nor desire.

[WAR MACHINE]

War shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't used to having somebody speak for so long without letting him get a word in. His words weren't meant to be contained. They were like a tropical earthquake.

He knew he didn't agree with her, didn't think that his name said who he was, that it was him and his accomplishments that made his name famous, and not the other way around. If Bob Smith had done the things he did, then Bob Smith would have been the man of nuclear arms.

“So, besides gambling, and of course, participating in these tournaments,” she inquired. “What do you enjoy doing? Maybe I can offer some recommendations of various places on the station that might meet your needs.”

War shook his head. Quite emphatically, actually, as his beret shifted and dipped at an even sharper angle than how he had been wearing it before. "I KNOW THIS STATION LIKE IT WERE MY OWN HOME," then he paused before adding, "WITH LESS BLUES. I PREFER RAP. HAVE YOU SEEN MY RAP VIDEO?"

[Atarah Kobain]

Upper Modern Originale: Atarah’s Ante Up

“I KNOW THIS STATION LIKE IT WERE MY OWN HOME. WITH LESS BLUES. I PREFER RAP. HAVE YOU SEEN MY RAP VIDEO?”

Atarah chuckled at his response as she pulled another stack of chips over to her pile. WAR had lost… again.

“You have a rap video, WAR?” she asked very lightheartedly, almost sounding more like a friend at a small time game at someone’s kitchen table than a seasoned gambler in a professional gambling den. “I’m sorry to say that I haven’t. My tastes lean more towards something with a good driving beat that you can dance to.”

Just to punctuate the last statement she wiggled her hips in a mock dancing stance. She looked down at their piles of chips. Hers was nearing the same size as what he had left.

“WAR, would you mind a little intercession right now? Stretch a bit, get a bite to eat?” Atarah asked. The truth is that she had to go to the bathroom and this seemed as good of a place to stop as any. They seemed pretty evenly matched with funds. “The sideboard over there is stocked with a multitude of things. I suspect that you have brought your own snacks as well, but humor me and try something.”

She excused herself and walked over to Karz, leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “Keep an eye on him. Ask him if he needs anything. Treat him well. But most of all, he is NOT to touch any of the chips on my side of the table.

“He doesn’t strike me as the type who would try, but you never know,” she continued. Then as a slight warning, she added. “And, Mr. Moto? I know exactly how many chips are in my pile, so don’t get any ideas.”

She smiled widely at him and disappeared into the employee’s area.

[WAR MACHINE]

Atarah had taken a break, though War didn't blame her. Not many people could face him for such an extended period of time, either in the ring or in a battle of words. Or poker. He was still unsure how he was doing at that (it probably would have helped if he stopped calling it poker), but decided not to linger on it. He moved towards the food he had been offered. After a cursory glance, he spun and faced Karzelli.

"TOO MUCH SALT AND SUGAR. NOT FITTING FOR A FIGHTER'S DIET," he said as he walked closer to where Karzelli was standing. It wasn't meant to intimidate, but he wasn't a fan of subtlety. "MY FRIEND NAIT IS ALWAYS SMOKING AND DRINKING. I TRIED TO GET HIM ON MY DIET, AND SAID THAT THEY WILL ONE DAY CATCH UP WITH HIM. WHAT GOES AROUND IS ALL AROUND, AS THEY SAY, BUT HE DID NOT SEEM TO CARE."

War leaned in as if he were confiding some great secret; smiling slyly all the while. "HE IS SUCH A PESSIMIST. I PREFER TO BE AN OPTOMETRIST MYSELF."

[Karzelli Moto]

“And, Mr. Moto? I know exactly how many chips are in my pile, so don’t get any ideas.”

She smiled widely at him and headed to the employee’s area.

"Not to worry Boss," Moto watched her walk away, "I will not touch your chips until," and just loud enough for her to hear, "until you ask."

"TOO MUCH SALT AND SUGAR. NOT FITTING FOR A FIGHTER'S DIET,"
"Quite right sir," Karzelli opened the lid on a small serving cooler to reveal a selection of sushi.
War Machine moved closer to him. Moto stood his ground, but remained in the passive position of an underling, head ever so slightly bowed, body almost imperceptably bent.

"MY FRIEND NAIT IS ALWAYS SMOKING AND DRINKING. I TRIED TO GET HIM ON MY DIET, AND SAID THAT THEY WILL ONE DAY CATCH UP WITH HIM. WHAT GOES AROUND IS ALL AROUND, AS THEY SAY, BUT HE DID NOT SEEM TO CARE."

"True sir. When it comes to the culinary consumptions what you eat will most certainly end up going around."

War leaned in as if he were confiding some great secret; smiling slyly all the while. "HE IS SUCH A PESSIMIST. I PREFER TO BE AN OPTOMETRIST MYSELF."

'Optometrist?' He thought, but held 'his' poker face.
Karzelli nodded with the appearance of appreciation as the sharing of such wisdom. 'Optometry it is then', "You have vision then, to see the truth of such things sir. It sounds most wise I think."

He looked at the man with feigned admiration, "I have not had the honor of seeing you in combat, I am sure it would most instructive. Would you know where I could obtain a diskette of such a thing? Though a novice, one with your insights must demonstrate subtle tactics that I would likely be unable to learn from; but one must set their sights high, yes?"

[WAR MACHINE]

"BUT, KARZELLI MOTO, IF ONE WERE TO ALWAYS SET THEIR SIGHTS AS HIGH AS MY OWN ACHIEVEMENTS, THEY WOULD SURELY DEVELOP NECK PAIN," War said with a waggle of his finger. Once again he leaned closer, "BECAUSE THEY WOULD ALWAYS BE LOOKING UP, YOU SEE?" he said, as if his previous statement had been mysterious enough to deserve explanation.

"IT IS A SHAME YOU HAVE NOT SEEN ME IN ACTION. I ASSURE YOU, YOU WILL WANT TO BE SITTING WHEN YOU DO," now he paced back and forth, orchestrating his words with the energy drink donning his maniacally grinning face in his hand, "I HAVE A FRIEND, STEVEN WINDLE, WHO HAD ALSO ADMITTED TO HAVING LIVED UNDER A ROCK MOST OF HIS LIFE, HE HAD NOT HEARD OF ME EITHER," he pivoted on one foot to face Karzelli, "HE DID NOT ACTUALLY LIVE UNDER A ROCK. IT IS BECAUSE UNDER A ROCK YOU DO NOT SEE MUCH, KARZELLI MOTO, THAT IS THE METAPHOR."

At the mention of his friend's name, a memory claimed him as he slowed and stopped. His expression softened and a look of genuine concern lit his eyes as he gazed thoughtfully at the ground. "I HAVE NOT SEEN STEVEN WINDLE FOR SOME TIME, I AM WORRIED ABOUT HIM. I WENT TO HIS SUITE THIS MORNING BUT THE DOOR WAS LOCKED. I AM THINKING OF TALKING TO SECURITY."

[Karzelli Moto]

Karzelli managed to keep his face respectful and with the appropriate level of awe, a feat of some great skill for him at the moment.

"BUT, KARZELLI MOTO, IF ONE WERE TO ALWAYS SET THEIR SIGHTS AS HIGH AS MY OWN ACHIEVEMENTS, THEY WOULD SURELY DEVELOP NECK PAIN," War wagged a finger, leaned closer, "BECAUSE THEY WOULD ALWAYS BE LOOKING UP, YOU SEE?"

"I am sure that any attempt to position one's head in such a position as yours,"
'.. is stuck' he thought, tightened his stomach to suppress a smirk.
"would certainly be cause for a pain in one's neck."
He bowed slightly as War Machine continued.

" . . . . HE DID NOT ACTUALLY LIVE UNDER A ROCK. IT IS BECAUSE UNDER A ROCK YOU DO NOT SEE MUCH, KARZELLI MOTO, THAT IS THE METAPHOR."

"I see." he agreed, as whole heartedly and as sincerely as he possible could. Nodding at the enlightenment of the revelation of the meaning of the 'under the rock' metaphor. Karzelli glanced quickly for Atarah, there was after all, only so much an underling could sustain without losing one's composure. He was not suited for this sort of thing.

War Machine then went on about some friend. A friend that didn't answer his door when War Machine knocked. 'big surprise there, hmm,' Before he realized, his reply fell out of his mouth.

"I've some certain skills in opening doors sir, I would hate see your friend embarrassed by security. If you like.. "
'shut up', but it was too late, he spewed out the suggestion.
"I'd be honored to assist you in some small way."
'oh gose.'
"After you finish your business here of course."
'Atarah must have all your money, the higher her spirits, the higher I think will be mine.'

Karzelli glanced again for Atarah.

[WAR MACHINE]

"I, TOO, POSSESS GREAT DOOR OPENING SKILLS," said War. One fist crashed into his open palm with the audible slap of fist to flesh, a practised move he did with startling speed. While holding his fist he flexed his arms, the shirt threatening to tear from the stress. He smiled a toothy grin; an expression on his face saying 'these muscles aren't just for show'. "THESE MUSCLES ARE NOT JUST FOR SHOW."

Then he relaxed, and his tone turned serious. "BUT I DIGEST. SECURITY HAS ASKED ME TO STOP BREAKING DOORS, AND I DO FEEL SORRY FOR THE MESS THE JANITOR HAS TO CLEAN UP, WHO IS ALSO ONE OF MY FRIENDS," he explained. It was difficult to tell if he was creating or telling the story.

"I ALSO SUSPECT FOUL PLAY," he continued, as if this were the most logical conclusion to make when a friend didn't answer their door, "SO I WILL BE REQUIRING INVESTIGATIVE PROFESSIONALS."

[Route 66]

___________________________________________________________

As the venerable man of war speaks of his woes to a dubious but interested Karzelli, we offer you a distraction from our Route 66 tale.

Route 66 is proud to present the first of a series of stories in a segment called Nothin' But the Blues.

___________________________________________________________

[Karzelli Moto]

"Ah," Karzelli nodded knowingly. "Fowl play then. Birds CAN be annoying. But an investigation? I know some good folks that could help with that. Not much experience with farm animal conspiracies, but I think we could egg them on to provide assistance for one of your impertinance."

Karzelli kept a stoic face as he talked, careless as to his words, but finding himself unable to resist. 'anyway, it would be good to help them out, and myself.

if he doesn't pound me to a pulp.'

"The Titans. An appropriate group to assist one of your own titanium sculpted stature and equally endowed cranium. Once you're finished with your masterful investing of funds in Miss Atarah's gambling establishment of course, could I be so honored as to lead you to their office?"

His expression displayed only awe in the shadow of the great WAR MACHINE, that he might be fortunate to be allowed to perform some small service.

[Atarah Kobain]

Upper Modern Originale – Atarah’s Ante Up

As she walked through the employee locker area to get back to the Ante Up after her jaunt to the little girls’ room, she noticed a couple of pages of a magazine sticking out from underneath one of the employee lockers. The lockers there weren’t quite installed right, so they sat on a slope, causing anything thin to slip partially under the door. Curious, she looked closer and recognized the magazine pages immediately. A copy of Play ‘Verse Magazine. Her issue. She looked up at the top of the locker, hoping to see whom the locker belonged to, but it wasn’t labeled. It had to be someone new.

Karz.

An amused smile graced her face. He had a copy of her issue. He was basically carrying it around with him. Most men would buy one and keep it in their homes, usually the bedroom, but he had his in his locker… at work.

When she arrived back in the Ante Up, she caught the tail end of Karz and WAR's conversation.

"The Titans. An appropriate group to assist one of your own titanium sculpted stature and equally endowed cranium. Once you're finished with your masterful investing of funds in Miss Atarah's gambling establishment of course, could I be so honored as to lead you to their office?"

Masterful investing of funds, she thought as she sidled up to Karz. That’s funny.

“Mr. Moto,” she whispered as she leaned towards his ear, making it look more like she was giving him some instructions to carry out rather than what it was. “I’m surprised that someone didn’t tell you. You need to watch those lockers in the employee’s area. They slant a bit and things have the tendency to start sliding out the bottom.

“And I must commend you on your literary choice. I hear the photography is phenomenal,” she turned to face him. “I’m flattered.”

She parted from him and turned her focus back on WAR.

“I’m sorry for my delay, I hope that Mr. Moto was able to keep you amused while I was gone,” she apologized. ”Shall we continue with our game, WAR?”

[Dio]

"Diviner than the dolphin, that there is none
'Cause Dolphins just like to have a lot of fun
No one tells 'em how their life is run
And no one points at them with a gun."

- Green Heaven, Red Hot Chili Peppers


Somewhere in the Central Tower...

Around him the gluttonous effluence of sin was so powerful it had permanently stained the walls with its stench. Animals of the lowest order were insulting his presence. Sloths mulling about in a torpid trance, waiting for something that would never come. Inane beasts never wanting more than what was within arm's reach. No desires, no ambitions.

Junkies. Dio despised them. As he moved through the cesspool known as Green Heaven, he tried not to breathe in the toxic fumes that clogged the air filters of Route 66. It was a harem for damned souls. Their eyes detected his movement - they tracked him with faint flickers of life - but they did not see him. He did not make eye contact with them; when one looks into a void they lose a part of themselves in it.

Green Heaven could not be found if you were weren't looking for it, and even then you needed Charon as a guide. It took a private elevator and a code to get there. The lift didn't tell you where you were, but you always had the strange sensation that you were moving down far faster than you should, and in the time it took to get there you felt as if the distance traveled was far greater than what the station could physically be capable of. Not even Barry knew it existed.

There were no windows in Green Heaven, and thus no way to hypothesize your position in relation to the other towers. The Lord that controlled this realm ran scramblers, making triangulation impossible. Dio had been shown the way before, so he was able to find it on his own, but to walk these grounds unaccompanied by one of the Lord's men was a punishable offence under their fabricated and corrupt rule of law, or so the guard in the elevator had said before a left hook rendered him unconscious.

The floor was covered in a moss colored carpet; thick and long enough to almost feel like grass. Most of those dwelling here walked in bare feet and let its tendrils snake between their toes. Harlots twisted and writhed on poles made to resemble Oriental dragons, while their counterparts were packed into cages on a far wall. Each one wore a mask depicting the image of Taotie, the bodiless god of gluttony. They reached their hands between the bars out to him as Dio passed. He wasn't sure if it was an act of desperation or seduction; all he could see were the savage depictions of the hideous Taotie.

People sat in circles around strange statues of a bird-like dragon with nine heads. From the jaws of each head was a pipe that each member inhaled their poison from. Needles and injectors passed hands as a blue liquid was shot into nearly collapsed veins. The users danced to some silent tune only they could hear, letting their feeble minds fall victim to the lies and illusions the drugs fed them. They were all weak. Every one of them.

Dio approached the Gates; a double wide security door with a single hog-like guard sitting in a silver lined chair. It grunted in acknowledgement of his presence, but didn't stir. It may have been a trick of the dim lighting, but Dio thought he saw a small insect retreat into its greasy black hair.

"I'm here to see...the Lord," he said, the last word tasting like human refuse in his mouth. The ego of the man to call himself that was sickening, but Dio didn't have anything else to call him by. Nothing he could say to his loyal subjects, anyway.

"He doesn't want to see you," the creature snorted. It shifted its weight, as if to stand up, but then decided against the effort. Its enormous gut rippled like a bag of liquid manure.

"I'm not leaving without it," Dio said. The man-pig thing looked up at him now, large eyes full of the false confidence that came with the power its boss held.

"You'll be leaving out the hatch if you don't go back the way you came," it said; a thoaty, wet sound that nearly triggered Dio's gag reflex. "Piece by piece," it added with a filthy grin.

Dio idly wondered if the multitude of chins would still support the weight of its head if he snapped its neck.

"We had an agreement. It's time for him to pay up."

"He's not in," it said, now midly annoyed. It began to scan the rest of the room hungrily, likely in search of a meal. Its gaze stopped on one of the Taotie dancers, and its grin widened to reveal two incomplete rows of rotting teeth. One was infected to the point of turning black, and looked . . . soft. A fat tongue prodded it curiously. As it continued to watch the dancer one of its pudgy hands, to Dio's horror, began to move towards its crotch.

Disgusted, Dio wanted to throttle it right then and there, but had no desire to touch the cancerous thing. Instead he swung his leg in a half-force kick and pinned it to the wall with his foot; the boot sunk into the folds of neck fat as the guard feebly grasped at Dio's leg to attempt to remove it. He made a mental note to himself to burn his clothes afterwards.

"Listen to me very carefully, because you don't have much time before the lack of oxygen to your brain causes you to pass out," he said, almost conversationally. A few of the more cognitive guests stirred lazily to watch, but made no move to intervene. "I know he's in, he's always in. You can't walk around with a face like his without drawing a mob of torch wielding villagers." The guard's face was now turning pink, making its resemblance to a certain slop-eating animal all the more striking.

"Tell that rutt ugly bastard that if I don't get it by this time tomorrow I'm turning him over to Barry." It made a gargling sound that may or may not have been an attempt to speak. Its tongue flopped around like a dying trout.

"What?" This time Dio relaxed his leg a little, allowing spittle-laden words to spew from its mouth.

"B-Barry can't t-touch us." Dio increased the pressure until the guard's face began to turn a lovely shade of purple.

"Maybe not, but Tureaud can." Its eyes were now bulging, making the whole image rather comical. He could have crushed its trachea with little effort. It nodded, though, so Dio released it. He left before it could catch its breath to say another word. "Tomorrow," he repeated, without looking back, though he doubted it heard him over its amusingly laboured breaths.

On the way out, someone grabbed his arm. Had the previous conversation not gone his way, he may have struck the man down without a second thought. "Hey, you're Dio, right?" He faced a young man with curly brown hair and a tattoo of a dolphin on his forearm. "I've seen all your fights, man. Never been knocked out once!"

He should have realized the man was far too alert to be one of the regulars. He was too clean, and something about his blue eyes had the air of mischief to them. Never knocked out once in his career, he was right.

He didn't see what hit him, but it felt like a giant using a tree as a club. His jaw broke as his vision blurred. No, he'd never been knocked out in his entire career as a fighter.

"He's not out, hit him again." The voice was far away. It sounded like it was speaking through water.

"But-"

"You know who this is, right? Hit him again, then take him to see the Janitor."

To his credit, Dio made it up to his knees before the second blow hit him.

Never been knocked out once.


The darkness was a new experience.

[WAR MACHINE]

Upper Modern Originale - Ante Up

War accepted Karzelli's offer with a smile and a 'gentle' shuck of the shoulder before nodding in agreement with Atarah. Back at the table they resumed their game, and War continued to talk of his missing friend.

"I DO HOPE STEVEN WINDLE IS OKAY. I MISS HIS STORIES," he said, still playing his hands with that strange automation that would lead one to hypothesize he actually knew what he was doing, yet still losing consistently enough to discredit that theory. "HE IS THE ONE WHO TAUGHT ME HOW TO PLAY POKERJACK. STEVEN WINDLE WAS AN ACE. HE SAID HE WAS TAUGHT BY THE INFAMOUS PLAYER KNOWN AS JUSTICE FINGERS."

War seemed to be suppressing giggles now. He looked across the table directly at Atarah then asked, "DO YOU KNOW WHY THEY CALLED HIM JUSTICE FINGERS?" He didn't give her enough time to respond.

"BECAUSE HE HAD NO THUMBS!" The laughter that followed was loud and a little crazy, like a child hysterically laughing at a video of someone being hit in the crotch, or the maniacal laughter of a madman who just finished revealing his evil plan. It filled the room and beyond, letting all in the Originale know that someone was either having a really good time or going completely insane. "YOU SEE, BECAUSE WITH NO THUMBS-" he paused to gasp for air, "-MEANS ALL HE HAD WAS . . . JUST HIS FINGERS!!"

"RAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!"