You’re two min­utes early, which means you’re three min­utes late.

He rubs it in, of course, but you ex­pect noth­ing less. It’s what he does: com­plain, com­plain, com­plain, all the time.

You’ll give him some­thing to com­plain about, just as soon as he…

Walk­ing on wa­ter? Why would you want to?

That other fel­low did it quite a long time ago, and now it’s hor­ri­bly bor­ing.

Swim­ming in air… now, that’s a dif­fer­ent story. Much bet­ter than float­ing. Float­ing would be cool, if oth­ers would­n’t be so…

The only con­stant is change.

With­out change, there can be no eter­nity.

With­out evo­lu­tion, the hu­man race has no fu­ture.

You don’t be­lieve.

You don’t be­lieve the prophecy.

You know it.

You be­lieve in the curse be­cause you know it is true, you know…

Choco­late.

It’s al­most a dirty word.

You can feel it melt­ing in your mouth, even now, days since you’ve had your last.

You need it.

You need it right now.

And you want it.

So, of course, you have it.

You put a square in your mouth. It melts–ever so slowly.…

It’s only money.

You’re not re­ally in­volved.

It’s only money.

You’re not call­ing the shots.

It’s only money.

Thir­teen hun­dred thou­sand of it, at all times.

It’s only money.

All you do is man­age it.

It’s only money.

You’re just David.

It’s only money.…

They think they found him.

They haven’t found the mur­derer. They’d never be able to.

“He’s just the dri­ver.”

No, they in­sist. He’s the mur­derer.

They even have a con­fes­sion.

That seals it for you. Clearly not the mur­derer.

The mur­derer would never…

You swore you’d never. Yet here you are.

It can’t be too hard. You’ve seen it done dozens of times. Hun­dreds.

But you swore you’d never.

You’ve seen them raise their hands. You’ve seen them wave lit­tle sticks around.
You’ve seen them play. You’ve seen them…

“It’s not that I want you alive–quite the op­po­site. I’ll even kill you my­self, af­ter my dra­matic mono­logue.”

Meh. You can do bet­ter.

“He’ll find you. He’ll kill you. He’s not so dif­fer­ent than I.”

Still not right.

What does it take to prop­erly tell…

“Hello,” he said, then he raised the gun up to your head.

Huge grin, that charm­ing smile, so him–there all the while.

“I like hostages,” he re­marked. “Hostages are good.”

You’d tell him you dis­agree it you thought he’d lis­ten,

You’d yell it from moun­tain­tops,…

Dots. Dots. More dots.

And they pulse.

It’s freaky. It’s weird.

It’s a bit dis­gust­ing.

You re­al­ly should not have made them look like acne. Some may take glee in pop­ping pim­ples, but y­ou do not.

Se­ri­ously.

It’s gross.

You look away, shiv­er­ing.

What…