( … continued)
SCENE: Warehouse near End of the Line Tavern.
Prosby rubbed his head, wincing at the pain from the wound on the side of his head.
He was cold on the concrete slab floor. He wasn’t restrained.
“Again Mr. Prosby, may I offer you some water, or perhaps something stronger?”
The woman appeared to be in her 40s, wearing some kind of one-piece zip-up suit with lettering on the right side of her chest, like something an auto mechanic might wear. Only it was bright neon blue.
The lights greatly enhanced his headache and he tried to stand up. He fell to a knee, inviting laughter from the woman and others he could not see.
“What do you want?” he asked, giving up on trying to stand.
:Well, Mr. Prosby, the question is ‘What do you want? Actually and more precisely, the question is: Do you want to live or die.”
“We all die some time,” He snapped back quickly, with sarcasm.
‘You’re death will be sooner than the natural world would give you and, trust me, it will be much much more painful,’ The woman in the jumpsuit continued. “And I will personally see to that.’
“You see, Mr. Prosby, our deal comes with an expiration date. It’s not a pay as you go sort of thing. If you don’t accomplish this task, and bring us what we seek, by that certain date, you will expire.
His mouth moved to answer but he couldn’t hear a word he said because of the deafening metal machine music.
To be continued …