Pat mutters something about lawyers on his way out to her job at Hooters. I doze off on the couch from such a rough morning. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! W...at the fuck? I ask myself, when did Pat install a solid brass door knocker? Nothing worse than Tuesday morning Jehovah Witnesses, and I’ve had it up to here with them. The pellet gun I stole from my grandma looks just like a real .45, so I sling open the door and take a shot. Instead of white-shirted Jesus freaks running for their lives, Olga. The istress had no interests in their explanations at the time, tellinh them to save their words for the Dungeonmaster, into whose care they were summarily delivered. Now they waited, shivering, bare as they were found, chained at the neck to one of the infernal contraptions the Dungeonmaster kept in his lair for use on such luckless transgressors as themselves. As the two girls awaited questioning, they strained across the slanting punishment rack, whispering to each other urgently, trying to. More

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