Joey’s hand slaps over Sammy’s mouth, the music composer knowing the smile was twisting up into an impossible position. The air grows cold, frigid, and as his breathing speeds up it becomes clear his choices no longer matter.
His fate is inside someone else’s hands. Hands stained with ink, ones currently making him breathe in the black liquid’s toxic fumes.
Joey. Joey let me go!
“Now, now, Sammy, it’s about time you’ve /heard your tongue/,” the studio owner coos, straightening and somehow standing taller than the man usually his height, taller considering the limp usually taking quite a toll on the older.
It’s not the case anymore.
What is going on?
“Nothing much my prophet.”
Proph-?
A dark laughter follows Sammy into sleep, the tainted air finally making it too difficult to breathe and think, function properly. Of course Joey’s needed pawn is unharmed. Simply forced into unconsciousness, counting sheep.
And as the limp form is tossed over the older’s shoulder, a hand accessing the hidden door before walking through.
It swings back into its rightful place.
”The memory of Sammy Lawrence the music composer ends here.”
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