TUNING IN
A strained voice, softened by a dry throat and thickened by a swollen tongue is nearly indistinguishable from the soft crackling of static in the distance. A high level heist and they can’t even afford a good microphone… But that is always how it goes, isn’t it? The little guys get their stab at the big ones. After so many years of defeat, something in Dominic says hey… maybe they deserve some kind of pity win. “They want me to–” he gulps down the syrupy saliva that has begun to coat the inside of his cheeks, “They want me to read this bullshit– like we’re in a movie.” The laugh that follows is more of a croak, gravel grinding against his larynx. He coughs, but the itch is still there. “I’m supposed to read my fucking lines and they won’t even get me water?” “You know what? Fuck this. I’m not about to–” another series of coughs, tighter and rumbling in his chest. “I don’t wanna do this shit. Fuck all of you– fuck everybody who did this, fuck all you bastards I helped back then–” Panic overtakes his voice as a keen listener’s ear may pick up on a click! In the background, “–hell, fuck Leo, cause it’s probably his fucking fau–”
Boom.


















