⌠ ♦ Er ist wirklich ein K o n z e p t …
If the Emcee were to live again, with any memories of his past self, he would have to remember never to run into anything electric again.
Because shit, that electric fence hurt.
Well, it got him out of the torment the Nazis would have planned for him—plus, the death was quick. Agonizing, but quick. Gassing would have been agonizing and slow, and he preferred the former far more to that option.
But… it didn’t feel like he was dead. Maybe something like a comatose, nearly-dead state, but not… not stone cold, dead-as-a-doornail dead. It felt like… like all he needed was a spark
(what a pun to make in this day and age)
and he would be set free, free to fly and laugh at the poor souls condemned to a worse death than his own, and, even better, free to sneer at the saluting bastards who put him in the ground in the first place.
Faintly, he heard the sound of someone coming closer, their footsteps light and swift, almost not there at all. And they—no, she, he realized—had decided to sing.
(A song to soothe his poor, fried heart…)
Something in him, something that wasn’t really him, began to “sing” along, and his mind compared it to the Kit Kat Klub’s solo trombonist, if the pretty young lady had drank a few shots of gin beforehand. If he had the energy, he would have giggled wildly; let his head loll and eyes roll in its desperate hilarity.
He managed to crack his eyes open, hearing the song come closer. From his lips plopped a wet mockery of a cough, and he slowly lifted his head, still leaned against the wall, the current somehow keeping him awake and even energizing him
(so it’s nice now, isn’t it funny)
areudirty
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