Hang The Gentleman

By hooks he was suspended from The World’s Highest Ceiling. “Please,” said Caygan, “I’ll never do it again. I promise it. Please! Where are you?!”

Caygan hung like the longest dick. He was just there. Hanging. His body, it glistened. His brown pants ripped. His hair was put in a bun. By who? By The Photographers. He had cuts on his chest. When he first regained consciousness he mused quietly over how he got them. Thirty seconds later began the shout exhibition.

His eyes were like…confused. The Eyes Of Confusion would surely be the title tomorrow. He was almost certain of it. “Please!” He began again. “Please! I’ll never do it again. Cross my heart.”

Caygan cocked his cabeza up. He saw his restraints. He studied them. He stopped screaming to conserve energy. Because thinking requires energy, thought Caygan. He started thinking things like, “Ok. If I want to get out of this, how should I go about it? What is the weakness of these chains. Everything has a weakness.”

Caygan, he was thrown stones at. He began screaming. Stones were palms and his body a conga. “Silence is not good,” boomed a voice. The voice could not be located.


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