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anewlanguageYou know, Dean? Dean, you might be right. Maybe half right.
[Some six hours after Barbara's post, Cain is completely stinking drunk. But he's also feeling more sociable, and between swigs or statements he hums a song, occasionally mumbling the lyrics.]
...Hit her foot against a splinter,
Fell into the foaming brine...
I'm not rethinking stopping being a pacifist, but I oughta say I'm feeling like doing target practice, and the boat's not real steady under my feet, you get what I mean. So hurry on down, clear out my gun cache.
Knives, too.
[He takes a healthy swallow from the bottle.]
dreadful sorry, Clementine...
[The feed cuts about halfway through that chorus
[Some six hours after Barbara's post, Cain is completely stinking drunk. But he's also feeling more sociable, and between swigs or statements he hums a song, occasionally mumbling the lyrics.]
...Hit her foot against a splinter,
Fell into the foaming brine...
I'm not rethinking stopping being a pacifist, but I oughta say I'm feeling like doing target practice, and the boat's not real steady under my feet, you get what I mean. So hurry on down, clear out my gun cache.
Knives, too.
[He takes a healthy swallow from the bottle.]
dreadful sorry, Clementine...
[The feed cuts about halfway through that chorus
