I can't die here.
So don't.
I can't die here.
So don't.
I know what it is.
What what is?
My "desert-island band."
Tell somebody who gives a shit.
There's been a stabbing!
In the room, go!
Cops are on the way.
We haven't done anything.
It doesn't matter.
They're called cartridges. The bullet is the part that eats your brain if you keep talking shit. And this gun only has five cartridges. Not six. Cause they're big as **** and only five for the cylinder. So please... shut the **** up and don't test me.
You're sure making it worse.
We sit and we wait.
And we die?
Not if you sit and you wait.
This... is a nightmare.
For us all.
Please tell me those stupid **** words are his last!
What are they doing?
They're coming.
We gotta go.
Then we die.
The longer we wait, the surer that is.
Is that a pep talk? You stab him with the shiv and get ready to run.
Okay, I'm with The Ain't Rights from Washington, DC. You guys are hard to find. Why no social media presence?
Music is shared live. It's time and aggression. You gotta be there.
Sorry, guys, we gotta clear out. Follow me.
And then it's over.
So, in a tournament, I snap his arms or he taps out and we all go get burgers.
You can't keep us here, you gotta let us go.
We're not keeping you here, you're just staying.
He breathing? Let him bleed.
Now gentlemen and ladies. Whatever you saw or did... is no longer my concern. But let's be clear... this won't end well.