Wycomb had been raised on negation, and it was a habitual response in times of
"What?" The larger man looked distinctly taken aback. Wycomb was devoting
about 90% of his brain activity to bladder control, and so he took the question
as retorical, perhaps by default. "Do you see this, here? This, over here...?"
He waved demonstratively with the barrel.
"Yes, YES, I meant yes!!" The dedicated bladder center had lost 9% or so of
its resources in favor of saving his life by parsing one word sentences for
input and output.
"Good. Open the backroom."
"The backroom, open it."
"I'm getting the key." Down to 70%.
"You like your job here? Working in a porn palace...that make you feel low?"
"What the hell does that have to do with anything." Becoming frantic took
another 10% off the top, and apparently 65 was the limit. Wycomb peed himself.
"Oh, for fuck sake. That's just...give me the keys and wait here."
Wycomb reflected that childhood nightmares not withstanding, this had been a
fairly positive outcome, and made a mental note to consider wetting himself in
public on a more regular basis.