I awaken in a dark room, with my hands tied behind my back. The room was also hot. And stuffy. And nevermind, it was just a hood. "Whuthehellami?" i ask, hoping for somebody to free me. I am greeted by the hood being jerked free of my face. "Who the hell are you?" i ask the strange face greeting mine. "Damocles." he says simply. "Oh. Well, do you think you can let me free, Damocles?" i ask. "Not until you interview me." he says, happily. "Well... I uh... Can't do that with my hands tied." I say. He obliges and chops the ropes free from my hands with his machete. "Too close!" I say, alarmed. "Now interview me." he says, sitting down. He begins chewing on his bloody hand. "Um...Kay... So, what do you think of KaW, Damocles?" i ask, sketching SOS on my pad. "It is really fun." Damocles says, reaching for my Food Cart. "Hey!" I yell, about to tell him to stop. He raises the machete, dangerously, as he pulls one of my beloved chocolate truffles out of the cooler. "Okay... so, Who is your favorite player in KaW?" I ask. "You." he replies simply, munching on the truffle. I cringe as the chocolate smears down his chin, and drips onto my sofa. "Wow. Who is your favorite Celebrity?" i ask. "Michael Jackson." he replies, with a mouth full of half chewed truffle. "Yeah. You WOULD like him." I ask. "What was that?" he asks me. "Nothing, Nothing." I say quickly. "So, if you could be any celebrity for one day...?" "Michael Jackson." he replies once more. "So... Dead, and Female?" I say, unable to contain my inner smart ass. "Wait... He's... Dead?" he asks, almost in tears. "Yeah?" I say. "You didn't know?" "When did this happen?" He asks. "Um... A few years ago." I say. He rips open his shirt, revealing a Michael Jackson face Tattoo, which, paired with the excessive chest hair, leaves MJ looking like a member of Duck Dynasty. Except, replace frogs and ducks with small children. He walks toward me, his chest wobbling slightly. "Oh GD NO!" i yell, backing away. My chair falls over backwards, and my gun under my chair is exposed to him. He dives for it, and we engage in a brief fight. I punch him, he punches me, and then the gun goes off, and Michael Jackson's face has a bullethole in the forehead. Damocles looks at me, the falls backwards, hitting the food cart, and knocking it through the glass window. "NO!!" I scream running toward it. I trip, as I am still wearing my footie pajamas, and my Cart smashes to bits on the ground below. "No..." I say weakly. Then I stand, and I phone Steven. "We have another dead guy, Steven." I say. "Again?" he says. "And also, quit calling me Steven. My name is Balto." "Yeah, Yeah. Whatever Steven." I say, yawning. "Come clean it up. I'm going to sleep on the futon."