Find the bugger!

Drunken rage is, in the end, the victor.

That seems to be a common result, when drunkenness and rage are indeed factors in a decision being made. It's the sort of thing you keep telling yourself you should work on, especially at your age, but it always seems to be sliding onto the the back burner, so to speak. However, I digress; revenge is at hand!

Only, not so much.

As soon as the thought occurs, you are, with a resounding (and painful, for the record) zapping sort of noise, thrown promptly and directly to the floor. The floor seems inherently unhappy with you dropping by unannounced, and breaks off your iguana tail with extreme prejudice and no fair trial.

It is important to note that while you may have been happy to be rid of the tail, or perhaps unhappy with the pain that resulted from the removal-by-floor, these would only really come into effect under normal circumstances. Which, as evidenced by the fact that you even have an iguana tail in the first place, these are not.

What I mean by this is simple; you have, by now, learned that any removal of the tail simply results in it growing back again in a manner of a few minutes; doubtless the result of some reptilian trait endowed upon you by the maniac shining lights upon you like you are some sort of laboratory experiment. The irony being that you are, in fact, just that.

But once more I return to the matter at hand, because you, the protagonist, may only pause in your actions for so long before someone begins to suspect the narrator of rambling. And the last things I need is an accusation of that sort, after the Polanski incident---

We've had the previous narrator canned, for excessive usage of backstory and completely unrelated blather. Inquiries on the subject may be directed to---

We've had the previous narrator canned for excessive guideline-adherence-to (the stuffy old bat), and replaced him with your original narrator. Now, let's try to move on.

As I was previously saying, you're now on your tush due to an abrupt electrical current. I'd imagine you're not exactly happy about this, and really wondering why exactly you had been introduced to this rude new acquaintance with a penchant for shock-therapy.

Fortunately, the only man who could answer you this question happened to be just in the other room, and, even more conveniently, already speaking to you over an intercom.

"You and I are mentally linked now, honey. You can't do anything without me knowing you're going to do it just as you do, so I suggest you cooperate. Unless, of course, you enjoy having electricity forcibly introduced into your body."

And again, you are left at a mental crossroads, though this time there appears to be a traffic cop watching you intently, all-too-eager to give you a ticket.

The End

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