sweating, pulse racing, Julian Casablancas stares the typewriter down. It’s been hours - no, days. He’s been waiting for the typewriter to crack, but for some reason the typewriter holds its ground. It’s not a snitch. Snitches get killed where he’s from.
“Where is it.” Demands Casablancas in a low, even voice. His throat is dry from all the screaming and shouting threats; he needs a new tactic.
The typewriter can sense that it’s wearing him down. The typewriter, sensing Casablancas’ desperation and overwhelming frustration, decides to tease him just a little bit.
clack, clack. The typewriter types out not a word, but two seemingly harmless characters:
:P
it never saw the hammer coming.
reblogging myself because Janie
