Sorry for the long delay.
Chapter 4: Deadworld
You eye the new arrival cautiously, half expecting him to jump out of his wheelchair to bite off your face. He doesn't. Instead, he chooses to just sit there, grinning a crazy grin. As surreptitiously as possible, you stand behind your desk and reach for the drawer with the gun. You just hope this crazy fucker hasn't stolen it...
"I spiest thou reaching for thy glock, homie. You got nothin' to fear from me."
That would be a relief to you if you if he wasn't clearly insane. You let out a sigh of relief as you see that it's still there. You sit down and grab the thing by the handle, and release and check the magazine to make sure he hasn't stolen any bullets. He hasn't. You place the gun on the table, but with your hand still on the grip, to make sure Mr. Gaye doesn't decide to pull anything, like maybe leaping over the desk and stabbing you in the eye with a pen. He just keeps on grinning that crazy grin of his.
How did he know you had a gun if he hadn't already seen it?
"You got questions. Asketh them."
The questions start to spill out of you like a flood.
"What the hell happened to the bald guy? What the hell did you give to him? Why the hell are you here? Who the hell are you? Why the hell is any of this happening? Just... what the hell?"
His grin spreads by a couple of molars.
"I shalt deliver the answers you seek, homie. As for who I am, well, allow me to say I'm not any regular hustler, at least not as thou knows."
Duh. You hope this guy is just going to say something useful.
"As for what happened to out bro Robert there, why I'm here, and what is happening, well, these questions are not easily answered. As for where I'm from..."
He looks distracted for a moment. His grin vanishes. He looks around, in a world of his own. He finally says something.
You've never heard of a planet called that, probably because that's a retarded name for a planet. You decide to clarify.
"Deadworld? Is that where you're from? Where is that?"
"What? No, homie. It's where you're from. This place is just alternate layers of rot and shit and rot and shit. If the person next to you doesn't like the impression thy makest upon him, then he can take you out of this world for good with a piece of metal, or, fuck, even his bare fuckin' hands. Forever. You dumb fuckin' blobs. You sit there in this room, and I can smell the stench of dead animals rottin' in your guts. You draineth worlds living bounty of the galaxy away just so long as you can extend your worthless lives another day. This universe is shit, yo, and so is everything in it. Which is why it's like a knife hath been twisted in mine very scrotum when I admit that I needeth your help."
You're left grasping for words. Probably because you're scared shitless. He continues.
"Dost thou seest this?"
He holds what looks like a small silver cylinder in his hand, about the size of a can of deodorant. You nod.
"Open the top. Use what you find inside. I knowest what you think. You've got one of two choices. You can take my advice and have all your questions answered. Or you can get busted by the cops. Your friend Johnny over there is going to call and they'll be here in sixteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds as of this moment."
You look round Marvin's head, and sure enough, see Johnny's horrified face peering round the clinic entryway, perusing you having a conversation with Mr. Gaye. Oh, and the corpse of his friend with a gaping wound in its chest. And a gun in your hand.
You attempt to defuse the situation, reaching out with your hand to stall him and allow you to explain. You use your gun hand to do it-
-and naturally, he bolts. Mr. Gaye's grin now seems to go from ear to ear. You feel the urge to shoot it right off his goddamn face.
"Thou knowest what to do, brother." he intones. He offers the cylinder forward.
Plan of Action? Try your luck with cops? Try to escape? Listen to Marvin Gaye? The crazy person, not the musician. You can listen to some Marvin Gaye music if you want.
I have to kill fast and bullets are too slow.