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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 5309146" data-attributes="member: 3285">In Media Res: PrologueSOMEWHERE OUTSIDE LIBERTY, MISSOURI—&quot;I AM THE WAY!&quot; shouted a strange voice.They all came to facing an eighteen-inch by twenty four-inch Rorschach inkblot that looked familiar somehow. It was a pleasant fall evening.&nbsp; They were standing in a dining room of a somewhat shabby and rustic house.&nbsp; Cheap prints of dogs hunting quail decorate the walls.&nbsp; A cabinet against the wall contained &quot;fine&quot; china and silverware.&nbsp; They were all dressed the same: wearing greenish-blue institutional shirts and pants with low-cost sneakers.&nbsp; Their name-patches read: MOROWITZ, BEAN, MORGAN. Their gaze was drawn to the supine corpse on the table. A beefy man dressed in police-style clothing lay tied by the wrists and ankles on the dining room table.&nbsp; His throat was cut and blood had sprayed and run across his chest and the table.&nbsp; In addition, his face was missing—cut off.&nbsp; The cut line ran across the hairline, in front of the ears, and under the chin.&nbsp; He lay there, muscle and tissue exposed and eyes staring out dully with no eyelids to cover them.&nbsp; His tongue was cut out.Back to the blot. On the wall was a large Rorschach blot painted in fresh blood.&nbsp; In front of it stood a fourth man whose name-patch read JONES.&nbsp; He held the guard's face over his own and had just finished speaking in a strange voice. It was Jones' voice they heard first.&quot;What the F**K is going on?&quot; shouted Morowitz, a large black man covered in prison tattoos.&nbsp; He was big and beefy, with powerful muscles concealed under layers of fat.&nbsp; He took one menacing step towards Jones.Jones blinked and pulled the sticky flesh away from his face.&nbsp; Then, gagging for a moment, he swallowed something. &quot;I think…&quot; he shuddered. &quot;I think I just swallowed a tongue.&quot;Morgan, with wild hair and unkempt beard, suddenly noticed the presence of a weapon in his pocket.&nbsp; He pulled out the revolver, a .38.&nbsp; It was probably the guard's.&nbsp; He spun the chamber – two bullets had already been fired.&nbsp; Jones backed away, taking in the scene and realizing that his face and hands were covered with blood.&nbsp; Bean, a bug-eyed slight man, watched him curiously. Morowitz crossed his arms.&quot;You gonna use that pistol?&quot; growled Morowitz. Morgan tucked the pistol into his pocket.&nbsp; &quot;Not yet. Anyone know where we are?&quot;&quot;Or who we are?&quot; asked Jones.&nbsp; &quot;I don't remember…anything.&quot;&quot;Well you remembered cutting that poor f****er up good,&quot; said Morowitz.&nbsp; &quot;Nobody deserves that, man.&quot;&quot;I didn't do that!&quot; shouted Jones.&quot;You were wearing his face,&quot; said Morgan quietly. &quot;Gotta be a knife here somewhere,&quot; said Bean.&nbsp; He twitched as he looked around.&nbsp; &quot;Where's the knife?&quot;Morowitz bent down under the table and came up with a bloody paring knife.&nbsp; &quot;Looking for this?&quot;Bean swallowed, going nearly cross-eyed focusing on the dull blade.&nbsp; &quot;Yeah, that's got to be the one.&quot;Morowitz tucked it into his belt.&nbsp; &quot;I'll keep it if you don't mind.&quot;&quot;Sure, sure, sure thing big guy.&quot;Morowitz rubbed his forehead.&nbsp; &quot;All right.&nbsp; I'm not good at this planning s**t.&nbsp; I'm guessing one of you is and that's how we got here.&nbsp; So start talking.&quot;Morgan shrugged.&nbsp; &quot;Looks like we're inmates.&quot;&nbsp; He rifled through the dead guard's possessions.&nbsp; He pocketed the contents of the wallet after taking out a nametag, which he tossed on the table between the dead man's feet. &quot;Dennis Gelon,&quot; read Jones. &quot;A guard at the Liberty Center for the…&quot; he trailed off.&quot;Criminally Insane,&quot; said Morgan ruefully.</blockquote>

[QUOTE="talien, post: 5309146, member: 3285"] [b]In Media Res: Prologue[/b] SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE LIBERTY, MISSOURI—"I AM THE WAY!" shouted a strange voice. They all came to facing an eighteen-inch by twenty four-inch Rorschach inkblot that looked familiar somehow. It was a pleasant fall evening. They were standing in a dining room of a somewhat shabby and rustic house. Cheap prints of dogs hunting quail decorate the walls. A cabinet against the wall contained "fine" china and silverware. They were all dressed the same: wearing greenish-blue institutional shirts and pants with low-cost sneakers. Their name-patches read: MOROWITZ, BEAN, MORGAN. Their gaze was drawn to the supine corpse on the table. A beefy man dressed in police-style clothing lay tied by the wrists and ankles on the dining room table. His throat was cut and blood had sprayed and run across his chest and the table. In addition, his face was missing—cut off. The cut line ran across the hairline, in front of the ears, and under the chin. He lay there, muscle and tissue exposed and eyes staring out dully with no eyelids to cover them. His tongue was cut out. Back to the blot. On the wall was a large Rorschach blot painted in fresh blood. In front of it stood a fourth man whose name-patch read JONES. He held the guard's face over his own and had just finished speaking in a strange voice. It was Jones' voice they heard first. "What the F**K is going on?" shouted Morowitz, a large black man covered in prison tattoos. He was big and beefy, with powerful muscles concealed under layers of fat. He took one menacing step towards Jones. Jones blinked and pulled the sticky flesh away from his face. Then, gagging for a moment, he swallowed something. "I think…" he shuddered. "I think I just swallowed a tongue." Morgan, with wild hair and unkempt beard, suddenly noticed the presence of a weapon in his pocket. He pulled out the revolver, a .38. It was probably the guard's. He spun the chamber – two bullets had already been fired. Jones backed away, taking in the scene and realizing that his face and hands were covered with blood. Bean, a bug-eyed slight man, watched him curiously. Morowitz crossed his arms. "You gonna use that pistol?" growled Morowitz. Morgan tucked the pistol into his pocket. "Not yet. Anyone know where we are?" "Or who we are?" asked Jones. "I don't remember…anything." "Well you remembered cutting that poor f****er up good," said Morowitz. "Nobody deserves that, man." "I didn't do that!" shouted Jones. "You were wearing his face," said Morgan quietly. "Gotta be a knife here somewhere," said Bean. He twitched as he looked around. "Where's the knife?" Morowitz bent down under the table and came up with a bloody paring knife. "Looking for this?" Bean swallowed, going nearly cross-eyed focusing on the dull blade. "Yeah, that's got to be the one." Morowitz tucked it into his belt. "I'll keep it if you don't mind." "Sure, sure, sure thing big guy." Morowitz rubbed his forehead. "All right. I'm not good at this planning s**t. I'm guessing one of you is and that's how we got here. So start talking." Morgan shrugged. "Looks like we're inmates." He rifled through the dead guard's possessions. He pocketed the contents of the wallet after taking out a nametag, which he tossed on the table between the dead man's feet. "Dennis Gelon," read Jones. "A guard at the Liberty Center for the…" he trailed off. "Criminally Insane," said Morgan ruefully. [/QUOTE]

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