You wake up in the well-room. Sitting in front of you is a record player. It is producing sound. You are alone.
A hand strokes your hair, but you can’t move. You realize you are chained to a wall. Someone drops a milk crate full of Frank Zappa records in your lap, then a second. You squirm, but can’t shake them off.
“You broke my sister’s records” a shrill voice says. “we need to lay them down.”
You feel a cold liquid seep down your head. It smells horrible. You know the smell of gasoline and you panic! You try to stand up, but you can’t! It appears your hamstrings have been cut!
You look up into the face of your least favourite aunt and glare. She pinches your cheek one last time before lighting the match.
