You are now the White Text Guy, except you really aren't because only the... oh to hell with it.
You are an officer of the Felt shrouded in mystery, and also the timpanist in the Green Torsos symphonic orchestra. Recently, a spot was vacated, which should soon be corrected as part of your latest scheme. A former exile of great potential has been displaying signs of infidelity towards his cohorts. He yearns for the musical experience you provide. And you could use his talents well.
You have resourcefully neutralized any threats to this plan. One of these dangers is about to meet an untimely end. You could have salvaged his talents, but alas, he has sworn against the melodic harmony which you stand for.
> Observe untimely demise.
You are now Spades Slick, undergoing the least interesting plotline of this story. You are still waiting for a certain fatass to show up and continue the plan. You have no idea how long you have been in this abandoned clock factory, which only serves to illustrate why you're blowing it up in the first place. You previously tried to go outside and escape the dreadful ticking, but your aimless scurrying around has gotten you lost deep within the building. To pass the time, you have indulged in petty pyromania. Though you wouldn't put it above yourself.
You wish you could contact Boxcars and tell him to hurry the fuck up, but you seem to have misplaced your CROSBYTOP. Moreover, radio contact is dead silent on Droog's end. Odd. Did something happen over there? You figure they'd be able to handle whatever came their way, but still...
You'd really like to know how they're doing.
> SS: Be...Hearts Boxcars!
You are now Diamonds Droog, trapped in the remains of a devestated tobacco store. The foyer has completely caved in, and you are currently searching for a back door of sorts.
You were injured by a terrible explosion triggered by your idiot colleague, but thanks to your epansive BRAWLSOLEUM, you have replaced your tattered attire with a backup outfit. However, you are still stuck with your piece-of-shit concert saxophone and all of your shitty guns are missing. This reeks of sabotage.
Maybe it was...? Nah, Clubs is cool. You mean, not really cool at all, but he's an okay guy. When he's not wantonly blowing everything up, of course. But you can trust him. Sort of. He's way too much of an airhead to pose any serious danger, anyway.
What about Hearts Boxcars? You've never liked him much. Could he have tampered with your deck of cards? He's been acting real suspicious lately. Couldn't stop talking about this Koussitzky
or something or other.
You were musing about who to blame this on when...
It's Matchsticks from the Felt. Now you have a good idea who the perpetrator is. It won't help you any, though. This guy is lethal, and your ULTRA VIOLENCE CUESTICK won't be of any use.
You have only one option. Maybe Clubs Deuce is still around. You guess the time has come to make a compromise and issue a perfectly in-tune distress signal with your C Melody Saxophone. But how? Which jazz standard could possibly express the degree of trouble you find yourself in?
You decide to play...
I'm Gonna Bash Your Fucking Head In With A Saxophone.
In C Minor.
> Observe innocuous discource in digital space.