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You had been out all morning running errands. Your boyfriend had been sleeping when you left, as he’d been up until 5 this morning pouring over his journals for words to fill his surrealist short film Doppelherz, accompanying his latest album. Now it was around 3 in the afternoon, and you hope he’s awake– it makes you smile hearing his voice and getting a kiss from him when you get home.

Unlocking the door, you drop your purse and keys on the table, and look around. The house is completely dark, and the blackout curtains are drawn. He’s either working again, or—  

Your foot kicks something, and you slowly turn the lock behind you to make sure the front door is closed before picking it up. It’s a card. Shining your phone flashlight on it, you see it’s a little greeting card with a teddy bear holding a heart pillow. You open it suspiciously, and it’s blank save for a few words written in black ink against the stark white background:

Safe word: thaeter.

You let the card flutter to the floor, and clutch your phone as you feel your heartbeat pick up in excitement. Well, this was one way to start your weekend.

“Hello?” you call, taking a few steps down the dark hall. You can barely see, so you feel along the wall. It’s unnerving—you can’t hear anything. No music, no noise. Just eerie silence. It’s odd, since he always needs background noise. You wonder where he is, where he’s waiting for you.

A flash of real fear shoots through you as you hear a creak behind you.

“Brian?” you hiss, and turn. You bite your lip when you see nobody, and turn back to keep walking ahead. Your feet make the floorboards moan, your fingertips brushing the cold wallpaper. You walk past the kitchen, and look around. Your blood runs cold. Three of the knives are missing. No, four. It’s hard to see in the dark.    

You keep walking, trying to flick on a lamp, but all the power’s been switched off from the master panel. He sure does pay attention to detail.

You take another step, and something bumps behind you. Before you have time to turn around or scream, you see a white cloth bag wrap around your head from behind, and tighten against your face. You try to make a noise, but the sack seals around you, and after inhaling an odd smell, you go pliant.

The bag is removed.

Your eyes have since adjusted to the dark, so you can see a faint fluorescent gleam in the room you’re in. You can’t move. You take in your surroundings. It’s one of the bedrooms in your house, emptied of its contents save for a single armchair and a table. The walls and floors are covered in plastic. Jerking your arms, you find that you’re naked, tied tightly to a chair, wrists and ankles bound.  

“Pleasant dreams, sweetheart?” 

Marilyn stands in front of you, eyes downcast on something he’s organizing upon the table. He’s in a long black plastic coat, has black gloves on, and his German officer’s hat. His contacts are in, and his eyes are shadowed black. He looks beautiful, and deadly.

You jerk against your restraints again.

“Let me go,” you whisper. The excitement and trepidation of what he’s about to do fills you just like you wish he would. He doesn’t respond, only starts to tap his fingers along the table of instruments. He finally takes a breath, composes himself, and pauses his work.

“You will address me as Herr Doktor. Is that understood?”

You look around the room, trying to search for some way to escape. For now, you agree. “Understood, Herr Doktor.”

“You slept for longer than I thought you would. Naugh-ty girl. I was beginning to get impatient.” He finally turns to you, pattering his fingers along the table. “You like to keep me waiting?” He lifts his chin in question, leering down at you. His position over you is ominous.

You swallow, throat dry with a lump forming. “No.”

He sucks his cheekbones in a little, in mild irritation. “No, what?”

“No, Herr Doktor.”

“Mm.” He turns back to his work. “I thought not. ‘S a good girl. Good answer. Still. You aren’t about to talk your way out of this…” He traces whatever lays upon the plastic-wrapped table. “…Are you?”

You shake your head, as best you can.

“Mmm, no. Good little kitty.” You shudder, and he begins to circle the table. “Eins…. zwei…. drei…” he whispers, and starts to count the objects in German. You didn’t know he knew German, just thought he was fascinated with the language. That just added to the many mysteries you constantly unraveled regarding your boyfriend, but you dare not say anything. Interrupting the roleplay without a safe word was severely punishable (by death today, so it would seem…)

You glance at the table, trying to squint through the low light. There are instruments of torture, half of them everyday objects turned sinister like pliers and knives, and half collectible relics that must’ve been used to pull people’s nipples off or turn them into the Joker. Scattered throughout, there are also what look to be instruments of pleasure. It all depends on which one he lands on. Silently, you pray he doesn’t land on any–

“Zehn,” he strokes something, and you wait with baited breath. He turns, holding between his index finger and thumb a sewing needle and thread. You try to swallow again, but it burns this time. “Oh,” he whispers, letting the needle dance between his fingertips. “Try not to scream too loud, sweetheart. You know how I get when I’m working.”

Clawing at the arms of the chair you’re strapped to, you begin to thrash. “Please. Please, Herr Doktor, mercy, don’t do this.” He seems to hesitate for a second, waiting for you to give the safe word. Blinking your eyelashes up at him, you don’t.

Marilyn advances on you, holding you by the chin. He’s getting off on the power he has over you, and so are you. “Take it nice,” he breathes in your ear, and as you hold in a scream, he runs the thin needle through your bottom lip. It comes out over your tongue, and he pulls it over to make a ring of thread around your lip, the faint tinge of blood mixing with the steel of the sharp object. The pain stings, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. It’s just like an extreme piercing… of sorts.

“Taking it so good,” he praises you. He holds the string between your teeth. “Bite.” You bite the thread, and he admires his work. “Pretty. My little doll.“ Nodding once, he rises. "Now. I want you to pick a number between one and ten.”

“Mmm,” you protest, a tear rolling down your cheek. He looks at you.

"Do I have to ask you twice?”

Your fingers tremble, as you try to think of a number. Normally you and your boyfriend were symbiotic… couldn’t you guess what he was thinking on the best of days? You decide to play along, putting the tiny bit of German you know to good use.

“Nein, Herr Doktor. My guess is three.”

“A good guess, doll. Very good. But wrong. It was thirty-three.”

"B–” His glare tells you it’s unwise to protest. He walks back over to the table, placing the bloody needle back down. “But since you guessed half of it… I’ll go easy this time.” He counts the weapons and paraphernalia, and comes up on a butcher knife. You take a deep breath, a shiver running through you. “Are you scared?”

You tremble, and you can imagine how he’s smiling like the devil incarnate.

He walks over to something in the corner of the room, and you realize from the blinking red light that it’s a camera on a tripod. He presses record on it, then goes to start some music on a small player.

“It’s experimental.” He presses play, and walks back over. First, he picks up your leg, pressing kisses all the way up it. Then he lets go.

You hear him behind the chair, but you can’t turn to keep him in sight. The cold steel of the long, sharp knife drags across your forearm, barely deep enough to scratch. He saws it back, a little harder this time. Then again, and you start to feel the edge slice.

“Oh god,” you gasp, head rolling down, and you feel a few drops of blood roll as he cuts deeper. An excruciating scream is threatening to rip from you, and he senses this, covering your mouth with a plastic gloved hand from behind you. He moves it down to grope and massage your breasts.

“Pretty little kitty… showed the world her titties… and sang a little ditty to the degenerate city… all the nitty gritty… they killed her, what a pity.”

He reaches down between your legs, gently dragging his finger up and down. He looks up at the camera lens, the silent watcher, glares at it.

“You are nothing but a screen,” he whispers in your ear, “An erotic plaything, on which I project my images of sorrow, pain, suffering, sex and the brief glimpse of happiness I get from the misery. Of those who sit in the theatre that this screen exists will feel while you listen.”

You grind your hips, biting your lip in a momentary slip of memory. You bite down on the thread wound, and cry out at the pain. Dipping two gloved fingers inside of you, he gives another saw, and this time, you watch the blood gush out over your arm, down to your thigh, running down finally to the plastic floor.

“So pretty,” he whispers in your ear, “I love the way you fucking bleed.”

“Mmmgmmd,” you moan through his hand, eyes rolling back. Your moans begin to rise in pitch, putting on a show for the film.

“Go ahead, then. Scream. No one can hear you but me.” A couple more drops hit the plastic, and he lets your arm go, taking out a bandage and wrapping you up to stop the bleeding. You take a deep breath, the pain washing over you in throbbing waves like an orgasm would.

“You call that going easy?”

He slaps you across the face, and grabs you by your chin. Just as he’s about to snarl something horrifying in your ear or hit you again, the doorbell rings. Manson freezes, and you look up at him. He lets you go, turns the camera and music off, and gently strokes the side of your face.

“Alright. This can go one of two ways, kitty.” He picks up a small bullet-shaped device from the table. “You behave yourself and don’t make any noise, and I reward you when I’m back…” He glances back at the table. “You know the alternative.” You swallow, and he advances on you, stroking up your neck and leaning in. “If kitty meows… she’s gonna have to be disciplined. You understand, don’t you?”

You nod slowly, and wonder what it is that he’s holding. The doorbell rings again, this time twice, and Marilyn carefully reaches between your legs, inserting the cool metal device into you. You gasp softly, and wonder if it’s an actual bullet. What if it’s some kind of terrifying gas bullet, that he got from the fucking Einsatzgruppen historical archives or something? He wouldn’t put you in that kind of danger for a sex game… would he?

“Hush now,” he whispers, taking off his hat carefully and setting it on the table, “I’ll be quick.”

With that, he walks out of the room, closing it silently. You see the doorknob turn as he locks it, and fear creeps back in as all light filters out.

Manson gives his hands a quick rinse in the sink, just in case, and goes to check out the peephole. It’s gotta be someone he knows; reporters and paparazzi never dare make the journey up to his ‘house on haunted hill’, as he likes to call it, where he lives in the escalation of West Hollywood.

Another three bangs on the door. “Quit doing blow and jerking off to… what the fuck are you into right now? Weimar porn, let me in!”

Of course. Twiggy.

Manson swings the door open. “What the hell are you doing here?” Jeordie walks in past him, feeling his way through the pitch black house. “Come in.”

“Thanks,” Jeordie grins, already popping a beer from the fridge door, “Want one?”

“I’m good.”

“Tim’s not here, is he?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him tied up in my basement with a cock ring on.” Jeordie hesitates, knowing his friend too well not to believe him. Marilyn just rolls his eyes. “Why would Skold be in my house at 4:30 PM on a Friday, Jeordie?”

“Time is a myth, and Skold is a ghost. Shows up whenever I don’t wanna see him.”

“Interesting, kind of like you right now.” Reaching into his pocket, Manson presses a button, and turns up a dial. Time to put his girl to the test.

In your dark room, the device inside of you starts to vibrate. Oh, shit. You readjust, hoping it stays where it is. You can handle it.

Jeordie keeps the fridge door open for light. “You would not believe the fight I just had. Fuckin’ hell, it was like Hurricane Lani. Category ten.”

“What was the fight about?” Marilyn asks, shifting uncomfortably. He wants to get back to you, but his friend and former bandmate had a habit of inviting himself over at the worst possible time. Manson was a cold and distant asshole, so he had no problem slamming doors in people’s faces… just not his childhood best friend’s, especially when he didn’t see him at work anymore.

“She thinks I’m on drugs again. I’m not!” Jeordie considers this. “There’s a 0.07 percent chance the cigarette I smoked last night was laced. But I had no way of knowing that, it wasn’t mine!”

“Don’t you know what dope smells like by now?”

“Speed was always more my thing.”

“Never smoke hand rolled cigarettes at parties in Hollywood,” Marilyn sighed.

“Maybe I was just hopeful,” Jeordie laughs bitterly, and rests against the expensive countertop. “You got any?”

“You’re sober.”

“You’re not.”

“Good point, I’ve got a plethora of cocaine in this house.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“In my nostrils.”


“No. My narcotics are in a childproofed box in my bedroom, which means there’s no way you could get into it, one, because my bedroom is a warzone, and two, you’re a child.”

“Mm.” Jeordie gives up. “So where’s (y/n)?”

Manson rolls up the dial to the next setting in his pocket. “Grocery shopping.”

“Mm. That’s domestic.”

“Don’t get cute about it.”

“Never thought you’d have a girlfriend making you food and shit.”

“She makes Kraft dinner and ketchup.”

“Better than what Lani makes.”  

In the room, you bite down on your bottom lip. Oh god, that’s good. The bullet has gone a little deeper, and it’s starting to vibrate right against your g-spot. You keep your gasps to a minimum, desperate not to disappoint.  

As the pressure builds though, you start to really worry. You can barely keep it together, and if you let out any kind of audible noise, you’re terrified of what he’ll do. Escaping isn’t an option– he’d just make the punishment worse.

Jeordie frowns, as if he’s truly looking at his friend for the first time today. “Hey. What’s with the raincoat?”

“I killed somebody,” Marilyn tells him, and Jeordie just hums again, unphased.

“Shit. I wanna go home. But if Lani sees my face again tonight, I don’t think I’ll have any teeth left by morning.”

“Get her some chocolates and flowers, and write sorry on them. Chicks love that sappy shit.” Not mine though, Manson thinks smugly.

“I did that last time. She burned the flowers and dumped the chocolates down the toilet.”

“Then go knock on the door of your own fucking house, and cry. You look like a baby when you cry, she’ll think you’re cute and take pity on you.”

“Yeah, I guess. I just want a blowjob and a nap.” Jeordie raises an eyebrow. “Help me out?”

“I don’t have the sexual inclination nor the extra made up bed.” Marilyn purses his lips, already getting up and starting to shoo the bassist out of his kitchen.

“Really? Cause this house has 5 guest rooms, and that looks like a boner.”


You breathe heavily, trying not to scream. You can hear them talking in the distance, by the kitchen. Fuck, you’re gonna cum… You picture Marilyn shoving the vibrator in and out of you, growling as he tells you all the dirty things he’s gonna do to you with his cock. Fuck, fuck, you want him.

Jeordie laughs. “I know what a boner looks like, and that is definitely one.”

“Stop staring at my dick and get–”

Just then, a soft moan drifts from down the hall. Jeordie’s eyes widen, and something sadistic glimmers in Manson’s eyes.

“Is it (y/n), or…?” Jeordie hisses, “I mean, I can keep a secr–”

“Fuck out, right now.”

“I’m going! Ow, alright!”

Manson slams the door, makes doubly sure it’s locked, and stalks down the hall. The door to your room opens, and closes. You don’t know where he is, but you know how this is about to go.

The vibrations inside you halt, and you hear his growling voice, chilling and low, somewhere in front of you, on the other side of the room.

“Did you cum?”


“Is that the truth? I can feel if your pussy’s wet, you little whore.”

“It’s the truth, Herr Doktor. Please believe me.”

Silence. He puts the hat back on, slips the gloves back on. Then you feel his hand run down your neck, and he gropes your breast painfully, exploitatively.

“You fucking failed.”

You swallow, nodding shakily. He walks over to the table, and turns on the small medical lamp. He picks something up, and walks back over. Slowly, he begins cutting your ropes loose. You feel hopeful for a moment, but it’s short lived. With him, things always seem wonderful before they take a nose dive.

You drop to your knees in front of the chair, and the air leaves your lungs as you gaze at what he has in his hand.

“Lift your pretty face up, kitty,” he whispers, and takes your chin again in his gloved hand.

You stutter out the ghost of his name, sound barely leaving you. He just pets your head softly, hushing you.

“Disobedient whores get what they deserve,” he tells you, crouching down. You cast your eyes downward, sniffling. He wipes your tears away. “You disobeyed me, and… well, sweetheart, how would it look if I didn’t follow through with what I said I was going to do?” He leans in closer. “Hm?” He presses the gentlest of kisses to the top of your cheekbone, then an even softer, sweeter one to your lips. You yearn for more of his touch as he backs away from you, but he hands you what he’s been holding instead. It’s an old pistol. His voice cuts through your shocked haze.

“How many bullets?”

You look up at him, starting to shiver again. Your mascara is trailing down your cheeks, and you’ve got your boyfriend’s blood red lipstick staining your jaw.

“What?” you breathe.

“How many bullets are in the gun?”

You look down at it. It’s a lot heavier than it looks. You don’t want to answer his question, in fear of getting it wrong.

“It’s not a trick, doll. I’m simply asking you to know what you think,” he tells you.

You swallow. “Six?” He smirks, ever so slightly.

“You think I’d put a fully loaded gun in my kitty’s hands?”

You nod solemnly, and he bites his lip, obviously turned on by the amount of power you believe he holds. “I might. But not this one.”

“Is it empty?” you mumble out, voice paper thin and cracking. You wipe at your trailing makeup, and he watches you.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He gestures to it. “Go on. Put it in your mouth.”

You look from him to the door. He sees what you’re thinking, and stands up taller in challenge. You realize you’re not going anywhere, and with some difficulty, you slip the barrel of the gun into your mouth. He stands above you, looking down like a god.

“Suck it, like a good girl.”

You let out a small whimper, and start to descend down on it, coming back up. He sits down in a velvet armchair positioned across the room from you, and lounges with his hand daintily supporting his head.

“You can do better than that, kitty. Pretend it’s my cock,” he says, and you start to move a little faster. He pours himself a cocktail glass of absinthe in one hand, and takes a sip. Then he opens a small antique silver case, pulling out a cigarette, and fits it into a long silver holder elegantly held between his fingers. He strikes a match, holding it to the end. Once it begins to burn, he shakes the match out, and inhales.

Fuck, he’s hot.

Your pussy clenches. He sits there above you, drinking and smoking in his luxurious armchair, watching you put on a show for him like a gentleman come to visit his favourite girl at a brothel.

You drag your tongue up the barrel of the gun, and close your mouth around the tip of it. Marilyn watches intently, exhaling smoke from his nose and taking another sip of milky green alcohol. He sets the cigarette and its holder down in a tray on the table, letting the wisps of smoke climb. He holds his glass in one hand, and groans as he begins palming his bulge.

“You know how to please me well, kitten.”

“Thank you, Herr Doktor,” you whisper, taking the gun to the very back of your throat. He rubs slow circles over his cock where it’s tenting his black dress pants, watches your hair get in the way, stuck to your wet face as you try your best to please him.

“That’s enough. Take the gun out. Take it out… aim it… right here,” he pats his chest, then nods to you.


“Pull the trigger.”

You stare at him for a very long time. This was too far. What the fuck would your parents think when they read ‘Body of shock rocker Marilyn Manson’s girlfriend turns up at singer’s home, a product of an erotic game gone wrong’? You start to say your safe word… but you stop. You can’t stop this before it starts. You pull the trigger, and it clicks.



“What did you call me, slut?”

“I can’t–!”

“Pull the fucking trigger.”

You pull it. Click.

He takes a long sip of his drink. “One more time.”  

You stare at him like he’s out of his mind. Maybe he is.

“Kill for your Doktor,” he growls, and you pull the trigger, eyes squeezing shut as you prepare for a hole in your chest. He gets up, takes the gun from you after the last click, takes the safety off, and aims at the wall.


You scream, and he drops the gun and his glass, letting it shatter, and grabs you by the hips. His hands slip as you jump to your feet, running for the door. You successfully throw it open, and run down the hall, nearly slipping, but you regain your balance. You can hear him behind you, and just as you’re about to grab the front door, the doorbell goes again.

Manson lets out a growl of frustration, and pounces on you from behind, grabbing your wrists. He puts a hand over your mouth, tugging your hair back so that you’re leaning into his chest. You know what to do; he doesn’t have to say it.

The two of you wait in silence.


“Me, Manson. I need to discuss royalties. Now.”

You both keep very quiet. It’s Skold. He’s not as pushy or presumptuous as Twiggy, but you don’t know how he’ll react to being ignored.

“Manson! Fuck sake.” You both hear him sigh, call him a cunt in Swedish, and leave. You breathe a sigh of relief, and he takes his glove off your mouth. You struggle again, trying to go for the door, but he grabs you back, tossing you to the floor and getting on top of you.

He uses the gag to tie your hands together behind your back, and he uses his knee to kick your legs apart.  

“Rules are made for a reason,” he tells you, “This is why you don’t break them.” You hear him unzip his pants, and you moan, grinding back as best you can. He holds you still, and you finally hear his relieved sigh as he takes out his hard cock.

“I’m sorry, Doktor.”

“I know. I know.” He digs his black fingernails into you painfully.

“Ow, ow, ah…”

“So beautiful. So broken. Seeing you wrecked like this always gets me hard, angel.”

“I love it when you make me submit to you, Herr Doktor,” you babble, sobbing, and bend over even more for him. He exhales sharply through his nose, and his fingers tighten around the back of your neck.

“Go on.”

“I love it when you make me bleed for you. I love bleeding for you.”

“You look so fucking good when you do.”

“Bite me sir, oh god!”

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and at the same time, pushes into you. You let out a breath of urgency. You had been on the edge for almost an hour now. He starts to pump himself into you fast, and he takes the blood from your arm and rubs it down your back. The sensation of it, and the intense stinging coming from the open wounds on your body help you along.

Manson pulls out for a second, and you whine, turning around onto your back. He raises an eyebrow, glowering down at you. “You have something to say?”

“No,” you breathe, and he leans down, nipping at your bottom lip. You moan, and he pulls your knees apart.

“You look like hell, doll.” You bite your lip.

“Not yet, I don’t.”

A smirk grows on his face, and he slaps you hard in the face. You sigh softly, fingernails scraping the hardwood as your pussy clenches. “Please,” you whimper, and he slaps you again, on the other cheek. You choke out a sob, chest rising and falling. You’re so close to your climax. “Whatever you do…” you sniffle, stroking your sore cheek, “P-please don’t use your belt. Kitty’s very… very afraid of the belt.” You blink at him, rubbing your finger across your bottom lip.

He immediately tugs at the black leather belt, and pulls it out of the loops. Tears roll down your cheeks as you crawl backward against the front door, and press your spine against it.

“Hold still, pretty girl,” he whispers, and belts you hard across the face, once on each side. You scream, hand flying up to your right cheekbone. You pull it away to find blood from an open split. He stares at you, eyes dark and aroused, yet alert to your every move, every inclination.

You’re not going to say it.

You get up, running into the kitchen. Manson follows, and grabs you by the arm, nails digging in so hard you can feel the skin scrape away. He jerks you back to him, shoves you against the countertop, and grabs another knife. He holds it to your throat, and picks up one of your legs, encouraging you to keep it there. You rest your ass against the counter and wrap both your legs around him, as he keeps the knife firm against your neck and guides his cock back into you.

He lets out a deep groan as you slide down onto him, burying him. He begins to move, not giving a fuck about your comfort, and you scream his name, tears rolling freely down your bruised face.

“This is what happens when you try to escape,” he hisses, pounding in, “You’re mine. Hm? You belong to me.” His hat slips off, and falls behind you both.

“Yes,” you moan, and he tugs your hair back sharply, so that your neck is exposed better.

“Wouldn’t you look so pretty on the ground? Bleeding out while I watch?”

You keep sobbing, clutching onto his shoulders, and he yanks you in. He bites your bottom lip where the needle hole is, rips the thread out with his teeth, and slips his tongue into your mouth, making out with you. Barely conscious from the stratified pleasure and pain, you kiss him back feverishly, until you feel your orgasm build.

Your moan is drawn out, and he rubs circles around your clit as you cum, making sure you get all that you need. A few more pumps, and he presses his forehead to yours as he finishes deep inside you.

Your boyfriend pulls out, and you can feel some of him dripping out of you. He watches, satisfied. You drop to the floor, exhausted. He falls with you, holding your head and waiting with you.

“Everything alright, (y/n)?” he murmurs.

“Mhmm,” you smile, eyes closed. “That was good.” You open one eye. “Terrifying as all hell, but good.”

“You’re okay?”

“You probably broke a blood vessel or four hundred, but yeah. I’m just wunderbar.”

“I’m gonna get the polysporin,” he huffs, but you pull him back down to lay with you.

Thaeter,” you grin, punching his shoulder lightly. “Where did you get that old gun?” Your smile drops. “That’s not the gun you and Johnny were trying to buy off the black market, was it?” You begin scraping your tongue.

He just smiles. “It was a replica. Johnny said I could have it. I rejected it at first, told him someone like me shouldn’t have a gun unless it didn’t work anymore.”

“Glad we agree on that,” you tease, wrapping your arms around him, "If only you listened." He reciprocates, kissing the top of your head. He lays there, staring at you for a bit, and curls your hair away from your face. He seems thoughtful.

“You’re my muse, you know.” You turn, indulging him. “I couldn’t get any work done last night on the film. My mind was racing. Couldn’t stop the voices of reason. You inspire my art. You embrace everything that’s disgusting about me.”

“I’m always here, baby.” You move closer to him, so that your noses are almost touching. “Whenever you need me, I’ll bleed for your canvas.”

He kisses you softly on the lips, voice softening. “You’re beautiful.”

“Mm. I love you too,” you smile.  

Just then, the doorbell goes again. He rolls his eyes. “Who the fuck is it this time, the goddamn Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“Have you got a moment to save your lord and savior Jesus Christ from being evicted?!”

“JEORDIE, GET YOUR ASS OFF MY PROPERTY BEFORE I SHOOT YOU!” He spanks your ass playfully as you stand up. “Get the video camera? Maybe I can capture his death on film too, give the movie a little pizzazz.”

You turn, saluting him playfully. “Yes, Herr Doktor.”