"Flask."

Paper, meet pen. The magic begins. The music deafens, the walls shake. Trinkets tumble off the shelf and break. Interrupted by the phone ringing,

mute the volume: no guitar, no bass, no singing. "Maybe next week or the one after that. I left a key card under your door mat." Check my messages, there's a few unread. A hostage situation, sentences to Club Fed. Steak, carrots, and some wine. A brownie-bottom sundae would be absolutely fine. A pair of slippers in exchange for some sneakers. An earlenmeyer flask and a test-tube beaker.