Siren's Pull

[Picture it: the grimy interior of an international pancake house, where all good culinary choices go to die in a semi-hygienic grave. One might ask themselves who in their right mind would hang out in such a place on a Tuesday afternoon by choice, aside from stoners and people on dates that they're trying to hide from their friends and the rest of respectable society.

Once the NV is propped up against something (presumably a napkin dispenser) that question is answered in the form of Pickles the Drummer, sitting alone in one of the faded blue and yellow booths. There's a pint of coffee and a giant stack of pancakes in front of him, slathered in butter and maple syrup. He lifts his eyebrows at the camera in response to well...everything.]

Guess this means I'm back for a while. If yer surprised, that makes two of us--I was out there tryin' to destroy that stupid piece of shit, an' it still puts me back in this place? I thought machines were supposed to be smarter than us. I've been here nine months, an' it's shaped up to have less IQ points than a fuckin' vibrator. I dunno.

Anyway, I'm glad that bein' killed was actually pretty brutal. Death, an' people gettin' murdered, that's the kinda shit my band always talked about. It's in all of our fuckin' songs. I mean, I'm a death metal musician, for fuck's sake, that's my bread an' butter right there, y'know? So it wasn't a huge let-down, that's all I'm sayin'. An' that's good: I don't wanna make no more job changes. It sucks.

But apparently the news came out an' said that I was some kinda menace, a while back. Now there's a strip club ten minutes away from my pal's apartment that won't let me back in 'cause they think I'm gonna set the girls on fire, or some bullshit like that. An' that's the fuckin' lamest part. [He rolls his eyes while delivering this hyperbole and takes a bite of pancake. And yes, being banned from a boobie bar is clearly the most inconvenient part about being gunned down by a group of Canadian robocops.]

So what else did I miss?