Bill had inexplicably managed to convince John to attend the party, so the two met up in front of the Clark Bar (which they were no longer permitted to enter) and set off for 666 Death Row, a location John shoedly – sorry, shrewdly – found rather suspicious.
As they walked down the dark, narrow street, they noticed that there was nobody else outside. No lights were on in any buildings, and gusts of cold wind frequently made Bill shiver. John had had the foresight to bring a jacket, evidently being smart enough to have realized it was mid-December.
“I’m a little surprised that we haven’t even seen a car yet,” said John as they passed yet another seemingly unoccupied building.
“I know what you mean! I want to drive a racecar!” said Bill, agreeing to a statement nobody had made.
They arrived at their destination to find an imposing concrete building, somehow even darker than the others on the block. When John looked at it, his stomach lurched, more violently even than after a meal at Mexican Munchies. He shifted his gaze to the ground and started to shudder, but then he noticed that Bill was also shuddering, so he forced himself to stop, so as to look better by comparison.
Looking up at the building again, John could discern – although barely, what with all the darkness – a stone archway that surrounded a large wooden door, in the center of which was a door knocker crafted from what appeared to be a man’s skull but was actually a woman’s.
“I don’t know why, but I have a really bad feeling about this, Bill,” said John. “I think you should go in first. If you don’t die, I’ll know it’s safe.”
“Okay!” said a cheerful Bill, traipsing to the entranceway and knocking.
“Who’s there?” came an irritated voice from behind the door with a heavy Russian accent.
“I’m Bill!” said Bill.
“Did you intercept a letter addressed to the editor of Newsweek?” asked the Russian even more irritably.
“No, that was my friend John! John Morgan. He’s standing out here with me though, if you want to meet him,” replied Bill.
John, furious with but not at all surprised at Bill’s stupidity, impulsively ran up to Bill and smacked him across the head, right as the door swung open to reveal Mischa Petrovitch, Deputy Secretary of Evil of the United States of America.
“John Morgan, come in! It is time for your execution. I mean, party,” said Mischa, glancing around nervously, as if he expected Josiah to come belittle him any second.
John looked askance at Mischa, then at the room behind him. It reminded him strongly of a sepulchre, probably due to the multitude of corpses lying around the place, which aside from those corpses was actually quite elegant. A magnificent purple rug covered the floor, and the walls were painted gold. The expensive, ancient rug had belonged to Josiah’s parents, until he had them executed; now it lay on the floor of Josiah’s favorite ancillary building. With a bunch of corpses.
“It’s the ironic juxtaposition that makes it such an effective decoration, Mischa,” Josiah had said. “You wouldn’t understand it.”
But John did – he understood all too well.
“Bill! We need to get out of here,” said John, frequently glancing backward, already planning an escape route.
Bill, however, had failed to notice anything suspicious at all, and he was quite looking forward to a terrific party. He entered the building, waiting for John to follow.
“Aww, come on John – it’s just a party. What could possibly go wrong?” foreshadowed Bill, as Mischa picked up an assault rifle from a nearby table.
Firing his Kalashnikov indiscriminately, Mischa started spouting incomprehensible Russian obscenities. Bill had found a bowl of chips and was looking for dip.
John, however, had been prepared for such an unfortunate turn of events, and with his only exit being continuously pelted by bullets, he knew he had to stay and fight.
Not owning a gun, he’d been forced to bring the next best weapon he possessed: a small sack of marbles. Swinging it above his head to gain momentum, he hurled it at Mischa, missing and hitting Bill, who collapsed.
“Damn!” swore John, desperately searching for something else to use as a weapon.
Mischa, exuding a confidence he rarely had a chance to exude, boasted, “My boss, Josiah Malum, Secretary of Evil, will be very pleased! By killing you, I am fulfilling his orders. And – oh no…I sure hope I don’t trip on those marbles!”
Mischa tripped, though it was solely his fear of tripping that made him do so; no marbles were even near him.
John took the opportunity to run, forgetting Bill – unless he left him behind intentionally…which seems more and more plausible, actually, the more I consider it.
John hurried back to his car to find Bill sitting in the passenger seat, eating a slice of pizza. Where, why, and how he’d obtained it, nobody knows. Including Bill.
Having no time to marvel at the sheer impossibility of Bill’s miraculous escape, but pausing to snatch the remainder of his pizza, John drove quickly away with swift, rapid speed.
“Well, that was fun!” said Bill.
“I really, really hate you.”