This is not a drill. FUCK ME, IT’S THE REAL THING.
The kitchen hand tried to put out a grease fire with water, then MSG, then soy, then dijon. And now we’re all in trouble. And it fucking stinks. Nice one, dude. Leave the beans!!! Ditch your hat!!! LEG IT, YOU FUCKER.
Except you’re a bit of a hero, aren’t you? You’d like to be in the paper for something that your mama can cut out. And you have just remembered the guests of honour in the dining area…
Hall is in the upper atrium, getting mobbed by soccer mothers who don’t mind that they’re all melting AS LONG AS IT’S WITH DARYL OH LORD OF SWOON. He got friendly with the fire escape and thinks you should too. Bless the menopausal horde; they don’t know their poly-nylon blends aren’t helping the situation. Poor guy. His lacquer’s drying out. Fuck. In a fit of strength, he’s herding the ladies down a freaky little stair-gate. Smart move. Well, remember… time’s running out. He’ll be off soon to find the others.
Oates tried all the fire hoses to find the taps were too rusty to turn. So he decided to get into the cellar to see if he could fix something up, at least until more help arrives. He’s screaming out for someone to help him wrench this valve here, this valve and we’ll have something. He’s nearly got it, but he needs one more person. Hitchens knows how he got down there, but you can see him. Gnarly, but not far away.
So what would you do? Who would you help? Mr. Hall, who helps with evacuation? Or Mr. Oates, who wants to save what’s left? (Spare us the Freudian shit. Please.)
Would it matter more to help the sure bet? Or to up the stakes, risking failure?
They’ll do anything that you want them to, ooh-ooh-oooooh-yeah-heh. But they should not burn for you, so choose. Or don’t.