I set forth the surfeit of malcontent pricks who’ve with sun-blistered shoulders sat down at office desks on an obscure Florida beach to transcribe the speaker’s thoughts on old manual typewriters they take out of sleek black dust-covers while wearing only bathing boxers and ties of varying floral pattern and color. These few brave shoulder-blistered pricks who’ve taken it upon themselves to accept the duties necessary to transcribe the speaker’s words. So his words, then. The speaker’s. They come through the earpieces the pricks wear as they type, straight from an analog-to-digital audio converter plugged into a tape deck which plays the speaker’s tapes he’s pre-recorded on vintage celluloid for the men to transcribe. Thing or whatever being that basically what’s really going on about the multiple pricks is that really this whole time he (the speaker) has been using a voice-modulator to slur his words that the transcribing pricks can each fish out only whatever it is their respective ears’ heads’ minds can interpret from the slur-spree, which is itself not unreminiscent of the mumble-rap hip-hop collective Drum Throat’s lead-singer Cory Benz’s iterative mumbly deep-voiced crooning as of the choruses he (Mr. Benz) produced in the early 2010s. Thus the variation not only in ties’ floral pattern but also the actual transcriptions of the pricks themselves. We have no way of knowing what the unmodulated Voice-Recordings might’ve sounded like, nor any reason to believe that the speaker made any of it intelligible to begin with. Only the pricks can listen; only the pricks can determine what is truly being said. Thus far it seems that their popular interpersonal opinions have lead us to believe the speaker is duly harried. And that is all that has been told to us. When the channel changes and the prolonged jukebox switches gears, all our somnolent hearts wake up with a terrifying start.