“No, please…,” she begged when she saw the instrument clutched in his hand. “You don’t understand! I won’t…I can’t survive.”
Either oblivious to her anguish or ruthlessly sadistic, he didn’t pay attention to her pleas. Instead, he pressed a button, changing the channel. The scene behind her moved, flickered, coming into focus.
“No! Not…no…” her voice trailed off in watery gurgles; her slim body convulsing.
“Who lives in a pineapple…”
Click. He changed the channel again.