Roy's heart hammered against the bars of his chest like a rowdy prisoner. Although he'd pulled this gig off before, he could still feel flop-sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and running down his palms to his fingers. he cursed himself for his nervousness. Brock handed him a rag to dab with. The silence beyond the curtain pounded in his eardrums.
Brock snatched the handle of scotch from the counter under the mirror. "Liquid courage, boss?"
Roy nodded, hefting the bottle gingerly. "Over the lips and past the gums," he muttered. The bubbles against the glass parroted him gump, gump, gump.
The green room door slammed too loudly for the force Roy thought he put into closing it. It covered up the sound of the crashing bottle. Roy shook his head, exhaling exasperatedly, then set off down the hallway to the main stage. The hallway from the green room grew longer with every step, but Roy forced his leaden feet to make the distance faster. With his hand on the knob, he breathed in three times, as slowly as he could manage. He wished he hadn't smashed that bottle before he entered the studio.
The audience welcomed him with he expected deafening applause, but he could feel their discomfort; he had taken far too long to get to the main stage. But the applause cut itself short. The hush was tangible on dead air.
"Good morning, America!" Roy beamed at the audience. At the cameras and their operators. At the armed men standing behind them, pistols pressed in the dark at the backs of skulls. "Harry and June couldn't make the shooting today. I'll play the part of host. I invite you all to consider yourself hostages; the doors are all locked and my men are all armed."
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