The bus screamed down the street like a bat out of hell as John mumbled the chorus to the Slayer song "Payback" while he guided the bus to and fro. Everyone hung on for dear life as he rode the bus as hard as he could, weaving through traffic, blaring the horn and screaming, "OUT OF THE WAY!" There were still about 10 miles to go, but he didn't care. Any time wasted, to him, would mean certain death for Frankie.
Just then, his cellphone rang, but he didn't notice until Mac told him. As he prepared to answer it, the caller ID said that it was Frankie calling him. His heart raced as he flipped it open and shouted, "Frankie?"
"Close but no cigar, John-boy."
John's face contorted into a violent grimace of hate as he screamed, "YOU MOTHERFUCKER! WHERE'S FRANKIE?"
"She's right here with me at the old business district on the waterfront."
"The waterfront? No, she's at the Rialto downtown!"
"That's one of her old phones, Johnny. Stop there and take a look at my room, number 203. You'll love it." Dylan hung up the phone as John screamed, "Wait! Dylan! DYLAN!"
"What is it, John?" Eduardo asked.
"She's not at the Rialto! She's at the waterfront in the old business district!"
"So why are we going to the Rialto in the first place?" Bloo asked.
"To see Dylan's room." He gunned the engine and raced downtown, parking in the street in front of the Rialto. He fed the meter for two hours--more than enough time--and the group raced to room 203. Wilt knocked on the door and said, "Anyone in there?" He knocked again. "Hello?"
"There's no one in there, Wilt!" John screamed as he grabbed the knob and pushed the door. To his surprise, it opened into Dylan's domain. It was pitch black in there, and when he turned on the lights, they were greeted by a nauseating sight--the walls were covered with photographs of Frankie in all shapes and sizes. Newspaper clippings of Foster's were stuck on a tackboard, and a quick peek into the bathroom revealed that Dylan had made it into a makeshift darkroom.
"Jesus Maria," Eduardo mumbled.
"Co co coco co," Coco said in shock. Wilt was busy looking through a photo album lying on the bed, looking more and more horrified with each turn of the page. John asked him, "What is it, Wilt?"
He handed him the photo album and said, "See for yourself, man."
John opened it to see various photos of him and Frankie out and about--going to a movie, helping out around Foster's, walking and talking together. The only thing was, John could tell it was himself by looking at the body. His head had been cut out of all of the pictures and some had been replaced with Dylan's.
His eyes bulged as he flipped through the album over and over again before Bloo entered the room with another manila envelope. Before he could say anything, John snatched it from him and whipped out the photos.
His heart almost stopped as he looked through them. They were all pictures of what he and Frankie had done since they'd met--entering his Camry for the first time. Exiting the Camry and entering Carbonna's. A photo of the two of them eating at Carbonna's shortly before Orlando Bloo showed up. Photos of the wrecked Camry. John with the flowers. Frankie dashing in after the meeting at the grocery store. John with the new pair of flowers and the chocolates.
But his blood truly began to boil as he rifled through the next set of pics--they were of the night that he and Frankie had made love. He clenched his teeth and began to breathe heavily. His eyes grew bloodshot and Mac noticed the vein in his neck throbbing like a guitar string. There were even photos of the morning after.
Bloo was right.
The last photo was a picture of a warehouse on the waterfront with a Post-It note attached to it reading "WE'RE HERE." John grabbed the photo, screamed his lungs empty, and raced out of the hotel with the Foster's gang in hot pursuit.