Close Calls
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Drake nearly got out of the bike lock and chains today, and probably would have succeeded if Brittney hadn't taken back over and warned them.
Howard tries to hide it, but he's still shaking. He knows exactly how close he, at least, came to a very painful death. While Orc's downstairs Howard sneaks into the bathroom and looks at the faint scar on his chest from where Drake whipped him before. In his mind there are a thousand concoctions of how that would turn out, of that knife-like sting being multiplied into a hundred as he would fall to the floor, screaming for mercy that Drake doesn't understand.
Orc, begrudging because the thing is in Brittney form again and he doesn't like roughing up Brittney, uses the twisted frame of an abandoned bicycle Howard found to pin the thing to a pipe in the basement, before adding back in the usual chains and locks and all the other new restraints Howard could find on short notice. He keeps muttering under his breath about beer, and about Drake, and something about God's punishment, to which Brittney seems especially attuned.
When he comes back up from the basement, Howard's already got an entire six-pack of Budweisers with the tabs popped. He hands them one at a time to Orc before, after and during Orc's efforts to shove the dresser back into place. Orc guzzles them down, spills them down his neck, gets the foamy liquid on his clothes and just doesn't care.
"Orc, man," Howard sighs as he continues to play bartender, "you have no idea how lucky I am that you're around to tie that thing up. I'm so glad you're around."
"Glad you're around too, Howard," Orc mutters, and when his friend looks at him with a quizzical smile, he adds "I get more beer in my mouth when you pop the tabs."