"Is that enough?" Jules asked.
Jules tried to destroy the set. Hammers dulled on old metal; the screen would not shatter, only ripple like water. They took it to the thrift store where they'd found it, but the owner refused—eyes like washed-out pennies. "Top doesn't like being moved," she said. "It prefers an audience."
"You understand bargains, don't you?" he said, though his lips barely moved. The voice was a gravelled echo, as if it came from the back of a long throat. The brass plate glinted: TOP. Jules set the notebook down and leaned forward.
Top laughed then, a small, broken sound. "You call that a victory?" he said. "You gave me what I eat. You offered me spectacle made of your confession."
