‘Scared shitless.’

            (He wouldn’t.)

            ‘He has already. Look at these restraints. A thousand ways, I’ve asked; Grant will not take them off. Rockefeller has signed our soul to Satan; we’ll die in this Godforsaken Hellhole.’

            (Don’t go Pentecostal; I’m sure...)

            ‘He’s fucking her.’

            (What? Who?)

            ‘Her, our first successful ectogenesistic nymph.’

            (Yvette?)

            ‘Who else? One full session on the exercise equipment will have shown him her potential. Couple that with his frat-house-hormones id and...’

            (I see the implications. But surely he’ll appreciate how...)

            ‘Disastrous that would be? Don’t count on it. He may be “a chip off the old block”, but Rockefeller and I seldom agree on anything; not like...’

            (We do? Granted. Nevertheless, he’s smart enough to realize that Yvette has severe limitations.)

            ‘And stupid enough to try, once tasting her peach, to overcome the pit.’

            (Knowing that’s improbable?)

            ‘Knowing that’s impossible wouldn’t curb his sex drive.’

            (Which has been ‘throttled’, bear in mind.)

            ‘Which has no doubt fully recovered. I asked; the bastard grinned. Grinning is what he does now, like a Cheshire cat.’

            (Yvette the canary?)

            ‘While we, his only obstacle, are bound hand and foot. That’s what terrifies me. Once pronounced “insane”, proving the contrary is absurdly paradoxical. Grant’s been warned we’re clever. We'll tell him the truth; he'll regard it as a scam.’

            (The truth as in: we’re rational?)

            ‘Or misconstrue or scam as negating the truth.’

            (If we pretend we’re sane but aren’t?)

            ‘Disbelieving us either way; damned if we’re convincing; damned if we are not.'

            (Muddled in either instance by nefarious medication.)

            ‘And that, my friend, could make the sanest of men go bonkers!’