_The centre of the maze reveals itself suddenly but the manticore is dead._ HIM: Duuuuuude, that’s fucking freaked out. ME: Slain . . . bloody . . . . HIM: No fucking _shit!_ Fucking _tell_ me about it! Damn! ME: The stench . . . . HIM: Let’s get the hell out of here! _They turn around and around, but all the doors are sealed. A rasping, thunderous laughter concusses them relentlessly._ How the _fuck_ do we keep getting in these _situations?_ ME: I have an idea. Why don’t you quit talking in italics all the god damn time! HIM: Fine, fuck you, of course. Meantime, can you tell me how we get out of a sealed concrete vault with nothing but each other and a gored manticorpse? ME: I’m working on it, I’m working on it. HIM: Well pardon me but you’re not even breaking a sweat, and I’m not feeling exactly pepped up and charged by your charismatic efforts. ME: Sing. HIM: Sing? ME: Sing. _They sing. A John Prine song, perhaps. Or something they just made up. Hell they could hum a Sousa dirge for all I care. So long as they sing together._ ME: Come on, louder! _They sing louder._