Hotline Rochester: Redux

I was at my apartment, lying on my couch with images of the rooster and the biker still in my head. “Sussudio,” by Phil Collins was playing in the background to help clear my mind. His solo career was more commercial and more satisfying to me, but in a narrower way. My phone started ringing while the song played, and I ignored it until I remembered Seligman saying last week that I should expect a call.
The caller said that they were in need of a babysitter on East and Alexander and that I should “discipline them and be discreet.”
After my experience last week, I understood what the message was implying. When I walked outside, a driver was already waiting for me. He told me that I had five minutes to finish the job.
As we pulled up to the night club, the driver gave me his rubber stunt mask to wear and said, “Remember, no games.”
There was no one at the door, but I saw men in white suits through the glass. Some were armed with guns and others with melee weapons. I took out the guy nearest the door swiftly and disposed of him behind the bar. I took his crowbar and started planning my assault on the rest of the targets when I noticed that Huey Lewis and the News was playing in the background. Most of their earlier work was too new wave for my taste, but “Hip to Be Square,” the song that was playing, had a new sheen of consummate professionalism that really gave the song a big boost. It was so catchy, I had a hard time even paying attention to the lyrics.
I then realized that I only had a few minutes left to finish the job, so I went back to my attack. Over the course of a few seconds, I hopped over the bar, cracked the skull of one of the mobsters, and threw the crowbar at another, knocking him out so I could steal his assault rifle.
As I picked up the weapon, I could see the three men across the dance floor start to turn around. I managed to take out all of them in one scattered burst before they could pull out their SMGs. I then quickly went back to finish off the mobster I had knocked out before exiting the club and hopping back into the car.
The driver didn’t say a word to me and dropped me off at a pizza place. I noticed that the clerk was the same worker who was nice enough not to charge me for late fees on my videotapes last week. There was pizza already waiting for me, and he said he heard about the mass murder of a mob organization and how exciting it was. I didn’t respond. I just nodded, said thanks, and left.
After a short walk back to my apartment, I noticed my door was unlocked. The man with the rooster mask appeared again, but I saw that he was already talking to another manifestation of myself.
“Why do you think we are having these conversations?” he asked me. “Do you think your actions have any meaning?”
I was looking at myself, and I watched as my own head exploded. I passed out shortly after.
Borovcanin is a member of the class of 2014.