“You can do it, Frank.” Frank sits across from you, staring at the Silver Bullets on the table. “No, no. No.” “Frank… listen to me. You can do it. You have to.” “I want to go home, Sam.” “You can’t go home Frank. You have to do it. It’s the only way.” He looks at you, his eyes welling up, abject in his misery. “Listen to me, Frank! It’ll be over soon. You take your shot. Look at me, Frank. It’ll be OK.” You meet him with your eyes and he offers up a weak smile and shakes his head. The brother in charge slaps him across the face. “Do it, Frank!” His bandana is stained with sweat and tears, his shirt foul with days of grime. “I can’t, I just –.“ “Don’t give me that bullshit, Frank. They’ll make you go back in the clank. Don’t make them do that, Frank.” Again the head brother slaps him. He is close to breaking. The brothers are all shouting now, but you don’t recognize the words. The only thing that matters right now is getting him through this. “Do it, Frank. Do it. Do it. Do it Frank.” You lock eyes again, and give him what you hope is a reassuring nod. “Do it Frank. You have to.” Finally Frank nods. He understands now.
The shouting stops and all eyes focus on Frank. His arm trembling, he reaches across the table and chooses. You watch as he brings it to his head. He looks at you. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.” He pulls the tab. The Coors fizzes a little, but does not explode.
Your move.
(A conversation with a primary speaker and a group of other people responding)
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