Smoltz remained silent and tried to to stand up straighter. Even his eyes were correctly positioned, looking dully ahead with the plasticine sheen of bad taxidermy. In front of him sat a cork board lined with weather-wilted photocopies of He Who Should Not Be Named, augmented by sharpie to include fecal beards and Pollockian body fluid-based decorations. ####### Maddux.
Smoltz lost track of how many times they repeated this dance. All he knew was that he had to keep getting up. Until one time, he faltered.
As Glavine berated him like a drill sergeant, he forced him down onto hands and knees and hastily cut away his clothing. Smoltz listened to the sound of the scissors as they swam across his outfit, bisecting it for His pleasure, and was grateful for the splinters now, as they gave him something else to think about besides the throbbing marks made by a talented paddler. As Glavine cursed and spat on the floor, Smoltz’s zip-tie bindings cut his skin, listlessly biting at his wrists the way a butter knife saws on a ripe tomato.
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