EPPY ROJAS

“Listen to this, Pete,” he added, threading a reel of tape through one of his Brunnell machines. Whereupon there issued from the speakers one of the most harrowing performances I’ve ever heard. The recording was barely recognizable as that of a human voice, alternately grunting, groaning and shrieking, occasionally mumbling words which, even when decipherable, made no apparent sense whatsoever. The man on the tape was obviously suffering from great emotional stress, and very likely under the influence of some extremely potential drugs.

“What the fuck’s all that, John?” I said incredulously.

“Don’t you recognize the voice? That’s Brian! He made this tape for me in his house. I don’t know why he sent it, but he’s trying to tell me something. Fuck knows what! He just can’t seem to communicate with us in his usual way any more.”