Ro has guests

By now you may think that I am reckless and that I should have been a bit more worried about moving around without caring too much about what was going on. I wasn't.
I had been thinking about all the things happening quite a bit. I was of course aware that I had received a death threat and then my house had been blown away. The big contraption I was hauling to Ro's was a painful reminder. However, I was also aware that all this had happened while I was away. My gut feeling was that Mark was right, someone was trying to scare me, not really kill me. Well, screw that, at the moment I didn't even know what everyone wanted of me, except that my brother wanted me to do something I wouldn't do.
Whoever was trying to get me scared, had just made me pissed.

And then I reached Ro's, pressed the bell and waited.
Don Johnson opened the door.

I'm going to talk about instincts next. It's called a cliffhanger, deal with it. You see, I do believe that I have no instincts left. I mean it, I sometimes see people, mostly guys, acting or talking out of instincts, which usually involves them explaining in graphic details the amount of sexual positions they would put that nice woman across the park, or things of the sort, and I never got it.
I do believe we are slowly tuning down our instincts and motivations, at least those of us who are lucky enough to live in places where life is taked for granted. It's just the small things, you know, like the fact that most of us don't want kids any more. Another example? By instinct you should be attracted to girls with full rounded hips, that are fit to carry and deliver lots of little babies (I love the way that sounds, if I ever get a music group I'll write a song called Lots of little babies), instead we as a culture are still using Photoshop to make anorexic models look even worse. Remember the Boing Boing/Ralph Lauren's controversy? "Dude, her head's bigger than her pelvis." Talk about any kind of instinct at work there.
Another example, have you heard about the Maslow pyramid? You should, they even have a joke about it on The Sims. Well, just look at me, I'm working on the top level of the pyramid, being creative and shit, while I was having troubles with the fourth and third levels: No love for myself, no love for another... Fuck, at the moment I was having real trouble with level number two, the safety one.

Talking about safety, Don Johnson seemed to have no trouble with his instincts. As soon as he opened the door, before I could even try to say something clever he had picked me up by the t-shirt, thrown me into the house, looked the door and had a gun pointed to my head. I decided it was a great moment to take care of the first level of the Maslow pyramid, which includes physiological needs like excretion. I had not being even able to register his moves.
Since then, I just throw away every magazine that says video games are good for your reaction time.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” we both said at the same time, though I actually said hell instead of fuck.
He didn't seem about to answer me anyway and he did have the gun, so I eventually talked first.
“I came to see Ro, and to give him a present, he's my friend.”
He looked at me funny, took the PS3 and told me to turn around. He pat me at my hips and legs, as if he was looking for hidden weapons. Jet Li walked into the corridor.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” he asked.
“He came to see Roland,” said Don, apparently they were already on a first-name basis with him.
He touched my chest last and finally made me turn around. “No outside mics,” he said. “Have you eaten or drank anything that was not sealed or had sex with anyone on the last twenty four hours?”
I blushed. “No?” I said.
“He's lying,” said Jet, “he's probably bugged.”
“Fuck, got any scramblers?” said Don.
“Not for internals, but they don't work underwater and Roland has a huge bath.”
Just then, Ro came into the hall and looked at the three of us as if it was the most normal of social gatherings.
“Hey, Jay,” he said. “What's up?”

I stood waiting, after giving Ro the PS, which he loved. It seemed like Don and Jet believed that the four of us needed to have a conversation, which was fine by me; but the lack of internal mic scramblers meant they would have to talk with me while I was on the bath, which wasn't. Lucky for them, guns pointed at my head do tend to make me submissive, so I accepted.