I woke up, tired, rattled, and tied.

Wait, I was _tied?_

__

__

What the hell? Where was I? I looked down, sure enough there was rope around my body that bined me to a chair.

I heard someone mumbling, whispered cryptic messages. I looked up, some rando who’s hair was frizzled and choppy, with wide-eyes was stepping out the kitchen, knife in hand.

“Y—you! Y—you’re gonna die! I’m gonna kill you!” he shouted, pointing the knife at me.

“No you’re not,” I said calmly, trying to keep my anxiety to a minimum.

“Oh yeah? Says who?! I’m the one holding the knife!” He pointed it at me, an obvious threat from a crackhead.

“Because that’s a butter knife,” I pointed out.

“It’s still a knife! I c—can still kill you!” His eyes widened more, darting from place to place.

“You realize the chair I’m sitting in is deadlier than the knife? You put me in something that can harm you more than you can harm me?”

“You realize we’re on a low-budget! The studio couldn’t afford to buy a better knife!”

“Damn. That’s just sad then.” He began pacing around, hitting his head repeatedly and repeating the same, alienish language.

At one point he even tripped, making me chuckle slightly. It was something about seeing deranged people trip that always got me cackling.

“Okay, that’s it! I’ve had it with you! I’m going to kill you!” He ran at me, knife pointed straight at me.

“Aaaaaaaand cut!” the director annoucned, cheering everyone up. The man barely stopped, skimming my shirt. He wiped a sweat from his brow.

“Good job, Timmy!” I complimented. “Maybe work on stuttering more though.”