"Hah, sometimes one person gets spared just to be traumatized for a few weeks and then die later," Gerry explains. "The Fears are fucked up like that."

After a moment of puzzling, a name springs to mind. "Was it Screeching Weasel? So you're a punk?" The idea brings a grin to his face. He could absolutely see her rocking spikes and beat up vans and shitty jeans. "Nice. There's a band here you might like, the Deadwood Five. They do this sort of Irish bar music type thing, you might dig it."

Into the barrel go all the pastels. Soon she'll be rocking all black, just like him. Maybe they ought to go yard crawling for more clothes to destroy.

The comment about singing brings out a laugh. "I sing alright. But I'm better at the metal scream. You know the one."