MIRROR,
MIRROR
By Randy
Romero
The
mirror never lies. It can be your best friend or your worst enemy. But no matter
what angle you look from, the mirror always reflects the truth.
And that
morning, the mirror was Dalton Pierce’s enemy as it reflected an unsightly
blackhead forming on the tip of his nose. He couldn’t afford to look ridiculous
on his big date with Cynthia Lambert.
Luckily,
he had a tube of Proactiv blackhead dissolving gel in his medicine cabinet, and
about thirty other creams, lotions, and ointments at his disposal. Dalton
squeezed a few drops of gel from the tube and smeared it over the protruding
blackhead.
Dalton
is the kind of individual that certain shrink would classify as a narcissist.
He’s so vain, he actually thinks that Carly Simon song is about him, and he
wasn’t even alive when that song came out. His morning skin cleansing routine is so thorough and
efficient, even Patrick Bateman from American Psycho would consider it
overkill.
After
applying the dissolving gel, Dalton covered the rest of his face with a
cleansing lotion used to unclog pores and disinfect the skin. After the lotion
set in, he used an exfoliating gel scrub to clear any dead cells from the
surface of his skin. He let it dry for ten minutes while he brushed and flossed
his teeth and gargled with mint flavored mouthwash.
Then he
scrubbed the exfoliating gel off, and applied dry skin cream to his face, to
keep his skin from drying out. Then a little Rogaine for his hair. He wasn’t
even going bald. But he still wasn’t taking any risks when it came to his hair.
And he followed up the Rogaine with a few drops of styling gel to slick his
hair back.
When he
finished up, he went from the bathroom to the bedroom and admired himself in
the full-length cheval mirror. He lifted his shirt to get a better look at his
abs.
“Getting
a little flabby there, buddy,” Dalton said to himself. “Better do a few stomach
crunches after breakfast.”
The
cheval mirror was long and wide, rectangular, with a white frame. Peculiar, ancient-looking
symbols were carved into the wood. He didn’t have the first clue what they
meant. He had acquired it from a friend of a friend. He was going to order one
off of Amazon or eBay, but when his friend mentioned he could save him a bundle
on shipping, the choice was obvious.
The
doorbell rang. Dalton wasn’t expecting company, but he assumed it was Travis
Bolt. Travis was the one who had told him about the mirror. He was the Kramer
to Dalton’s Jerry, always dropping in uninvited to raid the contents of
Dalton’s refrigerator.
Dalton
opened the door to Travis, who was scratching at the little red bumps on his
neck. It looked like a rash, but Dalton being the expert, knew better. It was
clearly razor burn. Razor burn that Travis shaves over every day, exacerbating
the burn.
Dalton
and Travis were polar opposites, but he appreciated a friend who was funny. And
Travis never failed to make him laugh.
With his
dark wraparound sunglasses, greasy, stringy hair, and trademark black leather
jacket, Travis almost passed as a rock star. But Dalton had known him since
high school, back when Travis was playing in garage bands. And not much had
changed over the years. Travis was friends with lots of successful musicians,
but he was still playing small gigs in bars, hoping for that big break that
would probably never come.
Dalton
never had the heart to tell him that. Travis was always passionate about music.
He was the kid who would listen to his headphones during class and play the
drums on his chest, or play air guitar during the guitar solos. It constantly
gave Dalton a chuckle to look over at Travis’s desk and see him rocking away in
his own little world. And Dalton didn’t think he was that bad of a guitar
player. But Travis had never ascended to that next level in his music career.
“You got
something on your nose,” Travis pointed out, letting himself in.
“Thanks
for noticing.”
“You
better hope Cynthia doesn’t notice. Tonight’s the night, right?”
“Yes it
is.”
“Nice.
Don’t forget, I want details.”
“You
always want details. Why don’t you go out for once and get laid and then you
could give me some details.”
“Please,
with this face, I consider it a blessing when I get laid. The last girl I
approached sprayed me with mace.”
“Don’t
sell yourself short. You could get a nice looking girl. Maybe not a ten. But at
least a five.”
“Gee, thanks
for the support, dude.”
“Just
try it. What’s the worst that could happen besides getting maced? You really
need to get out of the house more.”
“But I
like sitting in front of the TV in my underwear, eating Twizzlers and drinking
Mountain Dew Voltage.”
“Then
find a girl who’s into that. Look, I have to get ready. Just help yourself to
something in the fridge and let yourself out.”
“Don’t
mind if I do,” Travis said, walking to the kitchen. He came back with a plate
of food and said, “You’re out of chocolate milk again.”
“Just
add chocolate syrup to milk.”
“It’s
not the same.”
Travis
didn’t even take a seat. Just stood up and chowed down in Dalton’s living room.
Then he was gone as fast as he came. All Dalton had to prove that he was there
was the dirty plate left on his coffee table.
After he
finished up in the bathroom, Dalton did his morning exercise routine–pushups,
sit ups, squats, jumping jacks, stomach crunches.
Then he
went back to the mirror and noticed the unsightly blackhead had already
dissolved. In fact, his skin was looking clearer and more vibrant than it had
in years.
* * *
The sun
never shines on Keith Cooper’s grave. The headstone rests in the shadow of a
towering, majestic weeping willow tree. Travis likened it to the far corner of a
room where the light could never quite reach.
“It’s
good to see you, old friend,” Travis said, placing a six-pack at Keith’s grave.
Keith always said, “When I’m dead, don’t bring me flowers. The fuck am I going
to do with flowers? Bring me beer instead.” And Travis, respecting his friend’s
wishes, was more than happy to oblige.
“I can’t
thank you enough for the mirror,” he added. “I didn’t have much use for it
myself. But I gave to a friend who can definitely appreciate it. He reminds me
a lot of you.” Travis chuckled at the thought.
Travis
had been in a garage band with Keith in high school. Of course, Keith went on
to have much more success as a musician, until his untimely demise.
The wind
whistled through the leaves and brittle branches of the weeping willow. Travis
sighed. “I’ll never understand why you did what you did, Keith. You had the
whole world in your hands. You had the money, the fame, the women. What made
you do it? What made you pull that trigger?”
The wind
picked up. It was no longer whistling. It wasn’t even howling. The wind was
screeching, actually screeching like a banshee. It caused a sudden chill to
rush down his spine.
“I
should probably get going. Take care, old friend. Enjoy the beer. I’ll be back
to see you soon.”
* * *
When it
came to deciding on a place to eat, Cynthia gave Dalton the usual, “I don’t
know. Wherever you want to eat.”
So
Dalton chose the most expensive restaurant in town. A French joint. He found
everything from the ambience to the decor to the menu to be pretentious, but
Cynthia seemed impressed by his generosity. It showed her that he wasn’t afraid
to indulge.
After
dinner, Dalton played it cool. He offered to drop Cynthia off at home. But it
was Cynthia who suggested they go back to his place for another drink.
Dalton
turned on some music and got a bottle of imported wine from the kitchen.
Cynthia was used to the simple life and would’ve been satisfied with a bottle
of that cheapo wine that 7-11 sells. She didn’t even recognize the name on the
label.
“Nice
place you’ve got,” she remarked. “What’s the bedroom look like?”
This
girl moved fast. Faster than Dalton had anticipated. Maybe it was the expensive
dinner or the fancy wine that had her all worked up, but she was looking to
sink her claws right into him.
Dalton
was always on his game and ready for houseguests. “Upstairs. First door on the
right. Make yourself at home. I’ll be right up.” He grinned.
Cynthia
went upstairs to make herself more comfortable, and Dalton ran to the bathroom
to freshen up and fetch a condom from the medicine cabinet.
He
looked into the mirror, admonished his sparking clear skin. “It’s show time,”
he said with a wink.
Dalton
went upstairs. His bedroom door was ajar, the lights were on, but he didn’t
hear a sound. “Cynthia?”
He
walked in and recoiled at the shocking sight.
He
watched helplessly as Cynthia was being sucked into the mirror. Only the lower
half of her body remained. Her legs kicked and thrashed in the open air, her
body sinking into the mirror like quick sand. The glass had taken on a liquid
quality, like an open portal to another dimension.
He
grabbed her by the ankles and tried to pull her out, but the harder he tried,
the faster the mirror consumed her. His sweaty, shaky hands slipped from her
ankles, pulling off one of her black heels in the process. It was all that
remained of Cynthia Lambert once the mirror swallowed her whole.
“Cynthia!”
he cried, pounding his fists against the now solid mirror. “Cynthia! Cynthia!”
“Calm
down,” a voice said. Dalton turned around, facing the door. “Psst, over here,
bud.”
He
turned back to the mirror and stared at his own reflection in horror. “Yeah,
that’s right. You’re not seeing things. Nobody spiked your drink. I’m really
talking to you.”
“What
did you do to Cynthia?”
“I
didn’t do anything to her. It was the mirror.”
“This
can’t be right. I must be going insane. I’m hallucinating. I have to be.
Cynthia is still here. She has to be. Cynthia! Where are you?! Can you hear
me?!”
“I’m
afraid she can’t. Not where she’s gone.”
“Where
is she?”
“The
mirror has claimed her. Think of it as a sacrifice.”
“This is
fucking crazy. I’m calling the police.”
“And
what are you going to tell them? Please, run it by me. I want to hear how it
sounds. You’re going to tell that your mirror ate your date? Give me a break.”
“This
isn’t happening,” Dalton whispered to himself over and over. He was on the
verge of a nervous breakdown.
I’m
going crazy, was his first thought. Then he reconsidered,
had a moment of clarity amongst the chaos. People don’t just go crazy. Insanity
is not instantaneous. It’s something that occurs slowly, gradually over time.
“Relax.
You want to give yourself some gray hairs? Look at yourself. Look at your skin.
You look better than you did yesterday, or the day before that, or the day
before that. It’s not luck, pal. It’s the mirror. Take care of the mirror and
the mirror will take care of you.”
“What
about–”
“Don’t
worry about Cynthia. Her body will never be found. As for you, my advice is to
find yourself a new girlfriend. But don’t get too attached. The mirror can be
quite demanding.”
Dalton
spun around the room. There wasn’t a trace of Cynthia to be found, minus the heeled
shoe he was holding in his hand.
“You may
want to get rid of that,” his doppelganger said. “Toss it in.”
The
mirror opened itself up and Dalton tossed the shoe in and watched the mirror
swallow it. “Good boy. Remember what I said, take care of the mirror and the
mirror will take care of you.”
There
was no evidence that Cynthia had ever been there. He breathed a sigh of relief,
calmed himself down. But his initial ease was briskly overshadowed by
subsequent dread. He was too overwrought to think clearly. Fear had consumed
him as the mirror had consumed Cynthia. What was he going to do?
***
The next
day his skin looked even clearer than before, practically glowing. His hair was
thicker, fuller. He looked almost five years younger. He couldn’t help but
admire himself in the mirror. He didn’t even bother to do his morning skin
cleanse. He didn’t need it. He was looking better than ever.
He ate
breakfast and went straight to his morning workout routine. He felt different.
He had barely even thought about the events of the previous night. If he could
use the mirror to his full benefit, why not? Cynthia had no immediate family.
Nobody was going to miss her, or any of the other girls that Dalton might
happen to bring home. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering this. Was
it the mirror corrupting him? Or had he always been this malevolent under the
surface?
Noon
came around, and so did Travis Bolt.
“I know
this sounds awkward coming from another man, but you look good, dude,” Travis
said. “What have you been using on your skin?”
“Proactiv,”
he blurted out.
“So
how’d it go with Cynthia? Tell me all about it. Details.”
“I don’t
think it’s going to work out between us.”
“Really?
That’s a bummer, man.”
“Hey,
this might seem like a strange question, but where did you get that old
mirror?”
“An old
friend of mine. He used to be the lead singer for the Greasy Bandits.”
“Right,
Keith Cooper. Didn’t he pass away? He died choking on his own vomit or
something like that.”
“Yeah,
something like that.”
“I’ll
never understand these rock stars. They date supermodels. They should learn a
thing or two about throwing up from these chicks.”
Travis
chuckled nervously, but it was obvious he didn’t appreciate the joke. “Well, I
really should be going,” he said, checking the time on his phone. He left
without even raiding Dalton’s fridge.
***
Two
nights later, Dalton went out on another date with Susie Quinn. Her name
reminded him of the old Creedence song, Suzie Q. And though he found her
intensely attractive, he refused to get too attached. He remembered what his
doppelganger said about not getting too attached.
Of
course he had to lead her on a bit. But that was only to get Susie back to his
place. Then the mirror would take care of the rest.
They
went back to his place and started getting undressed. He stopped and gestured
to his lip and told Susie she had something there.
“Check
it out in the mirror,” he told her.
She
walked to the mirror. “I don’t see anything,” she said. She got closer and saw
the glass distort and open into a vast portal.
She
shrieked as the mirror pulled her in, her body being dragged by some invisible
force, like a series of unseen hands reaching out through the mirror and
dragging her in.
He
plugged his ears with his fingers so he wouldn’t have to listen to her screams,
and turned away as the mirror consumed her.
“I’m not
a murderer,” Dalton kept telling himself. “It’s not me. It’s the mirror. I’m
just providing a service.”
“That’s
it, Dalton,” his doppelganger said. “Tell yourself whatever you need to make it
easier. You’re absolutely right, you’re not a murderer. You’re not a bad guy.
You’re just providing a service. Take care of the mirror and the mirror will
take care of you. But I must warn you, this mirror has a voracious appetite.
Its hunger is not easily satiated. You must be tough. Don’t disappoint the
mirror.”
* * *
Tormented
with guilt, he turned to Travis for vindication. He was right on time the next
day, ready to take advantage of Dalton’s amenities and raid his fridge.
“Do you
ever think about death?” Dalton asked. “I don’t mean in a psycho, serial killer
kind of way. I mean, do you ever just ponder your own mortality?”
“Ah,
I’ve been where you are before. The frailty of one’s existence is a terrifying
concept. My advice is try not to think about it too much. Live in the moment,
as cliché as that sounds.”
“Yeah,
maybe you’re right. Alright, another question. What about the mortality of
others? Do you ever take that into consideration? Like, if someone was dying
and you could help them, would you do everything in your power to prevent their
death?”
“That’s
kind of an odd, specific question. Are we talking about donating a kidney or
something? I hope you’re not asking me to donate one of my kidneys. I need
those to drink myself stupid.”
“Never
mind,” he sighed. “I can’t explain it.”
“Something
on your mind? I can tell something’s bothering you. Something happen with that
new girl, Susie?”
“I
really don’t want to talk about her.”
“Damn,
man. Strike two. First Cynthia. Now Susie. Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll meet a
new girl soon. I’ve known you since high school. You never stay single for too
long.”
“What
can I say, I’m a lucky guy.”
“You’ve
got to throw some of that luck my way sometime,” Travis quipped. “Mind if I
watch some TV here?”
“Never
change, Travis,” Dalton laughed.
* * *
Dalton’s
datebook was full. He couldn’t even remember the girls’ names half the time.
That evening, he was at an Italian restaurant with Joan. He couldn’t recall her
last name. Not like it mattered. He could read it in the newspaper when
somebody inevitably reported her missing. But even if they were reported
missing, they could never be found. And it never made its way back to Dalton.
Nobody ever questioned him or came knocking on his door.
Dalton
wined and dined Joan, gifted her a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and was as
charming as ever. He knew how to put it on thick. It used to be an act to get
girls to jump into bed with him. Now it was just a trick to lure them into his
home and sacrifice them to that cursed mirror.
He got
Joan upstairs and started unbuttoning his silk shirt. Joan slid her dress down
to her ankles and kicked off her heels. She got a little too close to the mirror
and felt something tugging at her arms. The invisible force drew her in towards
the warped mirror. She fought back with all her strength and wriggled free from
its tight grip.
Dalton
tried to grab her but she raised one knee and struck him in the groin. He
dropped to his knees, clutching between his legs.
“After
her, you fool!” his doppelganger screamed. “Don’t let her get away! She’ll ruin
everything!”
Dalton
hoisted himself back up and gave chase. He caught her on the bottom step,
hooked both of his arms around her waist. Her legs kicked in the open air, arms
flailed wildly, voice raised to a hysterical pitch.
“Stop
struggling, you stupid bitch!”
She
clawed at one his arms and tried to sink her teeth into him. She was desperate.
She’d do anything to escape his grip. But a strong blow to the back of the head
quieted her down immediately. She went limp in Dalton’s arms and he dragged her
to the mirror, watched as it slowly devoured her.
“What
have I become?” Dalton asked himself, slowly realizing the error of his ways. That
narcissistic fog that clouded his brain was starting to clear. He was finally
coming to his senses.
“What
have you become?” his doppelganger repeated. “You’ve become what the mirror has
allowed you to become. Look at yourself. You’re an Adonis. You’re in the best
shape of your life. You’ve never looked better. And it’s all thanks to this
mirror. Take care of the mirror and mirror takes care of you.”
“I’m
done taking care of this mirror.”
“Then
you’ll rot.”
“I’m
putting an end to this once and for all.”
He
marched out to the shed and rifled through all the scattered tools. Dalton
wasn’t a handyman, and he rarely did manual labor. He wasn’t one to get his
hands dirty. But the tools were all hand-me-downs from his father. He picked up
a ballpeen hammer, dropped it. Picked up a shovel, then tossed it aside. He
went to a pile of tools stacked up in the far corner of his shed and dug around
until he grasped the long handle of a sledgehammer.
“Perfect,”
he said, holding up the sledgehammer, practically admiring it.
He returned
to his bedroom and swung the sledgehammer with all his might. He was expecting
the mirror to explode, shatter into a million jagged shards. He was
anticipating a rain shower of glass. But the sledgehammer didn’t even put a
crack in the mirror.
“What
are you doing?” his reflection asked. “Can’t you recognize a good thing when
you see it?”
“I want
this mirror out of my life!” He swung the sledgehammer again and again,
breaking the head off in the process.
“This
mirror is your life,” his reflection informed him. “You live to serve it. You
can either obey, or you can suffer the consequences of your actions.”
“So be
it,” Dalton shrugged, dropping the handle of the broken sledgehammer.
* * *
Dalton
woke the next morning to an intense pain in his lower back. He groaned as he
sat up and slid gingerly out of bed. He hobbled to the bathroom. His whole body
felt weak. He gasped at the hideous sight in the bathroom mirror. His skin was
covered in bleeding sore and pus-filled blisters. They were all over his arms,
his chest, his face. He looked about ten years older. He felt like it too.
His
examined his yellowed teeth in horror. He ran one hand through his hair and a
chunk came falling out. He returned to his bedroom and stared furiously at the
cheval mirror.
“What
have you done to me?” he shouted at the mirror.
“What
have you done to yourself?” his reflection asked him back. “You betrayed the
mirror. You thought this would go unpunished? You really are a fool. But it’s
not too late to fix this.”
“I won’t
do it,” he said emphatically.
“Then
this is your fate.”
“Who are
you talking to?” Travis called from the kitchen.
“Nobody,”
he yelled back. “Be right down.”
He put
on a long sleeve shirt and tried his best to conceal his decaying appearance
when he came downstairs.
“You
didn’t clear the timer on the microwave. That’s one of my biggest pet peeves. I
swiped a Hot Pocket. Hope you don’t–holy Jesus! What the hell happened to you?”
“I’m
sick,” was Dalton’s excuse.
“Sick?
You look like a different person. I don’t even recognize you.”
“What
can I say? I guess I’m really sick.”
“Sick?
Nah brah. You look like you’re dying. I mean, no offense. But you look
terrible.”
Dalton’s
teeth were gritted. “Travis, do me a favor. Get the fuck out.”
“Alright,
I know when I’m not wanted. See you around,” Travis said, taking his Hot Pocket
with him.
* * *
By the
end of the week, Dalton’s skin was all dried up. His hair was falling out in
chunks. His teeth were black with decay. “Travis, I’m sorry about what I said.
I need you to come over. I’ll tell you what’s really going on.” He hung up his
cell phone and hoped Travis listened to the message.
He swung
by an hour later.
“What’s
going on, man? I really need to know?
“It’s
the mirror. That mirror you gave me, it did this to me.”
“What
are you talking about?”
“Take
care of the mirror and the mirror takes care of you.”
“What?”
Travis asked, bemused.
“That
mirror–and I know how crazy this sounds–has powers. It can do things I never
thought were possible. It can make you look like a million buck. Or it can make
you rot like what’s happening to me.”
“I’m so
sorry, Dalton. I should have told you the truth about Keith Cooper. He didn’t
die choking on his own vomit like the story goes. It wasn’t a drug overdose or
an accidental death. Keith shot himself in the head. Before he died, he was
rambling. He was making no sense. He insisted that mirror was cursed or
something. I didn’t believe him. I thought he was crazy. I still do. But I
should have told you. Look, whatever you think that mirror is, it’s all in your
head. Just like it was with Keith. Don’t end up like him, man.”
“If you
don’t believe me, come see for yourself.”
He stared
into the mirror and saw Dalton’s perfect reflection. He looked young and
vibrant as ever. Not the crumbling shell of Dalton that stood by his side.
“Dalton,
I’m sorry, man. This is all my fault. I should’ve listened to Keith. I just
didn’t believe him. I didn’t think it was possible.”
“Hello,
Travis,” the reflection said. “Come to eat all of Dalton’s food? Or is it you who’s
on today’s menu? This mirror has a demanding appetite. What do you say, Dalton?
It’s your call.”
“Take
him,” Dalton said.
“What?”
Travis said as the mirror snatched him with its invisible claws and reeled him
in.
“You
made the right choice,” his doppelganger said.
“I have
a deal,” Dalton said.
“I’m
listening.”
* * *
Did I
unplug the coffee pot? Arnold Green wondered as he drove down the road
from his house. Most kids his age drank soda or chugged energy drinks, but
Arnie was addicted to coffee. And drinking it made him feel more mature.
Arnie
had it rough. Seventeen years old and has face was acne scarred and covered in
blackheads. He had dandruff and wore corrective lenses, drove a crummy car.
None of the girls at school would date him. He worked the fryer at a local fast
food joint, the oil clogging his pores and adding to the scattering of acne
across his cheeks.
Arnie
sipped his coffee and drove slowly through the neighborhood. He never went
above the speed limit.
He
slowed down in front of the Anderson’s house and pulled up to the curb. They
were having a garage sale.
The
mirror instantly caught his eye. The intricate, ancient looking symbols carved
into the wooden frame were very unusual and intriguing.
“How
much?” Arnie asked.
“For
you, kid, thirty bucks,” Mr. Anderson said.
“I’ll
take it,” he said, gleaming.
* * *
Dale
Hendricks was Arnold’s only friend. He shared Arnie’s acne affliction and never
had any luck with girls his age. Arnold had him over that day to play the
latest installment of Call of Duty.
“I still
don’t know what possessed you to buy that mirror,” Dale said.
“Yeah, I
don’t know what came over me. It’s like I was hypnotized by it. But I’m not
going to try and take it back. I don’t mind having it. It’s cool.”
“A
mirror? Cool?”
“Yeah,
you don’t see too many of the old mirror stands like that nowadays. And I’m
fascinated by all the symbols carved into the frame. I wonder what they mean.”
“It’s
probably gibberish,” Dale laughed.
Arnold
paused the game. “I’m going to get some coffee. You want some?”
“Ew, no.
I still don’t understand how you drink that. Got any Coke?”
“I’ll
check,” Arnold said, excusing himself.
He
returned when his coffee was ready. “Sorry, we don’t have any Coke, but we’ve
got–” Arnie gasped and dropped his mug to the floor. The hot coffee seeped into
the carpet, but that was the furthest thing from his mind.
He
watched in utter disbelief as the mirror finished consuming his friend.
“Hello,
Arnie,” his doppelganger spoke to him. “You probably think you’re seeing
things, going crazy. Trust me, you’re not. This mirror has powers beyond your
wildest imaginations. It can help you, Arnie. It can change your whole life.”
“What
are you talking about? Where is Dale? What did you do to him?”
“Dale
can’t be helped. But you can. When Dale’s parents call and ask about him, tell
them he left hours ago. They’ll file a missing person’s report. The police may
ask you a few questions. But they won’t suspect a thing. And no body means no
evidence.”
“This
isn’t happening,” he whispered to himself.
“But it
is happening,” his doppelganger said. “Take care of the mirror and the mirror
takes care of you. Sleep on it. I have a feeling you’ll change your mind in the
morning.”
Arnold
didn’t get much sleep that night. But he was amazed when he saw himself in the
mirror. His skin was clear, his blackheads had vanished, his acne scars had disappeared.
He was practically glowing. His hair looked thick and lustrous, no dandruff
flakes in sight. It was only after a minute of admiring himself in the mirror
that he realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses. For the first time since he was
twelve, he could see clearly without his glasses.
“Looking
good, Arnie,” his reflection spoke. “I hope you’re feeling spry. We’ve got some
work to do.”
