Dandy in the Underworld - 1
“This is a prank, right?” said Ivan, after he had given the house in front of him a good minute to reveal itself as something other than what it appeared to be. Armed security at every door would’ve made him feel good, or maybe some cocktail waitresses, naked except for those French maid aprons. Even a roulette wheel glimpsed through a crack in the curtains would do. But the house was just your regular desert dump with dusty windows, sun-bleached red curtains, short spiny bushes and cacti growing in clusters around the porch and something in the back that appeared to be an old-fashioned covered well.
Maybe it would be totally different in the daylight, he thought. He considered the house for a bit longer. Maybe not.
Ivan turned to the casino security guard who was unloading Ivan’s suitcase from the trunk of his Lexus. “My man, let me assure you that I’m not the kind of guy you want to be pulling pranks on. We clear?”
“No pranks.” The guard wheeled Ivan’s white suitcase around the car, rising clouds of dust, and left it by Ivan’s feet instead of taking it to the door. “The greatest game in Las Vegas - you wanted, you paid for it, you got it.”
“We’re not even in Vegas anymore!” And Ivan spread his arms to include the empty highway in the distance, the flat land for miles around them with twisted dark silhouettes of trees here and there, and the mountains on the horizon.
“Ring the doorbell,” said the guard. Then he got into his car, backed out of the driveway and headed back in the direction of the Strip. Ivan watched the taillights, until they didn’t look like taillights anymore but like red eyes of a creature lurking in the desert.
People talked about the Dragon of Las Vegas. Good people, too, not the bullshitting kind. He had been on the Strip for a week, growing tired of the Black Jack and the roulette. More, he said, give me more, I heard there was more. There were rumors of people playing the highest-stakes game there ever was in Las Vegas and coming out unimaginably rich. More people entered the game and were never heard from again. Ivan heard the story for the first time a year ago, at his nineteenth birthday party, from his uncle who swore he knew a winner personally. Ivan didn’t believe a word of it then, but he dreamed of it that night and the night after - the Dragon of Las Vegas, the greatest game there ever was, where the stakes were high and the prize was better than money. It was a gamble of a lifetime, they said, and they were not the bullshitting kind.
Then again, there was this house.
Ivan sighed and rolled his suitcase onto the porch, above which a blue light burned, dive-bombed by bugs. Ivan waved a few away from his face and accidentally hit an ugly wind chime, making it rattle. The thing appeared to be made of chicken bones and a skull of something that might’ve been a rodent. He could see the resemblance to a dragon if he squinted.
“What the fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, poking at the wind chime. “Cheap-o.” But there was nothing else to do here in the middle of the night, in the heart of nowhere, so he rang the doorbell.
The guy who answered didn’t look like a pit boss, and neither did he look like the Dragon of Las Vegas. Ivan gave him a head-to-toe, not bothering to hide his disappointment. He was in his thirties, with short hair, dressed in a Pink Floyd t-shirt and jeans with holes in them in all the wrong places, probably from that one time he got hung up jumping the fence. He looked like one of those ex male models who had been out of the business for long enough to get rough around the edges.
“Take a picture,” said the guy, “it’ll last longer.” And he stepped aside, holding the door open.
Ivan peered into the house, hoping against hope that naked cocktail waitresses might still be a go. No dice. The hallway opened into a kind of a living room that Ivan normally wouldn’t set a foot into - the kind with mismatched furniture and old books everywhere, the poor people kind. Just then, the guy moved again and something clanked by his left foot. Ivan missed it in the dark, but now he saw that the freak had a shackle and chain around his ankle, and the end of it stretched back into the house.
“You’re letting the bugs in,” the guy said.
Maybe this was a part of the game, Ivan thought as he followed the house’s owner through the living room and into the kitchen, trying not to step on the chain. Maybe this was a design of sorts - the greatest, most secret game in Vegas hidden in plain sight, disguised as a cheap spook show. He could roll with that, though he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Would a basement room under the MGM be that terrible? Christ.
“So hey, my man.” Ivan sat down in the chair that the guy pushed toward him, by the kitchen table. “Listen, this whole Joe the Plumber act is awesome, but I’m here for the Dragon of Las Vegas.” The name, which gave him chills of excitement yesterday, now fell flat, like something out of a fairytale he was far too old for.
“I figured,” the dude said. “You want coffee?”
The wall clock showed fifteen to three in the morning. The night was still young. Ivan shrugged, and the guy pulled two cups from the cupboard and filled them to the brim. Ivan sniffed his coffee before taking a careful sip. It was good stuff, too good for this house and this dude - the first evidence that maybe there was more to the place than Halloween paraphernalia. Ivan felt his good mood returning, with the excitement that was with him earlier that night starting to creep back in. He was in the right place. He had found it.
“I’m Dean,” said the guy, offering his hand over the table, and Ivan shook it briefly.
“Ivan.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Ivan. What the fuck are they naming you kids these days?”
“Yeah, whatever. So we play this game or what?” And he looked around the kitchen for some cards, chips, something. The table was old, with cracked polish and pale rings of discoloration left by cups. There was a fridge, a sink and a gas stove - the usual stuff. A string of dried red peppers was hung in the window, like a Christmas garland. Old spider web fluttered in the corner up by the ceiling, disturbed by the draft.
Dean leaned back in his chair, studying Ivan over his coffee mug. The chain scratched against the floor when he moved his foot. “This is how we play: you stay in this house for three days and three nights, and each night I will think of an object. You have to guess what object I’m thinking of.” Either there was some party treat in the coffee, or the light had started to drain from the kitchen as Dean spoke. The shadows deepened in the corners and in his face. Ivan leaned closer. “If you guess correctly three times, you get a wish granted, anything you want. If you lose, the dragon eats you.”
The room went quiet, so quiet that Ivan could hear some small things rustling in the brush outside the house. The clock over the stove had stopped at some point while they were talking.
“Anything I want?” Ivan said. “Like a blank check? Billions of dollars?”
Dean shrugged. “Sure, man.”
“To be the President of the United States?”
“Why not?”
“How about a Parisian supermodel falling in love with me? Can you do that, or is it one of those ‘limitations’?” Ivan made quotation marks in the air and felt a giggling fit rising up from inside of him. “What if I wanted to shake hands with God?”
“Dude, if you win, ask for a blowjob from God, for all I care. No limitations.”
Ivan sat back in his chair and thought about the situation. What was it that Uncle Cornelius said happened to the guy he knew, the guy who played this game and won? Ivan had done three lines of coke before that conversation and had little patience for slow-speaking middle-aged relatives. It had something to do with the Caribbean - that was almost for sure. Uncle Cornelius’s face came to him now, with a drooping eyelid and a constellation of brown moles on his cheek. What did he say happened to the guy?
Dean leaned over the table, and Ivan blinked, coming out of his trance. “I’m not kidding about the dying part either.”
Anything he wanted. Absolutely anything in the world. He looked back at Dean and smiled.
Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ll show you to your room.”
~~~~
For the rest of the night, Ivan slept, despite the strong coffee, despite the excitement. He was back in a candle-lit ballroom of his family mansion. Uncle Cornelius stood before him, huge like he was when Ivan was six, with a mustache like a dark strip of forest on the mountain slope that was his strong, solid body. He had a scary drooping eyelid, and one half of his face was always flushed. Uncle Cornelius was terrifying tonight like he hadn’t been in fifteen years. He held a champagne flute in his hand that reflected the ballroom and turned everyone into an impossibly stretched monster. Ivan gaped at him.
“Glue,” boomed Uncle Cornelius. “The dragon is made of glue. The Glue of Las Vegas!”
Outside his dream, in that place that Ivan could reach if only he turned about his left shoulder fast enough - there, something heavy and made of iron dragged along the floorboards, slowly, as if someone was trying not to wake him but couldn’t help making noise. Slowly. He heard footsteps - two, three. He whipped his head around, but there were only his parents’ guests, stretched out and bent like he saw them in Uncle Cornelius’s glass. The real world was just barely out of reach, and in the real world, someone was coming too close to his bed.
“Uncle Cornelius,” he said to the towering gentleman. “I think there was something in the coffee.” He scrunched up his face and saw the reflection of it in the champagne glass, horrifically distorted. “I think I’ve been drugged.”
“Dragged,” Uncle Cornelius corrected. And then, “Glue!”
In the real world, someone was dragging a claw along the wall. Someone just sat down on his bed and said into his ear, “Now you’re in the game.”
Uncle Cornelius tapped Ivan’s forehead with the glass. “It’s all in the glue, boy. Dragons are all in the glue.”
The ballroom was made of glue. Glue held Ivan firmly in place and wouldn’t let him get back into reality. When he tried to lift his hand off the table, the table stretched after it like gum. Someone whispered to him, “Now you can’t leave. If you give up, you lose. If you lose, the dragon eats you.” And he felt, distantly, a talon touch the tip of his nose.
~~~~
The morning came on too bright, too early. Ivan climbed out of his cocoon of sweat-soaked sheets the minute he was awake, though his head still felt muggy. But if he stayed in bed for a minute longer, he could fall back asleep and dream of Uncle Cornelius in that ballroom, and worse, someone could sneak into his room again while he slept. Feeling only partially oriented, Ivan pulled on yesterday’s clothes and stumbled into the kitchen. It was blessedly empty. He dumped nearly half a bottle of dish soap into his cup and scrubbed it spotless, then repeated with the coffee pot before making a fresh batch. The fucking roofies were not going to get him again.
Dean was nowhere to be seen. The freaky chain he wore was apparently long enough to let him move freely all over the house, and coils of it lay in the hallway. One end snaked down the stairs into the basement. Ivan gave it a wide berth when he took his coffee out on the back porch, hoping that the morning air would help clear his head.
It was still early, and the light was a gentle shade of blue that made the landscape look delicate. The heat would come on soon, but for now the air was cool. Ivan sat down on the porch and pulled out a phone. Maybe Uncle Cornelius could tell him how exactly that other guy won and got his wish that may or may not have involved the Caribbean. How the hell is a guy supposed to know what some creeper got his mind set on? He could be thinking of mouse droppings, or a tin spoon, or a pterodactyl.
There was no reception. Ivan stared at the blank screen and shook the phone. Nope. No reception.
He was suddenly aware of the sound of a car engine which he’d been unconsciously ignoring, but it got closer and closer, until it was unmistakably in front of the house, where it stopped. It was a big engine, too noisy for the casino Lexus. Was that good news or bad news that someone else apparently arrived? A car door creaked open and slammed, and Ivan heard footsteps approaching. He picked up his coffee mug, following some vague thought about wanting a weapon, and waited.
The guy who came around the house was about Dean’s age, and probably as tall. He was wearing leather pants, and held to his side was a flat box of mangoes. He didn’t look at all surprised to see Ivan there.
“Hi,” the guy said, before depositing his mangoes on the porch and sitting down next to Ivan. “I’m Sam.”
Ivan shook his hand. The dude looked pretty normal, but then again, so did Dean before he dumped drugs into Ivan’s coffee and crept around his bedroom while he slept, rattling his chain and scratching the walls. Ivan found claw marks on them when he woke up.
He was still holding Sam’s hand, squeezing it absently. Sam was smiling like maybe he understood.
“I’m Ivan. Who are you supposed to be?”
“I live here. You want a mango?”
Ivan shook his head. Sam produced a knife from an honest-to-god ankle strap and started peeling a mango for himself, sweet-smelling juice dripping off his fingers.
“So,” Ivan cleared his throat, “so you know Dean?”
“Dean’s my brother. What about him?”
“You know that he’s a,” and Ivan stopped, not knowing how to finish. The Dragon of Las Vegas, Christ. He had thought it was some symbolic name, like maybe there was a Chinese dude running some really awesome card game on the top floor of the MGM. He wasn’t expecting a spook show, with the “claws and chains and guarded treasure” type of dragon.
“The Dragon of Las Vegas?” Sam said. “Sure. Dragons have brothers, too.”
The way he was so matter-of-fact about this shit was starting to get on Ivan’s nerves. “You know the part where he’s, like, going to eat me if I lose at this game, right?” His voice came out higher than he liked.
Sam finished taking the mango’s skin off in a single peel. He dropped the long strip between his feet and licked the blade before setting the knife aside. He weighted the fruit in his hand, squinting at it. When he spoke it was quietly, almost whispering, and Ivan had to lean closer to hear.
“Look, no one can win this game by plain guessing. What kind of a game would that be if no one could win it? There will be clues.”
“Clues!” Ivan snapped his fingers, and Sam gave him a disapproving look. Ivan dropped his voice. “That’s what Uncle Cornelius told me. I remember now. There have to be clues.”
“That’s right. Dean wasn’t born like this, you know. And I’m not thrilled about my brother eating flesh when you guys lose.”
Flesh. The word was like an ice nugget dropped behind the collar of Ivan’s shirt, making him shiver. The feeling from his dream returned - of a sharp talon touching his nose.
Sam cut slices from the mango and ate them one by one, playing casual. Ivan wondered if Dean was watching them from the house right now. Sam didn’t look at him when he whispered, “I’ll help as much as I can. Just don’t fuck it up.”
“Got it. I won’t. Hey, thanks, my man.”
Sam tossed the pit out into the desert, picked up his knife and the box and went inside the house. He didn’t take his boots off, and Ivan could hear his footsteps go down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“Hey Sammy,” said Dean’s voice from inside.
Ivan put down his now cold coffee and very quietly followed around the house to the kitchen window, keeping close to the wall and below the windowsill level. The outside air must’ve helped because he was feeling much better, in full control of his body and with his mind sharp as ever. The adrenalin probably didn’t hurt either.
Dean was saying, “Dude, did you walk into a grocery store in those pants? Did people shove money in them?”
“It’s Vegas. Like anybody cares.”
Ivan stood up just enough to peer into the window, through the slit in the drawn curtains. Dean was leaning against the counter next to the sink, scratching his ribs in a slow absent manner of someone not entirely awake. Sam was washing his hands. They were standing practically hip to hip, and that closeness in the large space was somehow weird.
“I care,” Dean said. “I get a major case of second-hand embarrassment just from picturing you walk around like this in public.”
“Second-hand embarrassment is what they call it now?” And then Sam put a hand on Dean’s junk. Ivan blinked and backed away from the window, caught by surprise.
“Brother my ass,” he said under his breath, and slapped a hand over his mouth.
Things in the kitchen, thankfully, didn’t look like they were heading into Porn Land just yet. Dean stepped away from the sink and was playing with a mango, tossing it from hand to hand. “You met our guest yet?”
“Out back. He’s a little young.”
“Yeah, well.” Dean yawned. “He asked, he paid, he got it. You want coffee?”
“Nah. I’m going to pass out.” Sam unzipped his pants and wriggled out of them, kicking them into the corner of the kitchen before turning back around to splash water in his face over the sink.
Dean made an appreciative noise. “Take it all off, baby.”
Sam flipped him the bird over his shoulder. Dean cackled, picked up the pants and went out of the kitchen with them, the chain dragging after him. Sam stood leaning over the sink for a few more minutes, half-asleep on his feet. Then he shook himself off and left, too.
~~~~
At dusk, the whole house seemed saturated with the heavy, sweet smell of ripe mangoes. Sam had left them out on the table for the day, and now Ivan couldn’t help but think of those scenes in cartoon, where visible streaks of aroma snaked around corners and through the doorways. Whenever Ivan turned around too fast, he smelled mangoes.
He slept when Sam did, through the day’s heat, determined to not miss his clue. His sleep was fragmented, anxious, but no one came to bother him this time. Dragons required sleep like the rest of them - go figure. He woke up once around noon, urgently needing a trip to the bathroom, and ended up at the wrong door on his way back. In the room with blackout curtains, he glimpsed the freak show duo sleeping in a shared bed, with Sam facedown and hugging the pillow and Dean stretched out diagonally across the bed, his head against Sam’s ribs, his hand in the small of Sam’s back. Ivan winced, backed away and tripped over the chain.
He slept again and dreamed about flying his gold-plated personal jet over the Lesser Antilles, only he couldn’t land because the islands were the protruding vertebrae of a dragon sleeping under the sea. The fuel was running low. He woke up with his heart in his throat.
Sam and Dean were awake and out in the back yard, judging by the sounds coming from the outside. They could wait. Ivan wandered into the kitchen first, and there was a large turkey sandwich laid out for him on the plate. Ivan’s first instinct was to toss it into garbage. He stood over it for a few minutes, trying to decide what benefit Dean could possibly draw from drugging him again. In the end, he ate the sandwich slowly, washing it down with tap water and waiting to stuff two fingers down his throat at the first sign of lightheadedness.
The freaks must’ve been having a fight. Ivan heard curses, snorts and feet shuffling, and finally he had to go and see after someone slammed into the wall of the house. They were sparring out in the yard, both covered in pale dust from head to toe like they rolled in it. The sight of them made Ivan think first of a pair of golems made of clay, two fairytale monsters, and then it made him think of his father’s bodyguards fighting to kill time or for bets. It was an unpleasant thought that made his skin crawl. So the Dragon of Las Vegas had drugs - and not the fun kind either - a few loose screws in his head, apparently ate human flesh and he could probably hit like a cement truck.
Ivan was stuck in an isolated place with hillbilly cannibals. It wasn’t nearly as funny as it should’ve been.
Sam’s lip was bleeding. Dean was dragging his foot a little, the one with the chain around it but didn’t seem bothered by it. Ivan watched them circle each other and roll around, until he became convinced that Sam wasn’t going to shout out the clue through a mouthful of dirt, and so he wandered off to look for a note, a picture, a word spelled out in fridge magnets, anything. Would it kill Sam to just leave a goddamn note? When he came back to the porch, empty-handed and empty-headed, Sam had Dean on his back and was sitting on his chest, pinning down Dean’s arms with his knees. He had a mango in one hand.
“Fuck off, Sam,” Dean said. “I drank a Dr. Pepper yesterday. It totally counts.”
“Does not. It doesn’t actually have any cherries in it.”
“Sam.”
Sam bit into the fruit’s skin and pulled a strip of peel down with his teeth. He looked like a twelve year old boy who just won a fight to prove something, with that twinkle in his eyes. He smiled down at Dean and crushed the mango against his mouth, and then Dean spat pulp at him, and then they were rolling in the dust again.
They really are brothers, Ivan thought, watching from inside the house. Holy shit, they really are. So they were incestuous hillbilly cannibals then. Distracted by that thought, he almost missed the moment when Sam looked straight at him and winked.
~~~~
It had to be at midnight. Such were the rules, Dean told him earlier as he washed dust and fruit juice from his face. Things like this had to happen at midnight. Ivan turned that thought in his head over and over, trying to find it funny, feeling deep in his guts that the Dragon of Las Vegas should’ve been funny, or embarrassing at the least. But fifteen minutes to midnight, he stood on the porch and contemplated the stakes and failed to find any humor in the situation. In the blue light of an exterior lamp, the chicken bone dragon cast a huge swimming shadow on the wall of the house, and when the wind blew just right, its ghostly teeth scraped against Ivan’s shoulder.
Seriously, would it kill Sam to leave a note? Ivan spent an hour searching for the guy, to confirm his guess about the first object, but Sam had disappeared. The ’67 Impala was still in the driveway, and there were plenty of rooms in the house, half of them locked. Ivan scratched at all of them, whispering Sam’s name and then calling it louder, but he got no response.
Did he get it correctly, the thing Sam was trying to tell him, or did he fixate on a random object and missed the real clue? How obvious was the clue supposed to be?
Ivan’s watch showed five to midnight. He sighed, set his coffee mug on the railing and went inside the house. Until the door closed and cut off the light, he didn’t realize how much noise there was in the desert, and now he felt its absence like a tugging in his stomach. There wasn’t a sound inside the house, except for the ticking of an ancient grandfather clock somewhere deep within. He came across that clock briefly while looking for Sam, stubbed a toe against its massive frame, too. Now it was making him think of that Peter Pan cartoon, as if he was in the belly of the crocodile that swallowed the clock. Just a few paces ahead, an arched doorway turned into the arch of a soft palate, leading down into the throat. Dry mistletoe that must’ve been a few years old and covered in cobwebs hung over the archway like a uvula. From within, from where the invisible clock was dropping seconds spilled a weak firelight. It probably had to be candles, too, just like it had to be midnight, like it had to be a chain, and three nights, and clues, and a dragon to suck his bones dry.
Ivan shook his head, and the monstrous throat became a dark hallway again. The light was coming from the old-fashioned study. He wiped his palms on his pants and stepped under the archway.
Dean was seated in a chair straight out of some Gothic horror flick, surrounded by somebody else’s books and photographs. An oil lamp burned on the windowsill. Ivan squinted at the framed photos pushed into the corners of bookshelves, all of them of grim adults and children in sepia. He noticed them on his tour around the house earlier and wondered who they were.
Dean moved his foot, making the chain rattle. “So.”
Ivan looked around for a place to sit. There was a plain wooden chair across from Dean, and he settled there, trying to look relaxed. He had it, after all. There was no reason to be nervous. He cleared his throat, to make sure his voice was strong. “Who’s in the pictures?”
Dean picked one up and turned it in his hands. “The old dragon’s family. They all grew up and grew old, and the new generation didn’t know the guy at all. He told me.”
“The old dragon?” Ivan shifted in the chair, uncomfortable. “Was there another one before you?”
“Sure. Dude, do I look like I’m as old as Vegas?” Dean pushed up the cuff of his jeans absently and scratched at the reddened skin where the ankle bracelet did some damage. “There was a dragon in the desert before Las Vegas, too. He sat by the only well for miles and made people play the game with him, for water instead of wishes.”
Ivan swallowed, thinking of the exuberant wishes of Uncle Cornelius’s friends, and of the simple wishes of dying men hundreds of years ago in the desert. “So how did you get the gig?”
From somewhere within the house came a moan. Dean pursed his lips briefly, glancing toward the sound over Ivan’s shoulder. Ivan waited but the moan didn’t repeat. “What the hell was that?”
“That - don’t mind that. You came to Vegas because you heard rumors about this game. Sam and I heard them, too, only we were interested in the part where people were going missing.” He stood up from his chair and walked over to the window to fiddle with the oil lamp, making its flame jump and the shadows swell. Ivan figured him from the start for the kind of freak who couldn’t sit still for a minute, and sure enough, he was right.
Dean went on, “We hunt monsters. But dude, there is so much bullshit floating around the Internet about dragons - go figure what’s true and what isn’t. Turns out that he who kills the dragon becomes the dragon.”
The moan came again, and Ivan saw Dean’s fingers jump on the window’s frame.
“Hey man, where’s Sam?”
Dean waved a hand in the air in some vague gesture, and Ivan repeated it after him, exaggerated. “What’s that mean? Who the fuck is moaning back there? Where’s your brother?”
“Don’t worry about it. Sam’s just enjoying himself too much. Shall we?”
Ivan looked around at the doorway again. “Huh?”
Dean rolled his eyes and made another hand gesture, this time more explicit.
Christ, seriously? Ivan was twenty and he had better self-control than that. “Does he have to be so loud?”
“Quit worrying about Sam.” Dean shifted uncomfortably. His leg was jerking a little, making the chain shake, and Ivan wondered if he even noticed. There was something unpleasant in the way Dean was looking at him - too attentive. “I’m thinking of an object, Ivan. You ready to guess what it is?”
Ivan felt then, once more, the talon touching the tip of his nose - the memory so vivid it almost made him draw back. “A mango,” he said, feeling that the word was too small somehow for this room and for this night. He waited.
The grandfather clock ticked on in the belly of the house. Dean was quiet, watching him without blinking, and Ivan thought that he could hear the fuse of the oil lamp burn. Sam cried out briefly and fell silent again.
After the longest time, Dean blinked again. He shrugged, taking his eyes off Ivan’s face, and it felt like a heavy weight shifting. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Live another night.”
~~~~
The blue porch light grew pale in the blue light of early morning hours. Sam sat on the lid of the old well under an acacia tree, rubbing at the blue bruises on his wrists and looking obscenely content.
“So is it true?” Ivan asked. “Dean killed the old dragon and became the dragon himself?”
“Yeah.”
“How did he kill the dragon?”
Sam gave him a crooked little smile like he knew exactly what Ivan was thinking, which he probably did. “He played the game and won. Then he asked for the dragon’s life.”
“So Dean is going to be stuck in this house until someone else kills him and becomes the new dragon? Until after you die?”
“No,” Sam said. “I’ll figure out a way.”
“Figure out a way not to die?”
“Ivan. You ask too many questions.”
Sam was grinning to himself but Ivan could see the worry underneath all of it, in the crease between his eyebrows and the certain tension around his eyes. Ivan learned to watch people from his father, training for the day he’d have to take over the business.
“Aren’t you afraid to fall into the well?”
Sam stopped rubbing the bruises and touched his palms to the dry wood like he was petting it. “Go get some sleep.”
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