I’m drained. Drained of the suffocation. Drained of them throwing me under a tomb. Literally. I mean, who would find it funny, after a couple of drinks, to just grab a friend and pop them in a coffin? Not even a friend, a drinking buddy. It’s hilarious, really. I would laugh if I had enough oxygen. They also found it hysterical to add tacks on this rusty, pungent catacomb, just for fun. You know, sometimes I get urges to bite my nails, or to scream or even to bawl my eyes out, but the urge that I have now to do something to them… I’ll just wait for the right moment, and then, they will see. They shouldn’t have messed with an individual like me, who always keeps a crane in their pocket, who knows every secret like the back of their hand. They ought to know who Alana Franklin really is.