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Gutmann, Furda, and the Philadelphia Brotherhood of Thieves, Part 2: The Exposition

Last week we introduced the first ever chapter of our brand new serial feature. Needless to say it was a thrillride. Now, here's chapter two: 

So of course I got into the car. Dean Furda slid in behind me. Wow, nice interior! I thought. "Is this calfskin?" I asked as I petted the back of the seat in front of me"

"Shh," President Gutmann replied. "There will be time for questions when we get there."

I slumped down in the backseat of the Maserati and stared out the window. I was already bored. "Can we at least play a driving game? Do you know the one where we have to find a license plate from every state?"

Amy Gutmann turned from the front seat, lifted her sunglasses and balefully stared at me from her soulful, soulful eyes and said, "Are you kidding me? Do you see anyone else on the road? The situation is worse than you think."

"What situation?! What is going on?" I cried. 

"No more questions," Gutmann said stonily. Dean Funk-tastic Furda nodded solemnly.

"Fine." I'll just sleep I guess. I was still hungover and I never even got my breakfast sandwich. I had also recently been taken by The Bamboozler, whoever that was. My eyes were starting to close. I leaned against the aromatic leather of the seat and soon fell asleep.

"Wake up." Someone was poking me with a finely gloved hand.

"What time is it?" I asked, groggily shaking my head.

"It's 10:54. You literally were asleep for six minutes. Come with us -- we need to show you something," responded Furda.

I got out of the car and looked around. We were standing outside of 30th Street Station but it was eerily abandoned. Yikes. We hustled inside, but I quickly noticed that President Gutmann seemed to be walking with a swaying limp. "Are you okay?" I asked her, trying to be friendly.

She suddenly stopped and spun quickly around. "DO I LOOK OKAY TO YOU?!" Her voice rang clearly from the high ceilings. "DO I?!" 

Wow these are some acoustics in here! I thought. She tore aside her floor-length purple velvet gown and gestured towards a gnarled wooden peg-leg that was sticking out beneath her knee.

"Oh whoaaa sorry. I didn't realize." Where the fuck did that come from? I wondered silently. 

She just nodded her head as though she was disappointed with me and said wearily, "Just come on."

We were marching straight towards the information desk in the center of the station. When we got there, DJ Dean Scritchedy-Scratch Furda hopped merrily behind the counter, pressed some buttons on the computer and moments later the floor beneath us began to sink.

"Holy shit," I said. The other two looked at me and nodded silently.

When we reached the nadir of our descent, Gutmann and Furda stepped off the platform and I followed suite. We walked along a short, sandy corridor. Of all the underground, secret lair, cave-type dwellings I'd experienced to that point, this was easily the dampest. We soon reached a clearing of sorts, where the slimy walls of the cave curved into a small, vaguely circular room. 

My eyes were immediately drawn to the figure in the middle. He was seated on a plain wooden chair, dressed only in a pair of what looked like brown baseball pants. He had a red cap on his head and an eyepatch covering one eye. His head was back. He's asleep... It was only then that I noticed that he was tied to the chair with ropes.

"Dylan?" I whispered. It was my hallmate -- the one I'd thought was cute for a couple of months. I guess he hasn't been around much but I thought it was just because he was dirty-rushing. Why is he dressed like a pirate?

"This is why we requested you. You are the only person we know that can speak to our prisoner," said Amy Gutmann solemnly to me.

Suddenly Dylan opened the one eye that wasn't covered by an eyepatch. "Aargh," he said ominously. 

I spun around to face Gutmann and Furda. They looked at me and said, "We need your help."

To be continued...