A muffled scream, followed by a gasping gurgle, fills the room.  Bart’s feet and hands flap around like a swimmer.  Bud’s and Sam’s faces are soon splattered with streams of blood.

The screams quickly die away, Bud’s arm wrenching down, over and over again.  Then, there is a brief crunch.

“There, it’s free,” Sam says, lifting up Bart’s head.  He shakes it a few times, letting the blood drip down, and tosses it into the sink.  He wipes his sweaty forehead, thin streaks of blood etched across it like war paint.  He moves the faucet over to the unoccupied sink, and washes his hands and face.