The Monarch: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!
#24: A book?
The Monarch: No, but you would think it was right? You can read it like a book, here I'll show you: (reading) '...riffling through his pockets for change, the Monarch accidentally launches a sodium-pentathol tipped dart deep into his own thigh. Upon hearing a girlish symphony of shrill wails, a waitress comes to his aid...'
#24: Told you!
#21: You told me he wouldn't find out.
#24: You're such a dick! You put his face on the cover!
The Monarch: (still reading) 'there she was subjected to a lecture concerning her weight problem and the evils of over... plucking her eyebrows.' Oh, it's almost exactly like a book. There's even some pictures, here's one of me at Danceteria making out with Stiv Bators and Lydia Lunch. (closes book) But this is not a book, this is a suicide note. Good news! The euthanasia will be carried out by me. The author has twenty minutes to seek my aid before I just KILL all of you. You'll find me in my room... crying!