"You probably put 'em there, mother."

"Hush, hush. No negativities in front of my guest."

"He the one that want something?"

"Yes, he does. His name is Mr. Regal. And he has given me money for you all. Much money. Lovely money."

"And we ain't gonna see but a spit of it."

"There's plenty for you. He wants you to do something in front of him. No, Maria, don't take off your clothes. That's not what he wants. Mr. Regal wants you, as artists, to share your creativity with him."

"What's he doin' with the pipe?"

"I told him that hash helps creativity."

"That dude be goin' through a full ounce. He gotta be blind now."

And then the voice. That chilling flat monotone. Waldman felt a cramp in his legs from kneeling down near the tape. Where had he heard a voice like that before?

"I am not intoxicated, if that is what you suspect. Rather, I have full control of my senses and reflexes. Perhaps this inhibits my creativity. That is why I smoke more than the normal amount, or what you would consider normal, man."

"You jive funny, turkey."

"That is a derogatory term, and I have found that for one to tolerate such language often leads to further abuses of one's territorial integrity. Therefore, desist, nigger."

"Now, now, now, lovelies. Let us make pretty. Each of you will show your art to Mr. Regal. Let him see what you do when you are creative."

The tape sounded blank except for shuffling feet. Waldman heard indistinguishable low mumblings. Someone asked for "the red," which Waldman assumed was paint. At one point, someone sang an off-key tune about oppression and how freedom was just another form of deprivation and that the singer needed copulation badly with whomever she was singing to, but she didn't want her head messed with. "Just My Body, Baby" seemed to be the title of the song.