Hung smoothly leaned into Dana and she gave a captivating cackle, ” I heard you were the Iranian wannabe high priest of house parties, coke-addicts firework watchers, and pleasure hounds. You don’t look so powerful now.”
In Iran you would be in a world of taboos Your pleasures and depravities would be seen as recklessness of a jaded son of a traitor. You’d be a glorious inspirational prize for the Mullahs of an Iranian westernized dog. The elusive Judges’ parishioners of horror we killed here, but the North Korean pirates, not to mention your father’s old colleague want to have a jam session with your brain. You are a metaphor for a screwed human condition a victim of his fate. This is more than that it is a spirited sermon Your father is dead and you are screwed we should just leave you here, you are useless to us.
In the blink of an eye, Dana was painfully aware of his own mortality, he would do anything yet persevere his life. “Wait I can help, I know where my father keeps his files.”
Tales Of Kinsea 