wére.

Morgan sat slumped over, his hair falling over his face, whitened from lack of sunlight and nutrition.  His drifting consciousness registered a figure standing in front of his cell.  The door swung open without a sound. The torture would begin again today; but today was different.  The figure spoke, with his eyes closed, his chest forward.  His voice was high, grating.

"I hope you understand why I'm here, Mr. Frieman.  I harbor no ill will towards you... But it is my duty to enlighten you as to why you are in here.  As you know, the society of Non Tenor Voices has been long abolished.  You, as the head of that society, have no rights to speak of within our glorious and ebullient na-" He stuttered.  "Mah, meh, mii.  Mhmm.  You, as the head of that society, have no rights to speak of within our glorious and ebullient nation.  Therefore, I will attempt, unwillingly, to enlighten you on your rights within reason.  There was a story of a boy, just like you.  His name was, well, he had no name, but they called him Old Man River.  And now, Old Man Riv-- Mah, meh, mii.  And now, Old Man River, he had a beautiful head of hair.  I would even venture to liken it to my own, but, eh, he had a beautiful head of hair.  No one in all the village could compare to his engrati-- Mah, meh, mii.  Eh, what's this?"

The cell door had swung shut behind him.  The figure was the only one left in the cell.