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"Jesus! What the...? I can't move my arm! What the hell is going
on?"
"Hey, stop that now... you're... you're creeping me out."
Peter watched in horror as his possessed hand raised itself to shoulder height. The grotesque, cadaverous, foul-smelling
sock stared at him with it's cracked button-eye. He felt a stirring in his vocal chords, and a voice left his throat
-- a voice which wasn't his own.
"Hiya, Fatso. Thanks for lending me a hand. I have to say, it fits nice n' snug compared to the last one I
had up my arse."
When he had control of his jaw again, it dropped open. Terry burst into a fit of knee-slapping laughter.
"Peter, I didn't know you were a comedian!"
The sock-puppet jabbed towards Terry.
"What're you laughing at, Baldy?"
"Hey," said Terry, touching his gleaming scalp, "that's hitting a little close to home. You know
how I am about my hair, Peter."
"Hair?" said the sock, giving Terry's head a quick rub. "I don't see any hair. Don't know what you're
worried about, except perhaps growing some."
In the awkward silence that followed, Peter tried to find his own voice.
"I, uh... Terry, the sock... It's not me, I swear!"
"Of course it's not you, Jumbo. I'm my own sock -- Mr. Sockforahead, to be exact."
"Peter, you've been working back here too long. If I was you, I'd put in for some time off."
"That sounds like a laugh. C'mon, Sir Eatsalot, let's quit this joint."
Mr. Sockforahead busied himself in Peter's pockets, leaving Peter's vocal chords somewhat sore from the high-pitched,
maniacal voice they'd been forced to produce.
"Terry, listen, you have to help me. I'm deadly serious -- this Mr. Sockforahead thing has taken control of
my arm; even my voice!"
Terry narrowed his eyes, and Peter grabbed him by the shirt.
"Okay, okay, I believe ya!"
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