“Shh, Jake,” Larry whispered, “you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Jake asked back.
“That whisperin’ in the night.”
“What whisperin’s that?”
“Ominous like. I think it’s the sound of silent death,” Larry said.
“How’d you hear it then? Ain’t it silent? As the name implies?” Said Jake.
“What are you on about, man?”
“I mean, silent death means just that. SILENT. If you heard it whispering in the night like you’re sayin’ then wouldn’t it be whispering death?”
“Whispering death?” Larry exclaimed, “Are you buzzed out? That ain’t what anything would be called anywhere I heard of ever. No one says whisperin’ death. What would it be like all swishy-swishy-swishy-poof you’re dead? Ga-ack, that’s a sick twist.”
There was a long, chubby, contemplative moment between them, then Larry said, “How the hell did you get in my sleeping bag anyways?”