“It’s his dubstep!” Rudy Gay had screamed. “He’s always tricking people into listening to it and it sucks!”
Ben McLemore was occupying his usual place in the corner of the dungeon. His captor had relented and allowed the captives to be fed the most meager of rations; however, Ben’s moldy bread remained untouched. He could not imagine feeling hungry again, could not imagine anything besides the torment which assaulted him.
He didn’t know how long he had been imprisoned. He remembered dimly, as if in a past life, Derrick Williams greeting him and his teammates at the door, then leading them to the basement. Then the music had started. That horrible, horrible noise.
Derrick, or as he had fashioned himself, “Professor Dubbenstein”, had trapped them in a prison of dubstep construction. There was no escape; efforts had been made to find an exit, efforts which grew more and more feeble as the dubstep penetrated their sanity. Ben raised his head from the cold stone floor and looked at his teammates, illuminated by flashing strobe lights.
Most of them were like him, laying prone on the ground, moving rarely. DeMarcus Cousins was still gamely feeling around the walls, as if he was looking for a secret button that would free them from this madness. DeMarcus was already crazy enough that the wubs didn’t not affect him as much as the others.
Professor Dubbenstein seemed to be enjoying himself, surrounded by computers and audio equipment he relished his new audience that could not abandon him.
Ben curled up into a tighter ball, an attempt to shield himself from the frantic bleeps and drops that overloaded his senses. It was no use, as each passing minute eroded his sanity further. This hellish place was not only his prison; it was also his coffin.