In which Marilyn finds herself apprehended and subject to interrogation. Wishing a little Garbo-time to herself, she exited via the main-brane point of the multiverse convergence that was concealed behind the mirror in the Roosevelt Hotel, but instead of gin, Nembutal, and a long sleep, she was immediately surrounded by men in suits and ties, and ugly women with pads and pencils. She was hustled to a suite on the seventh floor, and pushed down into a low armchair. The questions came so thick and fast that she faltered and stopped even trying to supply these people with answers. “What do you want?”
“We want information.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“We want information.”
“Who are you?”
“The new Number 2.”
“Who is Number 1?”
“You are Number 6.” Marilyn recognized this game. ”I am not a number, I am a blonde goddess.”
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