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caldruki is hot

caldruki is hot

caldruki is hot

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yeahyeha, hwahwhwhawhhahwhwhhahwah

i failed walking when i was 4, basically i never walked since 999 years ago, ohohoohhohohoho

and when i tried to walk finally, i fell off and i left all the teeth on the floor, my mom saw me and said "idiot, you failed walking" and i tried to move the arms and my arms fell off too, so i screamed like an chicken and i started to spin and fly on all my house until i crashed on a window and i saw my uncle who laughed at the stupiditely i did.

i once fought in the contractor wars before the events of the norvinsk region being a hellscape, i was in norvinsk when that happen fighting for the BEAR Private Military Contractor group fighting USEC, once that happened i was stuck their trying to survive and escape, i've met many merchants like Prapor, and been shot by many fucking basterds before, i managed to escape via being smuggled through UN patrols in a boat via a lighthouse. I remember the smell of burnt gunpowder in the streets of tarkov, and the only food i survived of was stale crackers and condensed milk, and even sometimes sugar cubes.I survived only by going into raids and taking loot to sell, and saving up many Roubles, Euros, and Dollars for my escape and food, ammo, guns, etc

Chapter 13: remastered

Chapter 13 of better call saud not fucking saul/where the iron freezes: a satire made by u/somanynamestochossef, chaos mod and mistermbackn

The pressure was a dull drill behind the eyes.

Vance brought the debtor into the office. Thick rope bound him to the chair. Every twitch pulled it tighter.

“Where is she? Where’s Sarah?” the man said.

The rope bit deeper. Blood ran down his arms. His voice broke into something raw and animal.

They moved him to the courtyard. Rain turned the dirt to heavy mud. Vance rigged the chair to an iron pulley and lifted him until his full weight hung against the restraints. Stones were added to the counterweight one by one. The man’s body tensed under the increasing pull. A long, wordless sound tore out of him and hung in the wet air.

Then the sound changed. It was no longer a shout but a wet, rattling breath that caught in his throat. We did not look at his face. Vance reached down and took another heavy gray stone from the pile and dropped it into the iron bucket. The rope groaned against the wood of the pulley.

A sharp, distinct snap came from the center of the courtyard, like a dry branch breaking in winter. The man’s boots jerked once, then twisted outward at an impossible angle. He did not scream this time. He only made a small, wet clicking noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, over and over, very fast.

Vance picked up the next stone. It was larger than the others, wet with the rain and covered in dark moss. He held it in both hands and waited. He looked at me, then back at the bucket, testing the weight. The rain kept falling, washing the gray mud off the man's boots, but the clicking noise from the chair did not stop.

Hours later the daughter was located in a remote shed on the edge of the property.

We found the girl in the shed at dusk. She smelled of cheap wintergreen and damp wool and she would not look at us. On the paperwork I wrote Client Asset Recovery. The ink dried black and neat and it did not look like what it was.

We left him there under the pulley.

Vance drove my car away from the property. He did not turn the headlights on until we hit the state two-lane. The wipers were old and they dragged across the windshield with a dry, rhythmic screech that split the screen.

I sat in the passenger seat with another man and did not look at the road. The heater kicked on, hot air that smelled of wet dog and rusted iron blowed. The heat hit my legs.

Down on the floorboards, the farm mud on my leather loafers began to change. It had been thick and slick and black in the courtyard. Now the car’s vents baked it. It turned a pale, chalky gray. It shrank as it dried, cracking into tiny, jagged fissures like a dry riverbed in August. With every vibration of the floorboard, a small flake of the gray earth would separate from the leather, turn to dust, and disappear into the dark carpet.

I watched a single lump of clay stuck to the side of my left shoe. It held the perfect impression of a blade of grass from the farm. The heat hit it and the dark moisture evaporated out of the center until the grass mark disappeared into a web of white lines. It looked like old dryed bone.

“He knew where she was the whole time,” Vance said.

I looked out the window. The black shapes of the scrub oak went past in the dark. “He didn't want us to find her.”

“People are stupid about family,” Vance said.

I shifted my feet. A large piece of the dried crust broke off my heel and fell into the dark. It made no sound.

We drove for forty miles without another word. The gray dust from my shoes rose up in the heat of the floorboards and I could taste it in the back of my throat dry, bitter, and smelling of the courtyard. My head throbbed. The pressure was a dull drill behind the eyes. I was given a coffee and it tasted of battery acid.

Later that afternoon the heat lay across the blacktop like a fever.

The sun was hot and the road was straight and the heat lay across the blacktop like a fever. It was four in the afternoon. The air did not move and the horizon wavered in the distance. The alkali flats looked like water but they were not water. There were no trees. There was only the car and the gravel and the road.

The steering wheel was hot. I shifted my hands on the plastic. The wind came through the window but it was not cool. It was dry and it tasted of dust.

A rusted oil drum sat in the ditch. It had three bullet holes in the side. Farther down there was a dead steer in the wire fence. The hide was tight across the ribs. Two crows sat on the fence post and they did not move when the car went past.

The radiator began to hiss. It was a sharp whistle and then the rusty water hit the glass. It dried white. The needle went into the red and stayed there. I kept my foot down on the gas. If you stopped you stayed. The engine began to knock. It was a low iron sound and it came from deep inside the block.

A motorcycle came up fast on the rear quarter. I reached into the glovebox, found the 12-gauge, cracked the window, and fired. The bike buckled and slid into the mesquite and dust. I did not look back. In the side mirror dark shapes were already circling in the empty sky.

I pulled over. I beat the door until my hands backed off.

A pickup truck came out of the shimmer two miles off. It grew larger and the sound of the old motor came across the flat ground before the truck arrived. It was a white truck and the fender was crumpled and it stopped in the gravel across from my car. The driver did not get out. He sat behind the wheel and looked at me through the dust.

"You need a lift?" he said. His voice was cracked from the dry air.

"Yes," I said.

"Get in."

I did not take anything from the car. I left the keys in the ignition and the door wide open to the heat. I climbed into the cab and it smelled of old sheepskins and greasy wool. We drove for two hours without speaking and the dust came through the floorboards and covered our boots. He dropped me at my apartment.

I walked past the dark buildings and the gravel lots until I reached the driveway. The gravel was gray under the streetlamps. My brother's car was gone and the oil spot on the dirt where he used to park was dry.

I went up the stairwell. The steps echoing.

I pulled over. I beat the door until my hands hurt. It had been twenty-four hours since my brother packed his things and left.

It had been twenty-four hours since my brother packed his things and left. Twenty-four hours of sitting in the same spot on the couch. The apartment smelled of stale takeout and failure. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the look on his face when he slammed the door.

I caught my reflection in the blank television. Same sweatpants as yesterday. I dragged my fingers down my face until the skin stung.

No messages on the phone.

No cigarettes stolen.

And all but a half crumpled reciept.

I said his name once under my breath and did not eat dinner. My girlfriend came over at midnight. She did not take off her coat. She stood by the kitchen counter where my brother’s car keys used to sit. The neon sign from the liquor store across the street blinked red against her throat.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Gone,” I said.

“Where?”

“He didn’t say.”

She looked at the empty hallway, then down at her boots. The leather was wet from the street. “He found out, didn't he?”

I did not answer. I caught my reflection in the blank television. Same sweatpants as yesterday. I dragged my fingers down my face until the skin stung.

“I told him,” I said.

The room went very quiet. The refrigerator kicked on, a low, buzzing hum that filled the space between us.

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and her eyes were wide and dark. “Why would you do that?”

“He was asking questions about the money. He thought I was stealing from the firm. I had to make him understand the risk.”

“You didn’t have to tell him the truth.”

“The truth is what keeps people alive,” I said. My voice sounded flat, like someone else was speaking through my mouth. “If he knows what the fuck Vance does, he stays away from the docks. If he stays away, he doesn't end up in a ditch.”

She crossed her arms. She looked small in the oversized coat. “And what about me?”

“You don't need to know the numbers,” I said. “You just need to leave the glass alone.”

She did not cry. She just walked to the door, her heels clicking small and sharp against the linoleum. She turned the brass knob and waited, looking out into the gray stairwell.

“You look like a ghost,” she said. “You smell like old grease and rain.”

“Go home,” I said.

“I am home,” she said, and then she went to the bedroom and the latch clicked shut.

I sat on the couch until three in the morning. No messages on the phone. I said his name once under my breath, then hers, and did not eat dinner.

Then I went out and leased a better car. Signed for a higher-floor apartment with cleaner views. Told myself it was only practical. A man with a better car does not look like a man whose family has left him.

Then I went out and leased a better car. Signed for a higher-floor apartment with cleaner views. Told myself it was only practical.

The red moon sat outside the glass, blood-colored and still.

That night, after she fell asleep, Vance drove me to meet The Man.

The headlights cut weak yellow holes in the thick dark.

Vance did not speak. He kept his hands at ten and two on the wheel of the Buick, his knuckles against the black plastic. The engine idled high and rough. The dashboard gave off a faint smell of hot oil and old vinyl.

Outside, the highway was straight and empty. Salt marsh pressed in from both sides, black and smelling of rot. The tide was out.

"How far?" I asked.

"Not far," Vance said. His voice was flat. He did not look at me.

I checked the glove box. The latch was broken, so it clicked when we hit the potholes. Inside was a heavy iron wrench and an empty shotgun. My hands were sweating. I wiped them on my trousers.

A semi-truck passed us going the other way. It came as a wall of chrome and noise. The wind from it shook the Buick and then it was gone, its red taillights swallowed by the dark. The silence came back, heavier than before.

"He does not like to wait," Vance said. He stepped on the gas. The speedometer needle wavered at sixty-five, then seventy. The transmission whined.

We turned off the asphalt onto a coral rock road. The stones crunched loud under the tires, like bones breaking. Gray dust rose up behind us, blotting out the stars. The headlights bounced wildly, catching the sharp leaves of the palmettos along the ditch.

Vance killed our lights. He let the Buick coast until the bumper almost touched the sedan. He turned the key. The engine died with a wet cough.

I opened the door and the car smelled of hot vinyl and the dru night air came in off the desert. Vance stayed in the seat with his hands on the wheel. He did not look at me. I got out and the coral texture crunched under my boots and the air was thick and smelled of dry and the ash going out.

The black sedan stood under the bare bulb and its exhaust was gray in the light. A man I did not know stood by the rear fender. He did not move. He had his hands deep in the pockets of a heavy suit and he watched me walk past him toward the door of the low warehouse. He did not say anything.

I pushed the door open and went inside.

The room was dim and expensive. "The Man" sat at a heavy wooden table and poured two glasses of cognac without asking.

“I didn’t come here for that,” I said.

The man was smirking and said

“Imagine the ship rising,”.

“He loses his footing, slides down the fabric, and traps himself against the far wall. Then, the plunge. The ocean rushes in, violent and heavy. He opens his mouth to scream, but the sea fills his lungs instead. Just a brief, quiet convulsion. Then stillness. Beautiful, really.”

He took a sip, eyes never leaving me.

“Clean. Quiet. No mess. That’s how we like it.”

The red moon outside the window looked like it was waiting for my answer.

I left the glass untouched.

“You look tense,” he said. He tapped the glass.

“Drink up. It is expensive. Relax a little bit.”

I left the glass alone. I looked at him. Then the bodyguards.

His smile grew wider. It did not reach his eyes.

“The ship heist,” he said. He chuckled very softly.

“Beautiful. Just beautiful. But people complicate things, you see?”

He picked up his own glass. He turned it around.

He took a slow sip. His eyes never left me. Analyzing me like a ledger.

He grinned. It was a big, theatrical actor's grin.

“Am I right? Or am I totally right?”

The red moon outside looked like it waited for answers.

I kept my hands flat on the wooden table.

“I said I do the numbers,” I said. “Nothing else.”

The Man studied me. He gave a small nod.

"You know I once shot a coward"

"Shotguns is a brave man's weapon shame it was on his hands, He couldn't even look me"

A cruel smirk carved right across his face.

“But we will see,” he said. “We will definitely see.”

Vance was already waiting. We left the room and went deeper into the warehouse.

A side room. A woman on the floor. She kept asking where her sister was. Her voice was raw. Someone told her to be quiet. I looked at the far wall and opened the tablet.

I typed a short entry under medical contingencies and closed the file. In under a minute.

My burner phone rang while we were still inside.

Different numbers.

One of them was a girl’s voice saying a name that wasn’t mine and asking for help. I ended the call and blocked it.

Later the same night the margins were laid out on the long table in clean columns. Everything reduced to risk and return.

I adjusted my glasses. I typed it out. It looked identical to a federal file.

OPERATIONAL LOG: SECTION IV (DISTRIBUTION & ASSET LIQUIDATION)

• Sub-File 01: (Transit)
  • Financial Performance: Underperforming. Net loss of 14% against the quarterly projection.
  • Incident Report: Transit van intercepted near the eastern border checkpoint. Cargo compromised.
  • Post-Action Summary: Subject 04 (Female, approx. 19 YOA) attempted escape from the moving vehicle. Suffered blunt force trauma to the cranium upon impact with the asphalt. Sub-osccipital fracture resulted in immediate cessation of respiratory function. The remaining seven assets were impounded by state authorities.
  • Resolution: Abandon the route. Write off the lost asset values as transit friction.
• Sub-File 02: (Refinement for apples)
  • Financial Performance: High margin, critical volume failure.
  • Incident Report: Contamination at the central cutting facility.
  • Post-Action Summary: Batch #099 processed with an incorrect fentanyl-to-cutting-agent ratio. Two street-level distributors dead within four minutes of insufflation. Pulmonary edema caused acute asphyxiation; white froth observed exuding from oral and nasal cavities during cleanup.
  • Resolution: Six kilograms of contaminated product burned. The chemist's hands were broken to ensure future procedural compliance.
• Sub-File 03: (Maritime)
  • Financial Performance: Flat. Customs fees exceeded budgeted bribes by 22%.
  • Incident Report: Port security inspection delay on the southern dock.
  • Post-Action Summary: To avoid inspection, three crates of unmanifested electronics and historical antiquities were dumped into the harbor. Asset recovery is deemed impossible due to deep-water silt.
  • Resolution: Deduct the total loss from the port captain’s monthly retainer.
• Sub-File 04: (G)
  • Financial Performance: Profitable, high casualty overhead.
  • Incident Report: Rival crew attempted a buyout interference during the crate handoff.
  • Post-Action Summary: Engaged three hostile combatants at close range. One shipment handler suffered a ruptured femoral artery via 7.62x39mm rounds. Exsanguination occurred in approximately 42 seconds; the concrete floor required heavy chemical wash to remove arterial spraying.
  • Resolution: Hostiles eliminated. The shipment of fifty automatic rifles was successfully secured and logged into inventory.
• Sub-File 05: Dominance Heists (Tactical Retaliation)
  • Financial Performance: Non-monetary asset. Execution designed purely for territory assertion.
  • Incident Report: The raid on the Marcone family vault.
  • Post-Action Summary: The objective was achieved. Vault opened. Marcone's lead lieutenant was pinned to the desk with a heavy-gauge industrial nail gun. Pressurized steel bolts deployed through the palms and chest wall, anchoring him to the wood until he drowned in his own collapsed lungs.
  • Resolution: Message delivered. The Marcone family surrendered their western territory by dawn.
• Sub-File 06: Entertainment Venues
  • Financial Performance: [ 0.00 ]
  • Incident Report: N/A.
  • Post-Action Summary: Zero operational venues. Do not invest in spaces where people laugh, drink freely, or gather for leisure. We view joy as an unquantifiable variable that disrupts predictable human behavior.
  • Resolution: Keep the commodities bleak. True control requires a city with nowhere to hide, and nowhere to relax, and keeping the men sharp.

I closed the file, the heavy stamp of the syndicate logo clicking shut against the wooden table. The red moon outside still hung in the frame of the window, bleeding its light across the neat, white columns of figures.

The numbers were perfect. The cost was adequate.

The Man watched me work. Typing quickly on my keyboard. He said the taxes were clean. He said I was useful. Then he told me there was something he wanted me to see.

We went downstairs. The room was windowless and cold. Tall metal shelves ran the length of the walls. Cases of DVD's all with handwritten labels. Female names. As far as the room went.

My skin went cold. I trembled. My body went numb.

I told him

No.

He smirked and looked at me for a long second. The smile he gave had no warmth in it. He offered the other side of the business instead the product that moved faster and kept a lower profile if handled correctly.

I told him

No.

He accepted it with a slight nod. His smirk dissapointing. His tone shifted.

The dinner that followed was expensive. White tablecloths. Heavy glasses. The senior men spoke quietly about logistics and percentages. I ate almost nothing. I sweated the whole way. The steak on my plate red and thick. Having the marbling of a dusty robe. The wine was bitter and the music played too loud.

When I returned to my penthouse I washed my hands twice. Took a shower twice. Locked the door twice. The tailored italian suit still felt clean. The city lights outside looked dark and flat. The sky looked just as dark.

I opened the laptop and pulled Miller’s public filings. The numbers were precise. It was challenging.

I created a new folder and began transferring documents into it.

The moon sat outside the glass.

The AC being cold and unforgiving. I shivered while I worked.

I worked until the dark night turned into a stylish purple sky. It then mixed into a crisp yellow and orange. The sun rose slowly over the city horizon. I packed my heavy files and drove to the firm. The car ride was tight and tense. My hands stayed locked on the wheel. Without my driver.

I stepped out of the car. And walked towards my firm. The door clicked as usual. The lights inside blindingly blight. Each step made my shoes click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

It clicked against the marble as I hazily walked to the elevator. I started to stumble, but managed to stand up. The other people inside showing mild to little concern. The elevator hummed hummed under the fluorescent lights. Then dinged like a dull coin once I arrived. When I reached my floor. I took my third cup of coffee. The coffee machine hissed at me. I walked to my office and started typing away.

Guys I am in a relationship with tung tung (67M)

Hi everyone. I never thought I would be making a post like this, but I genuinely need advice because my friends and family are starting to think I’ve completely lost it. About six months ago, as a joke, I started watching those ridiculous “tung tung sahur” memes at 3 AM. At first it was ironic. You know, one of those things where you send it to your friends because it sounds stupid and everyone laughs for five minutes. But somewhere along the line, it stopped being ironic for me.

Now I think about tung tung sahur constantly.

Every morning I wake up and the first thing in my head is “TUNG TUNG TUNG SAHURRRR.” I don’t even need an alarm anymore because my brain has fully adapted to the rhythm. Last week my mother asked me if I wanted eggs or cereal for breakfast and I accidentally replied “sahur.” She just stared at me in complete silence while I sat there realizing what I had done.

It gets worse. I changed my phone ringtone to tung tung sahur and now every time someone calls me in public people turn around like I’m some kind of escaped zoo animal. Yesterday in class it went off at full volume and the teacher stopped talking mid-sentence. One guy actually whispered “there’s no way.” I wanted the ground to swallow me whole.

My friends are also abandoning me one by one. Whenever we play games online I somehow bring tung tung sahur into every conversation. Someone asks for ammo? I say “only if you complete the sacred sahur ritual.” Someone gets a kill? I scream “TUNG TUNG SAHUR CHAMPION.” They used to laugh. Now they mute me instantly. One friend literally said, “bro your entire personality is a 3 second sound effect.”

The worst part is that I think I’m emotionally attached to it now. I heard a random metal pipe falling outside my apartment at 2 AM and my heart genuinely skipped a beat because I thought tung tung sahur himself had arrived. I looked out the window expecting some mystical creature with a drum walking through the streets awakening the people. It was just a cat knocking over trash.

I’ve also started rating life events based on how “sahur” they are. A cool sunset? Sahur level 6. A delicious shawarma? Sahur level 8. My cousin getting married? Respectfully, sahur level 4 at best. I can no longer interact with reality normally.

Please tell me if anyone else has experienced this. Is there a support group for people whose humor has been destroyed by internet memes? My parents think I need therapy. My friends think I need to go outside. Meanwhile I’m sitting here at 3 in the morning listening to bass-boosted tung tung sahur edits like it’s a spiritual awakening.

I fear that one day I will grow old, surrounded by my family, and with my final breath I will softly whisper:

“tung… tung… sahur…”

TLDR: I love tung

• 100% FICTION: This is a creative book blueprint and literary character study.
• CORPORATE SATIRE: All spreadsheets, cartel logs, and characters are completely fake metaphors for modern office burnout.
• TOS COMPLIANT: Zero real-world violence, instructions, or hate speech. All fiction parodying psycopahtic villains

THIS IS LITERATURE. DO NOT REPORT.

Why dont I make a book? mf im lazy

Chapter 15:

Better Call Saud not fucking saul/Where The Iron Freezes: a satire made by u/somanynamestochossef and anon and anon

---

The promotion took effect at seven the next morning.

I arrived early. The third-floor annex was a long corridor of glass and brushed steel. My new office sat at the far end. The window faced the oil refinery.

The black towers rose behind a chain-link fence, black against the gray sky and they stood in uneven rows some tall and narrow others wide and squat connected by a web of pipes that ran like dark veins between them and red flares burned at the tops of the stacks pale orange even in daylight and the flames bending slightly whenever the wind shifted the air that came through the vents carried a thin chemical taste of sulfur and something sweeter underneath like burnt plastic every few minutes a low vibration moved through the floor and up into the legs of the chair It was not loud It was simply always there a steady 65Hz mechanical pulse of plastic that never faded.

I set the leather case on the desk and opened it. The laptop woke with a soft click. Miller’s compliance files were already waiting in the shared drive. I began sorting them by date. I typed on my keyboard. I took a sip of coffee. I typed again. I noticed a flaw on the cartel file. I decided to let it slip. I changed 752 to 75-2.

The suit jacket stayed on. The air conditioning was set too low. My hands were steady now. The tremor from the day before had left. I decided to take my suit off. I was wearing a white polo with a red tie with suspenders. I scrubbed my eyes. I Adjusted my tie. I then typed again. I organized all the files like clean numbers. Clean numbers. Clean numbers for hundreds of pages.

Outside a tanker truck moved slowly along the service road. The driver wore a bright yellow vest that looked almost white under the refinery lights. He stopped at the gate, handed over papers, and waited. The gate opened. The truck disappeared behind the first row of gas tanks and generators the size of dead bears.

I worked through the morning without looking up much. The numbers were clean. Small discrepancies appeared and disappeared under the cursor. I corrected what could be corrected and flagged what could not and administrated where the oil goes.

At noon I went to the bathroom down the hall. The mirror showed the same tailored shirt, the same dark tie. I washed my hands and returned to the desk.

The refinery kept it's own schedule. Flares brightened and dimmed. Steam rose in short bursts and vanished. The black smoke rising from the towers. The vibration never fully stopped. It will never stop. It will never.

I stayed until the light outside turned the color of old paper. Then I closed the laptop, locked the case, and walked back down the right corridor. The carpet swallowed the sound of the shoes. I walked past the coffee machine. I walked inside the elevator. A janitor tried to get in but the door closed. I kept a straight face. I waited for the elevator to go down. It felt like it never went down. The elevator door opened.

In the parking lot the air smelled of diesel and something sharper. I walked across. I sat in the car for a while with the engine off. The refinery lights reflected in the windshield small and steady with a dim yellow.

The highway ran east along the edge of the eastern industrial district. The sky behind me was still gray, but ahead the first band of red and orange had begun to form low on the horizon at the edge of the earth and It spread slowly a thin line of carrion flesh colored light that slowly thickened as the minutes of the hour passed the refinery flares were still visible in the rearview mirror small orange points against the darkening structures.

The interstate was mostly empty. An occasional semi truck passed in the opposite direction, its headlights cutting brief white holes in the dusk. The median was bare dirt and scattered trash. A plastic bag tumbled once across the asphalt and caught on the guardrail.

The red in the sky deepened. It moved from the horizon upward, turning the undersides of the low clouds the color of dead rust and old deep red brick. The light did not warm anything. It only made the concrete barriers and the dead grass along the shoulder look sharper and more used-up. A single billboard stood dark and blank against the glow. Beyond it the land flattened into open scrub that ran all the way to the distant line of the city. The AC hit my legs. All I heard was a drone from the car that became louder. A car overtook me. I accelerated and didn't signal.

I kept both hands on the wheel. I placed one on the stick and shifted. It was a fast reflex. The engine made a steady, low sound. The air coming through the vents still carried a faint chemical trace from the refinery, thinner now but still present. The red light slid across the dashboard and over the backs of my hands as the road curved.

By the time I reached the exit on the left for the residential towers the sky had gone from red to a deeper purple at the edges. The flares were no longer visible. Only the city lights remained, scattered and distant.

The penthouse was quiet. The city below looked farther away than it had the night before. I left the suit folded on the chair and stood at the window until the flares in the distance were the only lights still moving.

Then I went to bed. She walked in and asked

"Aren't we gonna watch the movie?,"

"What movie," I replied "I don't know what you're talking about,"