With each sentence, Emcee feels as if he's going to pass out.

He covers his face with his hands, mutters "Oh, fuck, Jay," and plops down onto the nearest couch. He sits there, rubbing his face in his palms, running his fingers through his hair.

He doesn't know what to do with this. He really doesn't.

"Is this-- is this what you wanted to talk about with them? When we came in?"