"Whoa..." Jermaine echoes, distracted from the ennui of the memory by the novelty of the clock. "It's like a turntable for the saddest biz that ever happened to us."

He looks around, brow knitting in disapproval.

"What are we supposed to do, lay down a sick beat and remix the last time we saw our Mom? Pretty squirrelly dungeon, bro."