[Richie's taking the bait, even if his nose crinkles some (and he feels his ears getting heated, kindly peel yourself off his personal bubble, please and thanks). But it's the barbs again. That's good, he can deal with slings and arrows. Slinging shit is his specialty, cozied right up behind a healthy bit of nonsense.]

Oh you know it. I gotta split for the cave anyway, son, grab my bone club and go bag a woolly mammoth for the Missus. She's got the appetite of a t-rex, you know how it is.

[Richie's sent a hand behind him as a scout, and it finds the door handle before he can rattle off about sabretooth throw rugs. He turns it and flings the door open, spinning on his heel to leave.

Except he's looking in a funhouse mirror maze. The scene of the room he's leaving — two grown men and the kid on the fiddle and the kid at the keys, the musty heirlooms and molding drapes — are all repeated and infinite, growing smaller through each open door but no less vivid, no less real. Richie can see the back of his head tilt as he leans further into the frame, gobsmacked. The sweet tune behind him has now turned to an echoing cacaphony, each iteration amplifying the music two-fold.

It's a rare thing that he's stunned into silence, but here you have it.]