You were surprised to hear a knock at your door while cleaning up around your apartment today. No less, the knock isn't gentle, exactly. It's quick and repetitive and desperate and it still hasn't stopped as you hurry over to the door, ready to reprimand the person and tell them to calm down. But then you open the door to see Chip and the words get stuck in your throat out of confusion.

He practically shoves past you into the room, jabbering on about something, but it's hard to focus when you're so confused by what the fuck he's wearing. A women's shirt, littered with obnoxious red lipstick marks and cut to be a crop top, along with grey sweat shorts.

"God, you won't fucking believe the week I've been having!" He exclaims, his voice high and frankly hysterical, and you're about to ask, closing your door, when you see Chip pull a gun out of the waistband of his shorts and toss it onto your coffee table carelessly.

"What— what the fuck, Chip?!" You shout back, not only confused but now a little worried because why the hell would Chip Taylor of all people have a gun? The guy couldn't hurt a fly. Yet here he is, obviously in some kind of panic, and you don't know if you should trust him when he's like this.

"It's fine, it's fine, I just need to have it on me, okay?" He says, turning back to look at you with wide, crazy eyes that only serve to concern you more. Not once in your many years of friendship have you seen him act like this. "She's acting crazy, she fucking- she killed tons of people, and she threatened to kill me— oh, she tried to sell someone to a fucking serial killer-"

"Chip!" You yell over his words and he stops, looking back over at you, his shaky hands running through his hair. "Who? Liza?"

"Yes! Liza! She's out of her mind!" If this was any other situation ever, you'd maybe praise Chip for finally coming to his senses and seeing that his girlfriend's a psychopath, but right now, something crazy obviously happened, and he's in the midst of a break. "It's why I'm here! I'm hiding from her because I'm fucking terrified!"

You narrow your eyes, trying to make sense of everything he's saying to you, because what? You knew Liza was crazy, but killing someone? "And now we're both in danger, thanks, Chip," you say, but there's really no malice behind it because you'd rather him come to you then, well, die.

"Well, I..." he starts before trailing off, groaning in frustration and restlessness instead as you walk over to grab a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the side table, tossing them to him (which, of course, he doesn't catch, scrambling to pick them up from the floor).

"Just calm down for a second, okay? She doesn't know where I live, does she?" You ask, to which he shakes his head, fishing a cig out of the pack and lighting it, bringing it up to his mouth to take a long drag, his body still vibrating, like he can't sit still. "Okay, so we're fine for now, yeah? You need to tell me what the fuck's going on."

"It was supposed to just be a robbery," he says under his breath, in a rush, and you shake your head, walking over to grab his arm and drag him to your couch to sit him down. "She said we'd be rich." And you know just from that vague explanation that there's a lot to unpack.