I’ve heard the RediWhip Room walls are insulated - like a box of oranges with each dampening fruit being squeezed and peeled from the inside. Yelping - screaming. And you will never catch ear of their pain. Nobody who has ever entered the RediWhip Room has made a successful return.
And as Howard Stern leaned his back against the wall, it was not the scream that was heard, but the distant and vague crack of leather. In the darkness, Howard could see in his mind’s eye the vision of himself running from the souls that chased him. The souls of the lost AGT contestants that he didn’t save from elimination. He couldn’t save them. It was hopeless - they were hopeless. None of them had talent - the real talent that they needed - required to past the test. Howard slowly felt regret seeping into his bones. He soon realized the dangers of the RediWhip Room.
Everything was dark within the RediWhip Room’s porcelain boundaries. Curdled cheesecake sat rotting on plastic tables. Wine bottles sat with their nozzles bare and open, corks strewn over the dark carpet as the liquid substance rapidly grew flat. Blue and red streamers loomed above. The horrid things were bent and twisted mangled fingers over the ceiling.
Hoarse laughter echoed within the RediWhip Room’s walls. The room became the subject of Howard Stern’s nightmares. The seemingly fun after-party had turned into a death march.