Having warped through what could very well be impressionistic purgatory, busily melting handholds into the roof in a thankfully successful attempt at not falling off, I think “Try not to punch him” is beyond me.

If this living superlative of the term “smart-arse” says anything close to “I’ve been expecting you”, brute force will be the least of his problems…

Alright, maybe I’m overdoing it a bit. That ride was nuts. I don’t often see pies spontaneously burst into flame like that, all twisted and pixelated. It can mess you up. I wish he’d warned me, or installed seat-belts. It really tried to ruin my appetite.

Still, I guess we’d better go in. HH leads the way, top-hat on, swishing his coat around every corner and not even trying to hide his personal satisfaction in a swish well-done. If he was ever a bird, he’d be a peacock- the sort that frequently displays its tail feathers simply because it has realized that it looks completely awesome when it does*.

The host evidently knows what he likes- surprisingly, for someone with literally every option to chose from. Scrubbed wooden floors, sandstone walls, the scent of grapefruit, and statues of Bill Nighy looking coy. The furniture is sparse- I can’t quite tell if this is a house or merely an extended office. There’s no kitchen, from what I can see. Perhaps he knows how to enjoy the taste of dust.

Ah, here we go. Before us is a man. I think. A man wearing a towel. All over him. The overall impression is of a slug made of brown cotton with arms and legs, standing upright. No chair, no desk. A glass of milk, in a hand adorned with one ring made of something blue. A pair of hipster glasses**, perched precariously on top off a small rise in the towel near the top. Blonde, I think, and not much hair. Right.


Ah. Okay. He doesn’t speak. Words appear in front of him, and you assume they’re from him. He’s taken a sip of milk too. Carefully.

I’m sure you want to know many things.

Well, he would be wouldn’t he? He doesn’t anything but certainty, from what HH said. And he’s right, of course.

One. I like this towel. It is cosy.

Two. You will find it in the East.

Three. That is not for you to know. 

Four. They know.

Five. Test no. 613114201514. You don’t need to- oof.

…sorry HH.

Six. …he knows why.

I did try.


*I’d like to think that such peacocks exist on Earth. It seems like a darn fun way to spend life as a peacock, compared to what else you’re left to do as a peacock (i.e. eat, sleep, shit, mate, and make that horrible noise that sounds like a parrot being violently choked to death on pure helium).

**Predictable, perhaps, but what would you expect of the one whom such people would very probably call God.


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