<ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN> There. No ball of meat, no light in the formless nothing. Just nightwimming!
<YOU> I like nothing.
<ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN> I know you do, baby… I know…
<YOU> How about you cough up some more of that sweet oblibion?
<ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN> Coming right up, sir. Smooth passage…
<Like a fly to the ointment, your conscience sticks to it. The limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the desert. Hurting. Longing. Dancing to disco music.
<EMPATHY> [Medium: Success] You can hear resentment in her tone -- she's not thrilled to be talking to you again.
<ELECTROCHEMISTRY> [Medium: success] There is *no* resentment in her tone. She wants you to ask her out. No question about it.
<SYLVIE> “The stuffed bird. The great skua. You threw it against the wall, while screaming 'fuck that bird' and laughing like a maniac.”
<HORRIFIC NECKTIE> Yeah, man, don't be *crazy*. Inanimate objects and dead people can't really talk to you, your *wild imagination* is doing this -- ask some more of those questions you love so much!
<THE HANGED MAN> He *loves* those.
<YOU> Where have you gone?
<THE HANGED MAN> Into the wild pale yonder.
<YOU> Where is that?
<THE HANGED MAN> In the past. Way out west.
<YOU> Why *do* I love questions so much?
<THE HANGED MAN> Because you're a copparooni. Look at all of them go! Do you want more questions?
<MAIL COLLECTION BOX> This “Poste L'Aventurier” mail collection box has been heavily vandalized with graffiti. A closer inspection reveals two bullet holes in the front.
<YOU> “Good mail delivery box.” (Pat the box.)
<MAIL COLLECTION BOX> The box seems happy.
<YOU> “What kind of friend?”
<SMOKER ON THE BALCONY> “It was my Sunday friend.”
<ELECTROCHEMISTRY> [Medium: Success] A *Sunday friend*? How intriguing…
<AUTHORITY> [Medium: Success] Makes sense. Friends are nice on Sunday. You don't have to work, you can just spend time with pals. watching rugby and drinking beer.
“You should take the lead, ask her unexpected questions -- you know, do your thing. Don't be afraid to get a bit *wacky*. Throwing her off is our best bet.”
<ENCYCLOPEDIA> [Trivial: Success] Dick Mullen is *not* your name. It's the name of a *fictional* detective who would *not* lose his badge.
<YOU> (Begin.) “1. Assistant:”
<KIM KITSURAGI> “That's you.”
<YOU> Write: Teqiula Sunset.
<KIM KITSURAGI> “Central nervous system,” he says and then concludes abruptly: “I have nothing. Do you have anything on this man's central nervous system?”
<CONCEPTUALIZATION [Medium: Failure]> You don't even have a joke.
<YOU> “Nope.” Write: N/A.
<KIM KITSURAGI> “Beautiful,” he says, wiping his hands in his handkerchief. “A dead body in an ice bear fridge -- this is some of the best police work I've ever done.”
<ELECTROCHEMISTRY> [Challenging: Success] Like the hag can tell the difference between fool and cool? C'mon… As far as names go, Tequila Sunset is *dangerously* cool.
<REACTION SPEED> [Easy: Success] Wait. Did he just say *Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre*?
<SUGGESTION [Easy: Success]> He did it! He said *Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre* like it's the most natural thing in the world.
<ENCYCLOPEDIA> [Easy: Success] What the hell *is* a Wompty-Dompty-Dom Centre? And who the hell are Keith and Guy Joost?!
“…you may be thinking, 'But fire crackles!' No, homes, that's the material that's burning. The flames themselves are without sound.”
<LENA, THE CRYPTOZOOLOGIST'S WIFE> “But now we're both getting old, and he's still working himself sick out in those reeds, looking for it…” She shakes her head, still unable to meet your eyes. “But what if I was just *wrong*? I think I was…”
<KIM KITSURAGI> The lieutenant opens his notebook but doesn't write anything.
<SUGGESTION> [Medium: Failure] But it *has*, hasn't it? A seed can only bear what's inside it. The seed of love is black and oily.
…no? He's not going to show up? I'm sorry, your lie detection isn't working. It's not her doing, he's just totally inept. It looks like you're also an idiot. But that's not her fault.
<YOU> “Thank you.” (Nod to the old man.)
<THEO> “Off yourself -- make it up to me, cop. I still got money on that.”
<VISUAL CALCULUS> Wait, stop -- that man, bloated beyond all recognition, was 42?
<YOU> It's what she said, yes.
<VISUAL CALCULAS> Below the damage, the weeks of decomposition, all the swollen indignity of mortality -- he was 42 years old?
<YOU> Where is this going?
<VISUAL CALCULUS> How old are *you*? That's where this is going. Forty-five thousand litres of raw alcohol has left its disfigurements. What lies beneath, you wonder.
<TITUS HARDIE> “Why not? You suck on that gun like someone tore you a brand new asshole.”
<YOU> Do it.
<SAVOIR FAIRE> *ZOOT*! *ZAP*! *POW*! *CRINKLE*! It's like magic, you feel yourself dissappear, your atoms fading out of existence…
<KIM KITSURAGI> “Okay, well. That's impressive, but…”
<SAVOIR FAIRE> *BAM*! You find yourself on the roof… having mastered the art of physical displacement.
<YOU> Don't gloat. Just stand there like a Samaran master.
<KIM KITSURAGI> “YOU know, for the record, you didn't teleport there. You just climbed the ladder with your eyes closed…”
<YOU> “Something *weird* just happened to me.”
<KIM KITSURAGI> “Don't take this the wrong way, but -- during our short stint working together -- *something weird* is almost always happening to you.”
<LOGIC> [Easy: Success] That *is* true.
<SUGGESTION> Brother, you should put me in front of a firing squad. I have no words for how I failed you.
<YOU> Where does this come from? All this? Around us? The world?
<INSULINDIAN PHASMID> Not even the birds know that. Not even the water lilies.
<YOU> Then all we can do is beat our fists against it? Day after day. With no answer.
<INSULINDIAN PHASMID> You can also eat it. If it's a leaf you put it in your mouth. Yum yum. Or a reed.