Ramses Tayed Al-Fatik Molloy. Plague metal worshipper. Pristine blunt roller. Rustamian refugee. Ultimate warlock of chill.

For now, this will do. You've left a mark on this space.

With you while you enter the dark of sleep, and whenever you slip into the umbral realm.

Never to be forgotten.

A faulty seal, a minor propellant leak, next thing you know four cosmonauts are splattered across the face of god.

A far-off sense memory: the taste of your thumb, once-soothing, suddenly bitter and sour. Painted with foul-tasting polish to keep you from sucking it.

Squished and bounced around in the bag, they've come un-stuck from the textbook's pages.

Sure would be a shame if something... happened to it.

Glug glug glug. A sickly sugary odor rises from the bag as the sticky beige liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A rich acidic odor rises from the bag as the tar-black liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A strong, slightly chemical odor rises from the bag as the thin black liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A sweet, malty odour rises from the bag as the dark liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. An astringent, sickly-sweet herbal odour rises from the bag as the purple liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A smoky odour rises from the bag as the clear liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A thin, hoppy odour rises from the bag as the yellow liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Not to mention this makes Duchess highly suspect. You may have been consorting with an operant the whole time.

This makes Duchess highly suspect. You may have been consorting with the enemy this whole time.

But what's the order? And there's four digits. Which number's repeated? You're not just going to guess, right?

Confetti floats from above, a rainbow of crepe paper falling around your head and shoulders.

Surely you weren't anticipating otherwise? That's ghost 'fetti.

RIGHTEOUSNESS ALWAYS SPILLS FROM THE SOLDIERS OF THE PEOPLE, NO MATTER HOW DIMINUTIVE.

A Pocket Combatant -- a type of miniature army which reached its sales height in the 50s. Recalled, discontinued, sued into oblivion when the figures were found to be made of lead.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

You are outnumbered by ghosts.

Ghosts! They're ghosts!

You hear a few chords on a guitar, just for a moment.

For a split second, you're sure you can hear someone strumming a bass guitar.

The title jars a memory -- HOLOCENE engrossed within its pages, maybe the only time he was oblivious to the world.

Your mind rebels at the thought. Zero out this uncanny monster.

Enough preamble. You're here for one thing only.

Place: Check.

Time: Check.

The muzzle twitches and flashes, but no sound reaches you for a whole second.

Try again during business hours.

Abandon all logic. You're about to enter the Poet's Domain.

And per the standards of stagecraft, should never have occurred in the first instance.

It wasn't actually your birthday, you just said it was.

But not like this. These feelings aren't mixed. They're on entirely different planes from one another.

False.

One of many such things -- non-choices, counter-factuals, pebbles in the mind's shoe -- that make up a life.

A casual intimacy to the interrogators' posture, slouched toward each other. They're partners.

He'll do it again.

Brace yourself.

The crease of latex against plastic, amplified in your skull.

Aural torture. Wicked.

SILENCE.

Bitter.

The sensation will haunt you.

Checks