He's getting worked up again. This group has no inhibitions surrounding public arousal.

A permutative bestiary unfolds...

A sunken grey cunt lost amid vast expanses of rubbery skin.

What sounds does a manatee make? You generally think of them as rather silent animals.

You thought just because it was phone sex it was verbal? Think again.

You realise after a moment that he isn't just doing his usual thing -- he's demonstrating.

Fear becomes desire. Revulsion becomes attraction. Death becomes sex, and then death again.

Subtle and leering -- for the first time you see his true smile.

Anglerfish smile. Predatory. Testing. Infinitely patient.

A trained operant, played like a child's instrument by a depraved old man.

Technically harmless, weapons-grade creepy.

Cowed, shrunken, SLAVA ages ten years as the feeling of betrayal sinks in.

The old man's normally yellow skin blooms an almost purple-shade of red.

He's experiencing what men like him fear most: Humiliation at the hands of a woman.

A snarl flickers beyond the veil of the smile.

He wants the real thing.

There is no endgame. There is only a pulse, a drive towards something unattainable.

No sense of direction... so he learned to read his instruments well.

Despite yourself, you're impressed.

A STATE-SPONSORED KILLING MACHINE.

It'd be hard to focus, what with all those switches and dials to play with -- but you could manage to picture it.

Death lust, in your jaw and in your cunt.

If orgasm is 'the little death', then death is the big orgasm.

Saturation twists the sound output on the receiver, the signal more than the electronics can bear.

The analog joy of greased levers actioning release mechanisms, sixty pound warheads sliding out into the sky with a whisper like a sword unsheathing.

Meanwhile his companions begin to squirm.

Even for them, this is a bit much.

Slavering, impotently aroused, hyena-attentions.

Clocked you instantly, even though your accent has been diluted in the decade-plus since you left.

Kill this lecherous geriatric.

More than a courtesy, he is establishing hierarchies. You and him -- human. His companions -- sub-human.

A few metres away, your target continues to pant and sweat as he whispers into the payphone, the cable still wrapped around his neck.

He's made himself the hateful object of the old men's attentions as well. They might have a way in.

A few metres away, the well-dressed young man continues to pant and sweat as he whispers into the payphone, the cable still wrapped around his neck.

Neither is he. It's in the accent -- vowels musicalised, R's straining not to trill.

Slavering, impotently aroused, hyena-attentions.

The wind rustles the bushes nearby as if hushing those who might speak.

It seems nowhere is sacred enough to avoid the grip of automated money-making.

The sol inside that machine isn't tithes. It's measly payment for a moment's relief trudging between shrines.

Rip it out. Take it.

It's not tithes you'd be taking. It's measly payment for a moment's relief trudging between shrines.

Two-hundred chisels working in rhythm. Rock chips gather on the masons' eyelashes; they blink, dust falls, and slowly a face blinks back in the hardstone opposite them.

It wishes to be left alone, but can see the devious intention in your eyes.

STEALING FROM IT IS JUST -- IT WOULD ONLY BE THE MACHINATIONS OF CAPITAL THAT IT BROUGHT TO THIS PLACE BEING ENACTED UPON IT.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Mmmm, sensual pleasure.

Soft. Smoooooth.

It's just a little plastic dolphin. There's no way you're actually getting satisfaction from this.

A man in a hardhat and blue vest finishes the last twist of his screwdriver and gets up from where he's knelt, knees-down, on the pavement. His fingers brush the dolphin on the way up -- for luck.

For a second, you could swear you hear the whistle and chirp of a real dolphin.

The dolphin is inside your head. Pressing its blubber against your skull.

Checks