It's been left open in the first place because it's stuck like that -- it won't shut or open wider.

Years of warping from thermal expansion as well as exposure to the salty air has knackered it out.

You've lost about four degrees of flexibility at every joint since those days. Your rotator cuffs are particularly stiff now.

Dark bookshelves, eerie silhouettes of medical equipment. The faint grey outline of a desk, no one sitting behind it.

Dr. Hugo asleep in the back room, no doubt.

The ease of a seal on ice.

From the dark interior beyond, a door quietly opens, followed by some shuffling.

Ambush. Weapon. Pounce.

Everyone in a 10 metre radius must have heard that. That includes anyone sleeping inside this houseboat.

That structure is ready to give away almost entirely if you put any more weight on it.

You might want to try assessing the size of the gap before trying again.

Differences of opinion in medical practice are just the tip of the iceberg here.

An invitation is always implied for those who know how to spot it.

You're not a part of civilization. Business hours only apply to you if you let them.

The labelling and sorting is as meticulous as it is uniformly disdainful.

You're not just flipping through records. You're going deeper into Petre's Museum of Loathing.

The care placed into the organisation is itself an act of love, performed hatefully.

'L' for Luz, as in Luzian Electro-Pop. A blend of traditional funeral ballads and cutting-edge synthesisers. Once a minor regional trend, today the ascendent musical form across the world.

Almost as though you already knew what you were looking for, you turn straight towards the 'Made for Pederasts' section...

On the cover, the halo of a lunar eclipse frames the silhouette of a young woman, her outline distorted by the jagged edges of the costume she wears.

Inside the darkness of her silhouette, for a moment, you think you can make out her small dark eyes and sad, young features.

A chill runs up your spine. The beginnings of an uncanny convergence.

Behold, the crown jewel of the technofascist Mass Culture programme.

Without knowing why, your eyes flick as though on their own accord towards the 'Made For Pederasts' section.

Swirling maelstroms of darkness adorn the album cover, intricate but hardly-visible patterns of black on slightly-darker-black.

The band logo is an illegible scrawl allegedly composed of letters in a human script.

Its condition is pristine, as though it were pressed yesterday -- for us, and us alone.

COMPELLING.

His tail swishes with cautious excitement.

His long, thin fingers scramble lightning-fast over the cosmonaut, feeling out each of its familiar angles.

Has he been sharpening those fangs?

This is one pissed off monkey. You may not have the edge like last time...

His eyes look like lava. He is erupting.

HARD CUT to his tiny face. CRASH ZOOM -- his golden eyes flash.

Thunder. The floorboards rattle underfoot.

Mocking us like a playground bully. We thought we move past those days...

The sheer quantity of animal testosterone in his tiny body... you must harvest this monkey's testicles.

This is unlikely to be a member of the Weeping Eye.

But imagining that it is could certainly make them less intimidating, at least in your head.

He pulls at his ears, deranged with joy.

Saliva drips from his fangs.

Alpha males of his species are visually distinguishable by their large cheeks. He thinks you fuck.

The monkey stares you down. His adorably well-fitting shirt does nothing to tamper the threat.

Remember the box of dubbed martial arts tapes that one of your mother's 'work friends' smuggled in for you when he came to visit in 79?

Fuck Johnny Khasm. It's your animal hybridity.

Or the animality rising up from your soul.

WHY DOES THE REACTIONARY SPEAK IN AUTHORITATIVE TONES? IS HE INSECURE IN HIS MESSAGE? LAUGHABLE.

Look at those nubbly thief hands. It's him.

Where else would it get this stuff?

The monkey descends into a series of gnashing shrieks and limb spasming in excitement and outrage at your quest.

Checks