Shaken awake by a hand that recedes to reveal a mouth that demands: "Who'll take the blame for Richard Colvaen, the man who knows no sweat of shame?" To seem long a life must be filled with unpleasant surprises, is a thought that arises, as twelve fingers so nimble they nibble my nipple. "Try not to strain or be boasting a sprain, when I bring down that cane!" "Just making my way up the food chain, and yes, still trying to fuck Lorraine." Together alone in a ponderous primitive lull, everything green looks black, and everything else is imbued with the colour of pus: one more shrine in paperback. Unimpressed, I confess to enjoy the caress of the hand that throttles my throat. "I said it before and I'll say it again: don't take the name of the man in vaen!"