Against everything he believed in and stood for and held as self-evident truths - not that the list was very long - Dewey Trumpet-Trousers found himself rising from his seat and beckoning to MacFarlane to accompany him: "come with me, Sir P, and meet my Pa - you might not recognise him, he's changed since the Old Days, if you'll forgive the expression, but, you know, it's fifty long years since that little incident in the basement of the Doll's House, and I know that must seem strange to you, but . . . . ." and at the elevator door, the Scotchman put a restraining hand on the POTUS's sleeve: "whit dae ye mean 'fifty lang yeer'n'? it wis jist a wee whiley ago, jist afore yer strang-airm chiels cam an seized us, ye'r daen ma heid in wi aw this gobbledy-gook! am urny as bucolic as am cabbage lookin, ye ken!" and Dewey pushed the button for the 13th Floor, the one no-one else ever got out at, and tried his best to explain, which was difficult, because he didn't have the faintest idea of what was going on, so simply parroted his Pa's words: "sometimes the Good Lord chooses to work in mysterious ways, beautiful and unexpected ways, but that's just because he can, he can and he does and we don't have to understand them, just accept them for what they are," all the while squeezing and fondling his personal talisman, a rabbit's foot he kept in his trouser pocket, until it attracted the Scotchman's attention and he began to smirk and snorted: "aye, ye'r yer faither's son a' richt, thon's the kind o claptrap he keeps bleatin oan aboot - an he pleys bools in his britches pooch an aw - jist cos he's nae fuckin idea whit the idea is, bit ah ken ther's sumdy ahent aw this an if ah fine 'im ah'll cut aff his cock an baws an force 'im tae eat them, an then . . . . ." the elevator doors opened and Dewey led the way into the ITU where Sir Parlane was astonished to see something he could never have imagined, far less described; what looked like a bundle of intestines was suspended in fluid in a kind of big glass jar, with different coloured ropes leading to strange machines; and a body lay on a bed. or table, similarly attached to the same machines, while several men and women in white and green gowns hovered around, adjusting dials and attaching things to other things - Dewey gestured towards the jar and said: "meet my Pa, your descendant, the 45th President Donald 'Duck' Trumpet-Trousers; Pa, here's Sir Parlane MacFarlane, returned from wherever he's been for the last 50 years," and from a speaker positioned beside the jar, Parlane was astonished to hear a voice which, despite the strange metallic grating, was still recognizable to him as his descendant and friend: "Sir Parlane. my ancestor and dear, dear friend, you can have no idea how much I have longed to see you again," and Parlane could see no eyes, or ears, or mouth, but he paid no regard to that and spoke towards the jar: "Mister President, am that pleased tae see ye agin tae, whit's happened tae ye? ye'r no yersel, man!" and he heard the gentle whirring of fans and then: "is this not a beautiful thing, Sir Parlane? to be freed from the body and still be able to fuck the system? to have eternal life, with all it's pleasures and no aches or pains? or as you Scotch say, 'it's pure dead jammy', forgive the pun!" and MacFarlane shook his head sadly: "an nae chance o a fuck? na, man, thon's no a life, no fer moi onywey," and the voice chuckled, "still the same old reprobate, Sir Parlane, still ruled by your cock!" and MacFarlane stiffened: "it's the finest tool man ever possessed, Duck, an it's still fit fer purpose unlike your'n!" and he turned to Dewey, who seemed to have shrunk since the came into the room, with it's antiseptic smell and harsh lighting: "hoo've ye no brocht yon wee lassie doon, ah cood ha gien yer Pa a proof o ma tool's poo'er an micht? am bitten she's better thin a oont, or div ye prefer yows, mon?" and Dewey blushed to his sparse roots: "D-D-Dolores?" he gabbled, "oh, no, Sir P, no way, no way, she's mine!" and MacFarlane flashed a grin towards Duck's bubbling brain in it's bottle, "is this pathetic cur claimin tae be yer son? methinks ye've bin cuckolded Duck, he's no the same cut as yersel - weel, as ye wiz!"