I've been abducted by Aliens! screamed Martin Elginbrod inside his head, fucking Aliens! it's true, all those loonies in America and all over the world, it's only fucking true and they've picked ME! for crissakes, ME! and then he wondered how they could have orchestrated the events of that day, which led, inexorably, his steps to the very top of Arthur's Seat, and then WHY? and he remembered the remora, the snake symbol, on his family Coat of Arms – a pretty penny that little slither had cost, and he wasn't thinking of the symbol, but rather the Lord Lyon King of Arms, what was his name? he was a stopgap, just a short tenure because someone was indisposed, but he held out his greasy palm and Elginbrod crossed it with silver, or a wad of untraceable notes to be precise; a right noisome little toad of a man, what was his name? oh, yes, Runne, that was it, Sir Osbert Hamish Runne, a fucking Solicitor Advocate like me! a fellow Writer to the Signet and he copped me for a packet! oh well, partner in Smash, Grabbit and Runne, what can you expect, though old Syd Smash was likeable enough, and Gilbert Grabbit always stood a round, not like Runne, he was always at the bog when his turn came up; wonder where he is now? probably Nyasaland, or whatever it's called now, full of cannibals I hope; and then, the thought struck him: maybe these ones eat People! oh fuck, boiled alive, or roasted on a spit over a fire! oh well I hope I'm zamzawed and they all get sick and die, serve the fucking bastards right!!!