He started back two or three paces, rapt out a dozen interjectural oaths, and asked what the devil had brought you here?

Moonlight caught the skullish face, became a hot flooding wax that pooled into gopher-hole eye sockets and flowed over bone and tooth, sluiced along jawline and spilled into cadaverous oblivion.

His menu features steaks, lamb and seafood, all served on hot rocks and in sizzling skillets, and homemade pasta dishes like pappardelle with lamb and artichoke ragu, and spaghetti vongole served with a touch of pantelleria red pepper sauce.

I then probe as to whether he is waiting for some Santa Claus to make him well, strong, and happy, or whether he is waiting for rigor mortis to deliver him from his earthly troubles.