“I think we totally need to talk about the StarMart thing,” a girl with chunky hipster glasses and a blunt, black bob says, and rapidly the rest of the council agrees.

It was a wordy, disconnected, frantic letter, a drunken letter in fact. It was like the talk of a drunken man, who, on his return home, begins with extraordinary heat telling his wife or one of his household how he has just been insulted, what a rascal has just insulted him, what a fine fellow he is on the other hand, and how he will pay that scoundrel out; …

“I bet you two have really big plans. And might I say, that is just fab,” he said of Lynn's dress. “I'm glad someone noticed,” she replied, seeming to take a stab at me.

Suitably stimulated, Superfag turns on his platforms and dances off through the empty hallways, his henchboys behind.