Where's you Uncle Jobson? he exclaimed. In the fowlhouse, said Peter.

Now washing you will be like washing a goth / All that black lipstick around their gobs

His account of the evening was inconsistent with the security-camera footage.

To commit an act so horrible, at least by the standards of contemporary society, an act so vilified, and to get totally and utterly away with it—well, one couldn’t help but get a little egoboost out of that.