And that foul and detestable woman did throw herself down upon the bloody divan, where, coincidentally, a recent suicide had occurred. She then brought the back of her hand to her forehead, and with excessive drama declared, “I cannot go to the capital because of my sudden non-life-threatening yet very terrible illness, and besides, the dog ate my notes after my computer fell on that hammer over there.” The room then filled with the smell of stinky cabbage as she heaved her foul and detestable carcass up the same way a side of beef might mysteriously stand on end by witchcraft, and behold! Her skin had remained! It was stuck to the drying red cushions like a perfect copy of . . . well, a side of beef, or perhaps a scaly walrus. “Take me to the emergency room,” she demanded in a foul and detestable tone, whereupon her trembling attendants dared to ask, “Why are you a whole head shorter than you were yesterday? Is that the problem?” She only glared at them most foully and detestably, and after a brief glitch replied, “Studies show nine out of ten questions like that lead to a suicide. Where’s Bill?”