His name was Thomas Q. Or that's the name he gave me, anyway. We met in a bar, opened with drinks and closed with numbers scribbled on napkins. `Next time I'm in town, I'll call you,' his stone-cold eyes reflecting his vision of the world. He never did. Little did I know that he was the big L. F. Longfish runs this joint, for those not familiar with his nom de plume. He's the architect, the director, the creator, the designer. We're all just spinning cogs, man, in that death machine he built beneath the sea. And we all spin together. For you gears that aren't spinning quite fast enough, Longfish'll lube ya up real well, if you catch my drift. And those spinning a bit too fast get examined by his suits too. Best to just spin with the rest, if you want to keep out of his sight. The world will keep spinning, the sun will rise again at dawn and set again at dusk. And that shit he spews into the seas, that'll keep churning and filling up the overworlders tomorrow too. Just don't look at the writing on the wall and continue working, citizen.