She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. “Why come after me after all these years, Sebastianus? Haven’t you found any sycophants to convert, any nubile young nymphets to bring into the cannibal flock?” “Why should I do that if there is still the chance of you?” “What if there could be no chance of me? How do you know you can have me?” “I see your game. Everything I could do! Your father sat up all night.
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