"we heard the clinking of glasses and faint, conversational laughter. A human torso, crudely butchered, lay across a glass table with its innards still wet and glistening. Lauren sat beside it, dressed in her Sunday best and sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup. A man in a dapper black suit sat across from her. His face was a featureless black void, a smudge of frozen smoke. "Eugene!" Lauren said. "You're just in time for high tea." "Abelard," Eugene gasped, obviously in shock, "says he can't leave the camp. He says the road--" "Right, we can't let anyone leave. Obviously. Mr. Gray, would you please do something about that pesky man?" The black void buzzed, and the suited man hoisted his teacup emphatically. He spoke in the droning voice of a thousand flies' wings."