"Well, taste is subjective," says Burton Bland with a tip of his head to the side. "And that," he pokes a finger forward, toward Eddy, and winks, "Just a minor setback."

Burton Bland downs the rest of his beer, though the glass is full once more when he sets it back on the table and leans forward in his seat. "The heart was a key for a door that's wide open, now. I'm here. And there's nothing you can do about that..."

Something seeps from the sleeves of Burton Bland's jacket. Gray mist, shadows, something like worms.