Back in the dank, forbidding alleyway, a cowled figure with a massive hunchback slinks barefoot through the puddles of filth, growling to himself. His feet, by the way, are repugnant. Even for feet. They're lumpy and misshapen, with yellowed claws for nails. Yick. We catch a few glimpses of Grandpa-Toes's face, and it's pretty much a cross between Nosferatu and Vincent from the Linda Hamilton version of Beauty And The Beast. Of course, there's much more Vincent than Dracula, so we all know where this is going. The Hunchback Of Not!re Lame pads through the alleyway until he reaches Tongue Boy's discarded swaddling rags. The Hunchback of Not! clutches the shreds of cloth in his paws and roars at the sky.
All The News That's Fit To Fuck Me. Phoebe barges through the swinging glass doors and assaults a somewhat fey assistant with questions regarding Chronic's whereabouts. Somewhat Fey replies that Chronic's barricaded himself in his office, and notes the boss left strict instructions that Phoebe be denied entry. "Did you two have a fight?" Somewhat Fey wonders with exaggeratedly concerned eyebrows. Phoebe slams her purse into his chest and sneers, "We're about to." She clomps over to Chronic's door and flings it open to discover he's actually in a meeting with the trio of Mediterranean types from whom he's purchasing his grandfather's NOBODY CARES! NOT! ONE! SINGLE! PERSON! Shut UP, Chronic! GOD! "I'm sorry," Phoebe splutters. "I didn't know you were in a meeting." "Yeah," Chronic bristles. "That's why the door was closed." "Really?" she fumes. "Because I was told it was closed specifically for me!" Oh, my God! He's is a goddamned meeting, you selfish, bonehead shrew, and these people didn't haul their tired asses all the way from Europe just to listen to you bitch. Fucking hag! Christ! Chronic offers a few excuses in Italian to the befuddled Mediterraneans, then barks, "Outside!" at the Feebs.