...casually scroll through his e-mails back in his corner office. There's a knock at the door, and it's the unfortunate and wimpy head of Niveus Pharmaceuticals' distribution department, there to apologize for his woeful lack of business acumen, or something like that. Buttboy waves this "Mitchell" person into the room and rises from his desk to start in with the smarmy corporatespeak regarding lateral promotions into the communications sector and such, all the while circling closer and closer to Poor Doomed Mitchell until Buttboy...whips a straight razor out of his pocket and slits Mitchell's throat! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" I'm so glad one of us is enjoying himself, Raoul. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" In any event, you might be wondering why Buttboy slashed Poor Dead Mitchell open like that. "I'm am not! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Ahem. In any event, those of you who are not dizzy houseguests of yours truly might be wondering why Buttboy slashed Poor Dead Mitchell open like that. "Hee! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Ugh. ANY-way, remember the blood phones Short-Lip Meg and Screamin' Duane used to dial up their Dee-monic Daddy back in the day? Same deal here, only Buttboy's calling Pestilence, who answers the blood phone by sending a couple of lazily buzzing disease-laden flies up through the sticky liquid in the cup. And once the connection's been made, Buttboy informs Pestilence of the Croatoan vaccine's "grotesque" levels of success during its recent human trials, and promises to have a nationwide distribution network set up soon. Next!