S. Disrexus: Ok . . . What was that?
V. Fatalux: It was nothing
S. Disrexus: That is not possible
O . . . You mean . . . ?
V. Fatalux: No. Not that
{unseasonably warm}
S. Disrexus: Is it bigger than a breadbox?
V. Fatalux: Sometimes
S. Disrexus: Then it isn’t nothing
{an odd scent in the air}
V. Fatalux: Cut the philosphastering nonsense
S. Disrexus: I thought nonsense was good. Like vermouth in a martini
V. Fatalux: Only when it is nothing
S. Disrexus: O
Faraway but not far, a homo perturbiens aims the rifle and breathes deeply with tense satisfaction. Now is the time, so he pulls the trigger. The fox clunks the sabercat over the head, facilitating a drop of eight inches in head position, just enough for the bullet to pass over him unimpeded. No blood
V. Fatalux: This kind of cleverness will get you killed
The homo perturbiens wails and shakes his fists in disappointment. He curses the world and blames everyone else for his numerous failures, unable to endure the thought that his own actions matter far more than the hordes of false enemies he believes are out there, thwarting him, conspiring against him, seeking his downfall et cetera
He prefers to wallow in excuses and misery