And so for the rest of it, what we thought was the train but what we knew was the plane of existence opening before our very eyes, a sea of cauldron-inducing jackals swam in a school of mackerel, awaiting what could only be a hound dog of manly proportions. That’s right, you heard right, a hound dog of manly proportions. Whatever you may believe this dog to be, it’s truly up to the psyche, you see. Nobody, and I mean nobody, can judge alongside thee as a chaperone for the autoparts pavilion. It doesn’t work like that, you know? There’s not some formula for magically developing a character that everybody will love. Well, maybe there is, but I’m too cheap to find out how that would ever come to pass.