He stood--not quite the formidable figure I had imagined--straddling the line separating lightness and dark--his stance a little tentative--but his skin, nevertheless, as pure as Michelangelo's depiction of God in the Sistine Ceiling. Plaster chunks and crumbled stucco lay scattered about.
"So what is bothering you?" I asked.
"The Brits!" he screeched. "Supposedly, the most proper people on earth! I molded their souls from dirt"--his dark eyes blazed--"into porcelain!"
"Teacups?" I said.
"Morons! Do I have to repeat Myself? Bunglers! Hard to believe I created them!"
"In whose image?" I asked.
"The warranty expired!--When they put a red cross on their flag! And crossed it out with another one!"
"I can see how you might feel," I said. "Being vengeful and all. But you look a little peaked."
Actually, he looked gaunt. The flowing beard and mane was tousled. His chest seemed particularly pale. In fact, he was developing a paunch.
"I haven't slept"--he yawned--"since you know when!"
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