The bald man stood in the alley way, smoking a roll up cigarette, plaintively. His heart no longer ached. He had known sorrow, and sorrow had known him. But such emotions were a vestige, a limb lopped from his meat, disregarded. The strains of Scott Brown echoed in his ear holes, a tinnitus as a reminder of the life he had sought but now knew was not for he. He turned himself to the cruel wind, and felt its finger tips explore his visage; flawed, sallow, shaved and soft. For the artic blast to find him was to find himself, a confirmation of his existence, meagre as it may be. The night was heedless, dumb, mute and dark - it did not judge. Or so he thought. For behind and beyond those finger tips lay an ancient presence steeped in the blacked, furred teapot of the night. An immemorial evil known to modern, mortal men as Pagnell. And that Pagnell had sickening designs upon his innocent flesh.........