A small, inflatable raft appeared from seemingly nowhere, floating on what...a torrential river? The ether? a raging sea? The apocalyptic flooding of the Chicago sewers that had been prophecied by the Great Dildoni? (you know, he who is also prophecied to Rise Again) a raging tide of passion?

No matter. At least not to the slim maiden, (or depending on the light and one's inclination, the plump matron.) In any event, she is the only and obvious commander of the little craft. To a careless observer, especially to those not concerned with where paragraphs should begin and end, she seems placid, even oblivious to all the turmoil around her as she paddles and sings, slightly off-key, "Row, rho, roe yer boat, gently down the stream...."

As she passes any given point, all action briefly ceases, as folks, even the Chimp, stare, dumbfounded, and little cartoon balloons appear over their heads, containing lines like "what the f*ck?"

There is one, however, with much more keen powers of observation than the rest. That person, and that person alone, notices the maid (or is it matron? or perhaps it is the raft itself?) is actually gathering up anything or anyone that could or has been labeled "turgid," hauling the same from the waters around into the raft, and dropping all that turgidity into little jewelled boxes with tight clasps.

Was that Agatha sitting back in the shadows, watching and pondering?