Myocardic Toxin, a bioengineered virus famed by the black clinics of Cheba known for paralyzing the heart, destroying the humors that lie in balance in the body and bringing a swift and vicious death to those who come in contact with it.

This is a toxin familiar to the four of you dragon friends as it is embedded in a sack in the back of your neck, which has slowly now for the last 12 hours begun to rupture.

Already it feels like your senses are deadening.

Already, it feels like a strange pain is beginning to envelop you.

And yet, this close to the end, you cannot lose sight of your mission.

Should we just describe what sense?

I'm being stared at by a very aggressive. Just imagine it. It looks like Michael Hing is a 92-year-old man. Exactly. Just imagine that. That's all you need to imagine. Can I ask... We need to paint a visual picture. So, Sam Campbell is dressed as Michael Hing. He's wearing one of Michael Hing's hoodie. It is unclear how he got that hoodie.

Michael Hing's glasses. He's got one, he's got a mask with like a googly eye on it and another weird

eye. He's got a trunk. And he's got an elephant's trunk on his forehead and long white hair.

So did you, did you workshop this costume with Dave? I was not advised.

I was not consulted.

It was generated with one of those aging machines.

So Sam, run us through one.

Frizo, you stand in a beautiful library surrounded by people who would call you friends,

but perhaps you would call work acquaintances,

for a personality deficit that has haunted you since your early days,

and yet now that deficit has come a cropper,

for you find yourself staring into a body more soulless, more driven,

more evil, even than yourself.

It is the voice of a 93-year-old

non-aginarian. Imagine evil and put it in a spooky bag, and that's what it would be. It is, of course,

Michael Hing. In one hand, a laser pistol, in the other hand, some kind of dead man switch and a foul

...