“Yeah, well met. Forsooth. Ods bodkins. All o’ that,” Al said, extending his right hand. Just like the left, it had the appearance of flesh-hued plastic melted and then cooled, so hideous were the burn scars that found their way from the tobacco-stained nails to above the wrist to disappear under the sleeve of the brown leather RAF bomber jacket. “Alouicious Harlan Guthrie, esquire. How old are ya an’ are ya from another planet and/or dimension? Think about it careful now….”