Ford frowned. He glanced conspicuously at the clock near the mantle. This whole scene felt surreal; it made about as much sense as three ghosts visiting an old miser on Christmas Eve. (If someone visited him someday in a fugue state to explain everything that was wrong with his life, would that person have been Cash? It seemed weirdly appropriate). It had some of the hallmarks of gothic literature: the hour, the stillness, the ominous feeling in the air. Maybe he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming this. He tried to recall what he'd just been reading (what he might have been reading just before dosing off) — was it Poe? This felt Poe.
“Alright,” he said. Why not? “I'll take it.”
“Alright,” he said. Why not? “I'll take it.”
Set by Lady!