They all suit the part. ( Blithely, arms crossing in the perfect visage of a man inconvenienced by the latest going rate of market produce. One of the sailors, visited by every pox that's come into being and a few awaiting their mutant debut, bears a distinct resemblance to an over-ripe potato. Yes, Hector nods: you.

But then, open disdain won't achieve where natural selection failed. The villain of this story won't politely succumb because Hector can't be troubled to find personal value in any of these men. Time to change tack, slipping his companion a sharp-cut gaze, while the room's temperature rises with the sickly, balmy quality of trapped stale spaces. )

We could leave them all behind. ( A bluff is no better than the poker face that delivers it. Hector's is undeniably unshaking. ) I'm not in the spirit of knives in my back.