Due to the rubber mask clamped over his mouth and nose, however, said speculations of Algernon's genealogy and sexual habits were conducted silently. Deprived of the humanising influence of extreme vulgarity, he glared at his friend and continued to pump, his bare chest swelling and falling like a doomed souffle in a Julia Child film loop. To illustrate a 15 per cent grade, the rectangular CRT in front of him utilised a tiny cartoon jogger scooting up a hill.

Well, trudging, perhaps.

Algernon Swain was a short, thin man with skin that seemed impossibly black for an American. He wore tortoiseshell glasses even thicker than Croon's sweat-steamed wire rims, thick enough to be legendary back in 4th grade, where he had gained the nickname "Parakeet". Algernon's prematurely salted thatch of short wiry hair had always reminded Croon of twilight over the cactus patch. He and Croon had been friends since 2012, growing tighter and tigher until the Implosion sent them to different agencies. Then, increasingly infrequent boozy lunches and assasination missions had kept alive what there was of those earlier days to cherish. If there relationship was no longer close, it was still comforting and, occasionally - as now - invaluable.