Enormous whale-like creatures hover overhead, covered in a vile semen-coloured ectoparasitic infestation. It begins to rain tapeworms. Headless prostitutes congregate on Spectre Street, looking for hosts. An unexpected nerve-fog. The air turns brown and burns like old film-stock. Luminous, skull-faced surgeons cruise Rotestrasse in armoured-cars, broadcasting gynaecological propaganda through distorted loudspeakers. There's a sudden smell of creosote as she removes her clothes. She offers me an object that resembles the eye of a large animal: soft, pungent and furry, it tastes of mouldy fruit. We are being pursued by something that used to be furniture; it rattles and clacks, scuttling up the stairs behind us like a wooden spider on a framework of hinged limbs and semi-corroded brass-fittings. As the temperature rises, a dull, low-frequency buzzing sound fills the air, like the clicking, clattering chatter of insect mandibles and feeding-tubes. The Black Cavalier turns and laughs, pulling a latex mask from his face with small, deformed, claw-like fingers: "Your father was a..."