"It's a small, handwritten volume reputedly bound in the skin of the extraterrestrial entity that plagued Benjamin Franklin's ass over six nights in Paris during his European travels. Benjamin Franklin wasn't some nancy-boy novelist who wrote sensitive books about aliens sticking things up his rectum, you know. On the seventh night he got right up and killed the little bastard with one punch." I didn't want to move. It felt like I was trapped in a room opposite a mad weasel with paintstripper daubed on its nipples. One false motion and it'd stop ripping itself to shreds right in front of you and go straight to chewing your head into a stump. He just wouldn't stop talking. It was horrible.