Glut the Grogoch went straight to visit Floudh Rak, the evil weatherlock, who held newly furnished accommodations near the Adelphi picturehouse, into which he could sneak in and watch the latest racist bloody releases from Hollywood, like Birth of a Nation, the bloody racist that he was. Floudh Rak was more than racist, though. He was this Celtic Norse god hybrid of a thing, the unholy coupling of a Viking and a Kerrywoman. A Kerry woman-goddess named Karen, whose very breasts, KarenTwoHill, now made up the highest peaks in all the four provinces of the Kingdom. 
            Floudh Rak had a touch of Magneto from X-men about him, a smidgen of Darth Vader, a dash of Tony Soprano with a big pasta filled gut so he did, a little bit of Dracula, in that he was rakishly thin, and a bit of a dapper rake with a foppish, frivolous air that meant he didn't care about killing people, and he also was a bit like whoever that Michael Sheen guy plays in the Twilight franchise, and not only that, but whoever his opposite number was that was played by Frank Langella in Frost/Nixon, making progress with China while he bombs Laos and bugs opponents. And bug people Floudh Rak did, by annoying them and also by inserting his consciousness elsewhere, to find out about them and have a little spy and enjoy a sneaky wank seance with the women who took his fancy.

            And everyone could see that that kind of a mix was dangerous. Not only that, but he carried with him a long blade of a sword, usually hanging from his shoulder and running down his back in a big goldy scabbard, when unsheathed with serrated edges that shimmered in a lightning hue when caught under sunlight or light bulbs. It being of a more wintry climate at present, being perhaps around June in Ireland, that sword wasn’t as pleasant or dangerous looking as usual.

            Floudh Rak the evil weatherlock’s looming frame positioned itself in the lotus position in the middle of the wooden floor of his apartment, his eyes closed in concentration, his breaths deep and yogic as he focused on his presence in the Neverland. (To avoid any confusion, when I say looming frame, I don’t mean he was making wool threads. I’m talking about his body when I’m talking about his looming frame, because he was very big, and he had to loom over people because of his huge body. His looming frame, meanwhile, was folded up and leaning against the wall of the apartment. Because he often liked to make a bit of wool out of a kind of spiritual, ephemeral sheep from the Underworld. That's how evil he was.)

            Glut the Grogoch stumbled in to see him, still rubbing his burned arse, having been let into the accommodations by a sapient woodland nymph moonlighting here in Ireland as an urban squirrel.

            “What do you want?” the evil weatherlock asked, sniffing the unpleasant singed hair of the ruddy little dwarf creature's botty.

            “Somebody popped a cap in my ass, oh your bad lordship!” Glut said, bowing generously. “Twas Billy Boy Cullen!”

            “Twas, twas it? Aaaaaaannnd?” Floudh Rak asked, without looking up.

            “I told him as instructed, that the Negative and Mirror Universe Shamoo Tanty Mountain Ranges is where he would find Paddy Flanagan.”

            “Goood. Goooooood.”

            “So he’ll do a paint job of that very place, and splash the antimatter ectoplasm over the picture.”

            “And rather than release Paddy Flanagan back into Ireland,” Floudh Rak intoned. “He will release the evil spirits, daemons and devils of the ugliest, most darkest place of the Fantasy Land!”

            “And that big spider. And the orcs!”

            “Shut up!”

            “The Tolkien estate won’t mind, your wicked immanence!”

            “You are a Tolkien estate! Tolkien isn't dead! It's only the 1920s!”

            "Of course, your despicable, hate-filled, sly, nasty omnipotence!"

            And so back to see what Billy Boy Cullen was up to.