“Skai! Skai! Lok ting! Lok ting! Gith, geez.”, Zhon was flustered, he was trying to get his mind to center, focus, and sober up, but he was helpless to let the thoughts emerge:

  Oh, beelzebub’s balls, I am so-oo-oo-o… fucked up right now. Ah man get yourself together gezzno, Githie needs you right now. For. Uh. Wait.

  What were we doing outside of the music again? Where are we going? I can’t remember why- he stumbled about, turning his head left and right as if trying to scan his environment and figure out where exactly the skai he was, and then swung around as if he wanted to head back in. It was rising to another drop again!

  “We gotta get out… go far away…”

  Githarie nabbed his arm and pulled hard, yanking him back, “God damn it, you GLOB!”

  Collapsing, “Glob! Glob. Hahahaha. Glo-ob.” Now Zhon just kept saying glob repetitively before cracking into giggles and snickers, as if the word glob was the funniest thing he had ever heard. He rolled to and fro on his back as he laughed.

  And that did help. Githarie felt a smile spread across her face, and she felt annoyed for a second because she didn’t feel like she felt like smiling now but couldn’t help it and did it anyway.

  Jhaurd had spun up a much more uplifting song:

  “You know I say it’s true…”

  Then as the smile spread, and Zhon kept saying “Glob.”, she finally kekked, and then before she knew it she had fallen to the floor with him, clutching her stomach as she top kekked.

  “AHAHA-HAH! AHA-HAHAHAHA! GLOB! HAHAHAA-” she laughed so hard she ran out of breath. She tried so hard to inhale, only to let loose a weak, hoarse, out of breath “-HAH-hu-uh-”, and every time she felt like she could settle down and stop and finally gather herself, for her sides were split and it was honestly quite discomforting, Zhon would just say “Glob” again, and the cycle would restart. They might as well have been tickled, but no one was touching them.

  “...I can feel the love, can you feel it too?”

  She was relieved to be out of wherever that was – the nadir of her mind – but if she had stopped to reflect that she had just jumped from one emotional extreme to the other in a heartbeat, what did that say about her own stability? A bipolar swing. The calm in between terror and euphoria was cut apart by raging storms, hurling her into moment, after moment.

  Zhon stared at the twilight sky and faint hints of stars, to time his “Glob”s to coincide with just when he felt Githarie would finally stop laughing. He was making a game of it, to see just how long he could keep her laughing. Laughter, after all, was the best medicine.

  He spotted a moseying streak of Steve and gasped- “Ohh!” His mouth stayed wide and open and as circular as his widened eyes. And then he stayed perfectly still.

  Her wits gathered, Githarie kipped up to a squat, and rubbed the streaks of tears from her eyes, whether it was terrified crying at the Drum and Bass stage or tears of unbearable laughter from that stupid Glob - haha - she really didn’t know, but-

  “Ooh wow. Huh.” She craned up to look at the Steve that Zhon was looking at.

  “We- we should not have eaten so many shrooms.”

  “I don’t know what sha talking about, sis. I am having a grand old time.”

  “Okay you are, ya skai sha hai, but can you imagine how I’m feeling right now?” She had like, half his body mass!

  “I toldja not to do so much Late Show.”

  “What?”

  “Colbert.”

  “What is- oh. Coke?”

  “Skai, Githie doncha know the- ah anyway. Yeah, sha got all jacked up by that stuff before ya got here, and then the nerviness got all mixed up with tha shrooms, which sha know, yer talkin’ to spirits, they’re all in everything and everywhere, and they’re tryna tell you something, something sha need to know but dinnae want to, and sometimes what they’re tryna tell you - can - be…”, he trailed off as he suddenly grasped the gravity of what he was saying, “-freaky.”

  Now Zhon looked like he was bad tripping too, a stunned, stony expression having popped away his stapled grin. But he wasn’t, he was just in deep thought about the nature of the universe, his meaning in the place of all of it, and also, what exactly the spirits were trying to tell him, but he couldn’t figure it out for the life of him. He would never figure it out completely. That was not the way of psychedelics. Even brief and stunning epiphanies of high geshzugas about how to really correct one’s own path towards an open heart would simply just be… forgotten.

  It was like an ebb or a trough between waves, Githarie felt, this brief wave of clarity, where she and Zhon could somewhat interact like normal orcans again.

  She had totally given up on finding Deyandra. She’d hoped all she needed was more Colbert and she would snap out of this stressed-out state. Maybe she hadn’t had enough. Maybe she needed more. More? Now here Zhon was telling her that she had had too much. Too much! Anything! She was just desperate for something, some sort of solution. There didn’t seem to be any though, other than to just wait it out. Just wait. Wait, Githie. Wait. Just gotta ride this out. Just gotta wait. But isn’t inaction worse than failing?

  “I've been waiting all night for you to tell me what you want-”

  Though she had to admit there were flares when she was very much having fun- the touch of the fabric of her overalls was entrancing, and she surely was dreaming of all the mysteries of the realms to unlock that she had yet to learn, and she yearned for them, she yearned! She was yearning for some strange power she could not define, and now the darkness felt like it was beckoning her. Find them. Gimbatul. Bind them. Krimpatul. Bind them all. Bind- what? What did that even mean? What was she yearning for exactly? What did she mean by some strange power she could not define? How much vaguer could you get? Argh! She can’t think! She couldn’t connect one staccato thought to another, it was all just bouncing around and linking weird things up together, a muddled maelstrom of a premonition.

  “-tell me, tell me that you need me-”

  A sudden flash of paranoia gripped her, and suddenly she couldn’t stop thinking about Lawrah and Zholl having zug-zug. It was too vivid, and yet still alien, as if Law and Zholl were possessed by something, not in their right minds. Just going at it. The more she tried not to think about it, the more intense and vivid it became, and – the energy of the mad orcs all around her seeping into her vision – it started to get rough. Really rough. Zholl began to choke Lawrah. And Lawrah- she liked it. No. No. Nuk-nuk. Nuk-nuk! This was bad, really bad. She needed to get out of here!

  “I've been waiting all night for you to – oh, oh – tell me what you want-”

  She clutched her head and began to claw at her scalp, pulling locks of hair caught squeezed between fingers. Her claws were still sharp from climbing and it drew fresh red blood.

  “Augh! AHG!”, she was panicking now, “C’MON! COME. ON!” C’mon! C’mon! Why? She tried to breathe steadily but it was getting so hard to control that her gill flaps began to open inadvertently, sharply drawing in dry air that they were not meant for, and it stung her neck.

  “GAH! Give me a break!”, she sobbed and thrust her wrists to her eyes to catch the tears, which dribbled down dropping drip-drop by drip-drop from her elbows to her folded thighs. They struck her overalls, leaving damp dots.

  “-tell me, tell me that you need me-”

  She wanted it to be over. She so wanted it to just be over! Over! Please! She was so done with this trip! It was like some sort of nightmarish, interminable chapter of a book, that just kept going and going no matter how quickly the pages were turned. Please. An icy chill of horror swept over her as she considered that maybe, just maybe, these shrooms were so strong that they would permanently alter her, her orcan transmogrification coalescing, mixing all up with the poisonous fungus, to make her mad, her perceptions forever altered like this, and this madness would never end. Not until she died.

  Gods, just kill me. Kill me, now. If that’s what it takes for this to end.

  In horror, a visualization of shoving a sharp bamboo stake into her heart, so that she can just end it all and get out of this horrible nightmare, intruded and forced its way right into her forehead- her prefrontal cortex. Her third eye. Her mind’s eye. The suicidal ideation shook her and she desperately and furious thought of all the reasons why it was simply insane – absurd – to kill herself.

  “I’ve been waiting all night for you to tell me me-”

  How she would hurt all the dear orcans who loved her so much!

  “Tell me that you need me.”

  Her pham!

  “Tell me that you need me.”

  The thought of her Da was like a distillate, it was the one psychic handhold she could grab onto, like when she was climbing the Rock, and she held it tightly. Da. She kept thinking to herself- think of Da. Think of Da. Da. Think of Da. She pictured his grizzly olog mug, she could see his stern faces, his kind faces, his goofy faces. Da! She wished he would run to her rescue and sweep her up in his arms and carry her home back to the Defiant. She wished that so dearly!

  “Tell me that you need me.”

  Where was Zhon?!

  She looked around- he had sidled up next to gurl, twirling a roach lollipop she had sucked into her cheek with a pinch. She was wearing a ripped-up top that had to be tied in a knot on the chest to stay together, and a short, pleated skirt. She kept one side of her belt slung low to show a great deal of her hip, if the other side drifted any lower Githarie was sure she would be flashing her crotch.

  Githarie meekly shuffled her way to Zhon, hoping for once that Zhonny would save her.

  He completely ignored her and instead just kept running game. The orcan gurl was playing with the knot of her shirt now and had hooked one leg behind Zhon’s. How was Zhon pulling this off?! He was just nodding dumbly, it seemed. Everybody was so fucked up! Atul. Orcs. Orcs! Githarie had a sudden revulsion at being orcan at all. She hated all orcans. She hated orcs! She hated them! Just thinking about themselves. Never thought about each other. Causing so many problems. So many problems. So many problems that didn’t need to be in the first place. Preferred complaining. Didn’t look for solutions.

  Fuck orcs.

  The snaga orc bitch gave Githarie a bit of a cross look, as if to tell her to buzz off, but Githarie refused to budge. No. No! She just stood there silently fuming, waiting for Zhon to acknowledge her. Zhon! Zhon!

  Zhon slowly, casually and gently pushed her face away, as if almost to slide her away discreetly without the orcan gurl noticing, like Githarie wasn’t even there and never had been. Of course, the orcan gurl noticed, but she showed no indication of it.

  “Skai sha hai!” she cried out in frustration, hands balled up into fists at her side, shaking, as she stamped away. Skai! That good-for-nothing gezzno asshole. Skai! She could never rely on him! What an awful brother. Awful!

  But she was a little better now, somehow having a target for her wrath – that snaga bitch – she didn’t even care who it was. Bimbo! It was like how the thought of Da was distillate, but this worked the other way. Floozy! Having an intense focus for hate somehow gave her back control over this awful, awful thing that was happening to her. Bitch! Bitch! And Zhon, too! Dick! Always just thinking with his dick! Dick! She just needed a goal, some sort of thing she could do, something she had agency over.

  She finally felt like she could go on alone.

  Tell me that you need me.

  She just had to find Lawrah. Must find Lawrah. Lawrah. Lawrah.

  The crowd was now all streaming to the Hip Hop Stage because the original acts were winding down and now would be the moment that the headliner act, the star of the show, would show up. DJ Brosef – not his real name – was the premier Hip Hop deejay stretching from Rothera all the way to Syowa. His claim to fame was not in his skill in the mix – he spun the crowd pleasers, and no one wanted to hear those meddled with, messed up with too many crossfades – but only because he had a big enough black disc collection.

  The task felt impossible. It was still quiet because Brosef was still getting ready, but the silence only magnified excitement, and the eager hubbub sounded to Githarie like a thousand voices whispering demonic chants to her all at once. Gossip. Snark. Secrets. …Delusion. What were they talking about? Were they talking about her? She tried to reason with herself. Why would they be talking about her? But she couldn’t stop imagining things, she kept hearing her name. Githarie. Githarie. Githarie. There was no way, no way! She clasped her hands over her ears. Where was the music? Where was Lawrah?

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Afraid of being stuck far at the back of the crowd, almost the entire scene of the razza, from every tent – save for a few diehards that had no interest in hip hop – were coalescing into the yurt. The Bear Brigade had to bounce out those trying to aggressively force their way in.

  Githarie was sure she would find Lawrah here. Or somebody at least! She needed her pham. For a moment she wished she wasn’t so weak, that she could take care of herself, and not freak out! But that wasn’t happening.

  The needle dropped.

  “Uhn. Uhn. Uhn. Uhn. … One two, one two.”

  The crowd was massive, it was even harder to move than back in the drum and bass ziggurat, but at least no one was flailing around. Instead, it was just a press of shuffles. The realization that you weren’t getting in much closer had dawned upon the landscape of orcans. And so Githarie found herself snugly tucked in between a group of San Martín bois and another group of Elichiberety – Githarie could guess correctly based on their attire – zugs: one gurl an undercut and a sharp fringe, she had large rings pierced into her lip, dangling just below her tusks, and the other gurl dressed nondescript with a ponytail. They must be traveling.

  “It’s bigger than hip-hop, hip-hop, hip-hop.”

  Despite the fact that they had all crowded and pushed in to see the deejay, the crowd did not seem particularly enthused that he had finally begun playing. An odd choice to diss the very thing this yurt was honoring.

  Githarie was aware of a low bass reverb rumbling through the bars, but she wasn’t too interested in partying at all anymore. And that made her profoundly sad. Wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t this… her birth-rote? What was going on? Why did she feel so… so alienated? Why did she feel so bad? The thoughts spiraled and she found herself growing more and more morose. And hateful. Annoyed. Irritated. She scratched her head furiously, snap out of it, Githie, c’mon! You’re going to feel worse if you keep this up! You just got out!

  A San Martín hand snaked through the ring of bois and shot to Githarie’s side, holding her a spliff. She was just trying to get back out, but she was trapped after a third group blocked her in, so she took it anyway - she hoped that it would calm her down. She took a polite, quick hit, and passed it back. But it made her cough terribly, it tasted wretched. It burned a lot, and her throat immediately dried up. The cough turned into a choke.

  “Uh, one thing ‘bout music, when it hit you feel no pain,

  White folks say it controls your brain,

  I know better than that, that’s game and we ready for that,

  Two soldiers head of the pack, matter of fact who got the gat?

  And where my army at?”

  Cheers erupted, for this was a legendary creation of the Godlikes- it was a banger.

  She smacked her lips. It tasted like burned ocean debris – plastics – left strewn behind by the Godlikes. What- what was this stuff?

  The orcan boi who offered her the nasty thing shouldered his way past his bru and was now trying to position himself in front of Githarie, but she completely ignored him.

  “Again, the real world (world), it’s bigger than all these fake ass records…”

  And then suddenly she realized she’d made a grave error. She’d accepted intoxicating substances from a stranger without knowing exactly what was in it.

  Then what was in it hit her.

  Already the beat of the next track was sneaking its way in, and the beats didn’t fit exactly, but after a second for adjustments to the transition, it clicked together to sound like a whole new song. A remix. That was the essence of Hip Hop: to take what came before and rearrange it in a way that meant something new. In that way the legacy could reinvent itself indefinitely.

  Githarie had thankfully not consumed enough ice to feel euphoric at all, which would have led her down an even darker path, and she had only just began to emerge back from hell. This was simpler though. She felt like her heart was going to pop, like with Dey’s ‘ghash’, but this time this feeling did not smooth out into a cocksure narcissism, and instead persisted. It felt like overbearing pressure all over her body. She realized- maybe this is like last time. I just have to relax into it, but relaxing felt just as impossible as eating. She should eat something! That will take her out of this. She was biting her lip – greasy with lip balm as it had been paper dry – and she couldn’t help but rub her teeth along. At least the lip balm lubricated it a bit though. It felt like there was a furnace inside her body, and it was burning her up alive from the inside.

  “Hai! Ghash shit innit?”

  The vocals of the next track burst in a deluge of noise:

  “You are now tuned into the tomb of Jehova,

  Play my tunes loud enough to shake the room, what’s the hold up?

  Heard the world is ending soon I assumed that they told ya-”

  She bore eyes of pure loathing at him, trying to just tell him to skai off sha, leave me alone boi, but in his sky-high state, completely delusional, he misinterpreted it as an intense look of desire. He moved closer. At least dealing with him distracted Githarie from further magnifying her anxiety. The hate focus. The target.

  An enemy.

  “Hai! Sha hai- hak!”, he coughed, “Hak! Ha- thrak a hai a kiss, wonsha, hai?,” he was trying so hard to speak it softly but he was still coughing the words out just a little bit too loudly, just a little too erratically, that it but the music was so loud was one of those who would say it a lot, “Hai, hai, hai, ova here, whatsha name, cutie hai?”

  She thought to herself- this orc realizes he’s calling me a cunt, right? But all the orcs this creep knew called each other hai habitually at the end of all sentences. Her heart beat faster and faster. At least this wasn’t the psychic horror she felt earlier- she felt like she’d be nabbed by the spinal column and strung out so hard that it wiped the guls away. Stark consciousness burned. Her back stood so straight that she was sure it would be sore for fortrotes if she kept it up, but still, she could not relax her shoulders at all.

  “Fuck - off.”

  In the end, though she really tried hard to reserve it for only when it was necessary, fuck still remained Githarie’s favorite swear word.

  “The sky’s falling, baby,

  Drop that ass ‘fore it crash.”

  He simply pretended not to hear.

  “Hah! Hai! Sha feisty hai! Skai sha, hai. Skai sha hai. Haha. Haha. Skai sha hai!” It was so forced and strained, Githarie could scarcely believe he didn’t just dip his head in shame and run away. No, he just got angrier the more he couldn’t have what he wanted.

  Yet it was getting harder and harder to move, for another banger and riled up the crowd, whipped them up into a hip hop frenzy. It was no graceful dance or swim like the techno forest, nor a manic mess of a mosh pit like at the metal clearing. It was a synchronized movement of the shoulders, fingers flying high. Somewhere in between, a happy medium. It also meant that the movement opened the gaps that Githarie could use to slip back out. She had to time her movements to the beat, or she’d be trapped, or worse, crushed by a pincer of booties.

  She could do it- she was intensely focused- but it also opened the gaps for this horrid boi to follow her. At least it took her mind off the creeping loneliness. The beat thumped. And thumped. Just had to move forward! Get out! One thump at a time! Thump. Thump. But he was comfortable navigating the twitchiness of tweaking. Thump. Thump. She wasn’t tweaking, no, she was just having a bad reaction to everything happening at once. Thump. On her birth-rote too. When did everything start going wrong?

  “The roof is on fire.”

  A rolling beat portended the transition to the next disc.

  Hyperventilating now, far harder than ever before since she got to this damned razza, Githarie remembered not to let her gill flaps open so she wouldn’t draw dry air into her gill-lungs. She’s got this! Her skin felt grimy as so much sweat had already poured out and dried again, and again, that her dermis was covered with microscopic salt. Thump. Thump. She couldn’t tell if it was her heart trying to push its way out of her ribs or if it was the music. She brushed her arms and realized teensy hard to spot sproutlets were starting to poke out – the first sign that she was starting to run out of calories – she had spent too much time awake and exerted herself physically beyond her limits. Thump. Thump. Between the surfing, the climbing, the berserker rage, the dancing, the bad trip, and now getting out of this nuk-nuk – she didn’t even want to think about what it would entail if she couldn’t get away – she was quite spent. Oh, food! She thought she should have eaten enough on Uncle Raigo’s junk, but with Zholl, Zhon, even her Da competing for the food, she only had just enough. She needed more food. It wasn’t enough. Food. Food. She just needed food.

  But there was no food tent. It was just the pop-up beer tent. And more beer would not help right now. She might as well just throw herself in the arms of her assaulter.

  “Takeover the world when I’m on my Donald Trump shit,

  Look at all this money, ain’t that some shit?”

  She could barely even register the music anymore. Her amygdala had kicked in her fight or flight response.

  The music came to a stop, and there were cries of protest just before DJ Brosef began to start scratching the vinyl, building his own melodies, his own sounds, simply by using the frictional reverberation of the needle against the disc.

  Atul wanted to get a look at his finger, moving the needle back and forth on a black disc. They could hear microscopic movements of the same from a good hundred meters away from the stage – the scratch of the needle itself was the instrument – but if sha didn’t see the artist perform at a gig, were sha ever there at all? So, the crowd pressed in to catch the corner of a glimpse of this ephemeral sight. The scratching began. It was awful. Githarie thought it sounded exactly like grating nails on a chalkboard.

  But it was this stray thought that let her guard down, let the orcboi move with the flow of the press and now he had sidled up right behind her. The orcboi grabbed Githarie by the hip. Pulled close. Tried to move her close to him. So that he could put his body against her back. Put his crotch against her butt. Now his body was against hers. “Hey, hey,!” Githarie protested. But the scratching was too loud, Brosef getting more and more focused on making up for not knowing what in the high holy hell he was doing by scratching more furiously. Scratch. Scratch. Louder. Louder. Orcboi dug his nose into her hair. Ugh! She could smell his disgusting breath! Gross! She could feel his tusk scratch her scalp. No! NO!

  “Boo-oo!”, roared a voice in the crowd. They didn’t want to hear DJ Brosef scratching, they wanted to hear the holy music of the Godlikes!

  “Zug-zug…”, orcboi muttered.

  She wasn’t going to dignify this with a response! She tried to squirm away. Squirm away. Got to squirm away! Got to get out of here!

  DJ Brosef kept scratching furiously. He was intent on learning one more skill of Da Kultur. But he just wasn’t any good at it, not at the time being. Also, he had smoked so many blunts he was high as a Nimbus on Phyros. Hell, he felt so blazed – parched with cottonmouth – the ambient heat of the press of bodies raising infernal swelter that he, for just a moment, had to think that it’s hot as Aryss in here.

  “Zug-zug. Zug-Zug!” He was getting more insistent now. He was humping her! Nuk-nuk! Nuk-nuk! Githarie wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She tried so hard to squirm away but his thick meaty arms had wrapped around her like a vice, and now one paw had shoved its way through the side flap under her right strap, and rolled up Lawrah’s sweatshirt, rubbing her waist first, then her stomach – which was pretty much when Githarie felt like she had finally had it, this was the lowest she was going to feel ever on her birth-rote – before grubbing down her navel to-

  His claw nails scraped against the leather-bound book, leaving a few small marks.

  Feel the Love - Rudimental x John Newman

  Strong Thermal Emission Velocity Enhancement. A snaking line of plasma streaming through the sky.

  Zholl and Zhon had a code: Daily Show meant cannabis, because smoke weed erryday, and Late Show meant cocaine, because it certainly kept you up late.

  Colbert was also code for cocaine, as in ‘Late Show with Stephen Colbert’. How they came upon this word, the name of the Godlike, was a mystery.

  Please take better care of your little sister starting right now, this is important.

  Waiting All Night - Rudimental x Ella Eyre. Jhaurd felt like this song was a companion piece to the one he just played, plus it slapped. And the Godlike who sang it! Her voice was just so beautiful. And it was so romantic! The feeling of longing. How could an orcan wait an entire six lunas just to reunite with a lover? He just didn’t understand the Godlike context of ‘night’, for he had never stepped foot in the Lost Lands.

  The metaphor popped up in her head for she had just been reading Lord of the Rings before her trip.

  There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.

  Fattened cockroaches encased in crystallized rock sugar to preserve them. Mostly cockroach meat. It was a very big hint about what was on the orcan gurl’s mind.

  Even if it was as simple as cockblocking Zhon.

  Syowans were probably the forerunner for most discerning Hip Hop connoisseurs. The golds and plats that the Lions had to cough up to book him- well, it certainly pissed Dey off, to start. That was a lot of taxation. Off of her loot.

  A bit of a thug, DJ Brosef – no orcans knew his real name but it was Ghormon Vacke – would bully orcans he knew to hold rare treasures until they coughed up their black discs. He would never actually hurt them and just move on if they didn’t, because he was, deep down, kind of a softie.

  The internet’s busiest music nerd.

  Hip-Hop - Dead Prez

  Or perhaps, just too on the nose.

  Orcans often burned ocean debris for heat, and it was considered forbidden fire. The orcans just let the waft of disgusting fumes float away.

  They had so much they could afford to be wasteful, and it made the joint burn terribly, for they had laced it with some crystal meth.

  I’ll use their bones to pick my teeth

  Ascension (feat. Vince Staples) - Gorillaz, the Nic Fanciulli remix.

  An Oceanic habit.

  Takeover - Village feat. Mac Miller

  But the ancient Godlike skill of vinyl scratching was not something DJ Brosef knew how to do well, at all.

  Such an ancient magick device, yet Zahul couldn’t help but be filled with curiosity after scavenging one, and, since chalk was plentiful - experimented with it as one of the very first toys he gave his children. He found that clawing on it was an easy way to get their attention. He himself let his creativity flourish, and dyed the chalks as many different colors he could devise – he had to build each one from scratch, he made the grays with differing concentrations of charcoal, monochrome was an easy way to start, he found beetroot for red, scrap algae for light green, but he was stumped after that. When he tried to mix out new colors, with only the complementary red and green, though when unmuddled and allowed to shine in their own unique way at the same time they shone with each other was indeed complementary, muddled together in dilute only led to a murky brownish black. This frustrated Zahul to no end and he snapped the chalkboard in two.

  And the few observant daemons, silent until now, who found themselves with Brosef now had to all think in unison, high holy hell, this is terrible, please just go back to your comfort zone, spinning the crowd pleasers.

  The gezzno glob thought- desert planet, must be hot! He did not know that Aryss is very cold.