Don't you worry about that, Mr. Adamsson. Why don't you head back to Reykjavik and spend some of that extortionate fee you charged me for a couple of hours' usage of your frankly third-rate restaurant and perhaps find a friendless tree stump to listen to your woes?

Look at those two. Wasting time. You wouldn't catch me doing that.

You know you're in trouble when your own imagination starts punishing you.

What's that supposed to mean? A wolf's head on a stick. Big wolf barbecue tonight? Bring your own wolf?

Are you saying that you people knew about these amorophobots all the time?" "Of course we did. They attacked us in Iceland. Remember?" "No. I was unconscious.

If things go badly for me tonight, I want you to stay with Mr. Wynter; he will pay you a decent wage.” “Will he make me bathe?” “No, he will debate the matter with you until you decide to wash.” “Ah. One of those.

...Hardly. A ragged apron does not a waiter make.