He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens.

The afrit batted his eyelashes with a ostentatious lack of concern. "Indeed? Have you a name?" "A name?" I cried. "I have MANY names! I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni! I am N'gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes!" I paused dramatically. The young man looked blank. "Nope never heard of you. Now if you'll just-

Hey, we've all got problems, chum. I'm overly talkative. You look like a field of buttercups in a suit.

Pardon me, Highness, a women waits whithout." "Whithout what?

We grow up being told about great figures in our society, and as you get older you have to question the stories you've been told and decide if these great figures are indeed as great as you've been told.

Check out that one at the end. He's taken the form of a footstool. Weird...but somehow I like his style." "That is a footstool.

Ah, you coward! Look at you, running." "Actually, it's called improvising.