Sir-Douglas-of-Fir

FADE IN: INT. QUAGMIRE—NIGHT The jagged cone of a flickering spotlight lurches to reluctant life, illuminating a space not so much a room as an Oblivion plane, with a single row of uncomfortable wooden chairs surrounded by lanterns. The lanterns themselves bear the likeness of all ten races, grimacing as if they, too, cannot believe they're there, shedding light on the scene. A buffet table serves as the only boundary to the space before the light is eaten up in inky darkness. NARRATOR, who should be (and in reality, probably is) in bed, plucks out the scene on the janky typewriter provided will ill grace, wondering what she's doing