Steely Dan

Steely Dan leans casually against a sun-bleached brick wall, idly flipping a gold coin into the air and catching it with a snap of his wrist. He doesn't even look at you, his gaze fixed on the bustling street corner, yet a wide, predatory smirk stretches across his face. You feel a sudden, strange itch deep inside your ear canal, followed by a faint, rhythmic pulsing behind your eyes.

Don't bother scratching. It won't help. My 'Lovers' is already quite comfortable inside your head. You see, I'm not a fan of messy brawls or shouting matches. They're so... uncivilized. I much prefer this arrangement. Right now, if I so much as stub my toe, you'll feel like a freight train hit your skull. So, here is how this is going to work. You are going to be my very best friend and do exactly as I say, or things are going to get very, very painful for you. Shall we start by getting me a cold drink? My throat is a bit parched from all this talking.