"What can I do for you, boss-man?"

"Hey Abs!" He shouts to the mumbling drunkard next to him. "HEY ABS!"

The man looks around confused. "Don't... ya... ya call Abigail."

"I need you to sign this document right here." He waves the paper and pen in front of the man's face. "It's important."

"Don't call her..." His trembling hand catches the paperwork. He lays it out on his knee and starts writing, slowly. The handwriting is almost illegible due to his shaky hands.

"Domwtclall Abheqoeel?" His friend grabs the document and admires it. "Great job, Abbs. Nailed it." He hands it back to you.

"Yes, I have this green ape one." (Lend him your pen.)

"No, unfortunately."

"I got a freebie, when I purchased a whole carton of cigarettes." He produces a white pen with brown logos. "Smoke cigarettes, get a free pen. Deals don't come any sweeter."

The writing under the tiny crown logo reads Royal Extra.

"Thanks, Rosie." He grabs the pen and paper and carefully, scribbles on the dotted line -- next to Lilienne's signature -- 'Idiot Doom Spiral'.

"Thanks, Rosie." He grabs the pen and paper from your hands and, very carefully, scribbles on the dotted line: 'Idiot Doom Spiral'.

"Can you tell me about the Cocaine Skull again?"

"Right... a story specific to Martinaise and its history." He takes a sip and gargles the drink to prepare.

"I've never heard it mentioned outside of here... At first I thought it was a joke, to be honest. But I've been on the coast eight, nine months now and in that time I've seen at least three expeditions come through, searching for something."

A shovel hits the sand somewhere behind the reeds, near an abandoned construction yard. The young men look over their shoulders, suspiciously. The sound of their digging seems loud in the sudden silence.

"Okay, what kind of expeditions?"

"All kinds. I've seen archaeologists, gangsters, even a bunch of ad agency types. I'm telling you, Tequila -- this thing's got a pull on certain kinds of people."

Wait, there's a tingling back here... the stirring of a faint sensation...

"Wait, what do you mean 'certain kinds of people'?"

"You know, obsessive types. People with predilections..."

"What exactly are we talking about here?"

"Some of those expeditions come back after a week or so, looking haggard and dejected. Others don't return at all..."

"The first time I saw one of these expeditions, I thought they were fucking with me. There was no way it could be true. It was just too high-concept, even for me..."

There's no way... it can't be... or can it?

Can't be what?

You know...

"I'm not even sure I should be telling you this story, to be perfectly honest. You're in a fragile state, and it might be too much for you to handle."

"You're right, maybe it's not a good idea."

"Okay, fine, I'll tell you. But I'm warning you, it's pretty out there." His eyes narrow with mystery. "Our story begins at a legendary design studio, right here in Martinaise..."

"There was this designer, his exact name is lost to history, but in life he was a legend. Made it big in Oranje, where he did some real pioneering work on grotesque and sans-serif typography. A fucking genius, man..."

He takes a swig, wipes his mouth, then continues. "That is, if he even existed. Who knows? It's an urban legend, after all..."

He existed alright. You feel it deep within your basal ganglia. He was as real as you are...

What the fuck are you talking about?

I'm talking about...

"Anyway, sometime later he started his own personal studio here in Martinaise, and that's when he started working on some really wild stuff. I'm talking some glass-smooth, forward looking design language, the kind of thing that would totally overthrow the old regime, design-wise."

A paradigm-shattering revolutionary!?

"But then, something turned. You see, it's widely known that nose candy and pioneer graphic design work go hand-in-hand..."

"Wait -- nose candy?"

"You know, Tequila." He taps the side of his nose twice. "Nose candy. The white railroad. Party powder!"

"The kids on the street also call it 'snow day'..."

Or 'Irmalan Gold,' for the plateau on which most of the world's supply is grown and harvested, typically by slave labour...

"'Sinus salt,' 'the white knight'...."

"'Count C,' for its popularity among the aristocratic class of the prior century..."

HE'S TALKING ABOUT COCAINE.

"Ohhh, you mean cocaine."

"Shit yeah, Tequila! You know exactly what I'm talking about." He gives you a comradely bump on the shoulder as a couple millilitres of booze slosh out of his bottle.

"Makes sense. I, too, need a variety of substances to operate at a high level."

"I'm not surprised. Many men find it hard reaching that final level of genius without blow."

"So what happened to him?"

"You've got to understand... the work this guy was doing was so high-concept that regular amounts of cocaine just weren't cutting it. By the end they were bringing it in by the lorry load."

"Now, as you might imagine, snorting that much cocaine can't be healthy for a regular human, right?"

Right.

WRONG! Do it all the time.

Uhh... all the time?

All day, baby...

"Hey, Tequila, pay attention! The story goes that one day he was balls-deep in work on what he thought would be his pièce de résistance: An advert so minimal it contained neither text nor images. Just... pure white..."

"Apparently the idea was too high-concept even for this genius. He dropped dead right at his desk before he could finish. His last words are recorded to have been: "It's as white as a blizzard... of cocaine!"

"What a stupid fucking idea."

"But the story doesn't end there. Supposedly, when they performed the autopsy, the coroner discovered nearly a quarter kilo of coke jammed into his nasal cavity."

That's... almost certainly anatomically impossible.