[i]“Folly o’er meself for a horn-gape’d damsel’s bleedin’ font,”[/i] flapped and squalled Uí Senan, for, such little as he remembered, that was his name, afterwhich he collapsed, [i]“but I’er now right dry’er ‘n pur’r than me muth’rs vitrified muff!”[/i]

Indeed, he was dry. Moved by forces beyond his ken, he was made, as much as possible, fit for his transformed environ. Nary a blot of piss nor fleck of feces besmirched the regal wool banners that composed his person. Roundabout, he saw no fountain, no buildings, no darkness; rather, beheld he a chamber vast, a court fit for a Pope, yet filled with undignified commoners engaged in all manner of games. Repulsive as the fountain, in its own way, this hall roared loud in scene and sound, incessant, tumultuous, violent. Soon he felt numb, overstimulated. Noticed neither Selena nor his fellow fountain diver. The place reeked profusely of the finest liquors, headiest tobaccos, and richest perfumes. More flesh and fiends than he could tally sat, stood, and stooped over tables and before boxes that boomed the Devil’s very infernal machinations,  each knob pull and button smash unholy.

[i]“Ste. Limrick’s unslicked shaft, preserve me!”[/i] he screeched, visually violated, and backed himself against a wall. Uí Senan’s horrors increased, for the wall grabbed him! Snatched him right up, suspended him in place like Christ on the cross or so much gaudy decor. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t cry! With a hiss, or a thud, or a vibrato, he felt the black velvet fleur de lis impel its purpose, [i]“Oh, you’ll be preserved! Know at last the meaning of silence as the Pleiades sucks dry your vile soul!”[/i]