[The intrepid puffy-pantalooned purveyor of capital gains (being a bit light of late on the 'gains' part of the equation) sidles into the perpetual gloaming that is the Floor tapping his monkey-handled pimp cane before him like legally blind mendicant of the Zurich school of social engineering.]
A half turn to the quartermaster. Avast ye dogs! Ye mothers of hor-devohrrs and atypical whatnot.
[rapping the tip of his stylized walking stick to a point halfway twixt the twain denizen's desks, he stops and decapitates the monkey head topping his cane, which happens to be a small flask containing an undisclosed persuasion of fire water, puts it to his lips and drinks.]
Tis August again in l'hotel Ozone, mademoiselle and dirty wanker. I bid you much ado about nothing, but the truth will out!
[So saying, the Willy Wonka wannabe returns the headpiece to his cane and produces a slender sheef of pages from the breast pocket of his puffy pirate shirt, brandishing them like a weapon lethal at hand-to-hand distance.]
Villians! Dissemble namoore! It's is the heeding of this bold, ruddy cap that compels me!
[at the passing of his pathetic invocation, the TQR institution rolls onto his back still clutching the cap in his cold, dread hand, his limbs sticking straight up in the air like a lapsed cockroach.]