"You should just shut the fuck up about Disney on the fucking Internet, you know that, kid?" The man slammed his head against the pavement. "Just. Shut. The. Fuck. Up." Bang, bang, bang. Death thought he'd lose consciousness soon -- he'd had no idea that pain could be this intense. But he didn't lose consciousness for a long, long time. And the pain could be a lot more intense, as it turned out. # Sammy didn't want the writer meeting him at his office. His organization had lots of people who'd been loyal to the old gothy park and even to Death Waits. They plotted against him. They wrote about him on the fucking Internet, reporting on what he'd eaten for lunch and who'd shouted at him in his office and how the numbers were declining and how none of the design crews wanted to work on his new rides. The writer couldn't come to the office -- couldn't come within miles of the park. In fact, if Sammy had had his way, they would have done this all by phone, but when he'd emailed the writer, he'd said that he was in Florida already and would be happy to come and meet up. Of course he was in Florida -- he was covering the ride. The trick was to find a place where no one, but no one, from work would go. That meant going as touristy as possible -- something overpriced and kitschy. Camelot was just the place. It had once been a demolition derby stadium, and then had done turns as a skate-park, a dance-club and a discount wicker furniture outlet. Now it was Orlando's number two Arthurian-themed dining experience, catering to package-holiday consolidators who needed somewhere to fill the gullets of their busloads of tourists. Watching men in armor joust at low speed on glue-factory nags took care of an evening's worth of entertainment, too. Sammy parked between two giant air-conditioned tour coaches, then made his way to the entrance. He'd told the guy what he looked like, and the guy had responded with an obvious publicity shot that made him look like Puck from a boys'-school performance of *A Midsummer Night's Dream* -- unruly hair, mischievous grin. When he turned up, though, he was ten years older, a cigarette jammed in the yellowing crooked stumps of his teeth. He needed a shower and there was egg on the front of his denim jacket. "I'm Sammy," Sammy said. "You must be Freddy." Freddy spat the cigarette to one side and shook with him. The writer's palms were clammy and wet. "Pleasure to meet you," Freddy said. "Camelot, huh?" "Taste of home for you, I expect," Sammy said. "Tally ho. Pip pip." Freddy scrunched his face up in an elaborate sneer. "You are joking, right?" "I'm joking. If I wanted to give you a taste of home, I'd have invited you to the Rose and Crown Pub in Epcot: 'Have a jolly ol' good time at the Rose and Crown!'" "Still joking, I trust?" "Still joking," Sammy said. "This place does a decent roast beef, and it's private enough." "Private in the sense of full of screaming stupid tourists stuffing their faces?"