Piscator Tantara was walking his prysber when the sun blinked. It was an unexpected anamoly. He'd heard of such things, but only in Wednesday school, at the Church of the Ladder-Shy Haints. In his academic heart of hearts, he knew that all myths had a factual basis of some kind, like basteball and it's influence on the tides, and mentstruation amongst politicians influencing voting habits when the pheromone filter was not activated before the addition gong. The prysber whined joyously and peed on a small hysterical plag detailing the losers of the Battle of the Unironed Kilt and how they went on to found a small business benture in Carbuncle Valley and become multi-trillionaires with lunar-powered vibrators of the moral sort.

In another part of the generation yacht, small highly intelligent marmosets incongrously dyed an unnecessary shade of lamp were debating the usefulness of flowerescent lighting in the modern theatre undressing room. The blinking of the sun caused an imbalance in the melanine-powered clothing they were unwearing and an extraordinary amount of embarrassment led to an orgy of scruff-biting and pheromonic activity of the sort that only happens during reruns of the 1064 Surferboil, when half the audience decided to eat the winningest team rather than watch any more of the stupid game.