Sheep Noir or "This is all Goop's Fault"

        I knew she was trouble from the moment she scuttled in. Eight million segmented legs that a film editor couldn't help but slap the drones of a dusky saxophone over with a face that, while constantly rearranging slivers that reflected pairs of rotting leather footware in various stages of mired dust, was uniform in a prideful glower with no room for a reality for the word 'no.'