Having stared blankly into the middle-distance for a while, the Tramp now sashays sexily across the floor to speak with the Steward.
Hello, big boy... My, you're a handsome one, aren't you? Perhaps you and I could get to know each other a little better tonight... I do so hate a cold bed...
The Tramp stares blankly in the middle-distance for a few moments.
Murderer! I can see it in your eyes, you poison-dripping cad!!
Well let me tell you, Methos (if that is your real name, which I doubt), I've rumbled your game! You won't take me down without a fight! Let's have it out, here and now. Come on, put up your dukes!
The Tramp stares blankly into the middle-distance for a few moments.
Fascinating... In contrast to the other subjects, it seems that the one calling himself Methos is attempting to hide the true extent of his insanity, setting up a complex system of psychological safeguards, focused around a notion of analytical competence totally at odds with both his surroundings, and his own underlying nature. I hypothesise that this unusual condition has been brought on by a combination of stress, shame and guilt. With regards to treatment, it seem that the only reliable option is to set him on fire, and see where that leaves us.
The Tramp stares blankly into the middle-distance for a few moments.
I am but a wandering bard,
Whose job ain't not really so hard,
Since my aim is to find,
Those with hate in their minds,
And see them off safely to hell.
So shared as I have of my ethos,
It is time now to lynch that guy Methos,
Not the steward he claims,
But the one who's to blame,
For the crime by which Perpentach fell.
