["Uncle", the little boy called him. How sweet, how friendly, how charming. That cute little boy with those big eyes. Instantly a ghostly smell comes to the Kishin's nose: meat. Not just any meat, either. No, cows and chickens don't taste like the fat behind of a child. Fish smiles; his teeth are long, sharp and serrated, like small butcher knives. When he speaks he sounds very kindly, with his lower-class urban American accent.]

"I live here. My name is Uncle Albert. What shall I call you, dear boy?"