I entered the Lords of Entropy Institute of Cosmological Studies and Nightclub with a certain amount of trepidation. I had the feeling that something was up. It was dark in there, as befits the unholy things that go on there, especially the food. On my way to my regular table, the Entropyneur caught my arm. "Ace," he said, "there's somebody here I think you should meet." He had his ghost show me to the table.
At the table, way in the back of the club where the floor was stained with the residue of some of the rowdier but less successful patrons, in a booth seat, was Sissy-boy Johnson, the Procto-Astrologer. Nobody knew how Sissy-boy had become a Procto-Astrologer, but everybody knew it meant he had an endless supply of magic beans. He was clutching a suitcase full of asparagus and leaking a thin stream of motor oil from some of his more disreputable pores. I decided to take advantage of this unexpected meeting to see if he had any information on my target. I showed him Her picture. He stared at me, uncomprehending, and rocked back and forth, and with each rocking movement tiny bits of shredded cabbage fell out of his pants legs.
Repelled, I lurched away from the table. I grabbed the notice of the Entropyneur's ghost with crazed hand signals, and asked him what had happened to this poor creature. He explained that Sissy-boy's tongue had been lanced by a frosted nightmare in an expedition under some volcano, and that he was no longer Sissy-boy Johnson, the Procto-Astrologer, but Sissy-boy Johnson, the Crypto-Procto-Astrologer. I didn't really want any more sordid details, so I went quietly to my usual table and drank heavily.