The feel of terror and dread begins before you even see him, or hear his levitation device approach. It is something instinctive, something visceral. By the time you hear the gentle whine of his hover pad it is already too late. . .
His blackhole eyes draw you in, there is no possible escape. He pulls closer and the fear build to the point you just want it to end. End quickly.
But it doesn’t, you see. Because the Marquis is not here to kill you. Oh no. He’s here to share the latest about his home brewing experiments and how the last batch was ruined as it couldn’t breath right / wasn’t at the right temperature / wasn’t in the right phase of the moon and he has a new one that’s quite hoppy but not really the IPA he was hoping for, not nearly as good as his cousin Keith’s and really that was cheating as Keith has a basement and we all know how important accurate temperature regulation is for the brew and he also cheats as he uses that special cheesecloth to cover the mash tun you know the one soaked in the rainbow shit that Jeremy P does all the time like an unstoppable fountain of multicoloured turd, and you all know that gives the beer a special. . . oh dear, you appeared to have killed yourself with your bare hands. Not to worry, off I levitate. Buwwwerrrrrrr.