He had to admit the outfit was pretty spectacular, and the fringe benefits of membership were pretty good too — not only would it forestall your evisceration via tongs and razor-fingers, but you also got to run the world.
The Fraternity of the Cone had been in charge since the Counter-Reformation, but they’d kept their nifty hats mostly on the down-low, only wearing them on extended “hunts” and during their annual Ribfest. Bob had been tracked by the “recruitment committee” for several days in the Scottish Highlands (at least, Bob surmised it was Scotland — he’d awakened in the thick grass and heather instead of his Boston apartment two days ago.)
They just couldn’t seem to take no for an answer, and Bob thought they were serious about the tongs and finger-blades thing, so he had one of two choices: let them feed on his intestines, or vaporize them all with his laser vision. (He was a descendent of Queen Victoria.)
He sighed. So much for his white suit.