Methslab crashed through the door heralded by a chorus of 1000 pretty uncomfortable sounding souls and slammed his pitchfork into the hatstand. His wife Thrushrot bustled about him swatting away stray imps that danced and gurned like experimenting Art students during bursary week in the sulphurous green haze that trailed behind him. A common misconception promoted by OAP dependants and gaudily dressed table rappers everywhere is; the bigger the funk given off by a Netherworld entity the greater his rank. Whereas any reasonably observant individual could deduce from just half an hour spent in a kebab shop on a Saturday night that they prefer to announce their presence with Burberry Brit and Lynx Africa. The fact of the matter was, the rings had gone in the infernal engine that prevented methslab’s corporeal form from being subjected to a sudden and irreversible reckoning which would resulted in his attendance going totally unremarked upon in the Kebab shop, at least until somebody demanded their money back.