One can do little, in the face of such "crimes against humanity," but reflect and ponder the situation, in ferverent hopes that the degeneracy of mankind will not shut out the last, lingering whisper of deacency and redemption.
     Unimaginable vaults of wisdom lay in stagnant fermentation, seething of knowledge that was its own undoing.  Now, worms and maggots lay the only claim to the raped and riddled brains of the dead professor, lying face down in the perpetually oozing mire.
     Shadows creep silently by; forecasting the inevitable "Black Congregation" which, chanting monotonous incantations, install macabre reverence in their heathen idols, shrouded in equal parts of superstition and blaspheme.
     A cry in the darkness is heard by all and receipted by none.  So goes it.  No recognition of hope in the centrifugal void.  The surface is placid, though the bottom is a turbulent caldron of fear and dispicity.
     A humanoid figure in the background breaks stride and courageously allows his face to be contorted in a smile.  In the middle of his peril, and almost without notice, he engages in the unprecedented vulgarity of a chuckle.  Unparalleled in brazenness, but almost orthidox in motivation, the incident went unnoticed.  The humanoid shrugged and congratulated his wisdom for buying a "Sugardaddy" instead of a "Baby Ruth," then stealthy made his way back into inconspicicuity.

D.P.C.
 

(Note on 11/26/1999:  Back in 1968, I did indeed discuss the merits of a Sugardaddy over a Baby Ruth with Dennis.  Sugardaddys last longer.  His reaction to these observations, however,  indicated that he felt it made little difference in the overall scheme of things.)