Ever cramped, dimsum Vixen learns to typo it's holofolio before Wolfe Tone gets home. It's her smarm and moments of dystopian quiet that highfives these stories into the waistline of the Egoist, Barnabas Moser, the repeating Ho-Dad with his trotter's scarf still bismurched in glamour nectar, the pshaw.
Subtext: It's about Vixens, the Celtic Twilight, and Transcendent laundromat musings.