In a cave before the waters you found a man hunched in the darkness, his pale loose flesh, toothless mouth and unintelligible gibbering. Upon his skull a tricorne hat stitched from lizard skins, and likewise crafted a kind of vest stiffly draped over his shoulders and breast, and a pair of what counted for shoes, although he wore no trousers, perhaps the cut proved too difficult, or perhaps he once swaggered about this isle, lorded over the lower beasts, suited head to toe in lizard leather. How they must have feared him in his salad days, the iguana king, romping and murdering and issuing proclamations onto the thorny masses, before the outfit deteriorated, aye, before his mind gave way. But all that was long done. Now his final hours seemed to play out, babbling and drooling in his defilement, fondling his lifeless prick, fallen onto tufts of white.