I shall like to go on the record in saying that ascending a magical seaweed rope no one else can see—and that may or may not disintegrate at any moment—up the moving body of a warship-sized scorpion as it shrieks and tries to stab you with its stinger remains, hands down, one of the worst fucking experiences of a career that involved having Falco’s foul maggot potion shoved down my throat.
