Damn ye! Let Father Graham strike ye dead Isaac! HAAARK!

Hark D'artagnan, hark! Bellow, bid our father the Blue Blob rise from the depths full foul in his fury! Black waves of fur teeming with Pizza ATM Sauce to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til’ ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more -- only when he, crowned in cricky shells with slitherin’ tentacle tongue and steaming blue beard take up his fell be-finned arm, his coral-tine trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye -- a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the Muskies and the souls of dead Caf workers to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the Dread Emperor himself -- forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the crickies, for any stuff for part of Isaac, even any scantling of your soul is Isaac no more, but is now itself the crickies!