...The Butcher draws back the heavy curtains, sidestepping effortlessly onto the poop-deck. His crystaline galleon floats upon a chamelionic ocean of moist sensory deprivation. On the quivering horizon his grim destination looms. A pale toothless gibbon vibrates along the uneven beach, each limb dancing to a different rhythm. Sounds begin to permeate the clammy air: the echo of a long forgotten sea shanty; the obscene death rattle of an obscelete electronic tone; a perpetually changing disco rhythm frozen in a mist of sentimentality; the warm reverberation of a human voice in a cold, tubular cavern where no sentient foot has previously fallen...
...as the vessel draws into the phosphorescent harbour the crew crumbles to a fine mauve powder, dispersed on a balmy gust. The butcher fondles his Dagger tentatively for reassurance. Moonlight glints provocotively on the blade of a guilliotine, the decking slick with an oily crimson paste (no corpse in sight).
...the innevitable realisation as the lone figure steps boldly ashore:
YOU are The Butcher.
Welcome to the Isle of Blue Pork.