A romantic vision of the afterlife.

A student rents an apartment that looks onto the meticulously kept garden of the strange Dr Rappaccini and his beautiful daughter.

Why was he still Pilt the Scrummie and not Pilt the Bosun? Most days, he would have settled for just being Pilt the Sailor.

For thirty generations his family had ruled these lands. In the view of the Council of Vicars, the esteemed priests of the Church of the Edd, he’d eclipsed all predecessors in seventy years as Sovereign.
But who would follow him?

Ah, the human race. If we aren’t tired of the tried and tested ways of hurting one another, we’ll invent some more just for the sheer hell of it.