You hear that, Bhamba? That's the sound of Alex letting your blessedly non-event-related rambling wash over him, you creepy, creepy man.

He makes a beeline for the closet door - he can see well enough to distinguish it - and now he opens it hastily, reaching inside for a cup of water and a bucket.

"Sure they didn't."

Swilling, swilling - except that moistening it makes the taste of the dessicated blood stronger, even sourer and more rotten, and a trickle of it starts to go backwards down his throat. He convulses and throws up again, violently. The bucket he'd intended to spit into surpasses its original purpose.