The knight rode questward.

The bar where we're playing — a dank little hole in Manhattan's East Village that attracts a following every three years or so when some young fauxhemian discovers the place and writes about it for Time Out New York or The Village Voice, usually under a catchy headline like Dives We Love — is quiet, almost empty if you don't count the regulars.

I was stranded in the middle of nowhere, but luckily I managed to thumb down a passing car.

Forced to apply animal findings to humans, his human womb also had cotyledons like a dog's.