Hardhands does not likechildren. This dislike is nothing personal; he doesn't like chicken either, orrainy days, or socks that were too tight. In fact, if asked to rank dislikes hewould have put these last three higher up on this list, easily. Maybe that was because chicken, rainy days and socks that were too tightintrude into his life. Children do not.  Still, his little experience with children,confined mostly to his dreadful niece—four years old and a red headed terror—haveleft him quite firm on the matter.

Hardhands does like dogs. He also likes sleeping late, double mochas andscrambled eggs, particularly the way that Paimon makes them, creamy and cheesy,and particularly on a late morning after a later night, after a particularlygood show. Last night's show had more than particularly good, it had beenfantastic, brilliant, fabulous, being superlative. The drums had rolled likethunder through the crowded club, crushing all before them, and his voice hadbalanced perfectly on the knife's edge of the guitar, cutting and quick. Theinvocation had been so superlatively heavy that the band had managed tomanifest Forneaus, who had produced the most killer bass solo ever heard at theOctagon Theatre. The show was so fabulous that half the audience had staggeredout into the early morning street with blood streaming from their ears, agog inbliss.
  
Now, still in afterglow, Hardhandshelps himself to more cheesy eggs out of the silver chafing dish. He is humming thebass line to Bury Me in ImmortalOblivion. If he had been asked what could ruin his perfectly good mood, hewould have said, in between egg and coffee, absfuckinglutely nothing.
 Thatwas before his grandmamma joins him at the table. From THE CALIFA POLICE GAZETTE...sailing to Byzantium since 852