“So, Wax,” Wayne butted in. “Where did you say that bloke was who had my hat?”“I told you that he got away after I shot him.”“I was hoping he’d dropped my hat, you know. Getting shot makes people drop stuff.”Waxillium sighed. “He still had it on when he left, I’m afraid.”Wayne started cursing.“Wayne,” Marasi said. “It’s only a hat.”“Only a hat?” he asked, aghast.“Wayne’s a little attached to that hat,” Waxillium said. “He thinks it’s lucky.”“It is lucky. I ain’t never died while wearing that hat.”

“Wayne's a little attached to that hat," Waxillium said. "He thinks it's lucky."Wayne: "It is lucky. I ain't never died while wearing that hat." Marasi frowned. "I ... I'm not sure I know how to respond."Wax: "That's a common reaction to Wayne.”

“What wasdat, sir? What wazzat sir? What wassat, sir?”“Wayne, what are you babbling about?” Waxillium asked.“Practicing my pretzel guy,” Wayne said. “He had a great accent...”Waxillium glanced at him. "That hat looks ridiculous.”“Fortunately, I can change hats,” Wayne said in the pretzel-guy accent, “while you, sir, are stuck with that face.”

“That hat looks ridiculous.”“Fortunately, I can change hats,” Wayne said, “while you, sir, are stuck with that face.”

“He could wear hats. He could wear an assortment of hats of different shapes and styles. Boater hats, cowboy hats, bowler hats. The list went on. Pork-pie hats, bucket hats, trillbies and panamas. Top hats, straw hats, trapper hats. Wide brim narrow brim, stingy brim. He could wear a fez. Fezzes were cool. Hadn't someone once said that fezzes were cool? He was pretty aur ether had. And they were. They were cool.”

“Well,” Waxillium said. “Perhaps I should begin by asking after your health.”“Perhaps you should,” Steris replied.“Er. Yes. How’s your health?”“Suitable.”“So is Waxillium,” Wayne added.They all turned to him.“You know,” he said. “He’s wearing a suit, and all. Suitable. Ahem. Is that mahogany?”