Pablo, as it later turned out, had been kidnapped, or rather dognapped, by a notorious local businessman named Mr. Foppington. Mr. Foppington was known as a businessman because he was always wearing a charcoal suit and carrying a suitcase, and whenever you came upon him he would declare, 'Off to the office!' before fleeing the scene. No one, however, knew what he actually did; nor had anyone seen him at his office or doing business. At the time that I heard the knock on the door and opened it to find that a hasty comment had somehow mutated into a binding contract, I was exceptionally high. It's for this reason that I didn't query the order, but got dutifully into the car of my guest without asking his name or, as I realised several minutes later, changing out of my dressing gown. The car hurtled through suburbia and southward, and the lights of the street lamps and houses and cars went by in a blur. Eventually, I managed to say something.

'Where are we going?' I said.

My driver looked at me.

'Somewhere no one has ever been before.'

I sighed.

'Could you be specific?'

It was at that moment that the light ahead turned red, which allowed my driver to stop the car, pull up the handbrake and meet my gaze dramatically.

'We're going,' he said, 'to the office of Mr. Foppington.'

'Why are we going there?' I asked.

The light turned green and my driver pushed down the handbrake, shifted gear and accelerated.

'Because that's where Pablo is.'