Lucien's shirt is buttoned, ironed. His pants are neatly creased and mended. His bloody useless pistol has at least been loaded with dry powder, now. Composed. Sensible. He looks across the vista seriously.

"I wonder if we can find fried pickles, here." He smiles wistfully at a food tent which appears to be deep-frying an alligator of some sort in a bathtub of bubbling oil. The alligator has been run the whole way through with a cast iron skewer. Must be a baby one, it's only the size of a surface gator. And is that - yes. The smell of beer batter is unmistakable. Carnival veal schnitzel! "It's been years since I've had a good fried pickle."