Chapter One Hundred and Forty-One
Racing down the corridor, screaming about the end of the world, spraying random jets of shit behind her, Modeste sought to conquer death through an immortal act, bathe herself in purgative glory, engrave an instance of meaning in the flaccid clay of a purposeless world. Monsieur Bartoff happened to be around the bend; he steered well clear, but was overcome by the fumes, fought to mutter a feeble curse, then fainted, causing her to cackle. She overleapt the prone poltroon and picked up speed, oblivion on her tail.