A Court of Sharks and Shakshuka
Peter
Peter’s dining table at home is crammed in a corner of the kitchen. None of the crockery matches, none of the chairs offer an unobscured view of the TV, and the surface is always littered with receipts and maths papers and mugs of coffee so stale that they’re developing whole new life forms.
Steven Spielberg’s dining table consists of twenty feet of mahogany, so polished that Peter can see the reflected Spider-Man mask staring back at him. Clearly, walls are for common rabble like Peter and Aunt May, because three sides of the dining room, the floor and the ceiling are made of glass exposed to a giant aquarium tank. Just inches of glass separate Peter from unnaturally large sharks as monstrous as the one that tried to ingest them, and what he really hopes isn’t a plesiosaurus but a dolphin in cosplay. One shark slides alongside the glass, and Peter can make out how long it is (similar to the table) and how many teeth line its jaws (enough to make about three hundred tacky etsy necklaces). It munches on a shoal of fish as if they were jellybeans, then swims away into the murk. Spotlights illuminate the tank, so that the water’s glow bathes everyone’s faces in blue light. The table is brimming with more brunch items than eight people could ever eat – mountains of pancakes, seas of smoothies, savannahs of avocado toast. The platters are cantered around a fountain that drips with maple syrup and a red liquid Peter prays is just ketchup. Porcelain plates and gold (plated?) cutlery feel way too bougie to be used for baked beans and potato smileys. Even Mr Stark’s dining room, with its holographic table and Iron Man armour display case wasn’t quite as stupidly extra as this one.
The glass panes and black metal poles all converge behind Steven Spielberg’s chair, like the pattern of a spiderweb, or Emperor Palpatine’s throne in Return of the Jedi. The man himself isn’t super remarkable to look at, with wispy white hair combed in a 70s side parting and a fancy yet boring suit. If Peter saw him selling cars at a Toyota garage, he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. What is remarkable is that, despite already being seated at the head of the table when Indiana Jones ushered them in, he still hasn’t said a thing, or even smiled or given them the finger or done a TikTok dance or anything. As Peter and his friends slip into seats and nervously chitter about the food, Steven Spielberg’s piggy eyes study them through his tinted glasses as if they too were exhibits in the aquarium. He’s like an air conditioning unit in winter, spreading a chill through the already cold room.
Indiana Jones cheerfully whistles his own theme song while he pours coffee. Why are there nine places set at the table instead of ten? Is a T-rex supposed to join them for pancakes?
Arya scowls at him. ‘What are you so happy about?’
He doffs his fedora at her. ‘I got lucky.’ Leia chokes on the foam of her americano. ‘Turns out that despite all the odds, my fifth movie with Phoebe Waller-Bridge wasn’t a disaster and was even good!’ Leia and Snow White wrap up their argument about how much sugar coffee needs, and the dining room is silent apart from the trickling of the shark tank and the bubbling of the syrup fountain. Peter is about to comment on the omelettes just to displace the awkwardness, but he catches Mr Spielberg’s eye and thinks better of it.
Finally, Steven Spielberg speaks. He must’ve been waiting for them to fall quiet by themselves, instead of shushing or interrupting them. ‘Welcome, assets.’ He flashes a toothy grin like the shark did. ‘Please, help yourselves to brunch. Don’t hesitate to ask Indiana for anything else you desire. I’ll just send him across the globe to fight Nazis and flirt with my wife and fetch it for you.’ Nobody moves. Mr Spielberg sighs. ‘I informed you that brunch would be served at twelve. Whether it’s you who eat the brunch or the sharks who eat you for brunch is dependent on your table manners. Now, eat!’
Everyone jolts forward at his command. Peter reaches for the waffles (both potato and regular). Arya spears a stack of bacon with her sword and dunks it in the ketchup fountain. Hermione tips a whole basket of pastries onto Legolas’ plate. Peter scans the room for any hidden traps or dangers (beyond the tank of dinosaurs and increased risk of diabetes from eating all those muffins, of course). Nothing. He sinks back into the chair. Maybe for the first time in two days, there is no immediate risk of a nasty painful death. Plus, these waffles sure are fit.
Mr Spielberg doesn’t touch the food, but examines each of them in turn. ‘Greetings, Legolas. Good morning, Snow White. Princess Leia! So kind of you to be that successful. I used to ger 2.5% of the profits from Star Wars, you know. Valar Dohaeris, Arya. Hi, Hermione. Why is Gamora, Peter.’ He’s practically purring. ‘So much box office potential in this room. A half-decent Leia solo movie (pun intended) would make well over a billion. I’m thinking Obi-Wan Kenobi, I’m thinking Ahsoka, I’m thinking Darth Maul and that Game of Thrones actress with the amazing eyebrows, which brings me onto….’ – he turns to Arya – ‘ah, season 8 was such a disaster. That prophecy about Azor Azhai, which they teased for years but never paid off! Fans would kneel outside the HBO offices for seasons 9-15, Winter is Returning. And you!’ Peter can almost feel Spielberg’s icy eyes drilling holes into him. ‘Every teenager in the world has a crush on your cute little face.’ The giant shark swims overhead, its mouth grimaced into a toothy grin. And…’ his eyes fixate on Fangirl, then narrow. ‘Indy, who is this extremely mediocre earth girl and why is she wearing a ballgown in my Bond villain shark brunch intimidation room?’
Indiana Jones suddenly becomes extremely interested in the poached eggs. Fangirl gushes, ‘Mr Spielberg! I loved your work in Jurassic Park. And Jaws. And Indiana Jones. And How to Train your Dragon. And Back to the Future. And ET. And Transformers. And Men in Black. And Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith. And…’
Mr Spielberg sighs, and talks over her as if she isn’t there. ‘See, this is problem with opening too many portals. The accidental overspill between storyworlds is far too much for our team of metafictional characters to keep in check. Now her kind dares to mingle with the likes of us. Whatever next? Will Geralt of Rivia be crowned a Disney princess? Will the ninja turtles join the Avengers?’ He laughs at his own joke, then barks to Indiana, ‘filtered coffee only for her. And no gold leaf on her pancakes.’ Indiana bows his head then scurries out the dining room. Mr Spielberg smooths a napkin over his lap and picks up a gold fork. ‘Well, well, well. The most profitable Marvel superhero, the original Disney princess, Jeff Bezos’ most wanted actor, the two most popular female movie characters on Ranker, and the least hated Game of Thrones character on Twitter. I’m thinking that you sign yourselves over to me and I send you all on an epic multi-storyworld quest to save all fandom. I’m thinking love triangles, I’m thinking unknown villain, I’m thinking a spectacular finale battle with every hero and villain from every story that I can cram in. I’m thinking a minimum of 3.5 billion at the box office. I’m thinking…’
Peter cuts over his monologue, ‘no offence, Mr Spielberg, but we really don’t care about making you more money.’ Spielberg’s eyes widen, presumably from the shock of either being interrupted by a teenager in spandex, or of the possibility of non-financial motivations. ‘Like, nobody needs seven ensuite bedrooms on the second corridor on their third floor. Or this many pet sharks. Or any pet sharks, to be honest. Pretty certain that’s inhumane. Anyways, sir, Deadpool said you would tell us where the Library is. You see, there’s a Villain in the Dark who’s recruited a whole load of villains like Darth Vader and Harley Quinn and’ – he nearly adds evil billionaires, but thinks better of it – ‘some of the Marvel ones whose names I always forget, and he or she or they is planning on rewriting the stories in there so that the villains always win and reign triumphant and take over the world and have massive evil parties with elf pinatas and stuff forevermore and it all sounds kinda scary, and we really need your help in reaching the Library before they do so we can save the world and whatnot.’ Peter’s voice trails off near the end as he runs out of breath. He probably sounds more squeaky than he does tough and intimidating.
Legolas rises from his chair and towers over Speilberg. With his taught limbs and forest-themed clothing, he looks more like a tree than a person. He impales the table with a butter knife. Spielberg winces at the damaged mahogany. ‘You will tell us where the Library is, and in return we will leave your house in peace.’ Now, he sounds tough and intimidating. Peter really needs to practice looming ominously instead of fidgeting pathetically.
But instead of bowing down before the elf or cowering in a corner like Peter would have, Steven Spielberg simply laughs. ‘And why should I tell you that?’
‘For all the reasons we just said?’ Arya suggests.
Peter’s heart plummets like it’s fallen through a portal. Of course, Steven Spielberg would refuse to help them, after they’d travelled through eight dimensions to get here and poured all their fears and hopes into this encounter and into him solving half their problems by pointing them into the direction of the Library with a map, a compass and a backpack of these nice waffles. Peter is just this lucky.
Fangirl hastily swallows her toast, and blurts out, ‘but the Villain in the Dark might rewrite some of your movies too. Think about it! E.T. could not go home. The big shark could eat your bland one-dimensional characters before they blow him up. The two good Indiana Jones movies could have terrible aliens like the fourth one, or be as racist as the second one, or be as misogynist as all the first four. The dialogue in Revenge of the Sith could get even more abysmal than it already is!’ She mouths, from my point of view, the Jedi are evil. Spielberg shudders.
‘Please, sir, you simply have to help us,’ Hermione pleads, ‘because… you see…’ – for once, Hermione Granger is lost for words - ‘common human decency?’ she tries.
Spielberg rolls his eyes. ‘I know all that. I know everything. For example, I know that all seven heroes of your quest are under this roof. And I know that a movie with all of you assets in would gross at least half a billion domestic at the box office on opening weekend.’ He stirs orange juice with a plastic straw. ‘The power of the Library is far greater than that of marketing, or me, or even money. With just a pen one has the ability to remould the landscapes of realms, to reverse a person’s deepest desires, to rebalance the path of history. Even you must realise I can’t just let any old riff-raff in there. Has it occurred to you what would happen if a text in the Library is destroyed? Every copy of that text in my world is destroyed too. Gone! Just like that.’ He snaps his fingers like Thanos. ‘Everyone of her kind’ – he jabs the plastic straw at Fangirl – ‘would have no idea that those stories even existed. And without their love for them…’
Peter remembers the way the characters in the garden flitted among the greenery like ghosts and (literally) fought for their attention in order to cling onto what life they have.
‘There wouldn’t be enough hopes and fantasies to sustain our storyworlds,’ Hermione realises, ‘we’d lose our homes. Then our minds. Then our existences.’
Even the shark looks disturbed at that. His fins slow down and his jaws widen slightly, as if in shock.
Legolas twists the butter knife deeper into the table. ‘I understand your hesitation. Believe me, if a troupe of bratty teenagers in silly clothes turned up at the halls of the Woodland Realm demanding access to our treasure room, my instinct would be to grind their bones into croutons to garnish the cave-bats’ lunch with. But we have the hearts of heroes, and our intentions are honest and true.’
Spielberg scoffs. ‘You say that now. But I am the man who knows everything, and I know that human nature is inherently tied to its corruptibility. How else would you all have so many villains to fight? Take me, for example. I used to be a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed twenty-nine-year-old Oscar winner who genuinely cared about revolutionising cinema and filling up childhoods with wonderment and fantasy and whatnot. And now I travel to climate change charity events in my $250 million superyacht! I know that your quest as you perceive it now is unachievable. I know that if you do find the Library, a hero in this house will – how does Georgie put it? – turn to the Dark Side, and you will bring about the very thing you seek to prevent.’
Deadpool’s warning echoes around his mind: I know whatever the writers think it’s entertaining for me to know. For example, I know that Spidey here will lead seven heroes on a quest to save the Library, whether you like it or not. I know that you’ll all be betrayed. One of you will die, like permanently. And two of you will be making out by the end. Would one of them really do the betraying?
He scans his friends’ faces. The cyan glow of the aquarium harshly illuminates their faces, so that every angle is shiny and every hollow shadowed. Even when surrounded by monsters (the plesiosaurs and the Spielberg) on a life-threatening death mission, Fangirl’s eyes are still lit up by excitement. She couldn’t ruin their quest to save all fandom. The girl loves Star Wars as much as Peter loves… well, Star Wars. Snow White’s lips flutter as she sings under her breath to the fish hoovering the bottom of the tank. Peter isn’t entirely sure that Snow White has the mental capacity for evil. Unless there’s more to her than everyone keeps assuming… now, Hermione definitely does have the mental capacity for evil. Even now, her eyebrows are furrowed as she examines Spielberg’s expression, ripping apart his sentences to squeeze out any bonus meanings from them. Peter pictures her in a chair like Spielberg’s, pushing model soldiers across a battlefield map and cackling evilly. Her skills slip right into the mould of a villain. So does Arya, with all her black cape swishing and silver sword waving. And having that many dead relatives is a bread-and-butter angsty villain origin story. Seriously, Peter’s fought about five enemies like that in the last year alone. Arya flips the hilt of her sword round and round in her palm, as if to illustrate Peter’s point.
As Leia stabs an omelette with her fork, Peter swears he can make out traces of Anakin Skywalker in her features. They have the same waves in their hair, the same arched browbones, and the same shadow above their eyes (although, whether that’s from a calling to the Dark Side or from Spielberg’s brunch mood lighting, Peter can’t tell). And Legolas… Legolas is everything Peter has always wished he could be. His face is so perfect that Peter wouldn’t be surprised if magical self-photoshopping was on his never-ending list of abilities. But Peter remembers all too well how the last hero he worshipped like that turned out to be a liar and an actor and a criminal mastermind supervillain who literally yesterday framed Peter as the globe’s most wanted terrorist (happy memories). Who’s to say that Legolas won’t betray him too and downgrade Peter’s situation from rock bottom to, like, asthenosphere bottom?
No. Peter forces these thoughts out his mind. He can’t live like this, with fears and anxieties encasing him like the leaves of a lettuce or the wrapper of an ice-cream (or the something of a something that makes him sound more heroic than either of those things). His thoughts wouldn’t have spiralled about his friends being secretly evil if Spielberg didn’t plant the idea.
He glimpses Snow White dragging her chair further away from the table, Leia side-eyeing Legolas, Hermione sliding Arya’s breadknife under a napkin. The air is cold with mistrust.
‘Who would like to speak next?’ Spielberg asks. Nobody responds. Peter shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Come now, don’t be shy. Sharing is caring. I know you may not have another opportunity like this to speak to each other. The more you talk with your host the more… generous of spirit you might find me.’
Don’t say anything, don’t say anything. Peter wills these words super hard just in case any of his friends magically hear them. They came here for Spielberg to tell them things, not the other way around.
Leia opens and closes her mouth like a goldfish, then says, ‘look, I wasn’t going to say anything in case your half-formed brain cells hop to the wrong conclusion and assume I’m going to pull on a dark cape and run someone through with a red lightsaber. I don’t have a problem with finding the Library. But I do have a problem with how we’re getting there.’ She turns to Peter. ‘Sorry, I think you’re a really sweet kid, and I’m sure that, if we ever make it out this mess, you’ll make a perfectly competent leader. But only once you’ve fought in a few more wars and finished your homework and studied under a wise old sage and gotten drunk at prom and stuff. It’s not just your age, it’s Spider-Man’s age. You’ve only had what, three years of being a hero? Legolas said that in Hermione’s wizard school world, Harry Potter is only a few months older than you but has been saving the world for double the time you have. In a team like this, you shouldn’t be making all the decisions. Like bringing Snow White along!’ She jabs a fork towards Snow White without bothering to speak to her directly. ‘I swear all she does is get in the way. I know you felt bad about leaving her to be eaten by dinosaurs, but if we screw this quest up then literally every fictional character could be left to be eaten by dinosaurs.’ She waggles her fork at Legolas instead. ‘You keep going on about how much experience and bravery and nice-smelling hair you’ve got. Well, why don’t you prove it for once? You should’ve taken control of the three whiny teenage brats and their unnecessarily existential angst right at the start and we could be drinking champagne in the Library by now.’
Hermione scoffs, clearly unimpressed at being referred to as a whiny teenage brat. Arya cuts into her sausages with such force that the table shakes.
Spielberg smiles like a cat that got the cream (Peter has never seen a cat lick cream, or understood the hype about non-whipped cream, but he’s pretty certain that the combined look of greed and satisfaction in Spielberg’s eyes is what people are on about). ‘Would the really sweet kid like to reply to that?’
The really sweet kid would not. Firstly, because his instinct is always to do the opposite of what someone tells him. Middlingly, because if he thinks too hard about Leia’s words he’ll start crying over them. And thirdly, he’s watched Star Wars enough times to be 99% sure that Princess Leia would pulverise him in any argument.
Instead, Legolas pushes Snow White’s head down so he can glare at Leia without obstruction. ‘How dare you question my judgement, when I have fought a hundred wars and killed a thousand enemies each worthier of opposing me than any person here? I don’t know how they educate princesses in whichever shithole spawned you, but where I’m from royalty are taught not to be such tight-lipped judgemental shrews. Perhaps if you took your head out your arse for long enough, you’d finally see that not everything bends to your will. The mighty Deadpool foresaw with the powers of fourth wall breaking that Spider-Man would lead the quest, and I know better than to resist fate.’ Peter doesn’t know whether to be more shocked at his point or at how he swore twice to make it (he’d kind of assumed that Legolas’ approach to cuss words was the same as his elderly great-uncle’s, or Taylor Swift’s before she launched Reputation and pretended to be edgy).
Leia laughs like Harley Quinn. ‘You seriously think that there is some higher power in control of all this mess? That we should sit back on a lilo with a pina colada and wait for fate to sort it all out for us?’
Legolas slams his hand down on the table. Plates rattle. ‘Are you slow? How else do you think we found the house of Steven Spielberg, despite ignoring Deadpool’s instructions and despite our general incompetence? Believe me, I would not hesitate to lead this quest if I could.’ He doesn’t even look Peter in the eye, but keeps talking him down to Leia, as if Peter were back in Manhattan and not on the other side of the table.
Peter tries to think of a clever response, but his mind is blank beyond that’s not very nice, which isn’t exactly an innovative insult. He’d have picked Legolas to be the leader too.
Before he can come up with anything better, Arya groans like a wild animal and shoves her plate aside. Scrambled egg tips onto the table. ‘Do you all understand now why I wanted to find the Library by myself? Legolas, when I first met you on that train, my first thought was so that’s the hero the song will be written about. But I’m sick of your arrogance and your hair-flipping. I’m convinced now that you only make such a mountain out of Spider-Man being the leader so that nobody will blame you when things inevitably fail!’ Her fingers brush her scabbard. Peter hopes that’s just a habit and she’s not seriously planning on turning them into a hero donna kebab for the sharks. ‘You doomed this quest the moment you decided we should wait for Hermione’s sorcery to heal her ankle.’ Hermione sips her coffee, shielding her face with the mug. Arya shifts her body and her anger towards the witch. ‘The one time I want you to talk is the one time you say nothing. You complicate everything. This quest could have been a thousand times easier if you hadn’t caught Darth Vader’s attention back in that mansion, or insisted we rescue Snow White.’
‘Wait,’ Leia shrieks, ‘it was Hermione’s idea to babysit the perfume-pampered lily-livered shrinking pansy?’
Snow White sniffles. ‘Hey! You all chose to take this perfume-pampered lily’ – she inhales sharply to keep sobs at bay – ‘livered shrinking pansy with you. Has it ever occurred to any of you that I have feelings too?’ Tears stream down her cheeks. ‘So many feelings! I feel like half the time you’re all rude to me, and the other half you forget that I’m even here. If I fell into another of those portals and vanished, I’m not sure you would notice.’ Her words are swallowed by sobs.
Leia snorts, ‘oh, cry me a river. Oh, never mind, you’ve already cried a whole damn ocean.’
Hermione turns to Arya. ‘Did I do something to you? Seriously, did I do something to you? I don’t trust you, or even like you. But your behaviour to me transcends rudeness. You seem to go out of your way to take every opportunity to make it known how much you dislike me.’
Arya leans towards Hermione so much that their foreheads are practically touching. ‘From the moment I saw your face, I knew that I was destined to treat you with nothing but pure contempt, until one of us kills the other or the world turns upside down.’ They glare into each other’s eyes like dogs vying for dominance.
Guacamole splatters onto Peter’s mask. Leia’s hair is flecked with crumbs from real Danish pastries – deliberately or not, Peter isn’t sure – and is now hurling anything she can find at Legolas and Snow White. Fangirl slides plates away from her and shouts at them to stop. Arya and Hermione are yelling at each other about either defending or befriending someone (it’s getting kind of hard to make out individual words, what with the whirring of the aquarium and all the arguing and pastry dodgeball).
Steven Spielberg hasn’t spoken since he poked that reaction out of Leia. He watches the chaos escalate in front of him, his eyes practically dancing with glee.
And as Peter watches Leia throw Hermione’s wand into the fruit salad, and Arya tip baked beans on Legolas’ hair, he realises the worst thing about their fighting: their whole journey has been like this. Just more implicit. And with less types of eggs. The main antagonist holding them back on this quest hasn’t been Harley Quinn or Darth Vader or even the Villain in the Dark, but each other. They keep arguing because none of them are especially hyped to trust or understand each other, like they’re all guests at one of those murder mystery dinner party things. But it’s not their fault. Right now, it’s the fault of Spielberg for deliberately chucking in these accusations and stirring the pot and seasoning it with this unnecessarily dramatic shark brunch setting, just to see what drama he can stew for his own enjoyment. And really, it’s all the fault of the Villain in the Dark in the first place for hatching his evil plan and compelling them to be flung into this weird-ass situation in which they’re all way too unsure of themselves to ever be sure of each other.
And surely Mr I-Am-The-Man-Who-Knows-Everything Steven Look-At-How-Many-Pancakes-I-Can-Afford Spielberg knows all this. He must know that all their infighting, even their own lives, are totally irrelevant in the grand scheme of how important it is to protect the Library. He’s just choosing not to help them out of his own greed or apathy or amusement or something. When Peter’s whole life fell apart before his eyes on that screen by Madison Square Garden, he still dropped everything to go on this quest, not because he wanted to but because he knew it was the right thing to do. And despite all his sacrifice and all his suffering (seriously, he had to go to a party with karaoke and Donald Trump) the path he put all his hopes on is being blocked by the selfishness of one old man with a side parting that looked stupid in the 70s and looks even more stupid now.
Usually in dream-crushing soul-destroying world-ending moments like these, Peter’s instinct is to crumble into a puddle of tears, burrow under his duvet and sob to Taylor Swift music until Aunt May brings him churros. But right now, Peter doesn’t have to hold back the tears. There aren’t any welling up to his eyeballs. It’s like he’s been miserable so many times in a row that now he’s run out of any sadness to feel. In the inverse of that universal saying used by teachers and parents and Ms Potts – he’s not just disappointed, he’s angry. He glows with the fire of rage, anger at both Steven Spielberg for failing them, and at himself for putting faith in the wrong person.
He raises his wrist and covers the whole table with a spider web. Legolas’ hand is caught between strings. Nobody can reach any of the brunch-items-turned-missiles. One by one, his friends shift their gaze to them. He doesn’t care. He only cares about the way that Spielberg’s body shrinks back in his chair, and his gaze darts to the door. He’s startled. Good.
He leans across Fangirl, his back arched like a riled-up cat’s, so that Spielberg will feel the heat from his breath. ‘I see you for what you are, Mr Spielberg. You can hide behind your sharks and Harrison Fords and very nice waffles, but you might as well be made from aquarium glassx. And you know what? I don’t think you’re very nice person. And your Bond villain shark brunch intimidation room needs redecorating, because I’m not feeling especially intimidated right now. You should be intimidated by us.’ Peter gestures to Legolas’ bow and knives, Leia’s blaster, Arya’s sword, Hermione’s wand. For once, Legolas and the others don’t look judgemental. They look impressed. Maybe it's time Spielberg learns that their weapons are good for more than encouraging kids to waste their allowances on overpriced replicas. ‘Since you are the man who knows everything or whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean, you should know exactly what we’re capable of doing to idiots whose selfishness stands in our way.’ Something crackles. Peter glances down. Without even realising it, he’s worn handprints into the mahogany. Maybe he is stronger than he realises (both in terms of the table, and you know, like, metaphorically). ‘You will stop playing us against each other for your own fun. You will give me the recipe for these nice waffles. And you will tell us where the Library is or we will use every arrow, blade, bullet and spell that we have to raze this house to the ground, potpourri and all,’ then he adds, ‘oh! And it's totally unsustainable to use that many sprinklers on your lawn in Los Angeles. Have some consideration for your planet.’
‘Yes, I will,’ Spielberg says.
‘Like hell you will,’ Peter hisses, ‘or I will tear apart each and every one of your plant pots and shove them up… wait.’ He sits back down. ‘You will? Just like that? I had like a whole speech planned out to persuade you with. I was crescendo-ing up to threatening to give Christopher Nolan the keys to your office.’
Spielberg has covered up again whatever fear his body language just gave away. He produces a notebook and fluffy dinosaur biro from his pocket. ‘If you pay me with something of equivalent value.’