And then his trousers disappear with a little snap, and I realize that he's wearing those idiotic starred-and-striped boxers. His experiment is certainly having an effect on his clothing (and on me), but I can't tell him, now can I? He interrupts me at every turn. What to do, what to do...

... exactly what he asked. I'll observe.

He's leaning forward on the couch. His nipples harden slightly, presumably from the cold of the house. His glasses slide down his nose as he maniacally pounds the buttons. The telly beeps neurotically, and the screen shows the words "GAME OVER," and Alfred swears.

His boxers evaporate, and somehow I'm hard as a rock.

"Continue?" asks the screen.

"Of-fucking-course," he says, and presses a button.

"Absolutely not," I whisper, and walk to the console and press what I believe to be the power switch.