"Be listenin' up, all you fools! I have had a dream about snow, and everybody what know they's shit knows that when the Cakester has a dream, his dream becomes the next day's reality! So shut y'all's windows muthafucking TIGHT! The snowstorm of a lifetime is approaching our fair city."

Cake "the Cakester" Montenegro stands on top of a soapbox on the corner of Ware and Panter in downtown Xmas San Tropa. Pedestrians are walking by, some glancing at him as they go about their business. A couple of passers-by have actually stopped to listen to his rant. It is sunset, and a cold November wind is picking up newspapers and debris. One of the onlookers lights a cigarette, and gives a light to the person next to him, and also to Cake, who takes deep drags between sentences as he continues his speech.

"I saw other things in my dream! I saw a snake riding another snake, with a great many snakes for hair, and he told me in a great, booming voice, he told me: 'COLLECT THE SOULS OF THE WILLING, YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE, AND BRING THEM UNTO ME OR I WILL BITE DOWN ON YOUR ASS WITH GREAT FURY.' He told this to me and then his face changed into my face, and knew then that what he spoke was true. This snowstorm that now circles around y'all's asses is a yell of displeaure booming from the great throat of the snake! He is telling us that all our sins is gonna be BITED DOWN UPON with icy snake teeth."

Cake catches something in his peripheral vision, and looks up from his audience to call out to a twenty-something anthropomorph in an olive-green army jacket who is crossing the street, his hands in his pockets.

"MOTHAFUCKING CADWALLADER CACOMISTLE! WHAT THE FUCK IS UP, MY MAN!"

Cadwallader waves cordially, without stopping.