â Please save the lecture for someone who gives a shit. â -- Barry
Jim lofts an unconcerned eyebrow. Nothing of his slight, nattily clad frame moves, save his mouth.
   âNot like I, a professor by trade, ever heard that zinger before. Certainly not from ninety-seven thousand happily mediocre first-years in the back row of the lecture hall, reeking of corn chips and disappointment. Grab me a divan, hit boy, I feel faint.âÂ
Thereâs something in the ilt of his voice, errant and erratic, up and down octaves at irrational intervals, paired inscrutably with his relentless logic, that makes Moriartyâs words alone terrifying. One gets a potent understanding of how he has remained covert, and unobstructed in his machinations, while controlling most of the major criminal syndicates of Europe. How can you orient yourself around a person who is a bomb that may be a dud, or may at any moment detonate? He may either continue serenely unaffected, or rid you of a limb.
Or your life: if fate smiles.Â
   âMy dear Barry. Either you agree to the terms of your contract or you donât. Please donât labor a moment under the misapprehension that I give a shit what happens to disgruntled employees.âÂ