But if he says no then he'll be compromised. And verily the plot begins to thicken, like custard in a dark, cold, and slightly disagreeable bedroom, which incidentally is an unpleasant shade of brown, and has a rickety stool upon which sits a small metal idol that stares at the custard in curious fascination. Oh and the corpse of the person who had spilled the custard is lying upon the floor, after being killed by the curse of previously mentioned idol.