Nothing. He should be used to this by now.
“Nobody? Is this the wrong Giant’s Cave? Shall I call up a tempest from the aether? I remember that time warp- it was all the rage on Hitchemus.”
Still he walks, softly plodding through the darkness with his oversized penlight held high, daring the damn monkeys to play Silly Buggers. But wait. The sound of sniffle-snuffling pervades. He draws nearer, smelling a little girl’s briny tears. Thoughts pool in his head, and some of them come out through his lips. He’s always found it severely humorous.
“And is that the sound of precious surf, buffeting chocolate rocks with waves of cream? I tell you straight, don’t call the cat; she’ll lick the ocean dry and there’ll be none for me.”
More snuffling, and closer. But no answer. He continues, rambling desperately. When kiddies cry, it’s like the glass shards he can’t be bothered to tweeze from his fingers have found a vein and happily gone to ground in China, having found a two-hearted frog to torture. So his reasons are selfish, really.
“You know, they don’t make sea salt like they used to, and even less like they ought. It makes the soup taste fishy.”