The room is swathed in dark toned hardwood forested from the Gilbert Islands, transported to Australia via a rowing boat, hewn from a single Joshua tree by cannibal tribeswomen. The wood was then dressed and sawn into boards by a blind, German, ex-Waffen SS officer, who had fled to the town of Coober Pedy to abortively mine the rare cats-eye opals whilst avoiding capture by the authorities.
Rich tapestries hung from every roughly horizontal surface, their bright colours stemming from the rare ingredients in their dyes. Ground turquoise, the ink of the colossal squid, the tears of newborn baby marmosets. They depicted moments in the life of Bruce Campbell, or moments in the life of other people, where those people were replaced by Bruce Campbell.
All the electrical fittings were solid brass, taken from the coffin furniture of the eight members of Manchester United football team, killed in the 1958 Munich air disaster, but melted down and fashioned into fanciful representations of popular wild animals. Their design had been originally formulated by HR Giger, but had been re-imagined by JJ Abrams, so as to be more Avant Garde, yet also accessible to the masses.
He looked out of the window into the driving rain. It was a dark and stormy night, and the wolves were howling. The Grey Wolves were from the Carpathian Mountains, they wore collars of Malacca wood, sliced into thin strips and woven to resemble the illumination in the Book of Kells. As they had grown and lost their milk teeth, he had had these mounted in platinum tiaras, which he required the wolves to wear at all times.
He closed the shutters, their heavy boxwood marquetry catching the desolate golden rays of light from the Honduran beeswax candles that had been hand-rolled by Polish missionaries. Their motion was silent; they had been greased with the blubber from the last albino Elephant Seal to be accidentally shot in captivity by a Dutchman. He had its eyes in a jar, somewhere in the basement.
He was a member of the Gentleman's Adventuring Authors, he had traveled the old world collecting stories from local ethnic tribes, ruthlessly killing them straight afterward so that they couldn't share their stories with anyone else. He recorded the things that other men would not, things that other men could not, things that other men should not. But he had no fear. He was Horner, of the G.A.A.
Pulling out his carved human bone drafting pen from its walrus skin and ebony case, he nodded gravely to his strangely androgynous manservant, pulled down his hand carved Ugandan writing helmet and wrote in his own blood.... 'The room is swathed in dark toned hardwood from the Gilbert Islands...'