“I was reduced to doing birthday parties for a while,” muses William Shatner. “Me. Five hundred dollars a pop.”

Shriek into the gag.

“I know,” he’ll say. “Canadian dollars.” He’ll spread a clanking roll of velvet on the stone beside you. Bloody your wrists against the ropes as he admires the light on surgical steel.

“I thought it was luck when things picked up again, until Nerine… poor Nerine.” He sighs. “I understood, then. Do you know the term ‘cult of celebrity?'”

Gurgle in the affirmative.

“Like any cult,” he’ll say, “it requires sacrifices,” and will begin to excise your liver.