Chapter 74

Caine: "It is not magic. It is a price that's been paid."

"He'd never spoken two words to me before," Sid reports to a silent audience, "but in early 2012, January, I think, I was sitting in Granny's having a bourbon at the counter and Spencer sat down next to me to do the same, and we got to talking about how things were changing in Storybrooke, and how much better things were when Regina ran everything. But bit by bit, control of the town was shifting from Regina to Snow White–"

"Who?" Keaton exclaims.

Gold interrupts, and the other Storybrookers nods in support, "'Snow White' is the town's nickname for a schoolteacher called Mary Margaret Blanchard. Because Ms. Blanchard is, compared to Ms. Mills–or anyone, really-pure as snow." His hand surreptitiously slides behind Sid's chair and grabs him by the nape, giving Glass' neck a warning squeeze. Glass squirms but doesn't debate Gold's explanation.

"Proceed, Mr. Glass," Keaton orders.

"So on the surface, control of Storybrooke was shifting to Sn–to Mary Margaret, but the more we talked, the more we realized Mary and Prince Charming–"

"Let me guess: another nickname. For who?"

Casting a worried glance at Gold, Sid backpedals. "That's Mary's husband, David Nolan. Spencer and I came to the conclusion that the real control of Storybrooke–the one who was really benefiting from Regina's decline–was him." He nods toward Gold. "We figured it out: he's been running the show behind the scenes from the beginning. Regina was just his puppet, until Emma came to town–"

"Emma Swan-Gold, former sheriff of Storybrooke," Grayson explains.

"And then Gold had new puppets to play with. Regina's downfall was all his doing, him behind the scenes, pushing Snow to banish Regina."

"Whoa. What do you mean, 'banish'? This is the US, Glass, not some medieval monarchy."

""Regina was removed from office and had to leave town because no one would hire her," Locksley explains.

"Strange town you people live in," Keaton mutters, "but go on, Glass."

"The longer Spencer and me talked, the madder we got." Sid purses his lips. "And the drunker. Me, anyway. Spencer's got a wooden leg. Anyway, we were saying, somebody's got to rid us of this monster Rumplestiltskin."

"Mr. Gold's nickname," Locksley butts in. "Because he's, you know, short and into the dealmaking thing."

"Al–he said that: 'Call me Al,' like we were buddies now," Sid continues. "Al said, for the sake of the town–for the survival of the town, we got to get rid of him. So we started a petition, and we did, we got him banished too, but it was too late, he already had the town so deep in his pocket, he owned everything and everyone, so we had to break his stranglehold. And that's when Scrooge came in."

Keaton raises an eyebrow and Grayson shrugs. "Actual name. VP of the bank. Wilford Scrooge."

"Whose ex-wife and mistress are in the courtroom, ready to testify that Scrooge was deep in debt, and then in just a few months' time had money running like tap water, far in excess of his salary-"

Keaton holds up a warning hand. "Stop right there, Mr. Kamen. Mr., uh, Scrooge is not on trial."

"That, I intend to rectify shortly," Keaton smiles sweetly.

"Spencer brought him in," Glass reflects. "We started meeting at Spencer's house. It's the third biggest house in town, very impressive, just two streets over from Nob Hill, where Regina and Gold live. Lived. Anyway, we'd have some fine Kentucky bourbon and talk about what to do about Gold, and eventually, this idea emerged. He was too powerful for us, even after Snow exiled him, but not too powerful for the US government. And he'd made it so easy: he kept copies of all his business records in a deposit box in the bank. Then he made it even easier: he got married and took his silly little bride off on a world cruise for a whole year, and he did his income taxes by fax that year. For the first time, instead of doing them himself, he had Scrooge do them, and Scrooge would fax him the forms to sign, in Paris or Rome or Tokyo or whatever." Glass snickers. "For a guy who always kept his cards close to his vest, I guess love made him sloppy. All we had to do was fabricate a second set of books. We put a copy in the deposit box and a copy in his house, in a false-bottomed drawer."

Glass smirks. "That was my idea. Spencer got us into the house—again, too easy: the Golds were never home. Social climbers. We knew he kept hard copies of everything—handwritten copies—but we assumed, considering the extent of his reach, he'd have electronic records, so we put a keystroke logger on his office desktop." Glass snorts. "When we went back for it, we found the only time he used the damn thing was to send emails to some botanist in Peru and to Skype some monk in China. What a caveman! So that complicated things a bit, since we had to produce records in his handwriting, but then I remembered I'm a genie—about damn time, too. My magic's nowhere near as powerful as his, but at least, I have it—"

As Glass yammers on, Gold, white-faced, throws his hands in the air and everyone in the judge's chambers freezes, suspended in time, except Glass, who's blissfully chattering, so blindly proud of his magic that he isn't aware he's lost his audience. "And I'm not afraid to use it, just rusty. And so I said to Al, I can forge those records with my magic, perfect forgeries, and Al just kind of grinned and said, 'Of course you can. Why didn't we think of that before?' And I said, 'Just one problem. I can't access my magic on my own. The way it works, someone has to free me, and then I can access the magic to grant them three wishes.' And Al said, 'Wish Number One: destroy Gold. His fortune, his marriage, his friendships, his standing in the community—everything.' And I said, 'Wish Number Two: Bring Regina back.' And Spencer said, 'Wish Number Three: break up the Charmings.'

"That's when I got a brainstorm: I wasn't literally in the lamp any more, but I was, figuratively. I was so besotted with Regina that I was enthralled. So I said to Al and Wil, 'Free me from her control. My magic's made me her puppet. If you can break that spell, you'll release me and I can grant your wishes.' 'Nothing simpler,' Wil said. See, he's been keeping mistresses since time immemorial, so he's got friends in shady places, if you know what I mean. He got on the phone and before I could blink he was sitting me down in front of a VCR and showing me surveillance tapes of Regina and her—" Glass swallows hard—"boyfriends. Bedroom tapes. I always knew she was—making it with Graham, but—I thought that was the curse making her act that way. I dunno. I poured a tumbler of bourbon and sat there watching four hours of sex tapes and I got sick all over Spencer's Burberry carpet. I kept watching and drinking, and at one point I think I threw an empty bottle at the TV. The next day I had the world's worst hangover, but I wasn't hungover on Regina any more. I was free."

"And then you used your magic to forge my tax returns and the financial records I kept for Treadle and the shop," Gold says softly.

Sid seems to realize now that no one else is listening; at least, no one is reacting to his confession. In fact, no one else is moving at all. He leans forward and snaps his fingers under the judge's nose, and when the judge doesn't bat an eyelash, Sid glares at Gold. "What the hell?"

"Did your wish come true, Mr. Glass?" Kamen inquires, and Gold jerks his head around to stare at his attorney. "But—" Gold begins, then clamps his mouth shut and just stares, because he smells a scent he has to think a moment to identify, a combination of odors that, by rights, shouldn't be mixing together, but somehow are, and are now resulting in the scent of burnt honey.

Kamen's hands are glowing.

"I hadn't planned on coming out to you this way," Kamen smiles ruefully. "Sorry, Rumple. I was going to sit you and Belle down in your kitchen, maybe with a glass of Kentucky bourbon."

Glass' jaw has dropped, but he's still a step behind: he can't figure out what's going on. Gold is having a little trouble himself.

"By the way," Kamen adds, "what you suspected before, you were right. Your magic didn't do this." He waves a hand toward the spellbound audience. "I did. Your magic–the magic you have here, I mean—is still pretty limited. You've just barely got to the point of being able to make the sort of decisions that would grant you full use of your magic." He slaps Gold's shoulder. "I know, it's confusing. Just take my word for now. You'll get your training later. Right now, we've got this mess to clean up." He folds his arms and studies the scene before him: the judge, his head cocked sideways, unblinking; the bailiff, her hands on her hips, unmoving; the stenographer, fingers poised in mid-air; the television crew, Anguem and her assistant, all locked in motion. "Hmm. How do we fix this?"

Gold clears his throat. It's difficult to resist the siren call of questions, but for the moment—for just a moment—he chooses to play Kamen's game; for the present time, at least, Gold must acknowledge he's in the presence of a more powerful mage, one whose magic carries the honey scent of fairies, the moldy leaves scent of witches, the spicy scent of shamans, and the burnt flesh scent of the Dark One. "I suggest we get Glass' story in order first."

"Yes," Kamen agrees slowly. "Take the lead, Rumple."

Gold peels his lips back from his teeth and gets up into Glass' face. "Mr. Glass, listen carefully. You can see the predicament you're in. You don't want to piss me off, and most certainly, you don't want to disturb Mr. Kamen's plans. Do you? Unless you want the spend the remainder of your life in, say, the mirror of the men's room at Grand Central Station." When Glass shakes his head, Gold continues, "You're going to finish your confession to the judge. You're going to say you hired a master forger, someone you came across in your days of investigative journalism, someone who disappeared back into the woodwork like the termite he is, and will never be heard from again, no matter how hard the IRS investigators search. You're not going to say another word about magic or lamps or curses or banishment or anything else that would tip these good people off to the true nature of Storybooke. And you're going to do this, not because I'm threatening you, but because you're smart enough to realize the consequences if the rest of the world finds out about Storybrooke—and genies."

Sid nods furiously and mutters a shocked expletive.

"Very good. And now we're going to do a little backtracking." There's a question in Gold's voice; he glances over at Kamen, who nods.

"I can manage that." Frowning in concentration, the attorney summons magic to his hands again, then waves a single finger in the air. The clock hung on the wall behind Keaton's desk shakes on its hook, then its minute hand clicks backward two spaces. Kamen's hands stop glowing and he sighs tiredly. "That's always a toughie."

"Indeed," Gold says in admiration. He realizes what Kamen has done is more than just reset a clock; he's reset Time itself. By just two minutes, but yet, it's more than any sorcerer in the Enchanted Forest has ever done.

Suddenly everyone is breathing and moving again, and Glass is babbling, unable to control the story that's flowing out of his mouth: "And he'd made it so easy: he kept copies of all his business records in a deposit box in the bank. Then he made it even easier: he got married and took his silly little bride off on a world cruise for a whole year, and he did his income taxes by fax that year." On and on he yammers, about false-bottomed drawers and deposit boxes and Gold's lovesick sloppiness and a mysterious expert forger who crawled out of the woodwork of some dive in the seediest part of Detroit and vanished again once the books had been cooked.

"Well." Keaton leans back in his chair. "That's quite some story, Glass." Over his shoulder he orders the bailiff, "Get a warrant ready for Albert Spencer and Wilford Scrooge. Sheriff Grayson can assist you with the specifics." He turns back to Glass. "So. Why now? You and your partners in crime came this far. Why not play out the hand? From what I saw of Ms. Anguem's preparations, you'd have probably succeeded in getting Mr. Gold convicted." Anguem bobs her head in gratitude for the compliment.

Glass flicks his thumb in the camera crew's direction. "It was them. They harassed us, me and Al and Wil, for months! Chasing us around town, interrupting any normal work we tried to get done, with their cameras and their microphones and their 'How much do know about the Gold tax fraud case?'" He mocks Locksley's ever-chipper voice. "'People are saying it's a frame-up. Did you do it, Glass? Are you involved, Sidney?' I'd be in line at the grocery store, and there's she'd be with her microphone and that damned never-ending smile. Or eating dinner at Dave's Fish and Chips, and her co-host, Hart Archer, would bust in and pepper me with questions. Every day! Outside my apartment, they'd be; or calling me in the middle of the night, hounding, hounding—and the sheriff, when I called him for help, he just laughed and said, 'You should know about freedom of the press, Glass.' Every damn morning on Good Morning, Storybrooke, it was 'The Gold Report,' how wonderful the Golds are, how they couldn't possibly have done anything criminal. They even had weekly reports from Gold's grandson about how dear old Grandpa's holding up. And the worst of it, they incited riots! Encouraged the public to attack me!"

"Oh, we did not," Goldie huffs. "Your Honor, may I show you? Is it all right if we use your PC?"

Keaton waves a dismissive hand, and as he rolls his chair back from the desk to give her space, Goldie slips in beside him, adjusts the monitor so everyone can see it and punches up Youtube.

The image jerks, drops down for a shot of a sidewalk, then swings up again for a shot of someone's plaid-covered back, then goes blurry, then focuses on a picket sign: "FREE GOLD!" The camera pulls back and now more backs and more signs are discernible: "TELL THE TRUTH, SIDNEY!" "THIS IS A FRAME!" "LEAVE THE GOLDS ALONE!" Someone with a bullhorn—there's just a quick shot, but it's enough to make out a blonde ponytail—is shouting into it, and gradually the crowd—there appear to be fifty or so, all ages, all sizes (Gold even spots Leroy and Tom Clark)—gets its act together, and as they move en masse down the sidewalk, in pursuit of a figure hidden in their midst, they're chanting, "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!"

Hart Archer's sugary voice provides commentary as the crowd sounds are faded out: "This was the scene yesterday afternoon as protestors confronted former Mirror reporter Sidney Glass outside his apartment, demanding that Glass tell the truth in the Gold Tax Fraud case."

There's a close up of reporter Boyd Grayson, the sheriff's little brother, asking, "What do you hope to accomplish today?" He tilts his microphone away from himself and the camera shifts to Granny Lucas, who's holding a placard as if she wishes it were a crossbow. "We want him, or his co-conspirators, Wilford Scrooge and Albert Spencer, to tell the truth! That's all: we just want the truth! Rumple Gold may be the worst a—" here her voice is bleeped—"walking the planet, no arguments there, but in this situation, he's innocent! He did not commit tax fraud! He's being framed!" Granny glances over her shoulder in the direction of the crowd. "If we let Glass and Scrooge and Spencer get away with this, there's no stopping them. Who will they come after next?" She wheels around, her back to the camera, as the crowd continues to follow its prey down the sidewalk. She shakes her placard and shouts along with the protestors, "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!"

The image cuts to the GMS studio, where Hart says, "Thank you, Boyd. Now this protest, which appears to be very well organized, has been going on for weeks." The image cuts to film footage of Sidney, trying to squeeze through a crowd to get into the bank, with more shouts of "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" Then there's film of Spencer, his chin drawn against his chest. "Pish," the DA is saying. "A bunch of malcontents harassing innocent people as they go about their daily business. When is the sheriff going to uphold the peace?"

There's film of Grayson, looking unflappable in his uniform: "The protestors have permits from the mayor's office. As long as they don't tie up traffic or vandalize anything or enter a building without permission, they're not breaking the law."

An image of a crowd gathered on the lawn of Granny's Diner is punctuated by a voice-over from Mayor Geppetto Marco: "Yes, I granted them permits. They are practicing their right to assemble and to speak out. They believe an injustice has been done, and rather than take the law into their own hands, as some would do, they are practicing their civil rights. If any laws are broken in the process, the permits will be revoked."

Then Scrooge, the little patch of hair he has left now standing on end, is shown trying to enter a small house, and a red-haired woman appears at the doorway, thumping his butt with a broom and shrieking, "Get out, you two-bit Casanova! You liar!"

"The alleged conspirators—bank Vice President Wilford Scrooge, District Attorney Albert Spencer and Sidney Glass, currently unemployed—have become pariahs in Storybrooke, unwelcome in their own homes"—there's a shot of a maid in a frilly white apron and spiked heels storming out of Spencer's back door and yelling, "Get yourself another bimbo, Al! I'm through!"

Hart Archer continues, "Unwelcome in local businesses"—Scrooge is shown being forcibly evicted from the Dark Star Pharmacy by a still-sneezing dwarf. "Even unwelcome in church." The camera shows a church door being closed in Glass' face.

"This has been going on for months," a wild-eyed Glass pants. "I haven't had a minute's peace since Gold got arrested. It's her—her and her husband, Emma Swan and Nealfire Gold—they're behind all this. And the nuns and a bunch of people from the hospital and the dwarfs and the Nesmiths and the Romanos, and especially that b—[bleep] Ruby Hopper and her gunslinging granny. Somebody's got to stop them!"

Even Spencer seems a bit flustered. "Don't the law-abiding citizens have any rights here? Geppetto and Grayson need to be recalled immediately. Let's bring in law enforcement that will protect the public from harassment."

Glass' image again: "I can't even get anybody out to fix my clogged drain. I live in one of Gold's apartments!"

Goldie brings up another GMS clip. "This was from this morning, Your Honor."

In the burgeoning dawn, a hunched figure in a dark hoodie is caught on camera entering Granny's—and being chased right back out by the proprietor, who's throwing menus at him. On the street, he's bumped into by another figure in a hoodie; that figure sets a hand on the first man to right him, then fades into the alley. The first figure proceeds across the street, jaywalking; once safely across, he ducks into a bakery. Several minutes later, he emerges to find a small group of protestors waiting for him on the sidewalk. This time, however, the protestors are silent, allowing Emma to take the lead: "Sidney! I want to borrow a pen, Sidney! I need to sign a petition calling for you to be exiled. Loan me your pen, Sidney!"

The hooded figure tries to dodge, but the protestors follow and Emma calls again for a pen. They follow him to the street corner, where he attempts to step out into the crosswalk, but an oncoming Ford prevents him. Frustrated, Sidney throws back the hood of his jacket and growls, "Leave me alone!"

"I just want to borrow a pen, Sid, that's all. Loan me a pen and I promise we'll leave." Emma smiles faintly.

"I don't have—"

"Oh, I'm sure you do," Baelfire interrupts. "Just look in your pockets, huh? If you don't have a pen, we'll leave."

Shaking now, Glass thrusts his hands into his jeans pockets, then his jacket pocket. His mouth falls open as his right hand comes out of the jacket clenched.

Emma holds out her hand. "Thank you, Sid. I'll give it right back as soon as I've—" She gasps as she looks down at the object she's snatched from Glass. "This is some fancy pen, Sid! No fifty-cent Bics for you, huh? Bae, you gotta see this. It's a beauty."

Bae throws his arm around Emma's shoulder so he can lean in for a good look. "My, my, it certainty is, Em. Bet it's imported. Hey, there's something inscribed on the clip. What's it say, Sid? 'Forever.'" Now Bae's lips curl back. "Sid! You son of a—[bleep]! This is the pen Belle gave my dad for Christmas."

"Birthday," Emma corrects.

"Whatever. This is my dad's pen! There's no way in [bleep] he'd part with it. He never even let it leave his study, it was that precious to him. Glass, how did you get my dad's birthday pen?"

"Yeah, Sid, how?" Emma presses.

The protestors start chanting, "Tell the truth! Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" Doors and windows are thrown open up and down the street, and heads poke out. The louder they get, the more people come pouring out of buildings to join the crowd. "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" Sidney backs up until he's literally against the wall; the crowd gets bigger and louder, and children on their way to school stop to join in. Sheriff Grayson, shouting something into his phone, comes running from Granny's, with coffee sloshing out of a Styrofoam cup. "Tell the truth! Tell the truth!" A school crossing guard and a pair of nurses join in. Archie, out walking Pongo, pauses to assess the situation, then he falls in with the crowd. Granny comes with fist raised, leaving the door to her restaurant standing open. The former Mrs. Scrooge comes, waving a broom. And all the while, the trusty GMS cameraman is rolling film. Goldie arrives in a bathrobe and bunny slippers; she grabs the microphone from the cameraman and thrusts it through a sea of arms and placards as she shouts, "Sidney Glass, what are you feeling right now?"

"Grayson!" Glass bellows. "Get me out of here!"

"Causing a disturbance, are you, Glass?" Grayson grunts. "Do you have a permit for this assembly?"

"What?! Me? What are you—" Glass tries to move left but comes face to bosom with Granny. "Oooph! Out of my way, you old hag!"

A collective gasp rises over the chanting and Granny can be heard to call for her crossbow.

Goldie persists, "Sidney, how does it feel to know your neighbors want you to leave town? Are you afraid, Sidney? Your neighbors want you gone. Local businesses won't trade with you. You can't even get a decent haircut because Barney won't let you into his barber shop. Sidney Glass, what are you going to do?"

"Grayson, help!"

"Tell the truth, tell the truth!"

"Where did you get my dad's pen, Sidney?"

"Did you steal it, Sidney? 'Cause there's no way in [bleep] Gold would've given it to you."

"Tell the truth! Tell the truth!"

"Grayson! Help!" Sidney stumbles over someone's foot and falls back against the Welcome to Storybrooke mural. He slides to the dirt, hands grasping at air. Someone reaches over to lift him to his feet again. "All right! I took it! I took the damn pen!"

Sudden silence, except for Sidney's panting.

Emma waves her hand to get everyone's attention. "Okay, back off, everyone. Let Dick in."

Yanking handcuffs from his belt, Grayson pushes through and the crowd parts for him. The shouting, the chanting, the placard waving cease. The air fills with the sounds of distant traffic, birds chirping, a radio playing Don Mclean's "Everybody Loves Me, Baby."

Aided by a pair of dwarfs, Grayson hauls Sidney upright and slaps on the cuffs. "Sidney Glass, you have the right to remain silent. . . ."

The on-screen Sidney and the in-the-flesh Sidney are sobbing now. The former bobs his head. "I did it, I did it, but it wasn't just me. It wasn't even my idea. Besides, he deserved it. Somebody had to do something. The Dark One has to be stopped."

The Youtube video ends and Goldie shuts off the computer.

Keaton clears his throat as the stenographer reaches into his pocket to produce a handkerchief for Glass. "The Dark One, huh? That's your nickname, I suppose." He glances over his bushy eyebrows at Gold, who nods. Keaton pushes a button on his desk phone and speaks into the receiver. "Security, we need some assistance here." He hangs up and informs Grayson, "Sergeant Orson will show you to the holding cell in the dungeon—err, basement. Kindly escort your prisoner there."

The room falls silent. The second hand on the wall clock can be heard ticking. There's an audible sigh from several people at once. Keaton makes some notes on a pad, then rises, offering his hand to Grayson. "Sheriff, thank you for bringing this to my attention. You saved the government a great deal of time and embarrassment." He shakes hands with Goldie. "Ms. Locksley, thank you for the information." He continues to shake hands all around. "Ms. Anguem, you're a talented prosecutor. Your attention to detail is impressive. Better luck next time. Mr. Kamen, well done. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to bring Mr., uh, Baelfire Gold and Ms. Emma Swan-Gold in. I presume, considering the depth of their involvement, they attended court today?" At Kamen's nod, Keaton continues, "Good. I'd like a brief word with them. Very curious as to how they knew about that pen."

Now he eyes Gold, who straightens his shoulders under the scrutiny. "Mr. Gold, my apologies for the grievous error that was made. I have to admit, though, I thought it was going to go the other way. Ms. Anguem's evidence was most impressive. Though it did give me pause: why a man of your wealth would go to so much trouble to defraud the government and your son's charity for a measly 750 grand. But then again, I've seen much worse done for much less." He offers his hand and Gold accepts it. "Mr. Gold, I'm sorry for the loss of time, the loss of income, the hardship and the embarrassment this fraudulent case has caused you and your family. I hope you'll be able to resume some semblance of your former life, once your attackers have been brought to justice."

"Thank you, Your Honor." As Gold shakes the judge's hand, he wonders if any semblance of his former life will ever be reclaimed. He's angry and bitter, of course he is, and for damn sure he'll be in the courtroom when the Evil S's each go on trial; but he and Belle, Emma and Bae, Jo and Fran have come out intact, and that's something, isn't it? Keaton returns to his desk. "Now, if you folks will excuse me, I have a case to close out."

The intruders file out, closing the door to the judge's chambers behind them. The cameraman starts to roll film, first of Anguem and her assistant clattering away in their high heels, then of Gold and Kamen, just standing quietly in the corridor, collecting their thoughts and their breath. Goldie picks up the microphone and starts to approach Gold, then stops, shakes her head. "He deserves a minute to himself. We'll do the wrap-up outside." As Grayson brushes by her, she brightens. "Oh, sheriff, could we have a word with you?" The three Storybrookers follow the Prosecution team out.

Now only Kamen and Gold remain in the corridor.

Glancing down at his own hands, Gold remembers those mortgage coupons stamped "paid" and Browning's humble job offer and Blue's wicker basket of veggies and the rally that took place outside the bail hearing and the anti-exile petitions and the little boy in the wheelchair who visited the Bell's Corners jail to give him a coloring book.

Only after he's remembered all that does he remember the magic.

"You're one stubborn son of a gun, you know that?" Kamen chuckles. "It took a helluva lot to get through to you."

"'Get through'?" Gold is only half-listening, his mind still on that coloring book.

"That you need people as much as they need you," Kamen explains. "And that it's okay to receive as well as give. That's how teams are made." He gestures to the stairwell. "Let's go down to the courtroom. Your family's probably pretty confused still."

Gold shakes off his reverie and follows Kamen down the hall. "What's this about teams? And by the way, who the hell are you?"

Kamen feigns insult. "I told you, I'm the cousin of the crocodile."