Appah hisses, “Witchcraft.”

He does not say this in the “torches and pitchforks” manner, or with a religious tone, but rather with an air of severe indignation; it’s clearly nothing less than he expected. He doesn’t sound particularly surprised, either.

The black man shakes his head sadly, “C’est tres duree, to leave my daughter. But if I am bewitched, it better we not see each other. I am with you. Only way to kill witch, club or strangle. Bad luck to spill blood – Appiah help you there, monsieur. Still, I have ****.”

Appiah glances around; the small piebald dog is trying hard to mount Whiskey. “****! ARRETES-TOI!”