Thraxius, who had until this point been looking at the table full of delicious food with something approaching<em>mourning</em>, suddenly found himself thoroughly drenched in it.  He blinked slowly as globules of pudding splattered heavily across his immaculate robes, and only barely flinched when his untouched steak slapped him square in the face and slid with a wet thump into his lap.  A puff of irritated smog issued from his censer in the ensuing chaos of wrestling and sedating the enraged Commissar, watching balefully as the Commodore and her companions finished their dealings and beat a hasty retreat.  As his servo-skull made to dust off the morsels of food from its master's shoulders, Thraxius lifted one solemn finger in the air.<br/><br/><em>"Check please."</em>