Foyle scrambled over the Fairyworld fence to gain a few yards on his pursuers; it should have been empty, but instead a man in an elf costume is demanding to know whether he wants asylum.
“Uh,” says Foyle.
He glances over his shoulder, panting. The cops are arguing with a pair of burly druids. The gates remain closed.
“The theme park is technically a consulate,” says the elf. “Are you requesting our government’s protection?”
“What–okay,” says Foyle. “Yes?”
The elf smiles; his teeth are pointed. Foyle’s wondering if those ears are fake, and exactly what kind of asylum he’s accepted.