"You bullyin' folks again?" Ulysses replies cheerfully as he settles into a slightly more comfortable position. A champagne flute dangles perilously loose in his fingers, and he takes a healthy swig of his drink — a glass of Crémant d'Alsace rosé that he desperately hopes no one else has seen him drink.

"Kickin' puppies? Metaphorically speaking." He points at Casper in mock-condemnation. "Not that I'd put it past you."

Ulysses does not believe that Casper would, under any circumstances, kick a little dog.