Corliss grins back, gesturing with his empty glass. "Not a lick of a clue where the hell that is, but technically it did make sense. No more or less sense than telling you I was born amongst a thousand siblings in a pool called Taion Yerralash on the Yeerk homeworld, which is presently being blockaded by an armada of deadly, blue, smarmy six-legged aliens with four eyes, called Andalites, who really, really don't like Yeerks." He glances over at Ossanlin and searches for Alic, wondering if they're within earshot. "Well, most of them don't, anyway. I suppose it's because one of them was nice to us once and we turned round and started making other people's lives rather miserable." He considers. "Or maybe we just didn't invite them to all the wild parties." He taps on the bar. "Barkeep, another please." The bartender sighs noiselessly and hands Corliss a glass of Bass. "Christ, I ****ing hate talking about me grubhood, gah, it's depressing. Or really, it's just dull."
He takes a sip and after a moment Michael murmurs, "At least you didn't grow up in a bloody stock yard."
<You didn't grow up in the Industrial Revolution, you git.>
"Look who's talking mate." He seems to realize he's talking to himself and smiles apologetically. "So, Zarris, all that country stuff is really thrilling, but if I might ask--what planet are you from, exactly?"