"I see that there is hoky going on around here.", slured Nesbitt.

He sniffes the air a bit. He detects the umistable oder of Hopies #9, and, something. The Lt. scrunches up his nose, sniffs. "What's going on here, Your up to something, nectarines, gun oil, leather, guitar grease, and some really bad booze. Comon' you can tell me."

I look at the very blunt Lt. Sweat drips down off of his nose. His greasy hands hang at his side. He looks up at me and says, "Where is my fifty skins? Your a week late. And where is your Hoky Poky liscense? They just passed a law. No more Hoky Poky without a liscense. Oky Doky? Or ya want to go to the poky? Hoky."

This long stream of undeniable logic brought my headache up like all four burners on a gas range. My ears beging to ring.

"Ah, bells", says Baby from under the desk.

DING DONG (ouch!)