As the strains of wonderful fiddlin' fill the Tavern, the sad-faced young poet looks up to see the mink-covered limo return up the drive and pull to a stop. The door opens and the Harley Man climbs out, grasping his D-28 and shaking his head. The eerie glow of a television screen bathes the face of the saggy butted tortoise sitting in the back seat. The door of the limo slams suddenly.

"You back already?," asks the sad young poet.

"Yeah," replies the Harley Man.

"What happened?," inquires the sad young poet.

"Dunno," says the Harley Man. "I said something about Anaheim and she went crazy . . . started screaming something about "What do you mean it wasn't slashing? Did you see Hull's nose? Why, if I'd had my magic hockey puck, Nielsen would be so much Duck poop right now! Myself, didn't you see the blood on the ice?"

"Goddesses," answers the sad young poet.

"Yeah, I know what you mean," agrees the Harley Man. "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em!"

The mink-covered limo pulls out of the Tavern's drive, and the voice of the Goddess is heard faintly chanting, "Go Stars . . . Go Stars . . . Go Stars . . . Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie . . .