As the two roly poly twins walked bowlegged across the shadowy planks of the Tavern floor to answer the call of the feral Belle Ferroniere, it could be seen that each wore a wide leather belt, spangled with rhinestones, around his chubby little waist, and a bloused white shirt of Egyptian linen, a gold lame weskit, and Lincoln green moleskin trouser ending at perfectly matched ankle boots with folded tops. Between that and thier little propellor beanies, one would have thought them identical, except for their belts, one of which was marked in large letters of inlaid ivory, "DUM", while the other was marked "DEE" in the same way.

The twin Tweedles, for it was indeed they, dearly Beloved, nodded and whispered with their now beloved Keepstress. One of them returned to the end of the bar and drawing a small electronic telphone out of his pocket began a hasty conversation, his back toward the din of bodhran, banjo, guttural snipe and dobro picking up in the hearty crowd. The other drew from his blouse pocket a small thin pipe with three tiny holes on one edge, went to the door and blew, far and wee, a chirping, ululating wild-blood whistle song into the moonlight.

The two funny looking roly-polys retreated tot heir corner, smiling at Mamzelle PP as she fended off even more orders for pale, dark, striped, layered, mixed, shaken and stirred drinks warm and cold, (howya like THEM adjectives, milady?)and watched their little wrists, on each of which was a tiny replica of the very wristwatch worn by Mossad agents.

Warbling and whistling from the distance, born through the busy Tavern's windows and doors on the summer night air, strange sounds began to grow -- a distant shrilling, mellowed by a far burbling sound as though a large motorboat was approaching. The sounds went unnoticed in the fray of musical counteproint sweeping the Tavern. Suddenly, a crashing and shattering impact, as the door to the Tavern was torn open from without by the return of the dark stranger on the might Indian motorcycle, at the same time as the main window burst inward, shriven to shards by the mighty form of a giant kestrel.

"Now! Now! Mz Belle!!! Jump it!!" squeaked the twin little falsettos, and the rolypoly twins, the kestrl, and the slim well-turned ankles of the Keepstress collided in a surge of rapid action as they converged on the giant Indian as it made a sweeping three-sixty, gliding sideways and around and coming to a complete, idling, smoking halt at the very edge of the Jello Pit.

In half a second the stranger had doffed his wide hat, helped the beautiful Keepstress onto the rear seat, settled the ruby-eyed Kestrel onto her shoulder, balanced Dee and Dum onto the left and right handlebars, and gunned the engine.

The mighty Indian again shattered the peaceful night air, turning across the gravel and swinging not south, as it had before, but north toward the mighty highway that lead across the wide waters of Pontchartrain, through the endless plains, to the remote riverside where only one destination worth mentioning could be found -- the Neil Young Center for the Terminally Screwed.