A sheaf of papers falls out of his pocket as he prepares to leave. He's had a good time and enjoyed the company, especially the hunours ladies and the infamous Amos. But for now, her yearns for something different. Perhaps a beer that is not quite so virtual would fit the bill? He is also concerned about his civet, who has consumed too many virtual toodys. He, the civet, is eyeing the hamsters with mischief on her mind. What kind of mischief? He doesn't want to know!

The patrons wave goodbye, the hostess blows them a kiss and man and civet go peacefully into that dark night. A slightly anthropormorphic dark night, whose silence is broken by a series of interesting sounds.

"But I'm not scatologically deviant" As $300 dollars worth of coffee beans rattled to the ground.
"Well at least I'm not a songwriter" As an apple laptop loaded with Cakewalk software starts to play a salsa version of Edmond Fitzgerald.
"Well at least I know shit whe I hear it."
"Oh I give up"

"What'll we do with the weasel?"
"We'll do what we do to all cute cuddly animals. Put it in a paper bag an throw it in the river."

"Hey! what do you have in the bag? Don't bogart the popcorn man!"

HISSSS Snarl (catlike utterences typical to distressed civets)

Ambulance doors closing, motor gunning, tires screaching and the sound of a civet, clinging, Indianna Jones-like, to the bottom of a truck.