Arachnicia sat at the bar drinking. As you do. She looked slightly
less grim than usual. This was because feeling grim was taking
all her spare energy, and she didn't feel up to the effort of looking
grim and gothic, her usual stock-in-trade.

The bartenders sat behind the bar washing dishes. She knew it was a
not-so-subtle hint that it was well past closing time. But she knew
there would be no trouble from them. Her sharp ears had already
overheard many times that day about how the late Thommo was found with
not a drop of blood in his body. That was the story at the start of the
day; by now, he'd also been found in the river with his family (not
alone in his bed), and thirty men and a dog were somehow involved. But
it kept the trouble down.

The same with Dr. Freud. He said that her singleness was a result of
her vampiric tendancies, her age, her vampiric tendencies, the male
desire to remain alive and human, and the fact that any worthwhile men
in the area had already gone adventuring. She'd even left a message on
the wall of the men's room -- "For a good tune, call the Comtessa
Arachnicia Morte Sanguinbibious Dellacrowley Vampyr". She'd even added
her special number, 1-800-DRINK-BLOOD. No response. Well, she'd had
enough of Dr. Freud and his theories. She'd show him what a good tune
was like. Not the folk stuff they listened to around here, but, oh,
maybe something about an
Evil Night Together would fit the bill.

She slammed her glass down, and stood, to the relief of the bartenders.
Enough of drinking this so-called beer. She liked bier better, but it
didn't do to whine; it was much easier to mead people if you weren't
ailing. She whisked out the door.

A few minutes later, a termite crawled onto the bar. "Is the bar tender
here?" he asked. He was duly pun-ished.

    *****

Wang-mar brooded. The G-chord had escaped again. As he brooded, he
generalised. 'Wang-mar', he grimaced to himself. What sort of
terrifying name is that? A scary name ought to have more of S and Z,
and fewer vowels. But nooooo. Wang-mar they'd insisted on calling him
ever since he'd put white-out on that Wang monitor, instead of using the
backspace key. ARGH!!!!!

With an effort, he suppressed his brooding. It was worthwhile paying
attention when Mauron was speaking; at least, if you wanted to remain in
Middlemax.

"...so it could be a self-solving problem", Mauron was saying.
"Sorry-arse has drowned ten thousand of our orcs. He's clearly trying
to get the G-chord for himself. So what we do, is we dress this 'Joe'
as an agent of Sorry-arse, send him to Shatnir, and have him tell him
that Sorry-arse has captured all sounds for himself, and that as soon as
he has the G-chord, the only remaining music will be Orc-rap. That
sounds fairly self-solving, wouln't you say?".

"Wow, sir, that's really leveraging your synergies!", Wang-mar replied,
feeling that something of the sort was required, but still not
understanding the plan.

    *****

Fret panted with relief. Fortunately, Balboadil's Entwhistle had driven
away the Riders of Dissonance. Temporarily. Now they were again
crossing the River Rappisfolk again. In a boat. Fret tensed. He
remembered his last bath, five years ago. It was interesting, but once
was enough.

A wave splashed over the side. Fret threw off his hoodie before the
water got to his skin. Just as well.

Suddenly, Balboadil sat up alertly. Another band-in-a-boat was floating
down the river. As the other boat passed, Slider tried to spring
aboard, shouting "Fifteen men on a dead man's chest". Duck still wasn't
impressed, and nor were the band-in-a-boat. They began singing
The Worst Pirate Song. Balboadil piloted the boat to the opposite side.

As they left the boat, Balboadil gave Fret the shirt he was wearing.
"Not much good to me now that you've touched it", he said by way of
explanation. Fret put it on. It had a collar. He undid a few buttons,
to get the unfamiliar feel of the collar away from his neck. He heard
Kendalf muttering something about "gold chains next", but didn't may
much attention.

"What shall we call our band", he wondered aloud as he walked along.

"Folkralicious".

"Delightfolk".

"Tradtacular".

The suggestions came from all around. But Duck dissed all suggestions,
and Slider followed her lead (and interjected "What do you do for a
living?").

Finally, Duck said "No, we *must* call ourselves 'American Folkways'".
Fret couldn't really see the point.

"Who's Amer, and why are we telling him that we can Folkways?", asked
Merrygrin. But Slider agreed, and everyone else was tired of arguing,
so American Folkways it was.

    *****

Rick grinned as he stared into the fire where he was watching American
Folkways. Fret had had one more bath than he thought. When he visited
Rick, his body was thrown into the river before his brain was also
washed. He was sent back to Iscur Treble with no memory of visiting
Rick, but Rick knew all about him.

    *****

Joe also grinned. Joining Mauron's army had been his best career move
yet. Not only had he been given this nifty uniform, but he would be
given facepaint when he returned. Or maybe fish and chips; he wasn't
quite sure what Mauron had meant when he said to Number 7 "When this is
over, there'll only be a little spot of grease left".

As he proceeded through the caves of Cinex Morbucks, where he had been
sent by Mauronic magic, he tried to remember the message that Mauron had
sent Shatnir. Something about wanting to see his sorry arse in a
G-string".


    *****

-       If Amos wants to write up the meeting of Balboadil and
       Strawberry with American Folkways, that would fit right in
-       My only association with the music I link is that I like it (or
       think it's appropriate)