He sits on the floor in the corner, sipping a hot mokli and rum flambee, and toasts another blutwurst, impaled upon his sword, over the flames. "Can't beat it," he thinks, "the drinking makes it possible to do the eatin'." And he continues to listen to the music in his head, even if he can't figure out the words or the melody.

And then a loud swoosh and the place shakes like a bomb went off nearby. A sack thuds into the fireplace, scattering the fire and embers, and as various folks take various actions to put out the result, a woman's voice is heard from within the sack, yelling obscenities and profanities and denouncing her former "comrades."