The gentle thunder of a 1947 Indian motorcycle penetrates the walls of the quiet Mudcat Tavern. The glistening machine rolls up to the Tavern door, and the tall stranger in the slouch hat and cape comes in. On his shoulder is a small capuchin monkey, holding on with one hand and looking brightly around. Nice day, glad it's winding down. Made eleven cuts and burned a CD. SIngle Malt, sir Mario, an' you would be so kind. My wife went off to Arizona to visit her Maw, and the kid's gone skiing, so I bought a monkey. He throws some bills down on the bar and tosses off his shot of fine golden whiskey. Reaching into his cape pocket he draws forth two golden disks in protective jackets. H eplaces them reverently on the bar.Mario, if the Gaelic Goddes graces this greasy garage again, give her these with my most profound respects, s'il vous plait. Here's one for Max, even though I know he never comes down here. Just in case...thanks.Gotta go, friends -- hope that deal work for ya Peter.He turns and heads for the door, pauses at Mbo's chair and gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "Grow your hair long and they will come...", he says softly. He turns and is gone. The moist, deep throated thrumming of the Indian again seeps powerfully through ther walls of the Tavern...and fades into the endless moonlit night.The fiddler takes up her bow and another tune floats over the still evening airs of the Tavern, touching every corner with gracenotes and a haunting vibration of long-lost love.