Just then, FiFi herself ran catawailing from the kitchen, tail puffed up to three times its normal size. Close behind her sailed a meat cleaver. And close behind it, a slovenly chef with lace cap askew and saliva spewing out with every word. "F***ing cat. FiFi, my a**. You're a lousy street slut! Crap in the proofing box, will ya!"

Betty stops suddenly just in front of Terri, Micca, and Liz's table. "Squeak", she squawks,"How's my little mousy?" Want some fresh baked pretzels with your beer?