Little Hawk ties his horse at the front of the Tavern, and peers suspiciously through the almost opaque and slightly greasy windows. These white people have the weirdest ways of socializing imaginable, he thinks. Time to shape-shift. A slight rippling effect in the aura, and Little Hawk is transformed into folksinger George Coventry, complete with harmonica pouch containing 8 keys of harmonica, and guitar in hand. He enters the Tavern.

The air is way too smoky, but he's seen worse. Cigarette fiends are slumped at the tables, their eyes glassily fixed upon giant TV screens where overly paid athletes cavort before thousands of Homer Simpson clones. Would this be an opportune time to transform back into Little Hawk and put an arrow through the screen? Well, perhaps not...

It's fun playing the George Coventry, famous folksinger part, walking casually in like Dylan at the Nickelodeon...but not as dangerous...because George is not really famous, except at Don's Coffeehouse and a couple of other local spots like that. It's an enjoyable fantasy with "little risk involved". (Pick the right song title for that quote and you could win an as yet unspecified prize...).

Ah, here are some of the Mudcatters...a bizarre but generally likeable bunch of people with their fingers directly on the pulse of what is and is not a "folksong". Just ask 'em.

Everyone is still winding down from the Sargeant Kat and her Howling Commandos episode.

Matt is playing the guitar, and singing in a surprisingly good voice...plenty of depth and timber...but the damned jukebox is drowing him out.

Spaw farts sonorously in its general direction, and the jukebox utters an inchoate shriek and dies. Good. Now we can listen to Matt properly.

Looks like this visit was worthwhile after all...