Bull feces, he said to himself as he kicked in the door of the old, shabby building. I ain't labeling this. I don't like labeling. Let the elves sort it out.

Inside the dust was at least a foot deep and a sad tree stood in a pile of its own needles. The only sound was that of tentacles slapping against a pool of lime jello.

Gotta dust this place, he thought, and suiting the action to the thought he called upon his trumpeting skills and blew. Hard. The dust swirled around in one cyclonic, choking cloud and vanished through the hole in the roof. So did the pine needles, leaving only the skeleton of the tree.

This he lit on fire and in a WHOOSH it was transformed into a pile of ash. This too he blew away.

Using his rapier against flint to strike a light, he lit the logs in the fireplace. Instantly the place became more homelike, warm and friendly. He looked around.

All of the doors were in good repair, even the one he'd kicked in. Phoenix-like, a fresh, green tree gave off the scent of pine or spruce or cedar or fir or something.

Now, he said to himself, if only the barkeep was in.