The quiet, sere night is suddenly disturbed by the watery basso profundo reverberations of a huge '39 Indian, a handrubbed midnight gloss twinkling under the stars as the giant bike, moonlight glinting from its chrome, cuts throught the winding curves of the small country road, the double-trouble glass-pack rhythm of its powerful engine coming closer and closer through the winter's dark. It breaks into view a mile down the road, glistening in the moonlight and giving off a faint and mystic aura of mint lightning as it veers to a halt in front of the sleepy tavern. A tall and lanky stranger strides in, his right shoulder sporting abright-eyed Capuchin monkey and his left arm carrying a Dreadnought case.

"A long haul on a cold night! Who's keeping the bar! Where's Miss Caitrin? A pint of the brownest and vilest, if you will, fair keep! I've driven all the way here from the Neil Young Center for the Terminally Screwed, with a short stop in Arlington to call on the Gaelic Goddess herself, up to her knees in a shag experiment, she was, but that's another tale....Thanks, and long life to you!"

He retires to the corner, puts the monkey on the bar, and props his elbow on the bar with his huge fist curled around a quart of Guiness' best....