The hinged pet door that Katlaughing had installed on the Tavern door that opens onto the Emerald Isle swings open and in walks an entire family of bodhrans: twenty-four inch Daddy Bodhran (who was barely able to fit through the pet door), eighteen inch Mamma Bodhran, and at least a dozen bodhranlings of various sizes.

Daddy 'Hran sees Art Brooks sitting in the corner alone and, with the trained eye of a veteran grifter, recognizes a patsy when he sees one. He motions to the rest of the Bodhran clan and they all fall in behind him in a manner reminiscent of ducklings waddling after Mamma Duck. When they arrive at Art Brooks' table, Daddy 'Hran jumps up on it, so surprising poor Art that he knocks a freshly drawn Guinness onto the floor.

"Greetings!", calls out Daddy 'Hran in his deep bass voice. He is attempting to whisper, but twenty-four inch frame drums have a difficult time with volume modulation and several other 'Catters are easily able to overhear the ensuing conversation. "Me and the Missus heard that there was to be a percussion session here and you, my man, look like a person that knows a bodhran when he sees it. Now, I'm not wanting to waste your time here, so I'll get right to the point. What with the economy on the skids and all that rot, me and the Missus find ourselves in pretty dire financial straits. The only way we can see out of our current unfortunate situation is to take the drastic step of selling our own children to make ends meet."

Liz the Squeak, who, along with Morticia, is sitting at the next table, overhears the conversation, jumps up out of her chair and loudly squeaks, "Baby bodhrans! Oh! How cute! May I pet one?"

Morti grabs her by the arm and pulls her back into her chair. "Careful, Liz! You don't know where they've been or what kinds of diseases they might have. Just leave them alone."

Art Brooks, now having fully recovered from the shock of witnessing a leaping bodhran, reaches down and picks one of the young bodhrans up by its cross-bars. He takes a quick look at the inner rim and flings the thing against the wall. "Aha!", he shouts out, "Just as a suspected! Made in Pakistan!" He reaches out and grabs Daddy 'Hran just as he is attempting to leap off of the table. "You low-life scum!", he hollers into the bodhran's face. "Trying to pass off cheap off-shore drums as genuine Irish bodhrans! You should be ashamed of yourself! Begone! And do not despoil these environs with your putrid self again!" (That fourth Guinness had put Art into an oddly Shakespearean frame of mind.)

Well, the big bodhran is totally shocked at having been discovered in his scam. This type of thing had never happened to him before. He leaps from the table, gathers his retinue around him, and makes a mad dash out the pet door before any of the Mudcatters have a chance to pull out their Swiss army knives.

Meanwhile, over in the corner where several instruments have been casually tossed, a large Cooperman bodhran turns to a nice looking Tony Stuart and says, "Hey babe. Wanna see a really nice looking tipper?"