The scruffy little guy looks up from the chimney corner, where he has been sitting cross-legged for the last several hours addressing holiday cards and, using his exquisitely painted Malachy Kearns tunable bodhran as a desk, composing his annual newsletter. "Well, that's finally done," he says, straightening up with a groan. Walking over to the copy machine at the end of the bar, he stares for a moment at the weary fiddler and the dead hamster who are doing something together on top of the machine that MUST be illegal in Wyoming. Asking them politely to move over, he selects a subdued chartreuse paper and prints off 200 copys. "The hell with 'Spaw and his opinion of newsletters," he mutters under his breath.

The dead hamster looks up from where he is gently nibbling on the fiddler's...ear... and asks him if he wishes to join in. "Nah, thanks anyway, but I gotta go mail these" and he goes out the pub's front door and strides off into the cold,snowy morning.