In large cities, where the patrons of a bar are of an unusual and varied nature, trusting to the bizarre and the shocking as the major elements of their personal style, even the strangest individual will scarcely raise an eyebrow. In Weasel-in-the-Wold, this was not the case. The bars of Weasel-in-the-wold tended to cater to rustic farmers, and other people of more simple tastes; people for whom the passing sight of a tumbleweed lazily drifting through the streets was a an event of biblical proportions. To them, the spectacle of an eleven foot tall demon with the head of a goat entering the bar and asking for a Guinness, would, to say the very least have been just a little disturbing.

Luckily, Zorgo, had spent a great deal of time on Earth, and had caused enough havoc, appearing in his demonic form, to learn to adapt. He always carried with him a handy, but short lived spell, which would disguise his identity. A more vein demon would probably have sprung for a higher quality spell that produced a visage of god like proportions, causing most mortals to stop dead in their tracks and fall to worshipping his indescribable beauty. Zorgo, being rather short on cash, had a spell which turned him into a short fat man. 

Zorgo gathered up his belongings, enacted the spell, cleaned off the remains of the unlucky rabbit, and headed out towards the distant village. He was a little irritated at the time he had wasted in the operational control office, but was resigned to the fact that he had a job to do, and that the only way to get back to his macramˇ and xylophone, was to go out and get things done. It wasn't going to be a pleasant task, but at least he was able to go out and get some fresh air, and when he came to think of it, it was certainly better than returning to Hell and having nails driven through his skull. Most things, however, were. 

Zorgo picked up a stout walking stick from the side of the road, began to hum a pleasant tune, and walked on down the center of the empty lane. The sounds of the countryside filled the warm afternoon air: crickets chirped in the hedgerows, birds sang in the trees, and a small stream trickled melodiously in the distant woods. Gradually, a different sound began to make itself known to Zorgo's inner ear. It was distant, yet growing, as if an unseen hand was turning up some kind of demonic volume control. It appeared to be coming from around the corner and resembled the sound of a freight train full of clowns, ploughing through a distant hen house. Zorgo stood frozen to the ground in fascination, and thus, was almost killed when a small cab, its every available surface loaded with baggage, roared around the corner in a screech of tire smoke. He dived into a nearby ditch, with all of the speed that his short round body could muster, and the cab screamed past, its burden of luggage wobbling precariously on the roof. Inside the cab, there seemed to be three people, arguing vehemently, and a small white tornado repeatedly going "Yipe Yipe Yipe." 

Zorgo pulled himself from the ditch in the same way that some primordial amphibian had, millions of years in the past, painfully dragged itself forward from the water and took it's first breath on land. He immediately looked up, as he heard footsteps rapidly approaching from around the corner. They were soon followed by a tall well dressed man, who appeared to be in some sort of hurry. He caught sight of Zorgo, and instantly applied the brakes. "Excuse me" he said<> "Yes?" asked Zorgo, as he brushed off the menagerie of pond life that had begun to colonize his body in the ditch.

"Have you seen a..." he paused, and stared at Zorgo in some confusion
"Yes?" asked Zorgo. He wanted to end this as quickly as possible and get to that bar for a stiff drink or two, or possibly three, or, now that he thought about it, four.

"Is that a newt in your hair?" he asked

"What?" asked Zorgo, somewhat taken aback. Technically a god, Zorgo, was not accustomed to being pestered with questions about newts. Nor, for that matter, was he used to being dropped from sixty thousand feet onto small woodland creatures, being run over by out of control cabs, or being thrust face first into fetid cholera ridden ditch water. What he was used to was sitting around playing the xylophone, and taking a lot of naps.

"A newt," continued the man, "it's a kind of amphibian. Sort of like a frog, only... " He paused for a moment, reaching a conclusion, "only, not at all like a frog. There's one in your hair." Zorgo dug for a moment in his mud encrusted hair and brought forth the offending creature. "More like a reptile really." mumbled the man, apparently unhappy with the genetic characteristics of certain ditch dwelling amphibians.

Zorgo briefly considered eating the hapless creature, and then, deciding that he had caused enough trouble for the local wildlife, tossed it back into the mud.

"Amphibians should be more bulbous" uttered the man

"What are you talking about?" asked Zorgo, who thought that he had better keep the conversation on track before it began to devolve into subjects relating to the sex lives of lesser known Amazonian wood beetles, or any other such irrelevant, and brain curdling, topic.

"Er.....You didn't by any chance see a cab pass by here, did you?" The man asked, apparently coming to his senses.

"Was that what it was?" asked Zorgo, who had not yet actually come to grips with what it was that had sent him flying into the ditch, and had thus far classified it alongside the numerous other unidentified and malevolent flying objects which seemed to continually hound him.

"What what was?"

"Was it a cab that almost ran over me?" asked Zorgo, trying to nail down the conversation to a specific, tangible point. The nail missed.

"By the looks of things, I'd say that it was a newt."

"A newt?"

"Yes, it's a kind of amphibian. Sort of like a frog, only... "

"No, no, no. I got that part. You were looking for a cab?"

"Was I?" the man was becoming more and more unfocused by the second.

"Er....Look, perhaps I can make this easier for both of us." Zorgo picked up his walking stick and, with force that only a demon can muster, calmly broke it over the mans head. The stick broke into a thousand pieces, sending fragments ricocheting of nearby trees, bushes, and newts, and briefly enveloping the scene in a dense shroud of sawdust. The man, completely unperturbed by the blow brushed some bark from his suit, and stared curiously at Zorgo. Zorgo regarded the shattered fragments of his walking stick in the same manner that Elmer Fudd often looks at his shotguns after Bugs Bunny ties them into knots.

"That should have hurt." he said, just to set the score straight.

"Sorry," said the man, with, what appeared to be, genuine concern, "I could say 'ouch' if that would help."

Zorgo, by this time had definitely decided that this just wasn't his day. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps, it would be easier just to go back and face Belial. He thought about this for exactly 1.6 seconds before coming to the conclusion that talking to this lunatic, as disturbing as it was, was probably better than having his liver gnawed on by giant ravenous tree sloths. Belial was notorious for his fondness for tortures involving tree sloths. The last one he had inflicted upon Zorgo had left him with sore nostrils for centuries.

"What do you want from me?" asked Zorgo

"I...." stammered the man

"Yes?" asked Zorgo, feeling that the conversation was finally coming to a close, and that he would soon be having those five or six drinks that he so desperately needed.

"I..." continued the man

"You're what?" asked Zorgo in an attempt to speed things along.

"I am continually persecuted by Big Bird"

"Who?" Zorgo's brain temporarily blew the two fuses that it had left.

"Big Bird. He comes to me at night and yodels to me. Last night he gave me this." The man rummaged in his brief case and pulled out a somewhat worn, and rather smelly, fish.

"Seafood? A giant yellow bird comes to you at night and gives you seafood?"

"It's not seafood!" snapped the man in a hurt tone. "It's the sacred...."

"Does he give you shrimp cocktails too, or just fish? The thing isn't even cooked, or marinated. Don't they have a decent sushi chef on sesame street?"

"It is the sacred turbot" The man proclaimed solemnly.

"Turbot? Why not red snapper or Mahi Mahi? Turbot tastes like my grandmother's old work boots ."

"It is not to be eaten but to be worshipped!" screamed the man, in obvious anger and frustration.

"We'll see about that." snapped Zorgo, as he whisked the apparently sacred turbot out of the mans hands, and in one large gulp, swallowed it whole.

"You ate the sacred Turbot." screamed the man, "You will be blighted by The Great Yellow One."

"Actually, if the smell of that turbot was anything to go by, I'll be blighted by a bad case of indigestion."

"You....you....you..."stammered the man, as Zorgo picked up the remains of his walking stick, and headed on up the country road.

"Say hi to Bert and Ernie for me." he said, for once in his life, happy, feeling like he finally got the upper hand. Unfortunately for Zorgo, this was not to be the case. He was allergic to turbot.

Bastable was feeling slightly less euphoric as he limped up the driveway to his aunt's house. He had finally rid himself of Reverend Turnbull, his circus sideshow of luggage, and that homicidal cab driver; an accomplishment that should have drastically improved anyone's life. What he had failed to do, however, was dispose of the maniacal hound. The dog, to Bastable's dismay, has held him entirely responsible for the horrors of the cab ride.

"The man was a lunatic" it said, repeating a theme it had been expounding upon for the past half an hour, "He was trying to kill us. It's the only explanation for it. I can drive better than that and I don't even have opposable thumbs."

"Be quiet" said Bastable "I don't talk to hallucinations."

"He almost flattened that fat guy." continued the dog, "Sent him leaping into a ditch. We could have just walked you know. Fresh air, exercise, it would have done us a world of good, but NO, you have to go and get into that cab."

"I told you, I had no choice" interjected Bastable.

"Oh, so now your talking to me are you?"

"I don't talk to side effects."

"I'm not a side effect, and I'm not a hallucination. When are you going to get that through your head? I can bite you again if you need proof."

"Hey" yelled Bastable, as he backed as far away from the dog as possible.

The teeth marks on Bastable's leg, and the cab driver's throat bore painful testimony to the hideous reality of the animal. The rivers of blood streaming into his socks forced Bastable to realize that, as much as he might like to avoid the fact, the dog actually existed. Whether or not it talked was something he was still trying to come to terms with. Thus far, the easiest conclusion was that the dog's overly vocal behavior was either a hallucination or a side effect from some of the medication that he had taken at the institute.

"I smell a parrot." said the dog

"What?" asked Bastable, surprised. This was not normally something that he would have expected a hallucination to say.

"Parrot." clarified the dog "I smell a parrot. Can't stand the damn things. One of them almost took my nose off once."

"Be quiet!" snapped Bastable

"Hey, you asked."

"Just shut up, I'm having enough trouble as it is."

The dog looked up from sniffing an unsuspecting stick. It had a cold and calculating look in its beady eyes.

"Fine, I'll let you be for now, but I'll be here, watching you. we've got business together you and me, and your not going to weasel your way out of it yet. I'll give you some time to think things over and pull yourself together, but then, your going to sit down and listen to me. Right?"

"Shut up" replied Bastable, who was beginning to feel a heavy sense of dread falling over him, and didn't need the added effects of being berated by an angry dog to make him nervous. He had been dreading, since his release, the inevitable return to his aunt's house, and now, faced with that long driveway, he was also faced with the irrevocable fact that he had arrived.

"I smell parrot"

Unfortunately, he was not alone.

He could see the house, a large and ivy encrusted country mansion, off in the distance, as he rounded a curve in the driveway. It didn't bring back pleasant memories, as his last visit had ended with him being forcibly removed from the premises by big burly men in long white coats. The way that his day had been going so far could only lead him to believe that this time, things might get even worse. The dog at his side, and occasionally under his feet, Bastable set off for the front door. Upon reaching it he paused briefly to collect his thoughts, realized that he really didn't have any worth collecting, and rang the doorbell. The heavy wooden portal immediately swung inward to reveal a tall distinguished looking woman of advanced middle age. She had a slightly tatty, and weather worn parrot on her shoulder.

It said "ERK, who's a silly bugger?"

The dog exploded like an out of control ICBM, and leapt, a blazing tangle of legs, claws, and tail, straight at the parrot. They both bounced off the door, collided with Bastable and, shrieking at full volume, disappeared, in a cloud of dust across the lawn.

"Bastable!" cried his aunt, in a mixture of alarm, anger, and outright panic.

"Er...Hi Aunt Emily." he replied, trying his best to crawl into the woodwork and disappear. "What happened" she asked, slightly stunned. She had not known Bastable was coming, and she certainly had not expected her parrot to be savaged by a canine guided missile.

"I think the dog took a dislike to your parrot."

"Oh well" said Aunt Emily, who was a philosophical type of woman, "I'm sure they'll work out their differences. I'm surprised to see you. We weren't expecting you back for months. Come on in, and tell us what you've been doing."

Bastable followed his aunt into the house. In the distance he could dimly hear the muted cursing of the dog combined with the occasional "Who's a silly bugger?"

She led Bastable into the living room, where his uncle, a disheveled balding man of advanced middle age was reading a newspaper.

Look who's here, dear" Aunt Emily announced.

His uncle put down the newspaper, and stared like a myopic owl in the general direction of Bastable, and his aunt.

"Who's that then?" he asked peering blindly at them, "It's not that bloody lunatic from the water company again is it? I already told him that we don't want any. The stuff just pours out of the faucet. What would I want to go and buy the stuff from him for?"

"He just wanted you to pay the bill dear"

"BILL," bellowed the uncle "I haven't paid a bill in the forty years I've lived in this house, and I'm damned if I'm going to start now by paying for something that falls out of the sky every two days. Huh, throw him out."

"It's not the water company man dear. It's Bastable."

"Bastable! I thought he was in the nut house."

"He was in an institute dear. He appears to have escaped."

Bastable felt that it was prudent to interject something at this juncture. "No, they let me out, I didn't have to escape."

"He's not going to start squatting naked in the neighbor's fish pond again is he?" asked the uncle, apparently somewhat concerned. He was a man who, above all else, felt that the tone of the neighborhood had to be maintained at all times.

Bastable winced at the mention of the fish pond incident. It was, he had always maintained, an innocent misunderstanding. He didn't even like fish.

"No dear, I'm quite sure that he's through with all of that."

"Knew a man in the old fifty seventh regiment, who used to run around naked all the time. Bloody lunatic he was. Got shot in the buttocks during the battle of the bulge. Ran buck naked through the German lines. They thought he was a deserter and shot him on sight. Good thing too."

"Bastable," said his aunt. "you are going to stay with us aren't you?"

"Of course" replied Bastable, who was well aware of the fact that he had absolutely nowhere else to go. Even living with his uncle and being shot on sight as a deserter was preferable to being back out, wandering the streets, and god forbid, riding on British rail.

"Good, I'll go and put the kettle on, and we'll get you all settled in" Aunt Emily departed, leaving Bastable faced with the ghastly specter of carrying on a conversation with his uncle. Bastable could not remember the last time that he had actually sat down and conversed with his uncle. It wasn't that they didn't talk. In fact, they frequently talked, it was just that neither understood a single word the other said. Bastable's uncle was forever babbling about his days in the Ardennes, and his strange trials and tribulations with the more manic elements of his family, relating stories even more deranged than those normally told about Elvis.

Bastable took a seat and picked up a newspaper. Luckily it contained the latest installment in the story of the woman who claimed to have met God at Disneyland. In this excerpt she was relating a tale of how the supreme being had given Goofy a stack of stone tablets, and sent him out to preach to the masses. Goofy apparently had taken to wandering the streets of L.A. with twelve disciples, most of whom happened to be dwarves, until he was wounded in a drive by shooting. He was currently recovering in the local hospital. The disciples, however, remained unaccounted for, and were last seen hanging around Sunset Boulevard selling the stone tablets to Japanese tourists.

"Did you have a good time in the city, my boy?" asked Bastable's uncle.

"No, not really."

"Good, Good" Bastable's uncle was as deaf as a turnip.

"A man showed me a turbot" said Bastable wearily.

"Turbot!" Bellowed the uncle "back in the old days we used to hang people for less than that."

"Good idea" said Bastable, who definitely thought that it was.

"Why, I remember back in the summer of 1913, when we hanged Mad Eddie Peterson for biting the regimental goat."

"What?" Bastable had heard of a lot of things in his life, but he had never heard of someone being hanged for biting a goat. For that matter he had never even heard of someone biting a goat.

"Or maybe it was for treason. My memory's not what it used to be. Speaking of fish, how's that haddock friend of yours?"

"Haddock?" asked Bastable. He had not as far as he knew, which admittedly was not very far, ever been friends with any kind of marine life.

"Haddock. Didn't like him much myself mind you."

"What is going on with this absurd preoccupation with fish" Blurted Bastable, his blood pressure beginning to head into orbit. "Why does everyone keep talking about fish? It's all I hear. Fish Fish Fish"

"Bastable!" exclaimed Aunt Emily, entering the room with a tray of coffee cups, "Are you talking about fish again?"

"No...I mean, Yes,.....What do you mean again?"

"Well, you remember the problem we had last time"

"That had nothing to do with fish" said Bastable, defensively, "except for the fish pond thing, and if anyone ever took the time to listen to me they would see that it was all perfectly..." "Yes, yes, yes, we know dear. Just don't get excited."

"I'm not getting excited" said Bastable who was, infact, once again, getting confused "Just relax dear"

"Anyway, It was Uncle Fred who started it, He was babbling about some haddock who came looking for me"

"Haddock?" asked Uncle Fred. "Is that boy on about fish again?"

"I'm sure you just misunderstood him dear" said Aunt Emily in her most patronizing tone. "Haddock!" blurted Uncle Fred "That's right, I almost forgot. There was a haddock here to see Bastable."

"See!" said Bastable, for once feeling vindicated.

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