1. Back in Dogbad town, Señor Hoss and Señor Hsss approach the office of the town’s resident Assayer, Mister Wurlitzer, a wordy dog who never states in three words what could be said with twenty. Señor Hoss holds high hope that Señor Hsss’s strange urinary disorder could net them both some bullion dividends- if they play their cards right!
2. They enter the Assayer’s Office. It is dark within the small room. There are no windows, and no lamps. Having given a small glass bottle containing Señor Hsss’s sample, they stand silently as their eyes adjust to the dark sienna ombre. Mister Wurlitzer stands inside a barred cage enclosure, carefully rolling the bottle in his hand, squinting through his C-bridge pince-nez:”This is a rather very small sample- very rather. I’ll see what I can do but in the mean time try to drink a lot of liquids and return to me a more substantial measure…
Try very hard.”
Hanging beneath the counter is a notice:
“IF YOU EXPECT TO RATE AS A GENTLEMAN DO NOT EXPECTORATE ON THE FLOOR.”
3. Retiring to the inside of the Dogbad Saloon, Señors Hsss and Hoss evade the steely glare of the landlord. If “Discus Ted” is holding a grudge against them, he is keeping it to himself for the moment. Señor Hoss buys a pint and tries to get Señor Hsss to join in. Señor Hsss only stares at the bar top. Hoss cajoles his friend to join in libation.”I don’t know why you’re so down in the mouth- if it’s what I think it is we could be rich! Worst case scenario, if you got Lou Gehrig’s Disease or something… we’ll probably still have enough left to pay the Neptune Society.” Hsss is unmoved.
4. The two are beginning to notice the atmosphere within the saloon is strangely alive- hyperelectric, for want of a better term, with little dots, molecules even, dancing within the air, the walls, even their dialogue baloons. Colours are remarkably bright, and their very beings pulse with a supernatural energy. This is very non-ordinary. They’ve been in this room five hundred times before but they’ve never seen it as it is now. Hoss keeps the monologue going: “I’m sure it’s probably nothin’- the desert does strange things… I’m not feeling so great myself… my beck hurts like a sump batch.”
5. Suddenly some kind of hell breaks forth in the precise part of Hoss’s back that Hoss was dwelling on. His hind quarter jumps up and down involuntarily as it projects the kind of noises you hear when Mighty Mouse is pounding a single-stroke roll down on the head of Oil Can Harry: “BOUDOU-BOUDOU-BOUDOU!”
6. Hoss can’t believe what he is experiencing. It hurts like a battleship full of kidney stones. A strange, writhing mass of undifferentiated tissue is rising out of his rump, punching and grasping the space around it as it grows bigger and more humanoid in shape.
7. Within ninety seconds (seeming ninety lifetimes to poor Señor Hoss) a fully articulated torso has grown out of Hoss’s butt. It is alive, conscious, malevolent and red and stinging hot like a barrel of Tabasco sauce. The creature comes in swinging a heavy Herculean club. His eyes burn with malicious intent and his countenance is like some daemon from a fifteenth century Tibetan Tanka. He looks mean. He IS mean, and he is attached to Señor Hoss like a Siamese Twin Devil. This does not bode well.
8. The Debbil whams the club direct on top Hoss’s head, spewing stars and nearly knocking his teeth out. What a situation!