A man in a tweed jacket playing a tambourine walked past.
"Where can I find it-uh?" generalised Pet.
"Over there-uh," an underlying brick appreciated. Not many people knew French in these parts.
Something has been bothering Pet for quite some time now. He danced and then tied his shoelaces together. "That's better."
"Speak for your mouth, you rascal!" accused Lacey McLace. He was a humorous shade of green.
"Shibididah."
Pet spun around. "What's that smell-uh?"
"Down here-uh," squeaked Squibbles. "I'm a fish crossed with a mouse crossed with a snail coloured in by a cigarette and multiplied by a tissue."
Pet was not convinced. "My creators gave me a spatula, with which I am not afraid to cook."
"I know where you can find," Squibbles paused to juggle a menace that has been following him, "it-uh."
"Yeh." said the menace.
Pet brushed his napkin. "By jove with a yellow 'j'! That is wonderful." The napkin sprang and landed on the underlying brick.
"Cheers," said the brick and transformed into a glass. "It's Tuesday," it apologised. "Night is what happens when you are busy bleating all by yourself."
Pet had heard that expression before and attempted to scowl.
"Yo," said the menace. "There's no time for mediterraneaning! You have to find it-uh, or else this here pecan whittles."
Pet looked confused, but that was a clever cover for he knew a bird made of salami would never do such a thing. "You're right."
"'course he is," the cross-breeds Squibbles said. "It-uh is a long, long rock from here. We will accompany you." Then they vanished.
~
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