It was quieter than expected. Soft piano jazz mixed with a chinking of glasses and money. "Members?" asked the barman with the top hat. "We're temporary," said Arson Fire. "Just passing through," said the Wabbit. The barman puffed at a cigar the size of a sausage. "Check in your hot dogs here." "Grrrrr grrr grrr," snarled Arson Fire. The barman didn't bat an eyelid. "As long as you're here, your money's here." "Just the job!" said the Wabbit. "You can certainly help us. We're looking for a special hot dog consignment." "What kind of special?" asked the barman. "Sentimental value," smiled the Wabbit. He hopped over to the pianist and pulled from his fur the lunch vouchers he'd saved for his vacation. "No elevator music," he whispered. The pianist hit the keys with vigour. "Think I'll come around," he crooned. "... when the money's gone." Arson Fire kept a firm grip of his hot dog and barked at the barman. "Perhaps you saw a hot dog liquidisation?" The barman leaned back. "The Hot Dog Laundry. It books work outings here. The staff like hot dog smoothies." Arson Fire looked at the Wabbit in horror but the Wabbit merely smiled and hopped close to the barman. "What better," he drawled, "than the slow release of hot dog fibre into the bloodstream?" The barman found himself staring at the wrong end of an automatic. "For the sake of your health," said the Wabbit, "tell us where to find the Laundry brigade." The barman merely gestured with his head. "Upstairs ..."
