[dogscoff]

Horde of aliens ... Customs and Immigration ... Green cards

* A gang of C&I officers enter the room and set about the Giegeresque gaggle with rubber gloves and probing devices. What follows can only be described as... messy.

*Meanwhile, on a fairly-close by beach where the horrendous screams and hissing of the forementioned event are but a mere whisper above the roaring of the ocean, dogscoff awakes to the smell of roasting meat. He's gone and passed out with his face in the embers of the campfire again.

'Ugh... ouch... why is everything green? Bloody absynthe, never again I swear. I need some breakfast... and a skin graft.'

Dazed, confused and still seeing everything through a chemically-induced green filter, he staggers back toward the Cantina in search of Tribble wings, antiseptic cream and maybe a small shot of absynthe to smooth out some of the rough edges.