[Puke]

As the Loo-worshiping pygmies rampage through the parking lot, Puke produces an oversized acetylene torch, and ignites his remaining shots in a spaztic moment of drunken revelry. His phalanx of GHB-miniturized FBW-clones fly into a panic at the suden inferno that has be lit behind them, and dash across the Cantina floor.

The mad dash of movement sends a twitch of panic through all in the room, which unfortuneatly includes the already trigger-happy llamas. The Cantina falls into slow motion, as contrails from the llamas missiles streak hither and yon. Patrons scamper about shreiking, some smothered by exploded Custard Munitions, others with limbs partially gnawwed off by rampaging Pygmies.

Puke slams a flaming shot of Grey Goose down his gullet. Security FBWs cut down rowdy llamas with their concealable Anti-Proton-BLasters. Bystandards choke to death on custard, as missiles continue to streak accross the room. In one dark corner, unmolested by the chaos, a perticularly fateful game of chess is being played.