Wabsworth was master of the keys and he tinkled the ivories as Tipsy, Mitzy and Fitzy swayed to the rhythm of Brecht. "There's no whisky in this bar," yelled Tipsy. Mitzy moved from left to right. "Wabsworth has whisky and he doesn't even like it." They swayed in unison like the Ronettes. "He has an algorithm for Scotch," they sang. Wabsworth hit a discordant note. "There's no Lapinette in this bar! She can't be far; she can't be far." They changed positions. Tipsy stepped to the front. "No-one knows anything about this adventure. So pass me. The whisky. I must have it, it inspires, you know why." "Pass it. Pass it. We know why," echoed Fitzy and Mitzy. Wabsworth his paws flying across the keys, shifted chords and played Alabama song like the Doors. "Where is the Wabbit?" slurred Tipsy. "At the next whisky bar," said Fitzy. "It's not far," said Mitzy. "It's round the corner from the Spar," chanted Tipsy. Fitzy crossed her legs at an impossible angle. The scent of whisky hung in the air. Wabsworth paws flew and suddenly he sang. "Show me the way to the next lovely girl." Mitzy's eyes flashed. "Your good old Mama. That's me!" She lurched sideways into Tipsy's paws and was propelled across the dance floor. "And now we say goodbye!" Tipsy, Fitzy and Mitzy swayed through the nearest exit. Wabsworth grinned and stood. He swept his fur back, closed the lid of the piano, turned to an imaginary audience and said, "If you enjoyed that, tell my agent." Ghostly applause filled the room. Then to the accompaniment of ethereal cheering, he hopped through the same exit.
