Faster than Calamadamnity could say, "Uhhh…ouch…we might need a witch doctor," a plaid puff of smoke burst in the middle of the tub.
"Sweet lord, Alf, lay off the magic beans!" When the smoke cleared, a man lingered over half-conscious Alfonso in the tiny crammed bathtub, the water lapping at his knees. He wore a magenta leopard skin cape and an electric blue grass skirt, along with a puke green mask of a constipated toucan/ bearded gorilla hybrid that barely fit his gargantuan, globe-sized head, much less concealed his hairy pitcher ears.
"Did somebody call for…a witch doctor?" rasped the mysterious ugly short man formerly known as Prince.
"His head is split open!" exclaimed the werecat. "He can't go saving the world with half of his brains leaking out of his hollow skull!"
The witch doctor waddled closer to Alf and squatted down to his head. "Did somebody spill…Hawaiian Punch?" He dabbed his finger in the red bathwater and put it to his lips. "Huh. This is too fruity to be…Hawaiian Punch. It would seem…that he has split his noggin open."
"NOSHITSHERLOCK!" raged Clam. "Can you ficking fux it…err…frixing furk…frucking fax…uhh…just duct tape his head back together or something?"
"I can…for a price," answered the witch doctor nonchalantly. He pulled out a bark tablet from the depths of his magenta leopard skin cape. "For three virgins…I can repair his head, good as new. For three virgins, five chickens, and a sacrificial bull…I can do that, plus get rid of his acne."
Clam glanced at Alf, then at the witch doctor. "Could you make him capable of discovering any and all loopholes that may appear before us?"
"Oh, why yes…" he responded, taking a minute to peruse his tablet. "Ah! You can do that for…twelve drummers drumming, eleven snipers sniping, ten druggies dealing, nine drunkards drinking, eight soap stars crying, seven rappers shooting, six queens a-dragging, five French onion rings, four bawling babes, three virgins, two turkey drumsticks and a sacrificial bull in a tree."
After a brief silence, the werecat held out a paw, "That's not difficult to obtain at all. You have yourself a deal."
"And where do you think we're going to get all that crap from, dumbass?" groaned Alfonso as blood continued to drip into the steak and gasoline scented water.
"Well, do you want to get back to tip-top questing shape or not?" retorted Clam.
"Don't you think it would be just a bit difficult to get all those drumming druggies and virgin chickens?"
"Do you have any better ideas?"
"Didn't I just give them?
"Why are we arguing in questions?"
"It's better than iambic pentameter, right?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"Have you lost your mind?"
Alf paused for a second. "No, actually, just a lot of blood." And with that, he passed out.
All this time, Clam had his paw held out for the witch doctor to shake; now the poor werecat was starting to cramp. The witch doctor gazed at the unconscious Alf and reconsidered, "Maybe…just numbers one through eight and…a dancing sea lion…"
"You are a merciful man," sighed Clam. "Now, I can't feel my paw. Mind shaking it so I can get the blood flowing again?"
"Only if…you allow me to use the carcass of Alf's dead relative Murielle for some…experiments that may result in his…coming back to life and seeking…revenge and returning to…his transvestite ways."
"But it's not mine to barter, right Alf?" Clam took one long look at the fainted Alfonso and then at his immobile paw. "Done." The two shook appendages briefly before the witch doctor quickly withdrew his hand and took out a bottle of hand sanitizer from his magenta leopard skin cape. He squeezed a coconut sized globule on his hand and rubbed both together vivaciously.
"Hey, I could say the same thing about you, too," snorted Clam, "and you don't see me dragging out a huge-ass bottle of hand sanitizer."
"Why of course…my dear werecat," replied the witch doctor. "You have…no hands. But for an additional onion ring, I can give you…opposable thumbs."
Clam gasped. "Heavens, man, that is too steep a price! Onion rings, unlike druggies and virgins, do not grow on trees! Just fix that buffoon's head and take your eight soap stars crying, seven rappers shooting, six queens a-dragging, five French onion rings, four bawling babes, three virgins, two turkey drumsticks and a sacrificial bull in a tree as well as your carcass of Alf's dead relative Murielle for some experiments that may result in his coming back to life and seeking revenge and returning to his transvestite ways…and your hand sanitizer, too!"
"Then stand back!" boomed the witch doctor, who once again lurked over Alf and began to chant a spell to the tune of "Love Shack". Instantly, the gashing wound healed and all of Alf's acne was gone as well. He sat up and felt his head tenderly.
"Wow…my hair is silky smooth!" he exclaimed.
The witch doctor chuckled and vanished in a puff of plaid smoke. In his wake he left a bill. Clam read the bill and nearly keeled over backwards into the bloodstained bathwater; there was a summoning fee, talking fees, spell fees, a grass skirt fee, hand sanitizer fee, tablet fee, and an address to send all of the payments to… "Dr. B. Witch Doctor III, 7361 Shrunken Head Drive, Hollywood, CA, 90210."
The were cat growled, "That son of a B. Witch!"