I repeat: an evening in bed with Palinode and Schmutzie. Entertainment, drinks, hummus, blood and ouns. Actually, no blood and ouns. Oscar the Cat leaps up on the bed, eyes wide and moony-round.
Schmutzie: Oscar's worried about something. He's making that whuffing sound with his nostrils.
Schmutzie: I think it's the open window. He's not used to the night sounds.
Palinode: It's Robert Palmer. He's back from the grave and he's standing outside our window, playing some choice hits.
Schmutzie: Robert Palmer is at The Grave?
Palinode: He was, but now he's back and he's got some choice hits for us.
Schmutzie: So he's come back to The Grave?.
Palinode: No, he's come back from the grave. He died. But he's outside our window now.
Schmutzie: Robert Palmer's dead?
Palinode: But his corpse has risen with a will to serve choice hits at the window.
Schmutzie: So he's at The Window?
Palinode: Night sounds.
Schmutzie: I have no idea what you're talking about.
Palinode: It's simple. The dead body of Robert Palmer has risen from his grave, and now he is outside at our window playing his choice hits, which are the night sounds that are making Oscar nervous.
Schmutzie: Oh. I thought The Grave and The Window were clubs in town and Robert Palmer was playing.
Oscar: Whuf, predictably.