As Mogey eased himself into the front seat of the trolley with an enormous groan, Smush cast him a sidelong glance.
"What is it, Moge-man?" he asked over the clickety-clack of the trolley's wheels.
"Oooooooh it's the old noggin," Mogey replied. "It feels like a cartoon weasel is popping corn behind my eyeballs."
"Again?" queried Smush. "That's the third time you've complained of throbbing noggin this week. We've got to get you to a doctor."
"Excuse me," interjected a young man with ears the size of funnel cakes who wore a dayglo pink tracksuit, "I couldn't help but overhear."
"Bet you couldn't," mumbled Mogey, eyeing the gentleman's ears as he continued to clutch his aching head.
"Seems you two are looking for medical attention? Perhaps I can help. The name's Homer O'Pathy."
"Homer?" asked Smush skeptically.
"Aye, but my friends all call me Homie. For a malady such as this, might I suggest--"
"Let me guess, Homie O'Pathy," Smush interrupted, "raw onions in the socks? Bacon bits under the full moon? Where'd you get your so-called medical degree from, anyway, Pete Bog's Bayou Institute of Folk Remedies, brought to you by Pete Bog Heating and Plumbing?"
"Imperial College," Homie replied. "Go Commodores! And I was going to suggest your friend start with two aspirin..."
"Ah, oh, erm," Smush stuttered, his face bright red.
"I think what my friend is trying to say, Dr. O'Pathy," Mogey added, "is that we apologize. Please do go on with your recommendation."
"...washed down with a pint of strong irish whiskey that has been stored in the stall of a wistful donkey for no less than a fortnight and saged by a Grade 2 warlock."
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