Three little elves were trolling down the slick disco street looking for cute little female elves with whom they could play 'hide the pixie dust' when all of a sudden, a large and clearly intoxicated wolf with three heads came stumbling out of the back of one of the more infernal bars and eyed up the three little elves with 6 gimlet eyes.
'You're not going to eat us, are you?' chattered the three in that sickeningly sweet way that elves say everything.
'Argh, nah, elves give me heartburn,' mumbled the monster, but can you point me to the nearest hot dog vendor?'
Too grateful for being spared, the elves paid no notice of his excellent (not even for a monster but in general) diction and only once they were well away, all thoughts of pixie dust wiped from their minds, did they start to question what sort of a cerebus was it that passed up three tasty elves and spoke with such a clear voice, even when mumbling drunk?
They didn't have long to ponder their mysterious fortune because the skies chose that moment to open up and umbrellas began pounding down on top of them. Like everyone else caught unprepared they took refuge under the awning of a little italian restaurant on the corner famous for its galactic navigation.
'At least they open around here' muttered one elf as they witnessed the yellow and black and polka dot umbrellas tumbling over and over as they fell from the sky.
'Yeah, remember that time in Foucaultland where they just dropped down like javelins?' said the second elf.
'Too goddamn organized, that place' agreed the third.
'Like munchkin land run by the cenobites' replied the first.