"Paul is DEAD!" the new speaker intones in an oddly familiar lilt, "I am the WALRUS!"
The women standing with him bangs a tamborine as the crowd roars again.
Their minds reeling, the intrepid duo begin to back away from the crowd. Suddenly, the woman on the stage gave a high shriek. Everyone froze for a moment, then shrugged, assuming it was part of her act. The district sub-leader was not fooled, though. Spying the portly Whipsnade and his angular companion, he shouted to his guards. "It's them! Seize them! General Hannibal, stop them!"
Ramen dashed out of the crowd, relying on Whipsnade's remarkable ability to take care of himself--or at least block the way as his pursurers trampled over him. A man dashed out of the shadows, blocking his way. He was wearing the uniform of a general in the Solomani Army. A plastic mask covered his face, with tiny bars over his mouth. From beneath the mask came a sucking sound, and Ramen's disbelieving ears distinctly heard something about "...a nice chianti."
Meanwhile, Larsen, through the expedient of whimpering like a dog and waddling as fast as he could, had reached the edge of the crowd. Surprisingly enough, a man in a red jumpsuit and wearing a boater moved to block his path. Whipsnade stopped dead, staring at the stone-like contenance of the clone. His eyes drifted down to read the designation sewn onto the jumpsuit:
Smiling, Whipsnade nonchalantly reached for his roll of quarter-credit coins. Without changing his expression, the other man reached into his jumpsuit. His hands slowly, each holding a nunchuk. The weapons began to spin rapidly, with an almost audible whine. Larsen gulped and began to back away in the general direction of the Monty Haul Tavern. Overhead, a capital ship of at least 20,000 tons displacement was drifting lazily down, blotting out the sun.