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[ Sandford, 20 March, 1987: Happy Birthday, Sissy Skinner. Warnings for, er, references. Can you guess to what? ]

A pub is a great place to wind up in when you're having a crappy day. Voluntarily winding up in a pub where it logically would be is even better. Involuntarily winding up in a pub where your house is supposed to be is not so good. Involuntarily winding up in a pub full of animals where your blessedly animal-free house is supposed to be is even worse. It's not the same as being dumped or mocked or seeing off your vehicular baby, but it's definitely not good for one's mental constitution.

Color Simon Skinner, age 37, very WTFBBQ.

Any patron, fuzzy or non, is welcome to tell the tall guy at the door where he is.

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"Yes," he says, a little surprise. "The village."

Pause.

He would ask if the weasel has ever been, but...talking weasel.

Dude, wtf.

..Maybe he's a son Skinner forgot to mention..?

"Oh. And what is it that you do there?"

"I help run the local grocery store with my father."

"Aaah," he replies knowingly, nodding slowly. "You look very much like your father. That's possibly not something you like hearing, but it needs to be said."

"...you know my father?"

WHY DID HIS FATHER NOT TELL HIM HE WAS ACQUAINTED WITH TALKING WEASELS AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE?

"Absolutely. He's a good man, when he's not being an arrogant bastard, which, let's face it, is rather often."

WHY DID SKINNER NOT MENTION A SON TO HIS BFF? THAT IS SAD.

Skinner looks unimpressed. "He's always a bastard."

"I suppose that's the problem with being a parent," he states with a shrug. He wouldn't really know, he's never had experience with parents.

"He never wanted to be a parent to me. Never wanted more than one kid, then out I came. Never let me forget it. He's always calling me names like--like 'Sissy'--I hate that bloody name--why can't he call me by the name he gave me: Simon..."

Another shrug which pretty much states he's just a weasel. How the shit should he know? "I supp-- Simon?"

"Yes. I suppose he hasn't tol--how do you know my father?"

Because. You know.

Talking weasel.

Don't have many of 'em in Sandford. Or maybe he's just going muy loco.

There's some rapid blinking going on from the weasel. And that wtfness has come back.

"I uh.. don't. My mistake. Wrong father."

"?" says Skinner.

"Uuh.. you humans look all the same to us weasels. I thought you were someone's son.. but.. you're not who I thought. It was just one big coincidence." Le Chiffre's doing so well at covering his tracks. No rly.

"If you've really been to Sandford there's no way you could mistake me for anyone else's son. There's only one family of Skinners in Sandford!"

"Oh, Sandford? I thought you said.. uh.. Stanford. I know someone in Stanford. Lovely place."

Skinner stares at Le Chiffre for a long time.

Then, to himself: "I shouldn't be talking to a ferret."

"Weasel," he snaps back once more, before composing himself. "Just out of curiosity, what year was it that you just came from?"

"1987."

His suspicions iz confirmed. Teehee, young Skinner.

"I won't miss the eighties," he states with a nod.

"Have no fear, little werretfeasel: the eighties will be over and done with in three years. If you survive that long."

"Oh, nono, that's fine. I've passed the eighties long ago, and the nineties. I was settling nicely into the millennium before this place showed up. I'm a long lasting weasel."

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