“Hello, Froggy,” Rooster said.

“But Rooster, that’s not-” Piggy started, but Rooster shushed him and brushed him back with an elegant wing.

“The Rooster said hello.”

“Erm. ‘Course, mate. You’ll be needing petrol, then?”

“The Rooster wonders why you’re washing the money in a cup of water.”

“Oh. Erm. It’s what we, erm, frogs do. Yeah, mate. We frogs like water, y’know?”

Rooster leapt on the counter, beak to snout with his interlocutor.

“See, here’s what the Rooster thinks is so goddamn fishy. Mate. See, the Rooster thinks Froggy is small, bald and green, a thin skin who don’t care about the shape of the cash so long as he has the stash to get smashed. But you, mate, are too hairy and OCD to be a flyeater.”

There was a blur of fur and feathers on the countertop.

“I’ve got a knife, mate,” the Raccoon growled, brandishing metal while Piggy ran, squealing, behind a display of jerky and Corn Nuts.

“Good thing the Rooster is wearing his spurs today. Now what did you do with Froggy, you fat fucker?”