I'm just gonna apologize in advance for the jokes in this chapter.

"Here's one for you — why couldn't the hobbits identify Boromir's body at the coroner's office?"

"I dunno, why?"

"Because," I grinned. "One does not simply walk into Morgue Door."

Butters choked on his beer. The contents of the huge glass tankard sloshed as he set it down, snickering and hiccuping a little. I finished mine and held the empty mug overhead, waving at our server. Oktoberfest was a pretty good time — what's not to like about giant pretzels and huge mugs of beer, delivered by attractive women wearing those cute traditional Bavarian dresses? The only thing I wasn't a fan of was the polka music coming from the PA system set up in the huge tent. The Chicken Dance was playing.

… For like the twenty-thousandth time.

"Alright. Okay." Butters cleared his throat. He grinned and giggled a little. He'd had as many beers as I had, but only weighed half as much, and was surprisingly still conscious. "Why did the wizard's girlfriend have so many hickeys?"

At some point, our conversation about work had turned into a war of terrible puns. Nobody wins a pun war, especially not the people sitting within earshot, and the puns only got worse as the empty glasses piled up.

"I don't know," I said dryly. "But I'm sure you'll tell me—"

"Because he was a neck-romancer!" Butters cackled.

"Ugh," I groaned. "Awful. What do you call it when a wizard hits you with a frying pan?"

"Cast iron, duh. Hey Harry, what do you call an owl who knows magic—"

"Hoo-dini," I interrupted. The beer wench set a pair of tankards and a glass of water on the table and winked at me as she left. "You know, Butters, somebody told me you remind them of an owl."

"I bet it was Thomas," Waldo said surely, suddenly serious. He went a little green in the face as he stared at the mug.

"Dude," I wheezed. "You're supposed to say 'who?' That's the joke."

He blinked at me behind his round glasses. Butters snorted and snickered again.

... And then he clapped a hand over his mouth and sprinted to the nearest trash can.

"You alright, man?" I asked as he sat down at the table again. I pushed the glass of water toward him.

"Oh, boy. I think that's it for me."

"You'd better call us a Hoo-ber, then," I said, reaching for his untouched beer.

Next: Familiars