I sort of own Eulenspiegel.

"I can clean out the wound for you," said Eulenspiegel, "I can even attach a cap to the stump. But I can't grow you a new hand, I'm afraid."

"That would be fine, good sir." He sat down in the chair, which looked like the sort dentists had in their offices. Eulenspiegel reached for a needle of anaesthetic.

"You will want this," he said in his Dutch accent. Eulenspiegel is an undead Dutchman, by the way. "It will take away the searing pain of me poking around at your wristbones with a pair of tweezers."

The needle stuck into Torgo's arm, and he was out like a bird through a window.

Flashback.
Torgo remembered his days in old Paris, before becoming indentured to the Manos cult. Back then, he was a servant working for a French judge named Claude Frollo. This particular flashback started with him sitting, Harry Potter-like, in Frollo's cupboard, and, un-Harry Potter-like, dismembering rabbits with his bare hands, which was his favourite way of unwinding.

Then there was a knock on the cupboard door. Frollo always knocked first, very kindly, to give Torgo some time to pull his pants up in case he was in there wanking, although Torgo had never wanked, and didn't need to. But Frollo, being the religious chap that he was, decided he didn't want to think about a masturbating satyr and just decided not to address the issue at all.

"What is it, Judge?" said Torgo, opening the door, and managing not to slip in all the rabbit intestines. "I am ready to do your bidding."

Frollo looked down his nose at Torgo, surveying him with a certain distaste. "There are gypsies entering Paris, Torgo," he began, speaking in the smooth, commanding voice of Sir Tony Jay. "I want you to root out their hideaway and tell me where it is." To illustrate his point, he crunched a rabbit head beneath his foot, just like how in the movie he did that thing with the bugs under the rock when talking to someone else.

"Yes, Judge," said Torgo, wandering out the door. He didn't have his hand-headed walking stick yet, and instead dressed more in the manner of a Renaissance-era French aristocrat, even though that was anachronistic to the setting.

"Good luck, Torgo," said Frollo. He didn't like Torgo, and Torgo knew it, and Frollo knew that Torgo knew it, and Torgo knew that Frollo knew that, and Frollo mistakenly believed that Torgo knew that Frollo knew that Torgo knew that Frollo knew that Torgo knew. He (Torgo) was a satyr, of pre-Christian origin, and, what's more, he was hardly the modicum of civilized humanity. Also, he smelt like urine and spoke in annoyingly modulating tones. But he had one use, although Frollo hated to admit it: Torgo could gather information like nobody's business. His usual method was of the sort later popularized by James Bond, which is to say, giving away hot dickings to beautiful women until one of them gave him the information. He was pretty good at that, having stolen women away from Giacomo di Casanova, as many as three at a time. Torgo also had recently acquired his PhD at the Sorbonne in the discipline of Kicking Your Ass.

So Torgo sat down on a park bench, although Paris probably didn't have park benches yet, and he thought for a while. Where might the gypsies be? Whom to dick? What was a gypsy? He saw a beautiful aristocratic-looking woman walking by. She had golden, silken hair and inexplicably violet eyes, a slightly-dark complexion that hinted at the possibility of being half-gypsy (whatever that was), and was wearing something that looked suspiciously like an X-Men uniform, so was probably one of those "Mary Sues" that kept cropping up while he was working for The Judge. Considering how well-tuned to major events they were, this one probably knew all sorts of relevant mess.

Time to take matters into hand. He stood up, and shuffled over to her. "Hello, madam," said Torgo, and this alone was enough to make her swoon into his arms.

One hot dicking later, Torgo and Rosemarie Amorette Feuillette lay entwined in her silk-sheeted bower. Unbeknownst to Torgo, Rosemarie had been infatuated with Frollo for some time, despite his being a vicious and genocidal old man, but this has little to do with the matter at hand. Oh, and Quasimodo. She was in love with him, too. "I fear I have betrayed my heart," she said.

"That's great, madam. Where do the gypsies live?"

Sewers were gross. They still are, but they were much grosser back then, because they were basically just tunnels full of unprocessed human dump, whereas today, they are tunnels full of processed human dump, which is infinitely preferable. But they had those little walkway things along the side, so as Torgo wandered the sewer, he sang a song that hadn't been written yet, which was the popular thing to do these days. Had this been an Aardman movie, some amusing slugs would have sung along, but sadly, he had to make do with harmonizing rats.

We sail tonight for Singapore

We're all as mad as hatters here

I've fallen for a tawny moor

Took off to the land of Nod

Drank with all the Chinamen

Walked the sewers of Paris

I danced along a coloured wind

And dangled from a rope of sand

You must say goodbye to me

Incidentally, "Chinamen" is no longer the preferred nomenclature, but back then, slavery was still happening, and the most hardcore of feminists would find Borat to be radical, so there was little time for political correctness.

Luckily, his singing did not attract the attention of the gypsy guards, because they were busy watching Esmeralda & Her Gypsy Matchbox B-Line Klezmer Conservatory Blues Explosion Choir Dancers perform Gold Digga, which also hadn't been written yet.

Eventually he came to a chamber in which sat an old woman who was knitting something. From the echoing corridors, however, it sounded like a bunch more people were headed this way, and maybe he could overhear a bit of extra information for The Judge. He snuck behind a barrel full of food, where he hid. Leading the group was a crazy guy in a purple and yellow jester suit. He was waving around a puppet that looked exactly like himself and swigging wine from a bottle. "Wheeeee!" shouted the man, as he stumbled around, bumping into people and groping the womenfolk. "I'm terribly, terribly drunk!" Only he said it in French.

Yeah, did I mention that, for the duration of this flashback, everyone, Torgo included, is speaking French? If I didn't, I'm doing it now: for the duration of this flashback, blah blah.

Then a beautiful woman appeared among the crowd. "Clopin, I think Judge Frollo is planning something against us."

Torgo grinned. She was right.

Clopin, if that was his name, sat down. "Esmera… Es… Emserella," he stammered, unable to pronounce her name, "tell me about it when I'm sober. I can't deal with intrigue and plot when I'm drunk."

"You're always drunk, Clopin," she said. Torgo treated himself to staring at her bottom.

"Well, that's true," admitted Clopin. "So what do you propose to do about Frollo?"

"We need to tighten security around here. Probably leave. We could go to Montreuil-sur-Mer. I'm told the mayor there is very nice, although there's supposed to be a particularly nasty cop who lives there. Oh, and prostitutes who sell their hair to buy medicine for their estranged daughters."

"How would we make a living there?" asked Clopin. "Would you become a prostitute? That sounds like a great idea."

"No," she said. "I'm saving myself for marriage, remember?"

"No," said Clopin. "I'm positive that guy Joe claimed that you weren't a virgin anymore."

"Joe tells lies," said Esmeralda. "And he doesn't even have a gypsy name. Hell, he doesn't even have a French name."

"There's a satyr hiding behind the barrel," said Joe, in a peculiarly high-pitched voice.

"Oh, hell," said Torgo.