He found the Haggis Inn-and-Pub with ease. It was an old haunting spot of his from his college days, and where he had met the handsome Scotsman Rhubarb, Kilt.

He knocked upon the door, and Kilt announced with irritation, "It's a fuckin' business, ya fandan! Open the door yerself!"

Archibald flushed at his forwardness. He opened the door and let himself in.

"What? d'ya think yer the fuckin' queen or somethin'?"

"Kilt, you have to reel back these compliments. It's a bit much, don't you think?"

Kilt leaned against the bar and rolled his eyes. "Yer lucky yer a good time, Archie. Elsewise I wouldn't put up with yer glaikit."

"So, should I... turn the sign around to closed?" Archibald said suggestively. He wriggled his eyebrows. "Or would you like to go for a ride on my motorcycle? Well, it's not mine. I'm borrowing it from someone."

"Ach, in this economy? I'm practically open twenty-four-seven, Archie. I can't afford to close and miss a customer. Besides, they won't let me. Tourism board."

"What was that?"

"Ach, if ya wanna do it just expect someone'll walk in for a dram. They don't give a shite what we're doin' on the bar."

"Ah... maybe we could... just go into one of the guest rooms?"

"And leave the bar unmanned?"

"Can we do it on the floor? The bar seems so... unhygienic."

"We've all had a tough life here, Archie. They don't let us leave Scotlandtown for much. Yer lucky ye can still afford yer standards, but I'm takin' it where I can get it. Ye know that Scotsman, Scooter?"

"I thought he was Irish!"

"We don't have an Irelandtown 'round here, Archie. Use that noggin of yers!"

"Well, I just... I just assumed."

"Ach, anyway, once Scooter bummed out to Bumblyberg, they realized we were growin' thin. Scotlandtown was a thing of the past, aye? So we're not allowed to mingle too much with the outside. I'd prefer we get this over with quick 'fore the polis come and question it. Just... throw the sign up for two seconds, aye?"

"Kilt, are you quite all right? You're certainly free to leave, aren't you?"

Kilt unbuttoned his shirt. If Rhubarbs had abs, Kilt would've had probably 1000 abs. He would've been Kilt "Rhubabs" Bagpipe. Archibald forgot all his concerns like time slipping away through fragile fingers and dissipating into faded memories.

They threw themselves into each other, and if they had limbs said limbs would've been tangled and intertwined. But Archibald still didn't find it quite as sexy as he had hoped.

They were finished, just getting dressed, when Archibald said, "That was probably... an A minus."

"Are ye rankin' the sex, ya dobber?" Kilt exclaimed, his voice rising like the Tower of Terror elevator.

"I mean... no." Archibald lied, his voice dropping like the Tower of Terror elevator. "I mean, it wasn't your best work, but..."

"What is wrong with ya?"

Archibald didn't have time to answer. The door was shoved open violently, and an onion with a polo shirt embroidered with the words "Tourism Board" came in, a police officer following.

"Kilt Bagpipe, you know the law about closing early!" The tourism board onion reprimanded. "What if a thirsty or tired tourist stopped by?"

"Ach, it must've been a mistake. I believe the tourist I was servin' knocked it when I wasn't lookin'. Thank ye for bringin' it to -"

"You're losing your accent, Kilt."

Kilt laughed nervously. "What're ya - yer talkin' pish!"

"They're talking what now, Kilt?"

"Fuck ye dain?" Kilt snapped at Archibald. "Gawn giese fuckin' peace."

Archibald looked helplessly at Kilt. "None of those words happen to mean that I'm sexy, do they?" He felt as lost as a polar bear in a grocery store in Utah, at least, one who had accidentally walked into the wrong grocery store, and did not yet know the layout, and he needed to find the produce aisle but for some reason the produce was in the complete opposite part of the store than its counterpart on the other side of town.

"No, you idiot! They don't! They mean 'what the fuck is wrong with you, shut your fucking mouth, please!'" Kilt exclaimed without an accent, and then probably covered his mouth with his invisible hands but Archibald couldn't tell.

"Ach. That was yer last warnin'!" The police officer said, pulling out the world's most useless handcuffs for show, and pretending to click them around Kilt's imaginary wrists.

"Ye got me fuckin' lifted, ya dobber!" Kilt snapped at Archibald as the police officer lifted him and carried him away bridal style.

"I'm sorry, until further notice, the inn-and-pub is now closed. It will be under new management soon." The tourism board onion said, offering a polite smile. "Also, we gave you a parking ticket. You do have to properly park that motorcycle, you know."

Sadly, Archibald left the building. By now it was nearing evening, and Archibald, while climbing atop the motorcycle, looked up and saw a faint falling star.

"It reminds me of Coolhil." He said softly.

The star, in turn, yelled out, "IS THAT MY MOTORCYCLE?" as it passed overhead. Archibald shed a tear, started the motorcycle, and rode out of Scotlandtown.

He was so lost in thought that he had not seen where he was going, and he collided over a gourd on the sidewalk. "Oh, my heavens! Mr. Lunt!" He exclaimed in horror as he pulled himself up from the sidewalk. "I hit you with a motorcycle! How are you still standing?"

Mr. Lunt looked down at the sidewalk for a moment. "That's a motorcycle? I thought it was a rollerskate." He gave an uncomfortable whistle. "Ah, well, I'm all right, really. Are you?"

"Of course I'm all right! I was the one riding the motorcycle! You were just standing here! It's a real miracle you're all right."

Mr. Lunt stared at him. "Ah, right. Yes, well... I'm good."

"I mean... surely you're a little hurt. I should take you home and... well, to your home, and... if you need me to tend to your injuries... however long it takes..."

"I'm actually all right, really. I... I appreciate that though."

"Shh. You're concussed. I really must take responsibility."

"No, seriously, I'm fine."

"Maybe... you know... I could give you a ride. If the motorcycle isn't wrecked."

"Ah, I'm sure we won't both fit, and well... I'd rather walk. It's right around the corner. Thanks, though!"

"Mr. Lunt, I insist." Archibald insisted.

"Ah, well, if you insist so insistingly. I guess I have no narrative choice in this matter."

"No, not really. Now, I'll just get back on this... this deathtrap, and I'll ride alongside you to make sure you're fine."

"I think... it's probably quicker and easier to walk."

"Pish-posh." Archibald remarked, and he smiled the smile that an asparagus who rode a motorcycle would smile. "It's quite cool, isn't it?"

"I think you look like quite the dork."

Archibald picked up the motorcycle and dropped it into his yellow sweater vest pocket. It revved once, sadly, at being put away. "Very well. We'll walk if you insist. You're the injured one."

"I think you're the concussed one."

"Mm. Do you like my yellow sweater?" Archibald asked.

"Ah, I think I agree with Pa Grape. 'No',"

"You're always so witty, Mr. Lunt," Archibald said, and he considered Pa Grape as if putting him on a mental checklist to visit later. Although, probably much, much later.