Hall and Oates are visiting the zoo.
'Why look at that giraffe, it's all neck,' observes Oates.
'You said that same exact line the last time we visited the zoo, over forty years ago.'
'No I didn't.'
'Yes you did. We were standing over there next to where that rose bush is now and you said, “Why look at that giraffe, it's all neck,” and that was forty years ago and I know that for a fact because we came here straight from the studio after the last of the Abandoned Luncheonette recording sessions.'
'I know. It's obscene. Forty years and what's changed? Sure, we've had our successes, but...'
'What? No, forget that – that toddler over there has its ear pierced.' Hall looks: glint of golden stud.
Oates continues:'How old is he, three? The world has changed.'
'Ah yes, but no matter how much things change, people will always enjoy the music of Hall and Oates.'
'You've got that right, buddy.'
'Come on, old friend, let's drop in on the reptile house, see what the lizard-folk are up to.'
Stepping into the reptile house, Hall and Oates – for this is Hall and Oates fan fiction - are impressed by the steamy, oppressive atmosphere.
Reptiles of every kind, torpid, wooden shapes laid out under heat lamps and beside little brown pools of stagnant water.
Oates is looking at a large iguana sitting on a log. He is joined all of a sudden by a matronly-looking nun in habit and headdress.
'Magnificent, isn't he?' She offers. She has big teeth.
Oates looks out of the corner of his eye at the nun, runs a finger under his nostrils. Yes: blood. Since birth, exposure to any kind of religious imagery (particularly nuns, those little pieces of bread, and tabernacles) has caused him to immediately haemorrhage blood out of his nasal cavity.
'Excuse me,' he says to the nun and walks away.
Oates, pinching his nostrils, rejoins Hall, who is tapping on some glass, trying to make a fat yellow lizard wake up because he paid good money to see it and that means awake.
'A nun,' announces Oates in a funny voice. Hall sees blood commingled with moustache hair.
At once the fat yellow lizard comes alive. It has the scent of blood. The other reptiles, too. They begin throwing themselves at the walls of their enclosures, half mounting the glass, falling back, rolling over, flashes of white underbelly, sinuous writhing, lashing tales and flicking tongues, bursts of metabolic urgency from every corner.
The lights flicker, die, and are replaced by dim red emergency backup lighting. Hissing, barking, snapping jaws.
The nun is in a panic, she is trying in vain to escape, madly working the handle of a janitor's closet. She succeeds in opening the door, but the moment she does so, an albino crocodile bursts forth amidst a clatter of mops and buckets and bottles of cleaning fluid, and takes her in its jaws. The nun is dragged into the janitor's closet screaming. The door slams shut behind her.
'My money's on the crocodile,' says Oates in a funny voice.