"Oh yes!" chimed in Tom Jones, who was seated on a zebra striped settee, "I even brought my hero pants! They're the ones I wear to wash my car when nobody is looking."
"Glorious!" sang Bowie who was pouring a steamy, hot pink beverage from a, Bo thought, somewhat phallic decanter into three goblets that looked like noses. "I'm sure they are groovy to the five hundredth degree, but alas, my little piglets, that is why you are here."
He glided to the weary travelers, goblets in hand, as if he were on wheels. Bo took a sip from the cup he was handed and immediately fell into a spasm of cosmic euphoria. He quickly glanced over at Tom who had chugged the beverage faster than the little engine that could and had consequently leapt to his feet and was in the throws of performing a rather risque Irish jig.
"Duckies," said Bowie, who had assumed the lotus position and was floating around the room, avoiding Tom's flying legs, "I have given you my elixir of groove. It is a sad, sad beast of a pretty boy that I'm about to share with you and I want you in tip top spirits"
"Zip-a-dee-do-dah zip-a-de-ay, my oh my what a wonderful day..." howled Tom.
"You see... hahahaha!!! See... hahaha!!! Get it? See? No? Oh, well, you'll get it in a moment. Maybe not. I forgot you were punaphobes... anyway... see this eyes so blue? One of the mysteries of the world, my left eye is. People have analyzed it, come up with theories, lost sleep, gone insane, someone once tried to smother me with my own bed because of it... now that's what I call eye-nemosity. No? Well then... my point is that the truth is much grimmer, much more dastardly and horrible than the world could possibly comprehend. But my dear little pickle bottom, you and yippy skippy over there have proven to me that more than capable of heavy du'y business... I've been watching you in my crystal ball... I've seen your journey thus far and I know in my heart that you are the only ones capable of giving me what I most desire."
Bo, grinning like a drunken maniac from the elixir of groove began to speak in a cheery voice, "Ziggy, old buddy, old pal! What do you want us to do? Just say the word, mate, and we'll be there in a twinkle!"
Bowie grinned and floated closer to Bo. "I want you to bring me my eye back, Bo. The goblins stole it and replaced it with the orb you see before you. It has been the woe of my life, this eye... it was custom made to make clothes invisible to the beholder."
Bo choked on his beverage, his face turning a bright shade of red. He was unsure if this was because of the fiery liquid racing down his windpipe; the fact that David Bowie could and was seeing him in his full, porky, glory; or out of despair that the mystical emperor of glam could not admire and complement him on his exotic pairing of metallic purple go go boots with polka dotted felt bodysuit.
"Yes," said Bowie, sadly, "It was taken from the custom-made-body-part-workshop of Howard Stern."
