Wolfen Bar and Grille, Part Deux and a half

Oy vey. What have I gotten myself into? For the regular viewers of this station, today will be confiscated by Wolfen Bar and Grill, a blogging soap opera I signed up for in my naïve days. Today, part, heck, I don’t know what part it is.
Part one by wolfbaby
part two by cathy
part three by SmallTown RN
Part four by Willow Tree
part five by Dr. Rob
Part Six by JIP
Part Seven by Patient Anonymous
Part Eight by Pamela
Previously, on Lost, er, Wolfen Bar and Grill (which is lost), too many things happened to recount. I think we’re in either Austria or Australia (I’m going with the latter because of the, um, “culture”). Everyone was pregnant, but it turned out to be gas. WillowTree was shot, but it only furrowed his brow. Laundress collapses on a regular basis and currently sings some unknown song. Wolfie cleans and cleans and gets bitter about some hostile takeover. A group of docs conspire (that’s probably the most real-life aspect of it all). Here I go:

The scream reverberated in the Outback, echoing like church bells but not as pure. The whole crew rushed outside of Wolfen’s Bar and Grill, not because any of them thought they could help or cared to, but because they couldn’t resist a bit of juicy gossip.
Nothing.
No sign of struggle.
No sign of any human or animal existence.
Just brush.
“Who screamed?” Patient Anonymous’ voice barely whispered.
Jungle Tart gestured toward the horizon with her clarinet. In the distance, the last of a tail disappeared. Croc, maybe? JIP’s mouth watered. She hadn’t had good croc in a while.
Dumb looks typical of soap operas to take up five minutes of air time.
They all shrugged their shoulders and returned inside.
Except for Willowtree (cue horror music – da, da, da…)
Wolfie wilted at the doorstop, knocking her chin against the bar.
“That’ll require stitches,” Dr. A feigned an Aussie accent while wiping the still-dirty counter with the still-dirtier rag. “What can I get everyone to drink?” His accent grated on the ears, truth be told.
“So this is how it all goes down, huh?” JIP brandished her finger at Dr. A.
Dr. Rob took his place next to Dr. A in a Superman stance, ready for a fight.
“Cowards.”
Jungle Tart trilled on the clarinet, an intro to the musical number.
“Boy, boy, crazy boy,
Get cool, boy!
Got a rocket in your pocket,
Keep coolly cool, boy!”
Dr. A jolted out a drawer and grabbed a knife. Unfortunately for him, he grabbed it by the wrong end. Blood gushing down his hand (Wolfie kept fastidiously sharp knives, scraping them against the knife sharpener on a daily basis), he tossed it in the air, hoping to pull off something intimidating like catching it on its handle juggler-style and hitting a wall inches from a nose or something like that. But Dr. Rob sneezed…

Follow along the yellow brick road to Karmya R on Feb. 23 for more of this titillating story.
(Roll credits, accompanying music)
“Don’t get hot,
‘Cause man you got
Some high times ahead.
Take it slow and Daddy-O
You can live it up and die in bed!”