Blackadder woke up as Baldrick attempted mouth-to-mouth to keep him alive. With anger, he pushed the beggar off himself before licking off the taste of mud and worms from around his mouth.
"You foul disgusting beast!" Blackadder screamed before realising his mistake. "Actually, if I say sorry do I get some money?"

Baldrick vigorously shook his head, flecks of dust flying out of his pathetic excuse for hair.

"Sorry Mr. B! I lent the money to Darling last night. He's at the counter if you want to see him."

Heaving himself off the floor, he heard a crack in his back that forced him to fall back down again onto a barstool.

"Old age that is, Mr. B," Baldrick commented.

"Yes Baldrick," Blackadder replied sarcastically. "It had absolutely nothing to do with me just crashing onto the floor. It most certainty doesn't have anything to do with the fact that I am thirty five, not one hundred and thirty five!"

"I was thinking the same thing," This only resulted in Baldrick getting a clout over the head.

Within a few minutes, Blackadder was ready to go and see his favourite alcoholic, Kevin Darling. His head was slumped on the bar counter, as he tried to pore larger through his ear.

"Hello Darling," Blackadder sniffed in disgust at the stench of the man that sat before him. "I believe you have my, sorry, I mean Baldrick's, money!"

"No!" sighed Darling.


"Spent it!"

"On what?"

"A game of cards!"

"Who with?" Blackadder was roaring with frustration now.

Behind him, a slightly overweight man lumbered into the café. A moustache lay upon his upper lip that reminded Blackadder of the time Baldrick had turned up to a fancy dress party dressed as Charlie Chaplin. Long lives that caterpillar. It never deserved to drown in that chocolate fountain.

"Are you telling me," Blackadder roared at Darling. "That you gambled with Money Melchett and lost? How much?"

"274 million," the drunk replied. Behind Blackadder, Mrs. Miggins fainted for the second time that day. Meanwhile, Baldrick was trying to count 274 million on his toes.

"We're dead," Blackadder scowled.

Melchett advanced, showing a glimpse of the mob that waited outside, clubs in their hand.

"I love the sixties," Blackadder cheerily muttered. "Sorry, did I say love? I meant loath!"