The flighty winds of fashion had shifted, this time in a much more dramatic manner. Males of our species became the peacocks once again. Men's magazines even dumped the female centerfolds and photo spreads to create more room for their lavish exploration of everything male and fashionable.

So it should come as no surprise that when a chain of outdoor shoe shine stands popped up over night on every street corner that they were instantly mobbed with excited men who needed their boots and shoes polished immediately. What with all the rain and mud of the Great N.W. a deft hand with the shoe polishing equipment was a treasure beyond compare.

That morning the stands did a brisk business and soon the men of Olympia were that much more spiffed up. But then reality set in. Those shoe polishers were not just odd looking wrinkled ungainly rather ugly men. No, they were caimans.

Olympians being who they are, this fact would not necessarily upset them. But the fact that every single man who sat down to have his shoes polished eventually rose missing his feet (both of them, chomped off) was a cause for concern.

Perhaps a caiman bite has some form of narcotic property, we do not know. Suffice it to say the hospitals were packed and much sewing and fitting of artificial feet ensued.

A full week passed with no further incident worth remarking on.

Then. One morning small inviting outside stands offering inexpensive yet expert manicures appeared on every street corner. (The shoe shine stands had been torched one evening by a footless mob.) These stands even stated in fancy font that the manicurists were trained in Europe. So naturally everyone flocked to the mini-businesses to get a nice trim and buff.

Well. The manicurists were really caimans from the FLOD, different ones though than the foot chompers. These critters not only did a rather nice manicure, they then helped themselves to lunch. Which on that particular day consisted of hands. Those hands offered across the card tables with a request that they be soaked and massaged and lotioned and trimmed and buffed.

Alas. No feet, no hands. Still drugged by either the bite of the foul beasts or by the stench of the same. Another week passes and yet another series of charming outdoor business endeavors crops up.

Barber shops. Barbers trained in the Swiss Alps, absolute geniuses with scissors and shave, for a mere pittance of payment.

We need not continue fair reader, you know what inevitably happened next. Only a few balked at the hair cut phase of Operation Eat Olympia and have lived to tell the tale. So the next time a rheumy eyed foot and handless fellow bellies up next to you at the bar and begins regaling you with impossible tales of caution and warning...............listen. You may very well manage to keep your head.