"Check please." you feebly tell the nearest waiter. He nods slowly and walks backwards to the cash register to print out your receipt. As he returns, you note that he neglected to throw in a complimentary mint. Also, he's nervously clutching a shotgun.

You blink as you look upon the bill, trying to wrap your mind - or rather, your wallet - around it. Damn it, Jim, you're a treasure hunter, not a duck in a top hat that talks in a Scottish accent! You think to ask Lucky to pick up the check, mostly because everything except the bread was his fault. Unfortunately, Lucky's already snuck through the kitchen into the basement and is raiding the restaurant's illegal liquor supply. And it's all going on your tab.

As if reading your thoughts, the waiter pumps a fresh round into his shotgun. "Look, uh..." you stutter. "...I'm a little short on money here... can't we work something out?" The waiter thinks, then motions toward the kitchen with his head. You slowly raise your hands into the air and lead the way.

The waiter prods you with his shotgun into a room beyond the kitchen, then quickly closes the door behind you. You hear the turning of a lock. Before you stands a crowd of deranged singing and dancing 50-something-ers, tending to a sink filled with a seemingly inexhaustible stack of dirty dishes.

"Hullo!" a woman tapping two forks together yells at you. "We've been trapped here since the 60s, doing dishes to pay off our bills! We haven't seen daylight in forty years! Now we just wash the dishes! Dishes! Dishes! Wash the dishes!" As she finishes, the group picks up her words and begins a hypnotic sing-song chant about dishwashing. You try to fight off total hysteria, but once you notice the skeleton sitting in a corner with its hands knotting a dishrag tightly around its own throat, you can no longer keep from screaming. Turning around to try and break through the door, you accidentally knock a plate off the table. The moment it shatters on the floor, the insane dishwashing crew goes silent and spins around to stare at you.

"You broke a plate." a man states coldly.

You really mean to give him a clever comeback on that one, but before you can think of one, the dishwashers attack and disembowel you with a variety of tableware. Surprisingly, the spoons hurt the most.

DISHES! DISHES! WASH THE DISHES AND THEN START OVER!