Rain drums impatiently on the car roof. Basil inspects his hastily acquired arsenal from the driver's seat. The frazzled hotelier has spent the last minute or so rushing about the storm, attempting to arm himself in preparation for the looming clash with the robbers. So far, his weapons include a downed tree branch, the garden gnome, and his (somewhat addled) mind.

No matter! Perhaps bringing a garden gnome to a gunfight meant going against conventional wisdom, but wasn't it the metaphorical garden gnomes of life that made Britain great? Had citizens sat on their arses waiting for backup at Dunkirk? Of course not! They sailed their garden gnome boats across the Channel and rescued 338,226 men! It was time to stop hesitating. It was time to forcibly check some sodding robbers out of Fawlty Towers.

Rallied by his own rambling, internal pep talk, Fawlty punches the keys into the ignition. Nothing happens.

Super. Basil glares at the lawn decoration in the passenger seat.

"What the hell are you smiling at?"

At least the damn thing didn't respond with a tentative, "Que?"

The hotelier begins to punch the dashboard and steering wheel, as if physical violence will somehow awaken the car.

"Come on, you stupid blighter! Just one more time, I promise! One more bloody time, you bucket of rusting pus! For Christ's sake—" Basil twists the keys again and the engine springs to life. Calming down, he takes a deep breath and absurdly adjusts his rumpled tie in the rearview mirror. "I'd hate to even mention it, considering your country of origin," he tells the (presumably Germanic) ceramic passenger, "But if it's war they want, then it's a war they've got."

"Enough dillydallying. Tell us where the safe is right now, Sybil." The frightened hotelier has been tied to a chair in her office, but appears otherwise unscathed. The same cannot be said for her formerly meticulously permed tower of hair, which has been reduced to a drooping mess. The Terrors have been hovering over Sybil, demanding the safe's location for some time now. "Or we head to the basement and take care of blondie and the Brazilian this instant."

"It's on the roof."

It's a frantic lie, of course. Not a particularly good one, either. Sybil foresees it unraveling upon inspection, just like one of Basil's implausible this point, the hotelier is simply trying to prevent, or at least postpone, the robbers from harming Polly and Manuel. Sybil struggles to keep calm. She now understands why her husband is reduced to nervous wreck on a near daily basis. Lying is terrifying work.

"If you're not telling the truth, I swear—"

"No, no. It's up there. Really. Please. Go check."

Maybe the wait staff will find some way to escape, in the meantime. Maybe both Terrors will go up to search and fall off the roof. Maybe someone, anyone will come…

The incessant pounding at the door is forceful enough to startle even the ruthless Terrors of Torquay.

"That would be Officer Graham and his partner," Sybil smirks at the robbers, attempting to appear confident. "He told me they'd be back to check on the hotel later this evening. You'd better be off—"

"Dear, you're as bad a liar as you are a decorator," Erica laughs. "We've been here the whole time, flies on the tacky wallpaper. The guests are gone. The police are gone. Your husband is probably in a straight jacket by now. Nobody's coming to save you."

"Then who's at the door?" Sybil smiles. As if on cue, keys jingle in the lock and the front door creaks open.

Keys? Could it be Basil?

"Hello? Anybody home?"

That's definitely too grating for his voice. Which is probably fortunate, considering Basil's typically disastrous handling of… well, everything. Life in general, really.

"Run!" Sybil screams at the unseen figure in the lobby. "Run and get help! The Terrors of Torquay are here!"

"Oh my God!" Barging into the office, the newcomer reveals himself to be bland, bespectacled, and wearing a hairpiece. Sybil recognizes him as the angry guest of American origin. The disbelieving Yank wipes the droplets from his glasses. "I just came back because I thought I left my scarf in the lounge… What the hell is going on here?"

Before Sybil can exhort the man to flee, a thought punctures her excitement.

"How'd you get keys to the door?"

The male Terror descends into hysterics at this.

"I gave them to him," Erica smiles. "I borrowed your lovely husband's set while we were snuggling upstairs."

Sybil suppresses a smile. Basil snuggling? A hilarious concept, in and of itself.

"Good Lord, Donald. Forgot your scarf?" The ex-Aunt doubles over. "You sound like a complete ponce."

"Just keeping in character," the robber named Donald Sinclair takes a small bow, his accent slipping.

"You're one of them." Sybil wilts. "You're a Terror too."

"Gosh, you're right!" the third robber chuckles. "How'd a smart girl like you end up running a place like this?" He turns to his colleagues. "May I speak to you both outside?"

Slamming the office door behind them, the two other Terrors follow their leader through the lobby and into the dining room.

"Did you take care of Fawlty?" Erica asks. "Is that why you're back so soon?"

"Fawlty is the reason I'm back." The bespectacled American's accent is now decidedly British. "But I haven't taken care of him. Yet."

"What happened? Too much security at the hospital?"

"The bastard never even got to the hospital. I waited in the emergency room lobby. His ambulance never showed up. I overheard some nurses worrying over some missing paramedics who were last heard from 'transporting the psycho hotel owner.' Driving back, I found the ambulance. It's stuck in the mud on the side of the main road with two unconscious blokes inside. No sign of good old Basil."

"So Fawlty could be anywhere by now?"

"If he were smart, yes. He's not as intelligent as he thinks, though. I have a feeling he'll be back here." The other criminals appear stressed by this prospect. "Don't worry. He's a fugitive now. He won't be bringing any police backup. If he comes back at all, the arrogant sod will come back alone." Sinclair shakes his head at such haughtiness. "We'll have to hurry up, though. Once the police get wind of his escape, they'll be back here too. Which leads to my question, has the bird sung yet?"

"She swears that the safe's on the roof," Erica shrugs. "I suppose it's possible."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Sinclair grins. "I'll head up and check if she's telling the truth."

"I'll go guard our lovely host," Erica adds, exiting the dining room.

"And I'll keep an eye out the window for the gangly git," the fake Aunt volunteers.

"Actually, mate, I want you to go shoot the waiter downstairs," the former guest orders, coldly smiling. "You know. The Portuguese fellow."

"Worried about having too many hostages?"

"No. That git kept me waiting for thirty minutes during lunch today. When he finally stumbled out, he gave me slightly off prawns instead of a Waldorf Salad. I swear to God, I've been in jails with more competent service and better food."

Leaving his homicidal compatriot to improve staff efficiency at Fawlty Towers, Sinclair darts through the lobby and up the staircase. All of the other gigs had been so easy in comparison. Check in, relax, sample some cheese (in the case of the cheese shop), and then steal everything in sight! Sinclair was all for accepting personal responsibility for his own failures, but he couldn't help but suspect that the hotel itself was cursed. The place was practically a madhouse, producing, attracting, and enhancing spectacular disasters. The unluckiness had rubbed off; this current job was badly bungled, but salvageable. Sinclair knew he could handle it. Find safe, eliminate witnesses, burn hotel. Straightforward business.

The Terror scales the hotel's second staircase, finding himself standing before the door to the rooftop. Unlocking it, he steps outside into the bitterly cold, wet night. Cautious of the howling gale, Sinclair moves slowly across the roof. He finds a water tank and not much else. No sign of a safe. He shakes his head. The Fawlty lady was just stalling.

A car horn's relentless honking interrupts Sinclair's thoughts. He tentatively moves to the edge of the rooftop, just in time to witness a metallic flash of red screech up the front steps. Then comes the inevitable, massive tremor, which shakes the building and nearly sends the robber stumbling into space. All this as a horrible crashing noise booms somewhere below.

"What the hell is with this place?"

A thoroughly thrashed license plate with the registration number WLG 142E clatters to the lobby floor. The red Austin 1100 Countryman Estate sits in the middle of the room, its headlights flickering beneath the rubble. The front door and entry area of the hotel were severely damaged by car's impact, while the walls of the lobby itself remained relatively untouched. There is no motion inside the battered car until the driver's door falls off its hinges. Then, gnome and tree branch tucked under each arm, Basil emerges cheerfully from the wreckage.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry! I do hope that didn't alarm anyone!" he calls, cheerily. "I must've missed the 'Do Not Disturb, Robbery in Progress' sign on the door!"

A single gunshot rings through the night. Eyes widening, Basil sprints off to find the source of the sound.

Polly's nerves cannot seem to catch a break. A moment ago, "Aunt Praline" had been sauntering down the steps, boasting about his orders to dispatch Manuel. Before the wait staff could even begin to protest, a huge jolt had nearly sent the man tumbling down the steps into the deep water. As he clung to the railing to avoid falling, the robber had inadvertently squeezed the trigger, shooting off the gun.

"Bloody hell." The thief frowns. "What's going on upstairs?"

"You should check it out!" Polly advises, hoping to buy them some time. Manuel is practically in a dead faint; held up only by the ropes securing him to the basement pillar. "Might be serious."

"Nice try." Smiling cruelly, he re-aims the gun. The waiter manages to nod sorrowfully at the distraught Polly. "No matter. Back to work."

"Come now, you're on vacation! Relax and try out Fawlty Towers's brand new basement swimming pool!" cackles a voice from the top of the stairs. Much to Polly's shock, a pudgy bearded figurine crashes down on the criminal's head.

"Every pool session comes with a complimentary garden gnome!" Dazed the robber slips into the water. Basil leaps over him and splashes towards Polly.

"Mr. Fawlty, you save us!" Manuel cries, jubilant. "Me has salvado! You save us!"

"Are you hurt, Sherman?"

"No. Thank you." Using the palette knife, Fawlty frees the art student.

"Manuel? Are you all right over there?"

"Si."

"There's only one Terror left now." The hotelier flounders towards the waiter, untying him before he is entirely submerged. "We can take her, if we use the element of surprise—"

A scream from upstairs pierces the basement.

"Syb!" Shouting, Basil proceeds to scramble over to the stairs. As usual, Manuel trails the panicking hotelier. "I'm coming, Syb!"

"Element of surprise, then?" Polly mutters, following them up the steps into the kitchen. "Hold on, you two!" The sensible maid grabs Basil and Manuel by their jackets, preventing them from sprinting straight into the lobby. "We can't just rush out there without preparing!"

"Sorry, Polly, but unless you've got some 'Robbery in Progress Emergency Kit' stashed somewhere around here, there's not much preparing we can do," Fawlty says, icily. "Where's Sybil?"

"In the office, I think!" Polly says, "But Mr. Fawlty, rushing out there with some half-baked scheme—"

"Polly, Fawlty Towers specializes in all things half-baked. If anybody's going to pull off a half-baked scheme, it's us. We're bloody experts."

"You're concussed, Mr. Fawlty!" Polly whisper-yells. "You're out of your mind, even more so than usual, and you're just going to get us all killed!"

"I'm the boss and I want to get out of this creepy kitchen right now." In his somewhat disoriented state, Basil is put out by the room's spooky vibe, amplified by flickering incense candles and Fawlty Towers's resident stray cat relaxing on the counter. "We're going to go take on those robbers."

"We'd be better off going and getting some help!"

"Why don't you show some backbone? Be brave, you cloth-eared bint?"

"Hello, there!" interrupts a shadowy figure in the corner of the kitchen. "May I interject?"

Basil shrieks and nearly leaps into the irritated waitress's arms.

"Papers, Fawlty?" It's the Major, reporting for duty at the most inconvenient time, as is his custom.

"Not yet—papers?" Basil whisper-roars. "Major, it's three in the bloody morning! The only papers you need right now are the forms for a bleeding nursing home, you senile fool!"

"Major Gowen, we're being robbed right now," the waitress informs the old man. "The Torquay Terrors are here right now. Mrs. Fawlty is with them."

"Ah, booking them a room, is she now?"

Basil opens his mouth, his expression positively venomous. Polly interrupts him before he can launch an epic rant at the elderly soldier.

"Do you still have your gun, Major? We could really use one right now. The robbers are armed."

"Old Marge never leaves my side!" Major produces the archaic pistol from his jacket pocket and hands it to Basil. The Fawlty Towers crew lets out a quiet but enthusiastic cheer. "Just remember, it's unloaded. And all my ammunition is upstairs." A despondent Fawlty has to be supported by Manuel and Polly, lest he collapse to the floor. "This is a hotel, after all. Can't accidentally blast any of the guests, as you said."

"It will come in handy for bluffing nonetheless," the maid suggests, optimistically. "Major, why don't you head out the backdoor? Go and get help from one of the neighbors." Having provided her insight, Polly begins to scour the kitchen for potential weapons to use against the robbers. All she can find is the backup fire extinguisher. The entire cutlery is too dull to even consider utilizing, but Manuel adopts a frying pan as his weapon of choice.

"Right then." Pleased with his role in the conflict, the Major totters towards the backdoor. "Fawlty, before I go, there is something that I've been meaning to mention." He claps the hotelier on the back. "Don't worry, the hotel's safe—"

"No, Major!" the tense Basil blurts out. "The hotel is decidedly unsafe at the moment."

"No, I must tell you… the hotel's safe—"

"It's not."

"But it is!"

"Christ. Major, I can't let you go out like this. Try to become less confused, before I grow gray and your remains mummify."

"But the safe, Fawlty! I saw a lady about my age lugging it up the steps!Imagine, making a woman guard the thing." The Major shakes his head. "It's an outrage. It's a scandal."

"What?"

"Making an older woman guard the hotel safe!"

"You saw…" Basil smacks a hand to his forehead. "Was Erica Praline's aunt the one you saw carrying the safe?"

"That's her! I figured that the missing safe situation was your idea of flushing out the real robbers and I just hated to think of criminals descending upon a defenseless old woman. So I decided to drag the safe into my room for safekeeping. I didn't have much trouble moving it. It's a rather cheaply made thing, isn't it?"

"My God." Fawlty claps a hand across his eyes.

"What did you think I was doing up in my room all night? I told you I was guarding the safe!" Gowen chuckles, bemusedly. "Well, I'd better bug out."

"Thank you for your services, Major." In a sarcastic but fond gesture, Basil salutes the military man as he exits the hotel. "Be careful… you drunken loon." Basil turns to his two employees. "Well, now we know where the safe is. Shall we storm the office, then?"

Before anyone can respond, the basement door slams open, revealing the furious, soaked robber.

"Baby, get in here!" he shouts to his accomplice. The Aunt grabs Polly, to use as a shield. "They've all gotten out of the basement!"

"Drop her!" Basil clumsily swings the tree branch at the former Auntie Praline, succeeding only in swiping Polly.

"Thanks, Mr. Fawlty!" the waitress exclaims, irritably. The arboreal attack has left several leaves tangled in her hair.

"You lot are pathetic!" the Aunt howls with laughter. Manuel is able to capitalize on his distraction by slamming him with the frying pan and pulling the waitress away.

"¡Aléjate de ella." Manuel stretches out his arms to better shield the art student. "You will not hurt Polly."

"Who's going to stop me? You?"

Manuel raises his fists. "Si, Señor."

The chortling robber belts Manuel in the stomach. Prepared, the Spaniard recovers from the strike (if anything, his stay in England has taught him how to take a hit) and returns with an impressive roundhouse.

"Go help Sybil!" Basil orders, helping Polly to her feet. The waitress wavers, hesitant to leave Fawlty and Manuel in the midst of the conflict. "Now!" The art student bolts from the kitchen room, clutching the extra fire extinguisher.

"Dear God," she mutters, upon nearly running into the totaled car in the middle of the lobby. "This from the man reluctant to loan me money for a car?"

"What the bloody hell's going on now?" Erica calls, rushing out to the front desk. Polly crouches behind the car for cover. "Honey, is that you? Have you got Fawlty?" No reply. The thief tenses. "Show yourself! Who's out there?"

"Just housekeeping!" Making certain to stay low, the waitress rolls the extinguisher to the side of the vehicle. The robber fires her gun at the sudden motion. Direct hit. Polly swiftly tumbles away as the punctured canister explodes. The already dusty lobby explodes into a confusing swirl of white fire extinguisher power.

"Oh my God!" Erica shrieks. Holding her breath and squinting her stinging blue eyes, Polly charges. She is familiar enough with the layout of the lobby to hurry around the front desk without being able to see clearly. The art student slaps away Erica's gun and shoves the confused robber away, before heading into the office. There, she discovers a stunned Sybil.

"What's happening, Polly?" Alarmed to say the least, Sybil eyes the white smokescreen shrouding the lobby.

"Well, Mr. Fawlty's returned. He and Manuel are fighting Erica's fake aunt in the dining room." Polly struggles to free her boss. "Hang on, I'll have you out of here in a moment."

"No one's going anywhere." Pale with residue, Erica saunters into the room. Her gun, dropped in the now nebulous lobby, has been replaced with a long, menacing blade. "Step away, maid."

"I am not getting paid enough for this job." Polly exhales. The girl darts across the scarlet room, swiftly retrieving the Major's confiscated sword from behind the typewriter. She points the weapon at the robber. "I suggest you check out immediately, ma'am."

The two combatants begin to circle each other around the cramped, cluttered office. The speechless Sybil can only observe the showdown.

"Actually, I think I'll hang around for a while longer. If your drawings are any indication of your hand-eye coordination, your eyesight must be really off," Erica says, smugly. "I'll bet that's not even a real sword. I mean, what sort of management keeps a real sword lying around a hotel?"

Sybil grimaces at this question.

"Miss Praline, if that's your real name, in case you haven't already noticed, this isn't just any hotel." Polly grins, despite herself. "This is Fawlty Towers. You survive here by expecting the unexpected. So you want to ask yourself, do I feel lucky? Well, do you, valued guest?"

"Alright… calm down, Clint Eastwood."

"I'm sorry. I was just getting in the moment."

"Talk tough all you want, dear." Erica lunges forward, slashing at her foe. Polly evades the move. "You're daft for trying my patience. I happen to be a very violent, world class criminal. You're nothing."

"I'm a waitress, actually." The two women begin to duel, swinging their swords wildly at each other. Clink. "And a maid." Clink. "And a receptionist." Clink. "And an assistant cook." Clink. "And the sole voice of reason." Much to Sybil's relief, the intense fight spills out of the tiny office, down the hallway, and into the lounge. "But most of all, I'm the person that's keeping this place afloat, half of the time." Polly expertly parries Erica's stabbing move. "So, you want to burn down Fawlty Towers? Try getting past me first. Because you must be at sixes and sevens if you think that I'm going to tidy up that sort of mess once all of this is over."

Basil and Manuel are shoved through the kitchen doors, falling onto the dining room floor. Despite being outnumbered, the physically imposing robber has easily overpowered them.

"You lot are just embarrassing," the Terror gloats over his adversaries. Basil curls up and lies still, in the hopes that he will be mistaken for unconscious. His hand brushes against the weight in his jacket pocket. The Major's unloaded gun!

"If anyone should be embarrassed, it's your parents," Basil sneers, pulling out the archaic, unloaded pistol. He staggers to his feet. "For producing such stupid offspring."

"Ha!" Manuel folds his arms, looking extremely self-satisfied. "You lose!"

"I've just been waiting for you to tire yourself out this whole time," Fawlty lies, snobbishly. "A classic maneuver. You must be a moron for not picking up on it."

"You are bad person!" the Spaniard adds, vehemently. He exasperatedly picks his frying pan off the floor.

"Really, I pray you don't have siblings," the hotelier continues, arrogantly. "Alone, you manage to substantially lower the collective IQ of the British population."

"What the hell is going on in here?" Sinclair bursts into the room, his gun drawn.

"You!" Basil gasps, recognizing the former guest. The criminal ignores him.

"I can't see a bloody thing out there. What's happened in the lobby? Where's Erica?" Sinclair notices that his companion's arms are raised in surrender. "Come now. You allowed yourself to be overpowered by these gits?"

"You're that American bastard from before!" Fawlty exclaims.

"Now, now, Mr. Fawlty, that's no way to address a guest!" Sinclair scoffs. "I would know. I used to work in the hospitality industry too. That's one business that really makes you appreciate humanity… for the scum it is." Basil almost finds himself nodding. "Now, drop the weapon or I shoot Sancho, here." Sinclair scowls, aiming at Manuel. "I suggest you cooperate. You're not a hero, Mr. Fawlty."

"No, but I'm not a blinking idiot either!" Basil's own risky bluff is sending him into a reeling panic. This whole situation is absolutely out of control. He wistfully pines for the rude paramedics and the bumpy ambulance. "If you had the misfortunate of having Manuel as a waiter today, you'll be looking to shoot him regardless of my cooperation. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I certainly won't allow my staff to be executed. Not by a bumptious arse, such as yourself." Basil pauses. "Plus, a murder in the dining room would be sure to knock us down a star."

"Oh dear, I'd hate to see the ranking go from 'One Star' to 'Supernova'!" Sinclair taunts. "Or would you just be demoted to 'Black Hole'?"

"Enough! I suggest you get going before this Mexican standoff gives me a migraine. I'll call the taxi myself. You and your associates have worn out your welcome, Mr. Sinclair."

Without warning, the Major emerges through the kitchen doors and proceeds to stroll into the dining room. The impasse participants freeze, startled by the dripping, whistling man.

"Right then." The Major regards the proceedings with a bemused nod. "I'm off to bed."

"Major?" Basil hisses. "What's the story on the help?"

"The help?" The old man frowns. "Well, Manuel's standing right there. I don't see Polly anywhere…"

"What were you doing outside, then?" the furious hotelier sputters. "Just taking an evening stroll?"

"I say, old boy, I seem to have forgotten why I left in the first place," the Major chuckles. "Can't say I'll depart again, though. It's the blooming storm of the century out there!"

Basil positively shakes with frustration as the permanent guest bids everyone a grand evening and exits the dining room. Sinclair and the other Terror share an amazed glance.

"Hang on, Fawlty!" Gowen ducks his head back into the room. "Do you want me to pop upstairs and fetch you some bullets?" The hotel manager's eyes widen in horror. "The gun's useless without them, you know."

"It has got bullets in it, Major," Basil asserts, weakly.

"Of course it doesn't! I've kept it unloaded since the hotel inspector visited." The Major's clueless confession provokes not a few sobs from Basil, exacerbating his already humiliating situation. "Alright, then, if you don't need anything, I'll be heading up for a kip." The old man shuffles off to bed, seemingly oblivious to the opaque and wreckage-filled state of the lobby. "Give us a shout if you find those robbers!"

There is an uncomfortable silence in the dining room, broken only by barely stifled laughter from Sinclair and the Aunt. Manuel comfortingly pats his boss on the back.

"I…" Basil is at a loss for words. "I don't… I can't even…" He gives up attempting to describe his feelings towards the Major at this particular moment.

"Time to get down to business," Sinclair says, finally recovering from his immense amusement. "The premise is simple, really. We want the safe. We think that you wife knows where it is. She won't tell us." He pauses, a thought occurring to him. "Fawlty, you didn't happen to steal the safe from us, did you? I wouldn't have thought you were the type to pull that off—"

"Too honorable?"

"Too catastrophe-prone. But, then again, you never know. You might just impress me."

"You're asking me where safe is?" Basil asks incredulously. "Why would I rob myself?" As an argument brews, Manuel catches sight of something small zipping across the floor. "I don't know where the safe is!"

"There!" The Spaniard points at the scurrying object. "Right there!"

"What the hell his he talking about?" the Aunt asks. "The safe isn't in here."

"I have no idea what he means," Basil snaps. The mysterious shadow lingers by the hotelier's shoe. "Manuel, what is it?"

"Basil!" Manuel exclaims, horrified.

"Yes? No need to shout, I'm standing right here." The hotelier sighs. "What is it, you ninny?" Basil feels something dart beneath his trouser cuff and start to wriggle up his leg. Screaming, he begins to twist and flail about. In his panic, he manages to inadvertently slap Sinclair and the former Aunt several times.

"I've had just about enough of you." The fake American lunges at Fawlty.

"Please, it's not me!" Basil cries, kneeing Sinclair in the gut. The man loses grip on his pistol, which falls to the floor. "It's Basil! He's in my trousers!"

"What the hell?"

"Manuel! Get your lousy pox-infested pet away from me!"

"Please don't hurt Basil!" Manuel finds himself addressing both his frantic employer and the frustrated robbers. "Don't hurt either Basil!"

"I'm putting an end to this nonsense." Winded, Sinclair reaches for his dropped gun.

"I swear to God, this isn't me. I'm being attacked by a bloody Siberian hamster." Pleading, the hotelier waves his hands at the robber. A large rat proceeds to peek out of one of his sleeves. Sinclair shrinks away and screeches at the sight of the rodent. Sensing an advantage, Basil holds out the rat towards the robber. "Don't be alarmed, sir! If you remain calm, I'm fairly sure he won't gnaw your face off." Terrified, Sinclair swiftly retreats. "I think he's just attracted to your toupee!" The robber backs into a chair, falling over.

Basil the Human cackles at this. The rat wriggles out of his namesake's grasp, leaps to the floor, and promptly scampers away. Fawlty follows suit, leaving Manuel to fend off the Aunt with a skillet. The hotel owner races through the inexplicable white cloud that has enveloped the lobby, nearly crashing into the mist-shrouded car.

"Basil!" Sybil exclaims, as her husband surges into the office. "How did you get back here?"

"Simple, dear, I walked through the lobby and around the desk." He begins attempting to free his wife from the chair. "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright? Polly and that awful tart were just sparring in here with swords! Judging from the sounds and the inexplicable fog, I shudder to think about what's happened to the lobby. And, worst of all, you turned out to be right about those bloody robbers."

"Yes." Basil beams. "You know, Sybil, I did—"

"Basil!" He smugly ignores the warning.

"—tell you so!" Fawlty can't help but laugh. "Ha! I was right all along!"

"Oh yes! You must be so happy!" she growls. "Congratulations on being right for once in your life, Basil Fawlty! Your reward is a fabulous night of horror, during which you'll be robbed, arrested, and subsequently murdered by dangerous criminals!"

"If you had believed to me sooner, this wouldn't have happened."

"I would've believed you sooner, had you not lost your mind today."

"I would've been out of here sooner, had you two been less dysfunctional," Sinclair muses, appearing in the office doorway, "Now, you've forced me to take drastic measures."

"Please, don't hurt us," Sybil whispers. "I'm… I'm pre—"

"Pretty sick and tired of dealing with you bloody ingrates!" Basil interrupts, charging at Sinclair. He tackles his enemy, causing them both to crack into and flip over the front desk. The two men grapple for the gun in the gloom of the lobby. "We rush about, waiting on you people hand and foot, and this is how you repay us?"

"Isn't it funny how horrible people are always the most indignant when they're treated horribly in return?" Donald Sinclair sneers, as they struggle. The gun slides somewhere out of sight and the opponents break away from each other, both intent on locating the weapon in the fog. "I bet you fancy yourself a hero for coming back. In reality, you've just made my job a bit easier. The Terrors of Toquay are the big story today, but you just wait until tomorrow! I can just picture the Echo headlines: 'Crazed, widely-hated Torquay hotelier Basil Fawlty murders wife and staff and sets grotty hotel on fire!'"

"Bit wordy for a headline," Basil says, snottily. He blindly fumbles about the vehicle, eyes scanning the carpet for the firearm. "Maybe a byline."

"Right then. How about 'Fawlty Fires Hotel Staff.'" Sinclair giggles, somewhere in the darkness. "Nobody will think twice about you snapping and killing everyone in the place. All those witnesses saw you act like a nutter while you were searching for robbers. You really should've listened to that old saying, 'Burn not your house to frighten the mouse away.' Or the rat, in your case."

"Listen, I'll admit that we have a rodent problem. But there's no reason to resort to extremes, here." Basil's voice quavers slightly. "I don't give a damn about the hotel. Raze it. Take the money. Just don't hurt them."

"I'm sorry, what was that last part?" Donald sneers. "Them? Who do you mean by that?"

"Don't hurt them. Sybil. Polly. Manuel. The elderly idiots upstairs. Let them all go."

"I'm surprised at you, Basil! Why shouldn't they be included in the fun? They're the problems, aren't they? They drive you crazy! Your staff, your wife, they're ruining your life! Forget the guests! Things would go so much smoother if the people who're supposed to be helping you didn't mess up constantly!"

"Please…"

"Getting rid of this horror hotel would be doing the Torquay Tourism Board a favor. Getting rid of its personnel would be doing you a favor, Fawlty!"

"That's enough!"

"Ooh. I seem to have struck a nerve. 'That's enough.' Witty. Basil sans clever comeback, how odd."

"You and your thugs won't be checking out of here intact if you do anything to hurt my family." Basil closes his eyes, praying that nobody other than his opponent heard that embarrassing declaration. "I'll guarantee you that."

"Oh God, this is getting corny! Family? Well, well, well. Mr. Basil Fawlty, the miserly misanthrope. Looks like you do have a heart." Donald Sinclair grins, his hand brushing against a gun barrel. He smiles, snatching up the weapon. "Which I'm about to shoot through with this gun that I've just found." He stands up, pointing the weapon. Basil is nowhere in sight. Time to flush the bastard out. "No, sorry, that's simply too good for you. You really are a horrible hotelier. I'll shoot you last. You can watch your loved ones die first."

"No."

"You're right. Loved ones is a funny way of putting it, considering the way you act with them! If that's the way you treat the people you like, how the bloody hell do you treat the people you don't?"

"You're about to find out," Basil growls, springing at his adversary. Sinclair fires, missing. Similarly, Fawlty fails to come in contact his intended target, instead slamming headfirst into the lobby wall. The moose head, already disturbed by the car crash, slips from its position. It thuds down on the unfortunate hotelier, enveloping his head and shoulders. Sinclair cackles watching his enemy stumble frenziedly about the lobby, his head replaced by that of a moose.

The swordfight between Erica and Polly continues to explode through the hazy and dark first floor of the hotel. Much to the latter's surprise, she finds herself battling it out in one corner of the dining room. Across the space, Manuel and the Aunt are engaging in a similar clash. Their weapons are a skillet and a flick-knife, respectively. To Polly, the entire row is beginning to feel like a metaphor for the tumultuous daily life at the hotel. Remove the weapons and the burglary and you've got any Tuesday evening at Fawlty Towers.

"Ready for a tea break, yet?" Erica sneers, knocking the Major's sword from the exhausted waitress's hand. Jeering, she leans up against a nearby table and points her blade at Polly. "I'm going to enjoy this, love. Nothing irks me like shoddy service."

"Manuel" Polly calls. "Table Six!"

Seeing his coworker's distress, the Spaniard ducks past his foe and flips over the table that Erica is sitting on. Her weapon is dropped and subsequently snatched up by Polly. Erica flops to the ground. The dining table lands heavily upon her.

"Oh dear, is that what you meant by shoddy service? Awfully sorry! Guess I won't be getting a good tip," Polly says, in a sheepish tone. "I'm always so clumsy. No hand-eye coordination, you know?" The art student glances up to see Manuel shoved into a corner by the Aunt. His frying pan clatters to the floor.

"All right, all right!" The Terror is brandishing a sizable flick knife. "As much as I enjoy bashing continental gits, I've had quite enough of you."

"Que?" Manuel asks. Sword in hand, Polly sneaks up behind the robber.

"Learn English, you blooming dimwit!" Sensing a sneak attack, the Aunt whirls around and catches the waitress by the wrist. "Nice try, sweetheart. You must be mad, sticking around to save this guy. Should've gotten out while you had the chance."

"I just wanted to offer you a complimentary meal to apologize for how things have gone this evening." Polly discreetly kicks the frying pan towards Manuel. "Paella, on the house! Believe me, Manuel's rather handy with a skillet."

The smile fades from the criminal's face as the frying pan is brought down upon his head. He crumples to the floor.

"Everything would've been brilliant, if it weren't for you meddling waitress!" the fake Aunt groans, before losing consciousness. "And you, you stupid Lusitanian!"

"Excuse me?" Manuel twirls about the skillet, smiling proudly. Polly embraces him. "I am from Barcelona."

"Bravo, Bas!" Sinclair mockingly applauds the moose-headed individual. "Excellent work, as usual! That sort of rustic ambiance you've got going on is just wonderful." He shakes his head, elated. "You know, this job has been amazingly funny. I'm actually glad we came to this low-class dump."

"Low-class dump?" the antlered beast bellows. Like an incensed Minotaur, the hotelier ducks his head and stampedes, horns first. The guffawing robber cannot react in time. Basil the Moose crashes into him, sending him slamming into the desk. Winded by the impact, Sinclair slumps to a sitting position.

"It's wonderful to hear such a glowing review." Fawlty wriggles out of the decorative trophy and stomps over towards his fallen rival. "Do recommend us to all your friends." He picks the desk bell up and pretends to casually examine it. "I trust you've enjoyed your stay at Fawlty Towers." He smashes the bell atop Sinclair's head, knocking the robber out cold. "Thank you and come again." He pauses for a moment, allowing the realization to sink in. "My Lord… did that actually just go according to plan?"

In a state of joyous disbelief, Basil rushes into the office to free his wife. Sybil looks up in surprise, her large eyes brimming with tears.

"Syb!" He plants a kiss on her forehead. "I'm happy to announce that Flambé Fawlty Towers is finally off the menu."

"Basil!" she exclaims, rather shocked. Fawlty begins untying her from the chair. "How the bloody hell did you beat him?"

"Your confidence in me is touching, dearest."

"I thought he'd killed you!"

"Oh, he did." He shrugs, nonchalantly. "I got better."

"Are you really okay?"

"Not okay, Syb." Basil helps his wife to her feet."Wonderful! I did it! I beat that arrogant sod!" Basil and Sybil embrace for the first time in a very long time. "Can't have behavior like that in our refined establishment. Now, let's go see how the fight in the dining room is going." The Fawltys rush out into the lobby. "Manuel? Polly?"

"We're fine!" The employees emerge from the dining room arm in arm, looking battle-worn but triumphant. "The other two Terrors are locked in the kitchen closet."

"Good, good!" Basil claps his hands together. "Safe in the Major's room. Rat in my trousers. Robbers in the cupboard. Car in the lobby. Job well done, everybody!" Much to his own astonishment, the hotelier proceeds to instigate a quick, awkward group hug. "I'm glad that everyone survived. Nights like tonight can really test a hotel, but we got through it. Excellent. Right. Okay, Manuel, that's…that's enough. Let go!"

"Os quiero a todos mucho, mucho!" The Spaniard is so overcome with emotion that Fawlty is practically forced to pry him off. "Tú eres mi segunda familia."

"A hug from Mr. Fawlty?" Polly grins, shaking her head. "That's probably the oddest thing I've experienced all evening."

"Polly, why don't you and Manuel head over to one of the neighbors?" Sybil suggests. "We'd better phone the police and clear all of this up."

"Certainly, Mrs. Fawlty!" Leading the Barcelonan by the hand, Polly circumambulates the car and exits the hotel. The Fawltys move to the drenched entranceway to watch their employees sprint away through the stormy night.

"Hopefully they'll be better at finding help than the Major was," Fawlty remarks, turning to his wife. He feels a tug on his tie. "What's the matter?" Wordlessly, Sybil pulls him into a kiss. It's sweet, despite the sizable height difference.

"That was for coming back," she explains, once they break apart. "You were right about the robbers. However, the Terrors of Torquay did not flood the basement, knock out the power, or scare away guests." Her voice has taken on its familiar icy quality. "The next time I tell you to get something done, what are you going to do?"

"Listen." Basil's shudder is not due to the cold.

"Right." Sybil smiles, her tone softening. "I have some big news for you. I never imagined it coming out this way, but after everything that's happened tonight, I'd better just tell you now."

"Go ahead!" Relieved to have avoided a longer, scarier tirade, Fawlty relaxes. At ease, he leans against the sole standing entranceway wall. "Before something else goes wrong!"

"I'm—" is all Sybil manages before the weakened wall collapses atop her husband.

"Today, I'd like to pay my respects to a complicated man," the Major gravely announces. "Basil Fawlty wasn't an easy fellow to understand, but he was a solid chap nonetheless." Manuel nods, solemnly. Polly regards the toast with wide eyes. "He knew a thing or two about mustaches and hard work and the untrustworthiness of Germans. He knew a thing or two about life." The Major claps his hands together, expectantly. "So, where've you got the casket?"

"Basil hasn't passed on, Major," Polly explains, patiently waiting for the old man to take a seat at his table. Having failed to understand the speech, Manuel resumes serving Miss Tibbs and Miss Gatsby. "He should be back from the hospital any moment now! Now sit down and I'll get you some tea."

"Ah. Very well, then." The Major complies as Polly refills his cup. "Good thing, too. I'm hardly dressed for a wake."

A car's engine sounds in the parking lot.

"Mr. and Mrs. Fawlty!" The Barcelonan starts to sprint out of the dining room, only to be stopped by Polly.

"Not yet, Manuel. That was just Mr. Stubbs's men leaving."

Having heard about the disaster at Fawlty Towers, Stubbs and his team arrived early in the morning to assess and restructure the damaged entranceway. Stubbs was impressed with Fawlty's handling of the robbers; he had offered his talents for a discount.

Indeed, word of Mr. Fawlty's purported heroics has spread quickly across Devon. Spontaneous donations towards the damages were already being phoned in. The Torquay Fire Brigade had arrived to pump the water from the basement and remove the red car from the lobby (it was currently being towed to a shop for extensive repair). Journalists have been traipsing around the hotel all day, snapping photographs and interviewing neighbors and witnesses. In the kitchen, one such member of the press is quoting an awed Terry.

"I got home and ate dinner with the wife. She's Finnish, you know, very fit. Anyways, we turn on the telly later, and what do we see on the news? My very own place of work, Fawlty Towers! There's talk of fugitives, arson, robbers. I drove straight back here to make sure no one was hurt. No one was, thanks to Mr. Fawlty coming back to help. I still can't believe he was right about those Terrors of Torquay."

Polly heads into the restored lobby to sweep the incredibly dusty floor. Fawlty Towers will be having a grand reopening tomorrow and there mustn't be any trace left of the insanity that took place last night. Mind-bogglingly, the previously deserted hotel has already been completely booked up. Now that the saga about the robbers is out, everyone wants to stay at Fawlty Towers, owned by the fantastically rude and audacious Basil Fawlty.

The door swings open.

"It wasn't all bad. In the end, I got to hit some particularly unpleasant guests." Holding hands with his wife, Basil has just completed a brief interview with a feverishly scribbling Echo reporter on the steps of the hotel. Fawlty's head is bandaged and one arm is in a sling. "That's been somewhat of a dream of mine for years now." Sybil gives him a look. "No further comments." He closes the newly replaced front door on the man's face. "O'Reilly's made fast work of this, then."

"Not O'Reilly, dear. Stubbs," Sybil informs him. "If this were O'Reilly's work, he'd have sealed up this entranceway and opened a brand new one on the roof. Speaking of stupid animals, has the moose head been rehung, Polly?"

"The moose is back in position, Mrs. Fawlty." The art student smiles at her work. "And it looks like Bullwinkle's having a wonderful hair day!" Sinclair's toupee, cast-off during the tussle with Basil, has been draped over the beast's cranium. Fawlty beams at the addition.

"Thank you." Sybil darts up the stairs. "I'd better call Mother and let her know we're fine, before she starts planning our funerals."

"Good idea," Basil says, nodding. "She's certainly been trying to have mine arranged for years now."

"Mr. Fawlty!" Manuel bursts into the room and joyfully hugs his employer. "You are okay! Basil and I… we worry about you!""

"You and that bloody rat." Basil rolls his eyes. "What are we going to do about that?"

"That rat did save your life, Mr. Fawlty," Polly reminds him. Basil sighs, glancing down at the ecstatic waiter.

"I suppose... oh, fine. He can stay."

"Gracias! Mr. Fawlty! You are saint! Muchos gracias!"

"As long as we have no more biscuit episodes," Basil adds, sternly. He marches into the kitchen, chased by the practically tearful, gratitude-dispensing Manuel. Smiling, Polly continues to sweep. Suddenly, she turns around to see Doug and Judy Norman entering the hotel, followed with a sizable crowd of people. She recognizes many faces as guests from last night.

"Hello!" she says, pleasantly. "Here to pick up your valuables?"

"Yes," Judy nods. Agreement ripples through the group. "I must say, had I not seen their mug shots on television, I would've never believed that robbers were behind everything last night."

"That's understandable." Polly dashes into the office, unlocks the safe, and returns with the items. She begins to distribute the various objects to their rightful owners. "Last night was absolutely insane. Sorry for any inconvenience we may have caused you."

"Don't you apologize," the vicar says. "You're the only sane person in this hotel." Polly grins.

"Are the Fawltys around?" Doug asks.

"They're resting at the moment," Polly tells them. "A wall fell on Mr. Fawlty last night." The ex-guests gasp. She shakes her blonde head. "Long story."

"Well, let them know that Michael and Helen have decided to not press charges against Mr. Fawlty. They changed their minds when they heard that there were actual robbers here," Judy says. "They understand that he was just protecting his home."

"That's very kind of them!" Polly exclaims. "Tell them that they'll get two nights free, if they ever care to stay here again."

"Well, that's never going to happen!" Doug chuckles. The entire room descends into laughter. "Seriously, though. They're traumatized."

The dining room door opens slowly. Basil begins to triumphantly stroll back into the restored lobby. Noticing the former guests, he freezes in horror. It's too late to make a hasty exit; they've spotted him.

"Hello, Fawlty." Doug turns around to shake his hand. "I'm glad to see that you eventually caught the real robbers."

"Last night was interesting," Judy says, "Thank you for a memorable stay."

"We've decided to not press charges either." A simpering Bedevere emerges from the crowd. "You were panicking, we understand."

"Safety tip: never sedate the driver of a moving vehicle again," Paramedic Gill says, dryly.

"We actually came because we thought we'd have to arrest you again," Officer Graham says, brightly, "But it sounds like no one's pressing charges, so we'll be off."

"Have a great day!" Officer Ericson waves.

And so on. Basil awkwardly endures a grueling gauntlet of handshakes and fond farewells. He does not know how to react to the praise. It's almost as incomprehensible as English is to Manuel. Still, it leaves him feeling content. A sensation that is unfamiliar to the perpetually stressed Fawlty.

"Thank you all…." Basil says numbly, watching the last of the group disperse. "For not suing."

"Who was that?" Sybil inquires, coming down the stairs.

"Just some admirers of Mr. Fawlty," Polly teases.

"And now they're all gone! Splendid!" Basil races over to the front desk, ringing the bell. "Hello, there? I've a reservation for two! The name's Fawlty."

"How may I help you, Mr. Fawlty?"

"You could tell Terry to stop spilling secrets to the tabloids and make us lunch already."

"Actually, sir, Andre sent over a lovely afternoon tea. It's in the dining room right now. Why don't you go and have that?"

"Complimentary tea?" Basil frowns. "Why did he go and do that?"

"It was his way of saying congratulations," Sybil says, slyly.

"Was he impressed by my daring defeat of the robbers?"

"No, Basil," she muses. "He was impressed by our pregnancy." Polly gasps.

"Ah, yes, of course. Pregnancy. Right, then." Fortunately, Manuel arrives in time to catch the swooning hotelier. Just as Polly is about to go fetch smelling salts, Basil manages to struggle to his feet. "Pregnancy?"

"That's wonderful!" Polly cheers. "You must be so excited!"

"Yes," Sybil smiles. "I just hope that Fawlty Towers can handle the extra chaos in the coming months."

"I…I…" Basil abruptly leans down to kiss his wife.

"Manuel, why don't we go walk Basil?" Polly suggests, brightly. The waiter races upstairs to fetch his pet. When Manuel returns with the rat on his shoulder, the Fawltys are still kissing. Sharing a knowing smile, the Barcelonan and the waitress exit the hotel. "How lovely! It looks like the sun's coming out!"

The End