Sometime around sunset, Crowley waved a hand vaguely at the expanse of scenery before them. �Hillsss,� he mumbled.

�Mm?� Aziraphale was not so very drunk, but he was getting there.

�Hillsss.� Crowley tried to concentrate, and stopped when it made his head ring. �Look like. Like. Like white elephantsss.�

Aziraphale peered at him dubiously. �Don�t.�

�Do ssso.�

�No,� insisted Aziraphale. He examined the view. �Maybe green el�phants. Brownish-ish.�

�White.� Crowley was positive. �White elephantsss.�

�Are you by any chance having urges to speak in short, choppy sentences with a noticeable dearth of commas?� Aziraphale asked him brightly.

�No,� said Crowley.