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"An' then," Crowley said, "an' then I got my legs pulled off! My legsssss! Whoopsss, sssorry." It was, he dimly felt, bad etiquette to let his tongue flicker out like that, especially into someone else's beer.
"You've got legses," Ford said, trying to impersonate his hiss. "You're standing on them." He swayed forward alarmingly and caught on to a passing waitress to keep from falling. "Hello! I like your breasts! Ow!" He turned to Crowley in surprise. "Why'd she slap me? I just said hello!"
"Women," Crowley said dismissively. "An I don' have legssss when I look like thisssssssssss -" He looked round blearily as the rest of the pub's patrons ran screaming for the door. "Where'd everyone go?" he mumbled.
"Bunch of herpetophobes," Ford said, petting his jet-black, sinuous form. "I like your scales."
"Thanksssss," Crowley hissed, deciding he'd forgive the insinuation he had VD.