In Which We Regress, But Only a Teeny Twiddle

In the filmy hours of the morning, the world squashy and without corners as filtered through the cat on one's face, it is easy to find, along the freshly mowed walk of conversation, enticing brambly holes in the hedge through which one's thoughts may wander, straying from the Floyd at hand.
Such, with just such a load-bearing feline tucked in this humble narrator's armpit, was the case when last we did tout in terms elegiac and parables profound, the nature of the Floyd. But be of good cheer! dear reader, for a new light dawns and begs us gather at the foremast, bearing words that finally, like Ahab's final pod of whales, give us cause for Hope.
I have received a Floyd.
I have received Two Floyds!
Two Floyds from the past, caked in the sad patina of nearly 40 years disuse. I received a cable some two weeks ago from Messrs. Poltrone and Ambiguo, opened it with trembling hands, and could scarce believe my eyes at this news, glorious beyond hope!
Apparently Ambiguo thought the search might proceed propitiously in the northern climes, and thus rationalizing a prodigious appetite for dumplings to be cunningly purchased on the project's Euro, he plowed northeast, to Trentino Alto Adige. Oh, but I forgive him, the old wurstle, for in his stomach lies a device more accurate than the truest of pidgeons. Try as he might to block out loyalty to the Floydian cause, a sausage in his mouth and a slice of rye bread in each ear, his heart was too true. Staggering out of the first trattoria he had found, bloated and wheezing, leaking at the seams, he pattered to rest on a bench along the main boulevard, and promptly fell asleep in the sun. He had, by the subsequent written accounts, ceased to be of this world, borne along on waves of shnitzel as hosts of pretzels sang him to his rest, and was as communicative as a lamp post when prodded with the polizia's truncheon. "The gentleman's impressive girth," stated the report filed by Sgnr. Montana, "made his removal and ultimate disposal a rather fiddly (trans. 'intricato') procedure. Profundo was summoned."
Here, dear reader, I almost lost my pants, for as you no doubt know very well by now, a certain Profundo plays not a small part in the very reason we are here in the first place! A relative, perhaps, a fugitive from space and time?
No.
Profundo was simply another very fat policeman of wine cask proportions, who seemed to have the most accumulated knowledge of moving large objects. He arrived with sling shimmed to the front of his Ape and after much huffing and puffing, succeeded in harnessing the mountainous bulk of Ambiguo to his three wheeled chariot. Tottering, spinning at times on two wheels, the cask wove his way to the the Ape car's home, the alley behind the station, and, rather than attend to the discomfitting task of unbuckling the leviathan so ignominiously hoisted to the crafts wobbling bow, proposed lunch.