Media Share 9/MEDIASHARE_09.ISO/private/rubyv19.zip/RUBY19-A

Text File | 1993-02-19 | 22KB | 394 lines

Copyright (c) 1993

ADVENTURES AT KENT'S PLACE

              "Will the real Kent Ballard please stand up?"

        The first thing Clark Burner noticed when he walked into
Kent's Place was the missing moosehead. "Where's the moosehead?"
he asked, as Jon Rutledge slid him the usual. As Jon turned to
answer, Clark stared at the glass. It was clean. The amber stuff
in it actually smelled like alcohol.
     "What's this stuff?" he wondered aloud.
     "It's booze, Mr. Burner," Jon said. "The boss started serving
it yesterday. Right after he sent the moosehead out to be
cleaned."
     "Kent started serving real booze? And he sent the moosehead
out to be cleaned?" Clark echoed.
     "That's not all," said a disgruntled Howard Belasco, sliding
onto the next stool. "The girls upstairs aren't, uh, entertaining
any more--per Kent's instructions."
     Brassy joined the conversation after refilling Slattery's jug,
a worried frown on her face. "Something is wrong with the boss.
He looks like Kentie-poo, he talks like Kentie-poo, but he doesn't
act like Kentie-poo."
     For once Clark was focused on something besides Brassy's
decolletage. "And all this started yesterday, huh?"
     Kent came out of his office about then, and four pairs of
eyes followed him over to the juke box. He dropped a quarter in
the slot, punched up a selection, and the bar filled with the
strains of Barry Manilow's "I Write the Songs". He smiled
benignly at the group at the bar, and walked back into his
office, quietly closing the door.
    "That's spooky," the four said in unison. After a stunned
silence, Brassy added, "Somebody's gotta do something."
     Clark stroked his chin for a moment, then slid a dollar
across the bar. "Give me some quarters, Jon--I need to make a
phone call . . ."
                               ***
     Business was slow, so I was happy to hear from Clark. The
smile faded as I heard his story, though. Ballard and I have had
our disagreements, which is why I may know better than anyone how
odd his behavior appeared. I reassured Clark, then called the
airlines. By seven p.m., I was on my way to Indianapolis.
     My first stop after the car rental desk in Indy was
Ballard's home. His long-suffering wife Tess (she of the enormous
hooters) was waiting at the gate. She'd turned off the security
system, and led me through the mine field. Once inside their
palatial home, she offered me a cup of coffee, and started to
cry.
     "He's not much," she sniffled, "but he's mine. That guy at
the bar is *not* my husband."
     "Calm down, Tess. When did you first notice the change?"
     "Well," she said, gathering herself, "he ran out of here
night before last waving his hunting rifle and yelling something
about bagging a test pilot. Some sort of fancy jet buzzed us and
set off the alarms. It takes three codes, two keys, and a hidden
switch to shut the things off once they're tripped. Kent
gets really angry when he has to reset all this stuff over a
low-flying plane."
     "So he ran out of here with a gun," I prompted, "then what?"
     "He jumped in his truck and relocated half the gravel in the
driveway getting out of here. He turned away from the city,
headed out toward the interstate."
     The rest of the story was pretty much what I expected. About
three hours later, the new, subdued Kent returned to the house,
put his rifle away, and went to bed. I assured Tess I'd find her
scoundrel of a husband, thanked her for the coffee, and headed
downtown. Half an hour with the local constabulary confirmed my
suspicions, so I called my brother, stopped at Radio Shack for
supplies, and drove to Kent's Place.
                               ***
     The usual gang was there when I arrived, but they seemed
slightly off-balance. The pool table in the middle of the floor
was the biggest shock--and only served to confirm what I already
suspected.
     I joined Eric Loeb, Lyn Rust, and the Freemans in a corner
booth. The topic of conversation was, of course, Kent's strange
behavior.
     "I've always suspected he had a few screws loose, but this
confirms it," Eric said, nodding toward the man behind the bar.
Eric was closer to the truth than he knew, but it wasn't time to
clue them in just yet.
     Del was shaking her head. "At first I thought this would be
good for business, but people are so confused by the real booze
they're drinking less. We're actually using up the stock, too."
"Nolo comprende," Dave chimed in, apparently very pleased with
himself. It was clear he needed a few more Spanish lessons. Del
put her head in her hands, and moaned.
     Eric turned to me again. "Clark said he called you at the
office. Have you discovered anything yet?"
     "I'm pursuing a few leads." We spent the next ninety minutes
slowly sipping unwatered Staggering Highlander and watching the
faux Kent's every move.
     Just after midnight, my brother Randall arrived. I waved him
over to a corner table, well away from the suddenly-lubricous
women in the place. "What's up, bro?" he asked. "It sounded
urgent."
     "Watch Kent," I directed, and he did. Three minutes later,
he looked at me and said flatly, "That's not Kent. Got a
compass?"
     He, too, had noticed the way the cheap stainless tended to
twirl when the pseudo-Kent passed by. I handed him the bag of
electronic parts I'd purchased, and explained what I wanted. He
nodded, smiled an evil grin, and got to work. I left him there
with Jim Daly hovering in the background. Jim's hair was standing
straight up . . .
     Ruby chose that moment to flounce in, with Brian Whatcott
and Headly Westerfield in tow. I intercepted her at the door,
asked, "A moment of your time, Ruby?"
     She fluttered her eyelids at me, the eyes painted on them
winking in stereo. "Finally succumbed to my charms, eh?"
     "Not exactly," I said. "This is business." I guided her to
the table next to the Rube Goldbergian device taking shape under
my brother's flying fingers. Ruby started to saunter in his
direction as the lights dimmed, then flared, but I caught her
elbow. "Business first," I said, and she answered me with a
raspberry. "I mean business," she declared firmly. But she sat.
                               ***
     Twenty minutes later, the trap was sprung. Ruby, dancing to
"Devil with a Blue Dress On", neatly dropped what looked like a
solid-state slinky into the phony Kent's lap. Simultaneously, Jim
Daly plugged Randall's other creation into the wall. The lights
dimmed, the jerry-rigged pinball machine spat sparks, and the
high-tech slinky began to glow and grow.
     The un-Kent froze, vibrated, came to his feet, then toppled
over. Randall killed the power, and we both checked out the
now-disabled Kent-bot. Randall popped open a panel, and I pulled
a potentiometer out of my pocket.
     "Everything's dead but the homing signal," I declared. "You
do good work."
     "You sound surprised," he muttered, giving me a dirty look.
We rolled the Kentomaton over, and with the help of Scott Ritter,
Big Sally, and Al Ruffin's supervision, we lugged it to
Randall's Camaro.
     Behind us we could hear the sounds of Kent's Place getting
back to its rowdy norm. But we still had a chore to take care of
in the middle of a corn field . . .
                               ***
     The saucer made the one in "Close Encounters" look like a
frisbee. It appeared suddenly in the night sky, dropped down to
treetop level. Its lights blinked, it began to hum at an ever
higher pitch, then a hatch suddenly opened in the underside. The
metalKent floated up into the craft, and the genuine Kent floated
down. Then the hatch slammed shut, and the saucer shot straight
up and disappeared.
     A disheveled Kent shook his head as though to clear it, then
whacked himself in the temple a couple of times. "Little green
buggers didn't even have any decent booze," he muttered. "What
the hell are we standing here for?" he bellowed. "I've got a
business to run."
     Well, at least Tess will be glad to see him.
                               END

Copyright 1993(c)

            OUR OWN TWISTED SISTER GOES TO WASHINGTON

     "What is that annual gathering of survivors of the Mariel
boat lift out there?" asked Eric Loeb, shouldering his way past
the rowdy crowd into the doors of Kent's Place.
     "That's Ruby's latest scheme," answered Shakib Otaqui.
     "What's she got in mind - a coupe?"
     "Nah," said Kent Ballard, plunking a glass of amber liquid
in front of Eric and smoothly pocketing Loeb's $20 bill. The
regulars could detect no lasting effect from his recent ordeal,
and, in fact, thought he might be watering the scotch even more.
"She's got some hairbrained scheme about going to Washington to
straighten out the government. Ha! Just what the government
needs, right?"
     "Now, Kent, I do think some of Ruby's ideas have merit,"
interjected Shakib. "Maybe we should be supportive. You know,
she's been quite irate ever since she saw that special on U.F.O.s
and found out the government's been covering up. Maybe she'll
bring that up in Washington."
     "Nah," judged Kent. "She's keeping quiet - hoping they'll
come back and take me away for good. Besides, I'm supportive. How
supportive do you want me to get? Nobody wants her in Washington
more than me - well, at least out of Indianapolis. I'm letting
her drill that band of Cuban screw-ups on the sidewalk, aren't I?
Jeez, no two of them face the same direction at the same time,
and all those t-shirts emblazoned "Ricky Ricardo forever" in the
psychadellic day-glo orange and maroon are making me downright
queasy. Brassy says she's not coming back to work until the whole
band of 'em leave town, which means I've got to work the bar;
which means I can't go to the racetrack; which means I haven't
made a bet in three days. Hell, if I wanted to work full time,
don't you think I'd get a job?"
     "But Kent," offered the ever-cheerful Lyn Rust as she
shouldered her way into the saloon past the grasping, leering
Cubans, "you're not being fair. Not only might Ruby do some good
with her programs, I figure you've saved easily $16,437.22 by not
betting the ponys these last few days." She grinned brightly, as
Shakib and Eric nodded in agreement.
     "Yeah," Kent agreed glumly. "That's the only reason I
haven't reported the lot of them for the derelicts they are."
     Howard Belasco and Herman Holtz burst through the doors, arm
in arm, forming a battering ram through the crowd in front, who
had broken into song as they marched.
     "Good God, man, what the devil is going on out there?"
demanded Herman.
     "It's Ruby." said Kent.
     "Of course, it's Ruby. We know that much without asking. Who
else could cause such chaos?" asked Herman. "The question is
why?"
     As the doors swung open again, an exasperated-looking
Michael Hahn and an equally fiesty Clark Burner were more of less
injected into the room - oozed from the crowd much like
toothpaste from a full tube. The group outside could plainly be
heard inside the bar as the doors opened; half of the troup
seemed to be singing Babaloo, while the other half seemed intent
on a fiery rendition of Cuban Pete.
     "Yegods," barked Kent. "They can't walk together, they can't
sing together - what is that ditzy broad thinking?"
     "She's teaching them to precision drill, Kent. Why, in no
time at all they will be a sharp outfit of high-stepping
performers who will no doubt catch the President's eye."
     "If they do, he'll have 'em all shot," Kent predicted. And
smiled brightly.
     "Let us assume," said Bill Slattery as he fought his way
into Kent's Place, "for the sake of remote argument, that Ms.
Begonia does, in fact, train these people to step in time. What
then, pray tell?"
     "Well, the resident bimbo there," said Kent, pointing to a
sweat-suited Ruby hoisting a baton with which she occasionally
plunked several of the less adroit students atop the head,
"thinks that she can get the attention of the powers that be in
Washington with that gang of misfits, and then proceed to share
her half-baked solutions with the President - can you imagine?
     "Man oh man," Kent chuckled, "can't you see John and Lucia
Chambers when this crowd shows up on their doorstep looking for a
place to crash? Can't you see them when the Secret Service shows
up demanding proof of citizenship if they play host to this
motley crew? God, I'd love to be a fly on the wall."
     "Kent, you're just being negative," said Lyn. "Why, I'm sure
John and Lucia, being the intelligent, concerned taxpayers they
are, will welcome Ruby and her ideas with open arms."
     "They do and the lot of them will be deported to Cuba before
you can say 'la cuckaracha,'" Kent opined.
     "Admit it old boy," jibed Shakib - "Ruby's got some pretty
good ideas."
     "Yeah? Like what?" Kent demanded. "Maybe you think that
twiggly-scoop she's taking Tipper Gore, or whatever that thing is
that pulls a loop out of a ponytail, is a great idea? Maybe the
daffodil-daisy herbal tea she's taking to the Veep because she
says it'll calm him down, mellow him out, make him a more relaxed
fellow - maybe you think that's a great idea? Or how about that
hat - that Gawdawful purple chapeau with the birds of paradise
she's got reserved for Hillary - maybe you think that's a good
idea?
     "Or, I'll tell you what - maybe her plan to sit on the third
finger of that hand sticking up out of the ground and wait for
the President to jog by so that she and that group of screw-ups
can form a "V" and sing Lady of Spain - maybe you think that's
brilliant? I'll tell you what's good," growled Kent. "What's good
is she'll be out of Indianapolis and out of my hair. With any
luck, they'll recognize her for the screwball she is and slap the
lot of 'em in Federal prison for imitating human beings."
     He grinned again.
     "Well, Kent, you have to admit she's got a gimmick - I mean
that paperless magzine stuff - that's right up Gore's alley. Who
knows... if she can get his attention, we might just see her next
on Good Morning America, or something," said Eric.
     "More likely we'll see her on America's Most Wanted," Kent
predicted.
     "Well, let's say she does get the President's attention
somehow - (and, I'll be the first to admit that those costumes
and that raucous music may do the trick for nuisance value alone)
- what then?" asked Howard.
     "Well, as I understand her plan," answered Lyn, "she's
intent on sharing her ideas on how to jump-start the economy and
create jobs. If nothing else, Ruby is determined to get to George
Stephanalopolapelous and tell him not to buy any more new glasses
from the Republican party. Jeez, have you seen those things? I
mean, all he needs is a Groucho nose, honestly! Besides, I think
she's right about that free government cheese thing - I mean, why
shouldn't it be brie?"
     "But Lyn, dear girl, does she have any practical ideas?"
asked Herman.
     "Well, of course, Herman," Lyn huffed. "I mean, her slogan
*is* a 'chicken boullion cube in every pot,' after all. Ruby's
done her homework - she's got reams of legislation covering the
erection of awnings to provide additional space for the homeless
contingent living in refrigerator cartons and abandoned cars.
It's not a minute too soon to think about that, you know. Can you
imagine how unsightly the cities will become if we don't get a
handle on some uniformity of this type construction before it
begins? And what about her wind tax? Why, that, alone will
generate millions in new revenue."
     "Lyn, putting everyone in downtown Washington D.C. on
bicycles will not only create its own problems - riding over
those grassy parks every other block will be a nightmare, not to
mention the flat tires from broken bottles everywhere - but do
you realize that it is downright unconstitutional to charge a tax
on air, for God's sake?" demanded Herman Holtz, who had been
browsing Ruby's printed agenda as he listened. "Why, air, and
maybe sunshine - they're virtually the only things left that are
free, and she wants to tax one?"
     "Actually, she wants to tax both, but she thought the public
should be informed in stages. Ruby says a close-confinement
requirement between 8:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m., with turnstyles sort
of like parking meters in front of the homes, is the key. Of
course, it will require a minting of sunshine tokens so that
residents who want to enjoy the sunshine can pay for it easily.
I'm not too sure about that one," Lyn admitted, scratching her
head, "but I think that one about the oxygen stands on the
downtown corners is a winner. Shoot, after puffing uphill to get
to the downtown area, who wouldn't be willing to pay $2.50 for a
hit of nice, pure oxygen? I know I would."
     "That's just it - everyone would, whether they'd puffed
uphill of not. It's a real upper, straight oxygen. If Ruby is
allowed to proceed with this scheme, we'll have the biggest
epidemic of oxygen addicts this country has ever seen. Any
potential revenue will be completely consumed by the demand for
treatment centers and halfway houses. The street corners will be
littered with the bodies of hopeless addictees, gasping and
flailing about like fish out of water."
     "Well, I still hope she gets a chance to present her ideas,"
Lyn insisted.
     Penny Plant and Greg Kirby bounded through the doors,
slightly out of breath and flushed from their encounter with the
Cuban marching band.
     "Hey, we just did three turns around the block with a lot of
fellows hollering uno, dos, gusto mos', breathed Greg, as the
strains of O Solo Mio began to waft through the air in the
melodious tones of Mario Lanza.
     "SIDDOWN," shouted the regulars at the newcomers.
     The couple took their usual booth, and Penny wanted to know
why all those Cubans were trying so hard to march with their
shoelaces tied together.
     "That's just the way it looks, Penny," explained Greg. "They
don't really have their shoelaces tied together."
     "Hey!" Lyn snapped her fingers. "Maybe that's it. Greg,
you're a genius. No, don't stand up -" she motioned him back down
and the string arrangement desisted - "I'll just go along and
share the idea with Ruby."
     As she exited, Eric turned to Kent and shrugged his
shoulders.
     "What the hell," Kent said disgustedly. "At least if they're
tied together maybe they'll all get on the same bus."
                               ***
     The group of regulars stared open-mouthed at the teleivsion
screen where a smiling Ruby Begonia stood arm-in-arm with Bill
and Hillary Clinton. In the background, the Cuban marching band
could be seen marching at cross purposes and colliding with
frequency.
     The polished tones of Dan Rather explained to the audience
what they were watching with their astonished eyes.
     "...arrived in Washington and went straight to the
underground statue where the President is known to job
occasionally. Here, in a pre-recorded interview, is what happened
in Ms. Begonia's own words."
     The screen filled with an animated Ruby Begonia, her new
curly perm wind-blown into a Medusa-like effect, her irredescent
eye shadow reflecting off the sequin-dusted tips of her false
eyelashes. Someone, apparently a quick-thinking cameraman, had
draped a Hilton Hotel towel about the bodice of her sequined top
so that the light wouldn't blind viewers, and she appeared to be
tapping her high-heeled shoes with the piranha-filled globes in
time to the out-of-tune voices of the Cuban marching band, who
were well into a rendition of what sounded like My Bucket's Got a
Hole In it.
     "...so I told him, I said, Billy-boy, ya' got to get a
handle on that Dole fellow," said Ruby, winking at the camera and
popping her gum in time to the Cuban voices. That guy is not
impartial, I said to my man in the White House. I told 'im my
good pal, Kent Ballard, back in Indianapolis - well, he knows
some fellows can put that guy in the parking lot of a nice hi-
rise for you. And he was listening real close, too - I could
tell. You know how the pupils of somebody's eyes get all tiny and
intense when they're paying close attention -well, anyway, I
could tell I was gettin' thru."
     She grinned brightly at the camera, continuing to pop her
gum as the camera panned the marching group behind her, crashing
into one another, falling, standing and repeating the act.
     Ballard moaned aloud and dropped his head to the bar with a
resounding THONKAH.
     "Gee, Kent, doesn't that hurt?" asked a concerned Lyn Rust.
     "Not near as much as the next 25 years of IRS audits are
gonna' hurt," answered Kent.
     "And the phone taps," piped up Bill Slattery. "Don't forget
the phone taps," he chortled, pulling on the straw in his
necklaced jug. "Better tell the bookie to invest in carrier
pigeons," he advised.
     "Ms. Begonia further revealed that she has an appointment
for a late-morning meeting with the President in the Oval Room of
the White House, where she will unveil her landscaping
suggestions," Rather intoned, as the smiling countenance of Ruby
Begonia once again filled the television screen over Kent's bar.
     "Yup," she volunteered enthusiastically, "I'm gonna' ask
Sweet William, all right - what's this stuff with roses, anyway?
I mean, why not a dandelion garden, for gosh sakes. Give the
American taxpayer something he can sink his teeth into."
                               END
                               END