Shareware Supreme Volume 6 #1/swsii.zip/swsii/201/RUBYV20.ZIP/RUBY20-8

Text File | 1993-04-02 | 50KB | 871 lines

Copyright 1993(c)

ADVENTURES .... ... .. SOMEWHERE.


                   Another Time, Another Place

     Thick fog and dark bathrooms have at least one thing in
common - you don't know when or where you are going to come out.
     If I had known where my night was going to take me, I would
never have left the bed to answer nature's call. My wife was still
asleep, and I looked over her shoulder to see time it was. 1:30
a.m., the digits glowed. I rose and slowly made my way to the
bathroom to take care of the problem. My first mistake was not
turning on the light before I sat.
     Why is it that cats always feel that it is necessary to visit
their loved ones at such times? I felt the long fur of my cat,
Suzie, as I sat there in the darkness. As I bent down to pet her,
I noticed a strange combination of odors; stale beer and old
cigarette smoke. Neither my wife nor I drink or smoke, so I
wondered why these out of place smells where present in my
bathroom. My thoughts were interrupted by a deep base that began
to shake the walls. Great, someone has their music up too loud.
     Standing up, I reached to flick on the light switch. My hands
trembled as they met smooth metal walls where vinyl wallpaper and
a switch should have been.
     My growing panic took a firm hold on my heart when someone
began to bang on the metal wall in front of me.
     "Hey bud, are you going to take all night?"
     "What . . . hold on."
     "Hurry it up why don't ya."
     I felt along the wall in front of me and found a small latch.
The door opened inward as I was able to squeeze past the dark
figure waiting outside.
     "Where are the lights?"
     "That cheapskate, Kent, hasn't replaced them since Herman
Holtz shot them out."
     Shot? I really didn't want to know. What I wanted to know
was where the hell I was. Following the tiled wall, I found a door
with a handle. Pulling it open, I was assaulted with the pounding
music, light and the sound of many voices. A brush of fur
reminded me that I was not the only one out of place here.
     Reaching down, I picked up Suzie and stepped out into the
light.
     A few steps along the wall brought me up against a broken pay
phone. I stopped to take a quick look around. A small band, with
a bass I could feel stirring up the pit of my stomach, was belting
out some deep-felt rhythm and blues. A group of men surrounded a
table where a woman in a black flimsy dress was dancing to the
music. I imagine their cheering was encouraged by the fact she was
very close to falling out of her dress. Along the sides of two
walls, booths hid in the darkness, the seated couples etched by
flickering candle stubs. A moose head with a mohawk and a gold
earring watched over the proceedings. I moved to the long bar that
was at the back of the room. A bartender stood, washing glasses
there, as he watched over the room. Small piggish eyes turned to
watch me approach, as if I were a roach to be stepped on.
     "We should have a dress code about wearing pants in here," he
said, giving me a once over.
     Looking down, I realized that all I had on was an old T-shirt
and a pair of underwear.
     "Where the hell am I?"
     He looked at me for a moment. Then he poured me a drink of
tan fluid from a bottle. When he set the bottle down, I looked
at the label, and saw a picture of a man in a kilt, leaning against
a wall, "Staggering Highlander."
     "You look like you need it. You're at Kent's Place, The Last
Stop."
     "The last stop before where?"
     "Just the last stop."
     "Don't let him get to ya, I'll tell you where."
     I turned to see the bass player from the band walk up behind
me. The bags under his eyes looked like they could hold a week's
worth of groceries. His pale skin and rail-thin frame looked like
they could use the nourishment.
     "This is the last stop before Hell," he explained.
     The bartender's frown deepened, if that was possible.
     "Why aren't you playing?"
     "It's a break between sets, you slave driver!"
     "I don't pay you to take breaks."
     "You don't pay us!"
     "You don't have a choice," the bartender hissed, "now move
it!"
     The gaunt figure stumbled past near-empty tables to the stage
where the four players huddled together and threw dark glances
toward the bar.
     I picked up the shot glass and tossed back the contents. The
increasing warmth in my throat warned me of the fire that arrived
in my stomach.
     Sitting back on a stool, I looked around the room again as I
waited for the flames to subside. At one booth there was a man in
a velvet smoking jacket who looked as though he may have been from
the Middle East. He was flanked by two beautiful girls in thin
tight dresses. Their hands rested on his chest.  As if by a
prearranged signal they all turned and looked at me for a moment,
seemed to dismiss my presence, and returned their gaze to each
other. A couple of tables over, a small group was huddled around
some contraption covered in wires. Every few seconds one of them
would consult a thin book. They looked at me suspiciously, and the
one with the book hid it under the table. I was able to read the
cover before he put it away, it was the banned book "The Anarchist
Cookbook."
     I had to get out of there. Standing up, I headed for what
looked like the front door.
     "That isn't going to help you, bud," the bartender called
after me.
     "I'm leaving, I shouldn't be here."
     "That's what they all say, you can't leave."
     Ignoring him, I grabbed the door handle and pushed the door
open. Black, it was all black. I don't mean like the dead of
night. I mean there was nothing, no light, no shadows, nothing.
The lights from the room should have shined on the outside walk or
something, but the blackness absorbed the light totally. Closing
the door slowly, I leaned against it. I felt faint and wasn't sure
what to do next.
     "Seen enough? I told you, you couldn't leave. There is nowhere
to go."
     I slowly made my way back to the bar stool, grabbed the bottle
from Kent's hand, and poured myself another drink.
     "Where the hell are we?"
     "Close, now watch my lips. K-E-N-T'S P-L-A-C-E."
     "Yes, but where is that?"
     "Well now, that all depends on your beliefs, doesn't it?"
And with that he turned and went to help some of the other patrons.
     Suzie hopped up onto the bar and began playing with a pretzel
stick while I suffered. I wished I could be as calm as her.
     "Oooh, what is that?"
     My eyes widened at the brunette who came up to look at my cat.
With sprayed-on jeans a top that left little to the imagination,
she had a figure that most men could only have wet dreams about.
     "That," pointing a pretzel stick at Suzie, "is El Gato or a
cat, her name is Suzie."
     "Oooh, I just love kitties."
     My heart leapt outside my chest when she leaned over to stroke
Suzie's fur. Suzie did not like this new intrusion and turned to
give the woman one of her hacking gasps. I have never seen anyone
recoil quite so quickly.
     "Yuck, is it going to spit up a hairball or something?"
     Spit up a hairball? Oh brother.
     "No, Suzie can't meow like most cats, she was just talking to
you." And not anything nice, I finished to myself.
     The girl looked at me really close (what an effect on the
nervous system) and then back at the cat like she wasn't sure what
she should do next. Coming to some decision she reached out and
scratched behind Suzie's ears, which was probably best.
     "What am I going to do with you Joe!" It was the bartender,
his tone slightly above a bellow. I glanced down the bar to see
what was happening. Kent was towering over some drunk whose head
lay in his own vomit.
     "How about another shot?" It slurred helpfully.
     A twitch appeared under Kent's eyes as he struggled to
maintain control. His hands unclenched, and clenched again.
     "How about you go down to the cellar and get a special bottle
just for you?" Kent intoned in a controlled voice. Conversation
seemed to stop all around us.
     "On the house Joe, a complete bottle," he continued.
     "Kent, No!"  The brunette gasped.
     "Shut up, Brassy, its none of your business!" Kent hissed
under his breath.
     "Why, why that's mighty nice of you, Kent," Joe drooled. "Who
would have thought you had such a big heart."
     "That's not his problem.", Brassy moaned.
     Joe stood up slowly and stumbled toward the far back corner,
weaving back and forth to avoid tables, real and imagined. Every
eye in the place seemed to follow his progress with rapt attention.
I could have heard a pin drop in the quiet that followed him back.
He was mumbling some drunk's melody like he didn't feel the growing
tension in the room. Back in the corner was a small set of stairs
that led down to a sunken door. Brassy turned her head to hide her
eyes as Joe opened the door. A sickening, green glow emitted from
the cellar. Behind him, the door shut as if of its own accord. I
felt the blood drain from my face as the first screams pierced the
room. The screams rapidly turned to gurgles, ending as quickly as
they had begun. I watched that door for what seemed like forever,
but it never reopened.
     I don't know how long, I stared at the door. Time seemed to
have lost its meaning. The next thing I remember were the shouts
and girlish screams coming from behind me. Bracing myself for the
worst, I slowly turned toward the commotion. It was the dancer in
the sheer black dress. Suzie was chasing her around in circles
trying to take swipes at the woman's shoes.
     "Get it away from me!"
     "Stand still for a moment, Ruby," one of the men motioned.
"We'll get it."
     "You stand still, moron. It's trying to bite me," she
retorted.
     I quickly moved closer to the scrambling and waited my chance.
When the opening came, I shot out my arm and scooped up the cat.
     Ruby stopped her running, but she turned her temper on me and
started yelling.
     "Is that your beast?"
     "Uhh . . . "
     "Are you crazy? What if that creature had bitten me? What if
it has rabies?"
     "She doesn't . . . "
     "Shut up, I'm not through yet. That monster should be killed.
It could have . . . "
     "Now wait a minute! Suzie is harmless. She wouldn't hurt a
thing. I can't understand why she was chasing you."
     Ruby snorted in contempt. Leaning back against a table she
exposed a lot of leg to examine her feet. I stared at what looked
like miniature piranha swimming around her high heels. Suddenly,
I understood what had happened.
     "I'm really sorry, Ruby, but it wasn't you that the cat was
after."
     "No? Then what was all that, my imagination?"
     "Your shoes, or more to the point, the fish contained within
them."
     "My babies? Your cat was after my babies? I'll kill it myself,
that little monster!"
     Ruby advanced on me with her hands extended like claws. I
backed away holding Suzie, protectively.
     "I'm sorry, really I am. Please, I'll hold on to her. I'll
make sure it doesn't happen again."
     "Yea Ruby, it was nothing," Brassy chipped in helpfully, "and
it's such a cute kitty."
     This seemed to mollify Ruby a little. She stomped over to the
bar and ordered a stiff drink. My bladder was complaining again,
so I retreated to the bathroom till things could calm down.
     I had forgotten about the shot-out light. I felt my way to an
empty stall and hid inside.
     "How are we going to get home little one?" I whispered to my
cat. I must have nodded off, because Suzie woke me up by nipping
my ankle. Reaching out to the metal wall, I tried to help myself
up, but I felt nothing. Oh no, not again, I thought. A step further
brought me up to a vinyl wall and a light switch. I was back in my
own bathroom. I opened the door and peered into the bedroom. My
wife was still sleeping soundly. I leaned up against the wall to
catch my breath. Suzie looked up at me expectantly.
     "Was it all a dream, Suzie? A hallucination perhaps?" A hack
and a gasp was my only reply. I knelt down and scratched under her
collar and thought about going back to bed, when I caught a strange
odor. I put my nose in her fur and took a deep sniff. Sitting on
the floor, all I could do was stare at her.
     Suzie smelled like stale beer and old cigarettes. She smelled
like Kent's Place.
                               END

Copyright 1993(c)
                         AT THE MALL

Renovation: Day one

     Business was booming for everyone but Kent.
     Since the addition of Jim Daly's TSD booth, his partner,
Hewie Poplock had also set up a stand and had been joined by
Signman Charlie Cusic, whose banner announced "Signs and Sage
Sayings - $5 each." Daly resented this addition, and promptly
approached the signman brandishing a $5 and invited him to "say
something smart."
     Cusic pocketed the fiver and responded, "Cut the juice to
that counter of yours, before you fry your brains."
     All agreed this was sage advice, and Daly retreated to live
in harmony with his new co-renters. Lyn Rust approached Kent to
set up a booth for the sale of used taglines, and Ruby Begonia
had a purple-sequined boothfront installed in a back corner and
hired the signman to paint a sign: "Condom Courtier." She
promptly put in for Kent to install a baby-blue spot under which
she could display her wares. When Ballard failed to act, she
called in the electricians herself at his expense, and he was
horrified to receive a bill the following week for $6,243.19.
Once his normal color returned, and she was sure he wasn't going
to keel over with apoplexy, Ruby explained that the electricians
made $17.50 an hour alone. They were union, she pointed out, and
Kent was all for unions, wasn't he? He sputtered agreement, and
she rushed on.
     "Kentie-poo, you just have no idea how fussy those guys are.
Why, they told me all they do is wire and if I wanted a spot
installed I'd have to get spot installers at another $17.50 an
hour. Then, the spot installers would only install and wouldn't
cut the necessary holes in the ceiling, the hole cutters wouldn't
pass the wire up to the electricians, and nobody would climb a
ladder. I had to get a different crew to do everything, but I
knew you'd want to support the unions. All in all, I think the
bill is most reasonable," she simpered, as Ballard's complexion
once again began to glow a fuscia color.
     "Jesus Christ, it looks like a freakin' mini-mall in here,"
he shouted. "All we need is Mother Molly's Home Baked Cookies and
a Chop Suey restaurant."
     The entrance of a new customer momentarily took his mind off
his problems. Until, that is, the stranger asked for a stinger.
     "Whiskey and water," Ballard snarled, "whiskey and water.
That's what we got - whiskey and water. You want it or not?"
     As his voice rose on the last words, the stranger flinched
and nodded meekly. Ballard poured a minuscule amount of tan
liquid into a glass, topped it off with water and pocketed
$11.25, breaking into his first smile of the day.
     The new customer noticed the banner of the witty signman and
meekly approached him with a five spot.
     "There's a Bennigan's down the road with a stool with your
name on it," said the signman, and the stranger thanked him
profusely and escaped.
                               ***
Renovation: Day Two

     Sam, the cat from hell, returns with a girlfriend of
questionable lineage, who promptly has kittens atop Daly's
computer. One becomes inordinately enamored of him and insists on
sleeping in his shiny clean ashtray. Somehow, the electric
current has become ineffective to cats, but works amazingly well
whenever Jim touches the counter. The code enforcement officer
arrives to contemplate the array of businesses now amassed under
Kent's roof and suggests a $1,500 fine is in order. Ballard, in
his usual oily way, asks if they can't work something out. The
code enforcement officer indicates he might be willing to look
the other way for $50 cash, a case of unwatered Staggering
Highlander, and a night of wonder with Brassy.
     "What am I gonna' do?" moaned a depressed Kent to Shakib
Otaqui. Shakib suggested the addition of a nice little restaurant
might be just the ticket. Michael Hahn, overhearing the
suggestion, rushed out to purchase a rolling hot dog stand and
promptly installed it along the left wall after parting with five
hard-earned dollars to get a sign from the witty signman.
"Authentic Fried Rice and Egg Rolls," said the sign, and Michael
immediately over-filled the rice cooker and blew bits of brown
rice, egg, and some unidentifiable meat substitute all over the
ceiling. He dug frantically in his pocket, and shoved $5 at the
witty signman, looking expectant.
     "There's a free course in refrigerator repair down at the
local high school three nights a week," said the signman, pocketing
the fiver. "Maybe you should look into a new career."
     In an effort to placate her Kentie-poo and save him from
financial ruin, Ruby sells the code enforcement officer a batch
of condoms with a replica of a hip-gyrating Elvis in blue suede
shoes, which give his wife a yeast infection.
     Ballard sits with head in hands as the final blow falls, and
Eric Loeb sets up a booth selling opinions, immediately outselling
Ballard's own two to one. A broken man, Ballard contemplates having
a small, convenient fire.
                               ***
Renovation: Day Three

     Michael Hahn surreptitiously enters Kent's Place carrying a
mop and pail, a ladder, and an industrial-sized window scraper.
     "Michael Hahn! The Hanster! Mikerooni! Doin' a little clean-
up. The Mikeola," greets Jim Daly.
     "You got to do something about that," Mike tells a frowning
Ballard. "See how Jim's eyes are all wide and have those little
rings around the pupil like a cartoon character? All those
electric jolts are frying his gray matter." He shook his head and
wandered over to clean the oriental food mixture off the ceiling
over his booth, and to install his new $5 sign, "Authentic
Italian Spaghetti and Meatballs."
     "Slats! The Slatster! Havin' a little drink. The
Slatmeister!"
     "Hey Jim," greeted Bill Slattery. "Jesus, he's overdue for
euthanasia, isn't he?" he asked Otaqui, who nodded mutely.
     "Eric Loeb. The Lopester. Loweman. Visiting the bar. The
Loopmeister!"
     "Hey Jim," Eric greets Daly, mentally measuring him for a
meat locker.
     "Lynski! Lynster. Openin' her booth. Lynola! The Lynarooni!"
     "Yeah, yeah, Jim. Listen guys," said Lyn Rust to the
assembled group, "I got a friend says he can up the amp on that
charge so it'll fry Daly's vocal chords," she offers, a
noticeable gleam in her eye.
     "Let's ask the witty signman," suggests Shakib, and the
threesome pool their resources to come up with five ones, which
they offer the sage.
     "Wait for Ruby to get here," he advises, and all nod in
agreement with the wit of his advice.
     "Rubella! The Rubester. Rubeola!" chanted Jim as Ruby
Begonia entered. By way of greeting, she snatched the marini from
Lyn's hand, shoved Daly's fist in the glass, and dropped her "So
many men - so little time... but take a number" tote deliberately
atop his counter, causing an unremitting jolt of electricity to
enter Daly's body, shooting his eyebrows heavenward in fits and
starts and causing his ears to twitch violently. She held out her
hand and Slattery filled it with quarters. Soon, Jim's ears were
twitching violently to the beat of Devil With a Blue Dress On, to
the great amusement of the regulars.
     "You know, that throbbing beat could have been written with
just this sort of entertainment in mind," observed Herman Holtz
to Clark Burner as the two entered at that moment, and stopped to
stare at Jim's eyebrows jerking skyward. Hewie Poplock was
soundly booed for flipping the breaker as he happened in during
the midst of the fun.
     Dick Burkhalter sauntered in minus his lovelies and spotted
Ruby arranging her display under the baby-blue spotlight.
     "How goes the litigation with the code enforcement guy,
Ruby?" he asked.
     "Ah, that putz," Ruby opined. "Only reason he took the wife
to the doctor in the first place was she moved for the first time
in 17 years. My lawyer thinks we got a real good chance of
creating reasonable doubt that she was infected in a public john.
Say, what happened to the rice on the ceiling? My psychic said it
probably contained a message regarding my future. She was
teaching me to read it - like tea leaves, you know?"
     "Out!" shouted Ballard suddenly. "Everybody out!" He moved
to take down the shotgun over the bar and waved it about
menacingly.
                               ***
     "Jeez, it sure is dull around here," complained Herman
Holtz.
     "It's a bar, fer Chrissakes," declared Ballard. "It's
supposed to be dull unless you drink," he opined, placing a glass
of beige liquid before Holtz and adding $12.35 to his tab. "And
while we're on the subject, when're you gonna pay this tab you
let this bunch of freeloaders run up in celebration of your
latest sale? It'll just about cover my attorney fee and pay the
settlement to that schmuck of a code enforcement officer."
     "Soon, my man, soon," soothed Herman, wondering what his
chances were of beating Ballard out of the money. After all,
Ballard had nothing in writing but his own padded bar bill, he
recalled.
     Shakib Otaqui joined Herman at the bar, sighing deeply.
"Herm's right, Ballard. Ever since you ran everybody out of here,
the place is a real drag."
     "So go down to Bill and Allison's and run up your bar tab
down there, will ya?" Ballard responded, ungraciously. "It's a
bar. That's all. Just a bar. You want Mary Kay and Burdine's - go
to the mall."
     Shakib and Herman eyed one another despondently. Just then,
the doors flew open and Michael Hahn, Jim Daly, Hewie Poplock,
Lyn Rust and Ruby Begonia trooped in, all wearing identical
trenchcoats.
     Bill Slattery entered close behind them, and broke into a
wide smile.
     "Oh boy, are the booths coming back?" he asked.
     "Hell no!" shouted Ballard. "No booths. This is a bar. A
BAR, get it?"
     "Yeah, Kentie-poo, we get it," Ruby answered. "We don't need
your over-priced booths anymore, anyway."
     "Yeah, that's right. We figured out how to cut out the
middle-man, so to speak," said Lyn, and her companions nodded.
     The group opened their trenchcoats and revealed their
individual wares displayed inside the lining of their
trenchcoats. Ballard stared at the display in horror. He was just
before barring the lot of them when Ruby motioned him aside and
the two held a whispered conversation. A smiling Ballard returned
to the center of the bar and announced there would be drinks for
everyone...on the house!
                               ***
     The throbbing strains of Devil With a Blue Dress On
accompanied Ruby and Lyn's energetic dance as the regulars looked
on. As the last chords died away and the two alighted from the
bartop, a curious Eric Loeb sidled up to Ruby.
     "Say, Ruby, I would have sworn Ballard was going to throw
the lot of you out of here before you whispered in his ear. What,
exactly, did you say to him anyway? I've never known him to
spring for drinks for anybody, much less the entire bar."
     "Well, that was just too simple, Eric, sweetie. I simply
told him about my friend, Jade. It seems like Jade ran into that
code enforcement fella down at the Hot Spot - you know, that dive
down on the highway that has those girls who take off their
clothes and swing on that pole to music? Well, I guess him and
Jade got real friendly or something, cause now his old lady is
filing for divorce, claiming he gave her something the doctor
can't cure this time."
     "Ah, jeez, don't tell me that yeast thing has turned into
something fatal," piped up Shakib.
     "Nah," said Ruby. "Seems like his old lady is convinced he's
been fooling around on her all along. He's got to hire a lawyer
to keep her from taking the condo and the beamer and leaving him
sleeping on a park bench, and he had to drop the suit against
Kent because he can't afford double legal fees."
     "Okay," said Eric. "I can see how that might cheer Kent up -
even enough to let you people bring your traveling wares into the
bar again. That get-up of Michael Hahn's with the little plastic
coffee creamers stuffed with spaghetti is a bit much, but I
suppose a guy's gotta make a living. Still, I don't know what
your friend could have given the old boy that got his wife so
worked up, though. Seems like if a yeast infection didn't do it,
it would have to be something really big."
     "Oh, it is big, all right. Jade's a real hot babe, you know.
She's got men lined up around the block. Well, anyway, it
seems like she really inspired the old boy, but naturally she
wouldn't have anything to do with him. After he left her, he was
so worked up he went home and really tore into his old lady. He's
gonna' be paying out the nose about 18 long years," Ruby finished
happily.
     "You mean...?" asked Shakib.
     "That's right. The old lady's knocked up big-time. Wouldn't
surprise me if she had twins."
     Ruby hesitated and her expression became serious.
     "Of course, there is one other little thing that may be
responsible for his cheer, but I don't know if I should mention
it."
     She looked furtively over her shoulder and leaned over and
spoke in a low voice.
     "You see, Eric, it seems the State of Indianapolis has learned
that I can be bribed if the price is high enough. They found out
what Florida gave me to get out and offered me a ton more than
that. A ton. How could I refuse? I'm afraid you may have just seen
the last bartop performance for a while. I've located a little
place in Florida down in the Grove, Coconut Grove, you know? Well,
anyway, I thought I'd repay Florida and open up a little boutique
in the posh section - not too big and I'm not sure what I'm going
to be stocking yet, but I do have some ideas. First, the place is
going to be called 'Ruby on the Half Shell.' Second, I'm going to
put in one of those fruit/power drink bars, you know the ones that
are all the rage with the yuppies. Gonna' call it the Lustre Bar.
Of course, you guys can come visit me and I'll spice up your
cranberry brain-drain drinks with a bit of the real stuff, but we
won't tell the beverage agents, huh?"
     Eric was speechless. Ruby considered that a victory.
     Kent continued to smile benignly at his regulars,
contemplating what he'd do with Herman's payment when he received
it, now that he was relieved of the necessity of paying it to some
lying, cheating, thieving shyster. He decided if Jade was as hot
as Ruby said, he'd have to invite her to an after-hours party
sometime.  First, though, he'd have to browse Ruby's overcoat for
the appropriate protection, he told himself, making a note to stay
away from the hip-gyrating Elvis condoms.
     A short exchange was held between Ruby and Kent at the close
of the evening, with all the regulars watching intently. By now the
word had spread and the regulars couldn't believe that Ruby
actually might be moving on. Many thought because Kent had insisted
she take Sam, the Cat from Hell, with her that she would back out.
They watched with bated breath as they actually saw Kent hug Ruby.
Later there was much speculation as to whether it was actually a
hug, or whether Ruby had bodily thrust herself at Kent and he'd
simply had no place to put his hands and no time to reach for his
gun.
     She waved to her friends and smiled fondly and turned to
leave.
     "You'll be back!" predicted Kent.
     Ruby didn't respond - didn't look back. She marched briskly
from the building, piranha dancing merrily with each step, as the
regulars watched silently.

                            END

Copyright (c) 1993
                     "One Line, No Waiting"

     Michael Hahn strolled into Kent's Place, and somehow felt out
of place. He slid onto a stool, smiled at Brassy. "The usual,
lass," he said with a smile.
     Brassy returned a sad smile. "I'm sorry, but I can't. Uh,
I'll get the boss--he can explain."  She disappeared into the back
room, leaving a very puzzled patron in her wake.
     While waiting for Kent, Michael let his gaze wander around
the bar. The first thing he saw was the new sign nailed up behind
the cash register:

                          No Spitting
                          No Swearing
                          No Tabs

     He shook his head; rules, in Kent's Place? Howard Palmer took
the adjacent stool, cleared his throat. "You noticed the sign,
didn't you?"
     "Yeah," Michael said. "What the **** is that . . . hey, wait
a minute. What happened?  I said ****, but all that came out was
those little stars! What's going on here?"
     Howard sighed, shook his head. "We've been busted. Kent was
shanghaied into a seat on the local governing council. He figured
he can't be crooked for the duration. So now all the local
ordinances are being enforced in here."
     Del Freeman wandered over from her table. "You guys talkin'
about the changes? ****** shame. Now I can't seem to say two
sentences without seeing stars."
     Louise Hagan leaned into the conversation. "Guess what else?
Try to say something short--go ahead."
     Michael cocked an eyebrow, said, "   ". He paused, startled.
    "What just happened? I thought I said `Ack', but nothing came
out."
     "Part of the new rules, Bucko." Kent had sauntered in, caught
the last few words of the conversation. "They blackmailed me into
being an honest citizen for ninety days, and then told me about
all the hidden catches. Like, for instance, the drink situation.
I'm afraid I can't serve you a club soda with a twist of lemon.
You have to drink Staggering Highlander or marinis."
     "I don't get it, Kent," Michael replied. "I've always paid
for the drinks up front. Why can't you give me my preference?"
     Kent looked pained. "Yeah, I know. You are one of the few
guys who always pays for his drinks. Problem is, this is a bar.
The local ordinances say that bars must only serve alcohol. If
you want non-alcoholic drinks, you've gotta go down to the soda
fountain at the corner."
     "Why would I want to do that?" Michael muttered. "All the
folks I want to talk to are here."
     "Why don't you just buy a marini, and not drink it?" Lyn Rust
chimed in. "We like having you stop by, too."
     "I don't want a marini. I don't drink alcohol. I want a club
soda," he insisted.
     Kent sighed. "I'm sorry. You've got to order booze, or you
can't sit here."
     Michael frowned. "Let me see if I understand this: no foul
language, no single-word dialogue, and I have to drink booze to
stay here. Right?"
     "Right," the others echoed simultaneously. "No problem."
     "No," Michael said, shaking his head, "big problem. I started
coming in this place because the ownership and clientele put up
with my little idiosyncrasies. Now they're no longer welcome."
He rose, straightened his jacket. "Stop by and say hello if
you're in Washington." He left without a backward glance.
     Eric Loeb passed him in the doorway. Eric stopped, opened his
mouth as is to say something, then noticed the faces of the crowd
at the bar. He frowned, muttered, "****," and slipped into a
corner booth with Bill Slattery. "Hey, Slats," Eric said, "is it
just me, or is this place a lot emptier than usual?"
     Slattery looked at him for a long moment, then said, "   ".
     Across the room, Del had resumed her seat across from Al
Ruffin. "At least one good thing came out of this," she said.
"Ruby hasn't set foot in here in weeks."
     "That's good?" Al replied. "The place has been about as
exciting as mort. . ., morti . . ., uh, funeral directors'
convention. I think I'm going back to Maryland. John and Lucia
Chambers opened a little diner in D.C., and a lot of us right-
coasters have taken to hanging out there." He scooped up his
jacket and shotgun. "See ya, Del," he said, and walked out.
                              ***

     Three weeks later, Kent nailed the last of the boards in
place. He grimaced, tore down the "Under New Management" banner.
He'd been complaining about needing a vacation; between the UFO's,
a stint as a Topic Cop, and the chandelier incident, life had been
awfully hectic. Now he had the chance.
     He dropped the hammer into his duffel bag, slung it over his
shoulder. "Virginia is for lovers," he mumbled, and headed off
into the sunset, to his car, to the airport.
     Behind him, the bar began to fade from view. Then the city of
Indianapolis began to fade. A voice spoke from the heavens, a
voice that sounded suspiciously like Fred Rogers:

    "Can you say, `Consensus Reality'?  I knew you could . . . "
                               END

Copyright 1993(c)
                      IN THE GROOVY GROVE

     T. Chumley Buggerem, Esquire, posted the business license
prominently over the cash register at the Lustre Bar, shook hands
with the newly-hired bartender and pocketed the $20 bribe. He waved
to his latest client as he exited the front door.
     He passed under the fuscia-neon blinking sign announcing 'Ruby
on the Half-Shell', paying little attention to the banner with day-
glow chartreuse lettering proclaiming the grand opening, featuring
special, free health and power drinks and live entertainment by the
Pearl Jam. Ruby flitted from the kitchen to the dance floor, from
the Lustre Bar to the boutique area, checking every last detail,
the piranha-filled globes of her spike heels sloshing noisily. Her
newly-purchased fuscia mini-skirt and chartreuse sequined top had
prompted the workmen to purchase a wheelbarrow full of hot
sunglasses offered for sale by a Grove-ite passing by on the
sidewalk three days previous, and the crowd inside looked like a
convention of t-shirted incognito illegal aliens.
     The words of T. Chumley rang in her ears, as she checked her
appearance once more in the mirror over the bar, adjusting the
fuscia hat with the pearl-dotted veil so that the chartreuse
feather dipped beneath her chin, artfully concealing the turkey
wattle.
     "Ms. Begonia, I assure you that you look exactly like I would
expect one of your class to look," Buggerem had assured her oilily.
She smiled at the mirrored-image. Chumley might have no personal
taste, she told herself, mentally picturing his polyester suit and
the tasseled loafers with the mirrors on the toes, but he knows a
smart-looking woman when he sees one.
     "It's almost time, boys," she called to the workmen. "How do
I look?"
     The foreman shuffled his feet and glared sternly at the few
workers who opened their mouths. The pool for best description of
their temporary boss had been won by a Puerto Rican sheetrock man
who'd said she could serve as a beacon for ships at sea in the dead
of night. They muttered a few noncommittal "nice, nice" comments
and escaped as inconspicuously as possible.
     "Ah, Sam," Ruby murmured to the cat from hell, as she surveyed
her surroundings and savored the coming party, "everything must be
perfect, you know. All our friends are coming from Washington and
Indianapolis and, well, just all over - lots of 'em from the RIME
Writers Conference. It's a shame about that catering job," she
mused aloud. "The closest I could come to pastrami sandwiches was
those cuban ones. Since I heard that thing about the magical
properties writers seem to attach to pastrami sandwiches, I really
wanted to offer 'em, even if I don't understand what the big deal
is."
     "Hack. Spit!" said Sam, and coughed up a furball.
     "Why yes, Sam, as a matter of fact Kent is coming," said Ruby,
scratching beneath Sam's chin absent-mindedly.
     Sam, one of the few cats who could, grinned. He raced to the
end of the bar and stretched upward to sharpen his claws on the
pink, shag-carpeted wall, hoping Kent would forget his crotch
guard.
     The Pearl Jam practiced softly in the background, perfecting
their flamenco and operetta versions of Devil With a Blue Dress On.
The caterers arranged the platters of cheese doodles filled with
peanut butter along the bar and on the small tables scattered
throughout the boutique. All waited for the first customer to enter
through the deco-doors of Ruby On The Half Shell.
                               ***
     "Where's Cosmo?" asked Ruby of a two-shouldered, one-birded
Lucia Chambers.
     "He picked up some honey on the way in," John explained,
coming up behind Lucia to scratch Zack's tummy.
     "Oh, you must mean that bird on the parking meter out front.
Some fella' brings her along about sundown every evening and sits
her there. She says hello a lot to people passing by, but otherwise
she's a pretty nice bird. Saphire, I think he calls her," Ruby
explained.
     "Well, Cosmo called her 'hot mama'," said Lucia. "She took one
look at him and began to preen her feathers and that was it for
Cos. He's out there hanging by one foot from the change slot on the
meter doing his Tarzan cry, and trying to talk her into that mango
tree for a little romance."
     "Gee, Lucia, I'm sure glad to learn it's only puberty that's
keeping Cosmo away. For a minute there I thought it might be that
there just wasn't any room for him, you know, with the hat and
all."
     Lucia wore a stunningly 20's style wide-brimmed hat with a
crown cut-out, from which a wisp of a smoke-grey veil dipped
provocatively over her right eye.
     "Killer, hat," said Ruby, enviously, fingering her own little
piece of fluff and wondering why class always looked so much better
on Lucia than it did on her. Still, Lucia didn't have any pearls
dotting her veil and there wasn't the hint of a chartreuse feather,
so Ruby decided she felt pretty good.
     "Say, this is a nice place you have here, Ruby," said John
politely, as he searched his pockets for his sunglasses. "Seems
like I heard something about this being a second choice location,
though, didn't I?"
     "Yes, but I like it lots better than the first one," Ruby
admitted. "Have a Cuban sandwich," she invited, shoving a tray
laden with the meat-filled sandwiches in John and Lucia's
direction. "Sorry, I couldn't find any pastrami ones."
     John and Lucia exchanged questioning looks and said nothing.
     "You know, that first joint was pretty nice but T. Chumley,
that's my lawyer - T. Chumley Buggerem, Esquire - well, T. Chumley
did his best but it seems like those folks in Moral Ga..., I mean
Coral Gables, well, they didn't want to cooperate very much.
     "See, they got all these rules about how you can't DO anything
in Moral Ga..., I mean Coral Gables. Leastwise, not without a
permit, you can't. Like, you can't paint your house and you can't
replace your water heater and you can't own pick-em-ups - imagine
that - and T. Chumley never could get a permit. In fact, he made
those old boys on the city council so mad they fined him $5,000.
     "See, he was arguin' about how I simply had to have a permit
to have pick-em-ups parked out front of my place of business, and
one of those stuffed shirt types piped up and said as how T.
Chumley would next be wanting to have dancing girls, and then T.
Chumley, well, he said as how next the city council would be
wanting to regulate everybody's underwear and he, for one, was
bedamned if he was going to have anybody telling him he couldn't
wear his Calvin Klein silk jockey shorts with the hummingbird
pattern. Then the old boy on the city council, well, he said as how
T. Chumley must be a pervert cuz' only a pervert would put silk
stuff with an obscene pattern next to his privates, and he said his
client, (that's me), should be locked up by the ASPCA for trapping
those poor little fish in her shoes.
     "Well, T. Chumley grabbed one of my shoes and dumped my babies
into the councilman's water glass and stuck the councilman's finger
in there and it scared my babies so bad they bit a chunk out of the
councilman's pinkie. The councilman gave a yelp and started
hollering about a lawsuit and T. Chumley said as how the
councilman was lucky it wasn't some other appendage he'd dumped in
the water glass, and then the police came, and, well, anyway, it
just didn't work out."
     John and Lucia regarded Ruby with slightly glazed eyes, having
heard far more than they had ever wanted to about her licensing
problems. John murmured that he'd better go get Cosmo, and Lucia
insisted on helping him, and the two ducked quickly back into the
street with Ruby rambling on behind them.
     "...T. Chumley, see, he said as how that whole thing is
unconstitutional and interferes with everybody's free rights, and
then he gave Sludge $20 and a 5-gallon jug of Mad Dog 20/20 and got
him to ride down the councilman's street, gunning his engine and
singing 'Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road' at 3:00 a.m. T.
Chumley says Sludge won't do no 30 days though, despite what the
newspaper says, and..."
     The voice faded behind them as John and Lucia emerged onto the
sidewalk, breathed a sigh of relief and began to search for Cosmo.
They found him muzzling Saphire's neck down at the penny arcade on
the corner. John scooped Cosmo onto his arm and the foursome
started back to Ruby on the Half Shell with Cos looking over his
shoulder and moaning about cold showers and unrequited love.
     "Awk! Hot stuff! Hot Stuff!" Cos lamented as John clapped a
hand down on his wings and ushered him into Ruby's boutique. He
spent the remainder of the night walking back and forth across the
bartop, peering through the window and glaring at a red-headed
conyer who had usurped his position at Saphire's side.
Intermittently he muttered, "Gettin' my stuff. DamnJohn, DamnJohn."

                               ***
     Eric Loeb, sometimes known as Erwin Lope, Irvin Lobb, Evan
Loop, and half a dozen other derivatives thereof, was doing the
Pony with his mate, Sharon, wearing the cape and fright-wig from
his days as a rocker. Brassy was calmly surveying the scene and
sipping a cranberry cranium crush, and Kent was openly sipping from
the flask in his breast pocket. Bill Slattery sat happily at the
bar, necklaced jug full to the brim, one hand clasped around the
fifth of Chevas Regal Ruby had purchased for the grand opening. He
appeared to have tears in his eyes and could be periodically heard
to faintly and lovingly murmur "Real scotch!" in a tone of
wonderment. Herman Holtz fingered his gunbelt and bemoaned the lack
of extinct targets, and Shakib Otaqui delightedly browsed back
issues of Miami's award-winning New Times newspaper. Lyn Rust was
perched atop the bar stool next to Slats, sipping her mango marini
and tapping her high-heeled foot in time to the beat of the Pearl
Jam's rendition of a Devil With the Blue Dress On waltz. Clark
Burner and Michael Hahn were busily buying up all the containers
of "Devastate" perfume they could find in the boutique, tossing the
perfume aside and whispering together about how they could best
make the hand grenade container into the real thing. Dick
Burkhalter overheard them, spotted the display and had to be led
sobbing from the boutique by a concerned Lucy. Ruby,
misunderstanding the cause of the breakdown entirely, pursued the
Burkhalters into the street, apologizing for the absence of
pastrami sandwiches. Greg Kirby and Penny Plant approached the
front doors, heard Ruby's admission about the absent Pastrami
sandwiches and left without coming in, climbing into a cab from
which the strains of "Some Enchanted Evening" was being sung by
what could only be Caruso. "Get in and siddown, already," bellowed
the cab driver.
     Cecelio Morales and Aline Thompson sat at a corner table
discussing dangling participles and the virtues of a well-placed
comma, as Randall Hahn shot spitballs made from post-it notes onto
the ceiling, where they clung briefly before falling down into
someone's hair..., or drink..., or cleavage. He liked the latter
best. Howard Palmer spent 45 minutes telling Ruby why she should
allot him a corner booth where he could sell his computer wares and
provide advice and counseling for his troubled friends. Ruby wanted
to know how big the market for that sort of thing could be.
     "Hey, you'd be surprised how many troubled friends I've got,"
Howard said. "You'd be surprised how many troubled friends you've
got. In fact, it would trouble you to know how many troubled people
there are, and then you'd need to talk about it with somebody."
     He smiled and pointed at his chest. Ruby promised to think
about it.
     At the pinnacle of the evening, Ruby made an announcement
welcoming her friends and apologizing about the pastrami
sandwiches. Everybody applauded and continued to consume the cheese
doodles and Cuban sandwiches, washing them down with fruit drinks.
Slattery slipped quietly from his stool and was promptly surrounded
with the fuscia cones Ruby had purchased especially for the
occasion. They were unable to pry his locked fingers from about the
bottle of Chevas Regal, and placed cones around that, too. Ballard
mentally toted up the cost of the affair and decided Ruby would be
broke and back in Indianapolis by Tuesday. Sam, the cat from hell,
discovered Kent had, indeed, forgotten to wear his crotch guard,
which effectively took Kent's mind off Ruby's future and placed it
squarely on his own and that of his (thanks to Sam) endangered
offspring.
     Michael Heinich entered late in the evening, having missed out
on the cheese doodles but in time to consume the last Cuban
sandwich. As he bit into it, he felt the tickle of a chartreuse
feather as Ruby slipped up behind him and whispered into his ear
an inquiry as to the whereabouts of Franchot Lewis. Michael simply
shruffed eloquently and Ruby slapped a thigh in disgust and
muttered "Darn. I've just about got that jet-cycled thing down pat,
too."
     "Should have called this place half-wit on the halfshell,"
Michael observed to himself as Ruby flitted away.
     T. Chumley Buggerem, Esquire, showed up just as the party was
winding down and wandered among the dwindling crowd staring down
at the mirrors on his shoes and ignoring a slight drool from the
corner of his mouth. The Pearl Jam closed the extravaganza with a
throbbing rendition of Devil With a Blue Dress On as it should be
played, and Ruby gyrated atop the bar to its frenzied conclusion,
joined by Lyn at the height of the excitement, for a duo
performance of the infamous dime trick.
     A good time was had by all.
                              ***
     Ruby slipped out of her globed-slippers and fingered the pile
of bills which filled her lap and spilled onto the floor. It had
been one hell of a grand opening, she told herself. Everything had
been perfect except for the lack of pastrami sandwiches which must
have been the reason no one had written anything. Well, nobody
except Bill Slattery, who had been revived and ceremoniously
insisted on signing the check for all his writer friends. She
peered at the check.
     "Look at this, Sam. Nobody could read that scurbling."
     "Brrrrrrrrrrp," said Sam.
     "Hell yes, I mean scurbling. If it was scribbling, I'd have
said so. This thing looks like one'a them psychiatry inkblot things
except it's a little more lewd, don't you think?" She held the
check under Sam's nose, who promptly spat a furball onto it.
     "Yeah. That's what I think," she agreed. "Jeez, they're not
kidding when they say they can't write without pastrami sandwiches,
are they?"
                             END