Spider's Birthday Party [PART III]: 3 x 17 = 51...
John Barnstead
for FUTURES trading by the LIMEX LIBERATION ARMY (tm) on Birthday L+I....
Shara Drummond, aka General Aloysius Ded, ponders to her/himself as she
attempts to get a firm fix on the Place in general and Spider Robinson in
particular, in order to subject him to the baleful rays of the Limex
Liberation Army's new super-weapon, the MANTIS. "Perhaps we can simply
plant a small explosive device in one of the numerous presents
Callahanians have given Their Patron for his birthday over the years?...
Drat that ill-timed use of the Chrono-Fragmenter in 1998!... If we hadn't
been over-eager to destroy him *then*, we might be able to aim the MANTIS
better *now*....
* * *
A SIGN LIGHTS UP OVER THE FREE LUNCH ON THE COUNTER AT THE FRONT OF THE
PLACE:
So here's to you, Mr. Robinson.
Heaven knows The Place for those who share.
DonPaul, Honorary GoodWench & Part Time Cabin Boy to The Pyrate Queen
herself sends felicitations and greetings to the virtual party in Florida.
And it's a good thing it's a virtual party too. Florida is a fantasy located
a million miles from where I sit typing on an early summer's eve.
For DonPaul, Florida is an accumulation of images ranging from Disneyland
postcards, years of the Golden Girls and culminating in that super-doopah
long shot that starts way out at sea and ends up on the stage at la Cage a
Folle in the Robin Williams version of the classic.
I mean, is Florida really pastel?
I do love pastel.
Unfortunately, I shan't be wearing it tonight; you'll have to wait for
the ENTERTAINMENT to find that out....
But I *have* brought a gift!
That's what birthdays are all about. The bigger the better. I did think
about the collected works of Herman Charles Bosman for which you would
probably find use as a doorstep. I realised I was being selfish: I would
only be giving you the book so that I could borrow it back.
Instead, I shall give you a kite. A great big swooping kite that you can fly
on our beach here in Hout Bay. And if you can't make it here, well, fly it
on the beach in Florida and perhaps, from that great height, you'll be able
to see us waving Happy Birthday to you.
Hamba Khatle' Spider Robinson. Travel in peace.
* * *
ken-e scratches his head in thought, as he ponders what to give a
man who can create a whole world at his fingertips. His face lights
up as he shares his idea with the room: "Two round trip, all
expense paid tickets to the West Pole with deluxe accomodations at
the Ritz Hotel-West Pole. The white sandy beaches, fresh air, and
sunshine will bring a delightful change from any climate. Dinner
reservations will be made for two at the Top of the Tip, the world
renowned restaurant located at the West Pole Tower, 37 stories
above the West Pole."
* * *
The Marine at the end of the bar passes Mike an envelope containing a
birthday card. Through means known only to Mike Callahan and certain
Musquodoboit Harbour Farm Cats, it eventually comes into the
possession of Spider. Opening the card, he sees:
"Dear Spider,
Hope this finds you well on the occassion of
your 50th birthday. Have a great day, and a better
year.
I thought about getting you a present, but
the more I thought about it, the more I concluded that
the best thing I could give you is the knowledge that
I'm paying forward what you've given me, as best I can.
So I'm writing you this to let you know.
I can not begin to adequately explain all that
your creations have done for me. But I assure you it's
been good. Thanks for it all.
- Bill
* * *
Jacob brings forward a wrapped box. It does rattle a little
when Spider shakes it, with muted *thump-a* sounds. It's not a light
package, in spite of its small size. Either there's lead bricks or...
Hmmm... *thump-a* *thump-a*... perhaps some *Books!*
As the wrapping is removed and the box is opened, the gift is
revealed to indeed be books! A half dozen books are in the box, each
of them called Censored: The News That Didn't Make The News - And Why;
each of them has a different year, from 1992 to 1997.
Smiling shyly, Jacob says, "I know it's practical, but I
thought that since you like to highlight things in your writing you
might want to read these."
* * *
Marg walks into the bar with a neatly wrapped oblong package. "Hey", says
Mike, "that looks like a book."
"Uhhuh". Marg grins. "It took me awhile to find this. I looked in all the
used bookstores in Toronto and (a-a-a-chooo!) I'm still brushing the dust
and cobwebs out of my hair. But, here it is. First edition of The Saint
and the Tiger, by Leslie Charteris. Great book, as the actress said to
the archbishop."
"Happy Birthday, Spider."
* * *
"I figure most of the patrons will stick pretty much around the bar," says
Jim Hetley, aka the architect, "So I'll go a little further afield. And
think big (comes of a life in the construction business.) My gift to
Spider and Jeanne, wrapped up in aluminized Mylar, is the Star Dance
habitat. While Ze Place is a marvelous hangout and therapeutic spa, the
Star Dance is a gift to the whole human race.
"This is a package deal, including tariff-free round-trip passage from
the space port of their choice. For life."
* * *
The ARCmage turns his attention to the gift he is preparing for the Patron
Saint of the Patrons of Callahans, who introduced the ARCmage, and so many
others, to the Place.
He sets up his equipment in the Danger Room, posting a few warning signs on
the door. Radiation trefoils, Hazmat notification stickers, and, most
telling of all, a post-it note reading Mage At Work. The apparatus he
assembles kind of resembles a distillation set-up. Here and there, bits of
it glow, and some of the liquids bubbling away are sticking to the tops of
their containers rather than the bottom. An iridescent cloud near the
center of things occasionally forms into a misty looking face, and winks at
the people watching. In the center of it all, the ARCmage stands, with a
variety of wires and leads coming out of the Device, and attaching to the
helmet he carefully places on his head.
Lights flash, odd humming noises rise, and the air smells of oranges and
ozone. Arcs of electricity wander around randomly on the Device, like
kittens exploring. The ARCmage closes his eyes and his brow furrows as he
concentrates...
After a few minutes, the ARCmage relaxes with a sigh. He moves over to a
small box over near the outer edge of the Device, and looks inside. It
holds... nothing? A nothing which the ARCmage carefully carries over to a
table, and begins wrapping. When he is done, he holds a sphere, just larger
than a golf ball, of Hawaiian print wrapping paper. He sets it carefully
aside. Then he goes about cleaning up the mess.
Work done at last, he comes out of the Danger Room, to place his gift in the
pile with all the others. Seeing the looks on the faces of the onlookers,
he glances down at the little ball, smiles, and says "Its and idea."
"Its what?"
"An idea. Ever have one of those times when you just cannot come up with
one? Well, I figured that our Birthday Boy might need one someday, and not
have one, so I am giving him one of mine. It's a Generic Idea. All he will
have to do is pop it, and *poof*." The ARCmage grins. "And if he ever gets
asked, like most authors do, 'where do you get your ideas?' he can tell them
he got one from me."
"What kind of idea is it?"
The ARCmage shrugs, and points to his gift. "I have no idea. It's probably
in there."
* * *
"Hmm, as a Morpheme Addict," says Morpheme Addict, "I feel required to
give Spider something near and dear to my heart, words. A slang
dictionary, a good thesaurus (they're damn hard to find), and my favourite
use of words: comedy. I would love to give Spider every episode of This
Hour has 22 Minutes. This is the best thing to ever come out of the CBC.
Satire at its finest. It has given me endless enjoyment, as have Spider's
books and it would be my honour to give him some hours of enjoyment in
return.
* * *
Preparations for Spider's birthday party are well under way when a white
longhair cartoon tomcat and his emerald-eyed tabby wife enter The Place.
Bernice Katz is carrying a small box wrapped in a reproduction of an old
"Little Nemo" comic strip. Her husband, Jake, waves to Pernicious and
Barnstead. Ducking the decorations being hung by those who lurk in the
rafters, pausing here and there to shake paws or exchange hugs with
friends, the feline couple make their way through the unusually thick crowd.
When they reach the distinguished sponsors of the celebration, the Katzes
are excited and grinning. Jake tells their hosts, "Bernice made a wonderful
gift for Spider. It's a figurine she carved from a bit of cypress knee." He
shows around a photo of the gift: a four-inch sculpture of a housecat
curled into a perfect circle. Bernice adds: "It's a portable hug -- purrs
when you hold it." No telling how she makes these things.
* * *
Kat Nagel, deep in Deadline Mode(tm), pauses to do triage on her 5 active
email accounts. [The other 3 accounts---including her first freenet address,
kept for sentimental reasons---will have to fend for themselves at the moment.
Deadline Mode(tm) will not accommodate normal cyberactivities.]
"OK, I'm pretty well up to date with my business ISP account. On to AOL. The
screen name for our quartet has a bunch of CD-Now catalogs...set them aside
for later...and an invitation to sing in a Shaker music concert. The 2 screen
names I use for clients are both empty. Now for my original AOL screen name,
known as The SPAM Magnet. Should I just Select-All and delete? Naaah. Let's
scan through, just for giggles."
The subject lines scroll across the screen:
XXX Free Password!!! XXX
*GIRLS!*HOT!*GIRLS!*
LAST MINUTE CRUISE SPECIALS
The information you requested
NAtional Campaign Against Censorship
Ultimate Home Base Business
FWD:Just Curious
A REQUEST FROM PERNICIOUS
Fwd:Your order
Hi!
Hillary Clinton loves kids; marries a goat
Great Business Opportunity
The Vote is IN!
<blink>
<click>
Great Business Opportunity
<clicketyclickclick>
Hillary Clinton loves kids; marries a goat
Hi!
Fwd:Your order
A REQUEST FROM PERNICIOUS
"Pernicious? THE Pernicious---writing to ME? What on earth...?"
>Dear Kat:
>
> November 24 is Spider Robinson's birthday (he's going to be
>FIFTY), so my faithful amanuensis and I thought it would be fun to
>do a collective surprise birthday party post in his honour.
"Neat! Spider is the same age as I am."
She continues reading, making notes as ideas come tumbling through her work-
addled brain, until she reads the last paragraph:
>Deadline for receipt of contributions is
>November 20th
"<SQUAWK!> That's TODAY! Yeeeeks---I'm not dressed for a party! I'm not
even DRESSED!* K@! Sneaky! Everybody! HELP!!!**"
[*I've been in Deadline Mode(tm) for almost 3 weeks.
Everything I own---everything---is in the laundry chute
or the washing machine. Thank <insert deityname> I have
a home office. Couldn't go to a cube farm in the south
half of a bathing suit and the north half of my husband's
old PJs, now, could I?]
[**10 exclamation points in 1 dialog segment...maybe I
could make a few bucks writing SPAM letters?]
The cream-colored feline and the little hobbit thief yawn and untangle
themselves from their napknot. Several alter egos from Another Place run in
from the next room.
"Quick, guys, there isn't much time."
---The-Cat-with-an-@titude helps his pseudoSiamese friend pack
a velvet gift bag full of 50 choice mouse toys for Spider. They
look at each other, smile, and throw in 50 cans of duck pate' and
Salmon Feast. No sacrifice is too great.
---Kat adds her favorite remedy for writer's block: a long brisk walk
through the woods followed by a mug of Dutch cocoa with rum,
consumed while curling up in front of a roaring fire reading
"Callahan's Cross-time Saloon." <pause> "Erp---no, that won't do.
That's SPIDER's book. It won't be relaxing for -him-."
She leaves the walk, the cocoa and the fire in the
gift bag, but replaces the Callahan book with a new translation
of Pablo Neruda's _Ode to Ordinary Things_.
---Sneaky Furfoot roots around in her Bag-of-Infinite-Capacity-and-
Miniscule-Dimensions for something with which to decorate the
gift bag. Rejecting several glittering objects, she decides on a
pendant: a silver dragon, wings spread in joy, on a soft leather
thong. She wraps the thong around the mouth of the bag to seal
it shut, with the dragon itself resting on a little ledge on the side
of the bag (probably the edge of a Salmon Feast can, but it LOOKS
like a custom-made dragon's perch).
---The Chemist grabs jugs filled with the output from his bench-top
still (virtual champagne, this week) and starts pouring it into a
row of glasses being set up by the Commando Rat Cadet Corps***.
[***Don't ask. You don't want to know. Trust me.]
K@ hands the gift bag to Spider, lifts a glass of champagne and walks to the
line.
"Thank you, Spider. Thank you for writing another Callahan book for my
fireside book shelf. Thank you for thumping good stories with understandable
plots. Thank you for using the language in a way that tastes good when I read
it out loud. Thank you for visions of places I wish I could visit, filled
with people I care about.
"May your pen never run dry.
May your keyboard never lock.
May your hard drive never crash.
May your editor never find anything to cut,
and may your royalty checks -always- arrive on time."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~CRASH!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* * *
GreyMan brings a box... an ebony box with silver inlay, about 7" by 6" by
5". He opens it to show.... nothing, on the inside, except a plush red
velvet lining.
"This simple yet elegant box can be used to carry precious things...
jewelry or cassettes or Medicinal Herbs or... well, just about anything
that can fit inside. It has an additional quality, though.
GreyMan grasps the box on either end and closes his eyes. Those patrons
closest to him can hear very quiet but distinct music emanating from the
box... somehow. Odd, since the walls of the box weren't think enough to
hide a mechanism.
"It's not magic! It's an electronic music box... which doesn't require
batteries or winding. It picks up its energy from the environment, and
stores it very efficiently. It's not very loud, of course, since that
kind of energy would take ages to store. It's loud enough for the holder
to hear, through proximity and bone conduction, but that's about it."
"What kind of music does it play? Well, that's a good trick too. If you
hold it as I'm doing now, it freely composes its own music. If you hold
it like *this*..."
GreyMan moves his hands to a slightly different, but equally comfortable,
position on the box.
"...it plays randomly from a stored set of songs. If you want to combine
the two functions..."
Greyman moves his hands again.
"It will choose from the list of songs based on biofeedback from your
hands. That's right, these inlays here are the sensors which pick up skin
Galvanism, and there is an embedded transducer which picks up your pulse."
"The song list? Well, that's just a set of General MIDI files... you can
plug the box into your computer with *this*
GreyMan presses in and slides a panel to one side, in the bottom of the
box, revealing a DIN plug.
"... and download songs using any MIDI sequencer... even Windows Media
Player. Anything that would drive a General MIDI module."
GreyMan clicks the panel closed.
"Mike, Blessings for the Patrons who have dozed off during this, on my
tab."
"Aaanyway, the upshot is that this Wonderous Box can play your music,
carry your goodies, and never breaks or needs batteries. May it serve
you well."
[Not magic. These features can all be done with current tech or very
small refinements thereof.]
* * *
The large squashy woman delivers a package wrapped in silver and blue, much
the size and shape of a spectacles case. Oddly enough, when the package is
unwrapped, this is what it contains. Inside the case is what seems to be a
pair of very dark sunglasses, set in round pewter-colored frames.
“A...pair of spectacles, evitsky?”
“Well, actually, they are A Spectacle, Spider. Try them on.” He does so,
gingerly; after a moment he exclaims softly.
“Was this from the meteor shower on the sixteenth?”
“Uh-huh. A nice, clear cool night here. I understand that we didn't stay
up quite late enough to get the fullest effect, but we certainly enjoyed
it."
Spider holds out the Spectacle for interested parties to see. Those who
peer through the deep blue lenses see Orion, surrounded by familiar stars.
Streaks of fire, some tipped by glowing bits, flash left-to-right across the
starfield at unexpected intervals. A simple thing, compared to movie special
effects, and yet...breaths are held, waiting for the next glowing transit.
The gift is pronounced Almost As Good As Being There.
* * *
After careful deliberation, Zulaya opts to give Spider stuff from
her home of Whitehorse, Yukon, as he's probably never been there. She
presents a willow basket containing a vial of Yukon gold, a packet of
fireweed seeds, and a hematite pendant in the shape of a raven.
* * *
"I believe we have just about run through the presents, dear Mr.
Robinson," says Pernicious the Musquodoboit Harbour Farm Cat. "So, Fast
Eddie, how's about heading over to that piano and --"
"Hey, WAIT A MINUTE!" comes a Voice from the Back of the Bar.....
"Why, I believe that's Dr. Jest... Hey, Doc, you almost missed out!
C'mon up here and tell us what you've brought for Spider's Birthday..."
A Patron (and, indeed, it *is* Dr. Jest( approaches the front of the
Place, sits down on one of the comfortable chairs that Mike uses in place
of barstools, and begins what, surely, is the best present of all for the
Patronage-at-Large and their Patron --
A STORY
"At last the shift drew to a close and I could get away to The Place for
the Birthday Bash which I was sure would be well underway by now. I was
looking forward to matching puns with the legendary Doc Webster and the
multitude of other paranomasiacs drawn to this one haven for students of
the "anti-social" craft so beloved of our Patron in whose honour the party
had been planned. To celebrate the occasion fancy dress was to be de
rigeur and so before hauling the Thermonuclear Chocolate Fondue (TM) and
platter of dainties into the trunk of the car, I hauled on my customary
motley, and then off to the party.
"Nothing about The Place surprises regular patrons any more, but a
sea-plane on the highway just outside the chaos of the car park was
certainly a little out of the ordinary. It lay tilted onto one wing tip,
one of its pontoons smashed on landing, and the pilot, apparently just
alighted, stood looking dazed beside the half open cargo door. I pulled
the car up and got out to talk to the poor guy and offer some assistance.
As he caught sight of me his nerve finally snapped, and he collapsed to
the floor in a paroxysm of shaking and wailing. He was Hispanic, young and
affected the air of a hot-dog pilot complete with leather flying jacket
festooned with paramilitary images, and at the moment he was gibbering
hysterically. After some effort I calmed him down and managed to persuade
him that despite my unusual appearance I was indeed qualified to help him.
He had no visible signs of injury and eventually in broken English he
related his story:
"He had been flying from Colombia to Miami when a squall had forced him to
descend rapidly somewhere near the Florida Keys. Suddenly there was a flash as
in an electrical storm and he found himself in a steep descent over Suffolk
County!. He landed as best he could, just a few moments before I arrived and
had just got out to check his cargo (Unspecified but from the small trail of
white powder that had spilled out of the cargo door as he spoke I had my
suspicions). No wonder he had been so shocked and distressed on my arrival.
"Whatever his circumstances the young man had been through a hell of a
night and he was beginning to shake again both with the cold and in
reaction. He was plainly in need of a good stiff drink, and most likely a
little of the kind of straightening only the patrons of the nearby wayside
tavern could provide, and so without further delay I hauled the fondue
and dainties from the trunk, and ushered him, now burdened with the tray,
into the warmth and security of Callahan's Place. One of these days I
swear I am going to get around to fixing some wheels on to the
T-N.C.F.(TM) but as this has yet to happen I failed to notice that he had
stopped dead in his tracks just inside the door, struggling as I was to
peer round its bulk, and so I blundered into the back of him and dropped
the contraption with a muffled thud onto the mat in the lobby. As I did so
my feet shot out from under me in some sort of viscid ooze, and I regret
to say that my first thoughts were for myself, doomed as I assumed myself
to be to a scalding from the spilled molten chocolate I had plopped down
into. I yelped in anticipation of the searing pain that should begin
coursing through my nether regions any second. As I began to scrabble to
my feet it dawned on me that the ooze I was floundering in was in fact
quite cold, and even in the dim light of the porch it was plainly not
chocolate, and so I calmed down and began to take stock. Before me
was the hapless pilot crouched balancing the tray he had struggled to retain
when I bowled into him, but looking straight ahead with a fixed rictus of fear
on his face. I had never seen the Place provoke that kind of a reaction before
but as my eyes followed his gaze I felt my jaw drop for the first time in a
long time at Callahan's.
"Pernicious, our friendly Musquodoboit Harbour Farm Cat, and his faithful
amanuensis and general factotum Barnstead (don't ask, there isn't time for it
just now, just trust me on this o.k.) had ordained a themed party for Spiders
Fiftieth. With grim inevitability the old Mike Magic was in full sway and the
theme was the Florida Keys. Near as darn it the patronage at large had
rendered a semitropical paradise at the height of the notorious Key West
Fantasy Fest. There were lush green leaves everywhere. Mellow music oozed from
the speakers, and a humid heat quite unseasonal for our locale insinuated
itself through the fibres of my costume. Best of all some minor genius had
managed a thoroughly convincing seascape sunset on the far wall in paint and
sensational lighting effects (well we do host more than a few theatrical types
after all... and the rest of us run to the Hammy end of self expression at
times). All this I took in at a glance, but you could be forgiven for thinking
that this alone would be enough to cause some startlement in the young
aviator.
"But you would be wrong.
"For the night The Place had thrown open the doors to regulars and staff
from our sister establishment Lady Sally's. This in addition to a full
complement of self proclaimed Good Wenches in party mode (smooch factor
nine!). They were always welcomed and their presence for this particular
party was particularly appropriate given the choice of theme, but the
writers modesty, and the strain any further description would cause to the
readers credulity forbids me from giving further detail. Besides I don't
have time to wax sufficiently lyrical at the moment. Let's just say that
the place was thronged with all the most beautiful people you could hope
to meet in a lifetime. The "chemistry" lab was way past critical, but even
this stunning panorama impacted but little on our senses. What horrified
both of us as we struggled to respectively regain or retain our footing
was the enormity of the pair of giant slugs menacing the assembled
patronage with monstrous slimy tendrils.
We back-pedalled as fast as was reasonable through the ichor and onto the
street. My mind was working overtime. We must have made a racket as we
entered, but how good was slug hearing? Could we assume them to be as sluggish
as their nature would suggest? How were we supposed to deal with the slimy
menace so we could get on with the party? Sad to say the higher questions of
why they were here and what they wanted didn't figure as large as they might,
but from the looks on the crowd of familiar faces glimpsed past the bulk of
the monsters I was better than 97% sure the scene we had witnessed was
threatening not just our party, but also Civilisation-As-We-Know-It (TM).
Perhaps with time (which I was fairly sure we didn't have) and high tech
equipment (which I was certain we didn't) we might put the T-N.C.F. to an
alternative and more hostile use. But that would also result in not
insignificant harm to the "civilian" I had just taken under my wing. (All
Callahanians are Nuke proof- no honestly we are). Not to mention how much it
would mess up the Place, and besides it had been done before. As I began to
rack my by now slightly frazzled brains for a solution I caught sight of the
pilot scrabbling with the jammed door to the cargo bay again. I could see his
point of view but now was NOT the time to reach for a chemical crutch
surely...
"As I rushed up to try to remonstrate with him he pulled a badge from his
flying jacket and flipped it open to wave before my wavering gaze in the time
honoured manner of cliché cops everywhere. Suddenly his grasp of the English
language took a quantum leap as he introduced himself as "Lieutenant Manuel
Ortega of the D.E.A.- and stop calling me Shirley!"
"In a hushed and hasty conversation he detailed his deep cover entrapment
mission which had necessitated his flight to Miami with his present cargo. In
the hold he had a number of large parcels of the aforementioned white powder
as part of a "sting" operation to net a major underworld figure. To avoid
catastrophe in the event that the powder should fall into the wrong hands only
a tiny proportion of it was in any way psychoactive, and the remainder was
simple table salt ground up very fine.
"Even as he reached this revelation we both began to haul with renewed
vigour on the jammed cargo door, which finally sprang open after what
seemed an age. We were just grabbing parcels of the precious powder from
the plane when we heard a screech from within the bar. Things were
evidently getting nasty. (Though many would argue that giant slug things
are always nasty). As it happens I found out later the screech owed more
to indignation than fear since in the crowding engendered by the menace of
the gargantuan slugs a dainty Good Wench toe was crushed 'neath the heel
of a hefty fellow patron, to their mutual dismay.
"However since we were imagining the worst we hastened back into the bar,
and into the appendages (tentacles?) of two more of the loathsome
molluscs. As we were herded in to the bar to join the throng a viscid
telepathic voice oozed across our consciousness.
"* Welcome gentlemen, come in and join the party while we wait for the
guest of honour. We have important business with him and afterwards.....
well let's just say we have a little surprise in store for all of you*
"I'm sure at the end of this hideous sub-vocalisation I caught a faint
sluggy*Heh heh heh* emanating from the others.
"This gruesome charade couldn't be allowed to continue so I looked
imploringly to Mike behind the bar in my best -don't blow this
pleeeeeeeeese- as I called out,
"`Hey Mike since we have some time to kill I brought you some of that
sugar I told you I had salted away for the Blessings" as I tossed him a
packet of the powder.
"True to form the Giant caught the packet and with only a trace of -what
the hell- in his reply he opened the packet and frowned as he dipped a
finger in to taste, `Sure Doc, thanks' -the light of realisation- `I see
you brought some for the others too.'
"`Yep, and here's one for Spider' as I over armed him another, then picked
out faces in the crowd and began a hasty distribution of the few packets I
had been able to gather.
"*Wait a second, what's going on here?*
"Suppressing a shudder I tried my darnedest to appear cheerful as I
bluffed, `Just a little sugar candy for the party, hey Manuel give him a
taste of the GOOD stuff won't you'
(Omigodihopetheyonlycommunicateanddon'treadminds)
"Manuel dipped a finger in the bag he had concealed in his flying jacket
and proffered it to the nearest slug who dipped a thingy onto the powder.
I really hoped Manuel had taken the hint.
"*Eeeugh my scrrbleflg has gone all numb.... wwooooowoooowoooowooo....
Mmmmm not bad, maybe they have something else here we could take*
"** NO these must be the drugs the leader told us about, still leave them
their petty distractions, it's Spider we came for, let them destroy
themselves if that's what they want to do, why should we care!**
"Well that answered a lot of questions all in one. So on with the plan.
"`Mike how about some music, say line dancing for instance?'
"He looked to the Head Slime who evidently gave approval.
"`Sorry Doc you know I prefer rap.' and right on cue on came Salt and
Peppa, as assorted patrons caught on and tasted their "Sugar". Now for the
tricky bit. It was a heck of a generalisation but the way I figured it was
our best chance so I danced towards the Folx room and back and saw an arc
of appropriately formed patrons taking station beside each slug. (Manuel
ha d obviously been busy distributing packets also).
"Again right on cue Mike changed the tune, Belushi and Aykroyd, Rawhide of
course as I patted a huge handful of salt onto the back of Head Slime. Within
seconds the vile creature was evincing signs of distress as the salt began to
deliquesce in the ooze, apparently burning like napalm as it did. Everyone
joined in as we herded the vile bodies towards the open Folx room door, and
once all were inside we piled an extra high "line in the sand" on our side of
the door.
"Shortly after that Spider arrived and after delicate negotiation with the
scalded slugs they agreed to depart and not to molest humans further, and
limped away (yes I know, but it sure looked like a limp to me) to the hideous
dimension that spawned them. It seemed their mission was in search of humour,
a commodity sadly alien to them, and without which they were doomed to an
eternity of war. They were therefore desperate to hijack one of the finest
living proponents of the noble art, since earth made transmission media were
useless to them they had decided on kidnap. Since they had managed to master
inter species "telepathy" we agreed to supply a humour feed from The Place for
as long as they needed.
"And so finally I was able to offer Spider my gift. It took me a while to
come up with. First I thought about material gifts, but nothing
particular seemed appropriate, booze seemed too ephemeral, not that I
didn't have a few bottles of Irish somewhere to hand, but finally I hit on
the perfect gift, and after a number of slugs of an entirely more
congenial nature I called together those of my friends I was able to find
to take a seat around the centre of the floor, called for hush, and
started the OM.
And it was GOOD."
* * *
"Wow, man, that was a STORY," says the proverbial Patron at the Back of
the Bar (tm). "Hey, guys, I've got an idea -- before we start the
entertainment for this birthday bash, why don't we ALL form a circle here
in the middle of the Place and do an OM together? "
A murmur of agreement rises -- someone even comments on how NICE it is
that for ONCE the proverbial Patron at the Back of the Bar has a DECENT
suggestion to make.... Soon all are seated, or sprawling, or slouching, or
in any one of the hundreds of other postures that can bring rest for the
body and solace to the mind.... Spider and Jeanne are just another two
faces in THIS magic crowd, because that's how they'd want it to be....
there is the sound of a massive indrawn breath.... and.....
OH MY GOD!!!! RUN, EVERBODY!!!!!
IT'S THE SLUGS!!!!!!!!!!
AND THIS AIN'T NO STORY!!!!!!!!!
[TO BE CONTINUED]