The Barstool Journal of Jonco Bugos

Friday, December 17, 2010

Outshining the Stars

As you may or may not know, Think-A-Holic Lounge occupies no physical position in the space-time continuum. So, star maps and road maps are worthless if you're trying to find your way to this notorious watering hole for outcasts in the publishing underworld.

Flesh-and-blood humans can't physically make the trip here unless they go by wormhole. And then the wormhole invariably whisks them right back to where they came from the minute they land here. So, the Lounge doesn't rely on regular people for its clientele.

Regular Think-A-Holic Lounge Lizards are mainly disembodied spirits, alter egos, astral projections and the dreaming selves of flesh-and-blood humans. Plus biped, quadraped and legless creatures of every size, shape and color from intergalactic space. Even creatures who are nothing more than living energy masses scramble to Think-A-Holic Lounge when their workday is over or when they have time on their hands. And, like any regular business on any regular planet with regular flesh-and-blood customers and patrons, Think-A-Holic Lounge hits a slump in business every now and then.

The biggest slump in business for Think-A-Holic Lounge always occurs on Black Friday, the infamous "day of mob behavior" on planet Earth. That's our biggest slump here because more than half of our patrons are disenfranchised and lost souls from that backward and greedy planet. Shopping is their favorite past time, then eating, chin wagging, imbibing intoxicating beverages and fighting, mostly in that order. But, from Black Friday through the last January White Sale on Earth, half of our patrons' flesh-and-blood selves are too busy shopping to warm our bar stools.

So, the other day Angus McCloud, our resourceful big-ass head bartender, put up a new neon sign, right on top of the Lounge roof. After four hundred years as a ghost bartender it finally dawned on him that, if you offer free stuff (even if it's only peanuts, popcorn and pretzels), no Earthling can resist doing whatever it takes to be first in line.

Last week I bet Angus a Solar Sawbuck that he couldn't bring his "patron stats" back up to par before New Years Eve hits Earth. He laughed and raised me another Sawbuck and that made me add a Solar Fin on top of that to the wager. When we finally shook on that deal, I knew by the look in his beady little eyes that I was already being taken for about 13 Solar Quid. Hopefully, some royalties will get beamed into my bank account from that Neptune bookseller before I run out of think-a-hol money. To the best of my recollection, that's never happened before.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Safe Mode

Nobody at Think-A-Holic Lounge actually believes that Fred Fortune managed to escape from that so-called prison that the Reptilians run for the Grays on the planet Mars. In fact, most of us regular Lounge lizards think Fred Fortune is nothing but a homeless con man who probably still lives in L.A. and who probably lost his job because of his big mouth.

But, just in case we're all wrong — and Fred Fortune is right — our bigass head bartender, Angus McCloud, put up this wanted poster that the Intergalactic Police sent us the other day. Maybe Fred Fortune is just a bum and a liar. But maybe he's a hero of some sort and nobody knows it. And maybe we'll never know.

Still, it never hurts to play it safe.

Wednesday, November 03, 2010

News Flash

Bar TV is pretty much the same all over. The glimpse I gave you the last time I made an entry into this dog-eared journal of mine wasn't the worst of it, either. I mean, like all taverns mostly patronized by the male species, we get way too much sports on the tube at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Especially illegal sports like dwarf tossing and bowling for dollars.

But every now and then you get real crap. Like a newsflash. Nobody at the Lounge likes a newsflash. Breaking news might give you an instant rush on celebrity-worshiping planets like Earth but here at the edge of nowhere we just get perturbed. Especially when the so-called "Breaking News" is about a known thief and con artist like Fred Fortune.

Who cares if this top-hatted grafter "escaped on their asses" as he always claims to be doing? There's no way in hell that "Federico Fortunato" could have gotten his butt off Mars unless... unless he found a wormhole that didn't bring him back. That's the trouble with wormholes. They always bring you back.

But, if "Freddy Fingers" did manage to find a wormhole that whisked his lying ass off the Red Planet and if the wormhole didn't return him to his point of origin (the most annoying things about a natural wormhole) then there is that possibility that Fred Fortune could have commandeered a roving wormhole and is, at this moment, headed our way.

Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet, must have read my mind when I entertained the horrible notion that Fred Fortune might be headed our way again. Angus set me up with a shot of think-a-hol and an imported bubbly chaser, on the house.

"Don't even think about it, " the ugly old spook told me as he plopped two paper coasters down in front of me. "He's probably still on Mars. Or else in prison on Pluto, where he belongs. Besides, only his astral or dreaming self can darken our doorway anyhow. And, in that case, I'll just toss him out on his ear again."

"You're right," I replied, before tossing back the think juice. "He's probably down in the Martian canals right now sucking on red stones." I knocked back the elixir and chugged half the chaser. In two seconds I felt like Richard the Lionhearted. "Hey, how about changing the channel?" I barked at Angus McCloud. "We're missing that senator tossing tournament on Saturn!"

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

BarTube

As I've said before, my favorite time to mosey on down to the Lounge is on a Wednesday afternoon. I'm not much of a lounge lizard and never was. My pickup lines are so rusty they couldn't reel in a green Amazon woman from Saturn and green Amazon women from Saturn are always looking to be reeled in. So, this past Wednesday around three pm EST Earth time, I found myself unceremoniously perched atop my favorite bar stool.

Yessir, I prefer the relative sounds of silence at the Lounge on a sunny Wednesday afternoon instead of the raucous disorder of a Friday or Saturday night. I like a sunny afternoon because I take some secret delight in being in a dimly-lit tavern instead of at the business end of a lawn mower or a rake. Or even, for that matter, at the business end of my outdated word processor. Besides, when you get older it's easier on everyone if you know your limitations and stick to them.

The other thing I like about Think-A-Holic Lounge in the middle of a work week and in the middle of a sunny afternoon is that there are never any sports or soaps or game shows or even beer commercials on the tube at that time of day. Not at Think-A-Holic Lounge. People who like to eat, drink, watch sports (or game shows and soaps) never frequent Think-A-Holic Lounge in the middle of the week. They're too busy working the business end of a lawn mower, rake or snow shovel. Or the business end of just plain business. And women who frequent the Lounge rarely watch TV here. They're too busy defending their honor against us lounge lizards.

Why they angle the TV at the Lounge so it reflects the window light is a mystery I may never fathom. It must have something to do with the fact that I'm definitely doing something illicit. But who cares? I'll just have to squint and eat that bullet. And the cobwebs on the Lounge TV set are as big as spider plants but who cares about that either? Being here instead of there on a gorgeous sunny day is escapism in all its grimy glory.

Any who, some weird podcast from a far away galaxy is usually on TV in the afternoons and this past Wednesday afternoon was to be no exception. In fact, this was the strangest podcast I'd ever seen. Some buffoon who looked like a cross between Charlie McCarthy and Groucho Marx was whining and crying about how he's tired of being bullied by Reptilians and Grays on some planet called Mars. Wherever that is.

No, I didn't really care for this Mars Broadcast. It smacked of old 20th-Century "yellow journalism" which made it seem out of place for a 21st-Century podcast. Nossir, I didn't like it at all. In fact, I told (not asked) our bigass head bartender, Angus McCloud, to change the channel. Angus didn't even blink an eye as he punched in the digits for a sports channel that featured ultimate fighting between males from one species and females from another species. Highly illegal, mind you.

But anything's better than having your mind assaulted by some lunatic with an axe to grind about some stupid prison planet and alien abductions and the Mallo Cup shortage there, whatever that is. I never caught this pathetic old poop's name but, if he doesn't like it on Mars, why doesn't he get his butt back to Earth? Hell, even a dangerous world run by crooks is better than a boring planet run by lizards.

And any indie author's alter ego could have told you that. Sour grapes or not.

Sunday, September 05, 2010

The Collector

As I've said before, being the alter ego of someone else is no walk in the park, especially if you're nothing more than a face in the mirror like me. A face that has a mind and an astral body and a life of its own, I might add. It's bad enough being a second-class entity but when the Real McCoy you shadow is an independent science fiction author who thinks his farts don't smell, it can be a living nightmare.

Wait... it gets worse.

That's right, it's bad enough that I have to spend most of my time in Michael Casher's World doing Michael Casher things and pretending that I'd have nothing if it weren't for Michael Casher, the indie author, the great and powerful Big Bad Mike. Yep, it's bad enough to play second fiddle to a rube who's only saving grace is that he can write novels, without having to be hounded by bartenders from Earth who think they can put the bite on me for his overdue bar tabs.

That's right. It finally happened one night this past week. The "astral figment" or else "the dreaming self "of a Middle-Eastern tavern owner they call Sheik Sousé (see pic) blew in from Earth, looking for me. The big bully pushed me off my bar stool and used it for a soapbox. The big goof didn't even know what I looked like. This is what he said:

"I am looking for the infidel Jonco Bugos who still owes me ten denarii NO! fifty thousand drachmas NO! twenty euros for drinks at Green Parakeet in Istanbul. If you see him tell him he is thief and viper and he is banned from Black Cricket in Baghdad. Stupid hack! And I am not liking to do this in stupid low boozer!"

Then he eyed the silent crowd with hatred in his black eyes, jumped down from my stool and stormed out of Think-A-Holic Lounge in a big huff before anybody could even say anything (and they wouldn't have said anything anyway). Give a fool enough rope and he'll always hang himself. That's our motto.

Anyway, as soon as the door banged shut, I was up to my eyeballs in free shots of think-a-hol from a crowd of admiring patrons. Even Angus McCloud, the Lounge's bigass head bartender, set me up with a double think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser... on the house. Why the celebration? Well, we hacks have a code and that code is that we never rat on another hack, especially if he's the innocent alter ego of a deadbeat author.

If there's a moral in this story it's this: maybe we're all hack writers around here and author wannabes and POD publishers (the flotsam and jetsam of the publishing industry) but we stick together.

So, the next time Mr. High and Mighty Sheik Sousé and that stuffed shirt Author From Another World storm into Think-A-Holic Lounge like bigass birds, we'll show them which side of the space-time continuum the butter's on.

What does that mean? Well, that's for me to know and for your to find out. Besides, I'd break another hack code if I told you.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

New Think-A-Holic Lounge Dartboard

Angus McCloud, Think-A-Holic Lounge's bigass head bartender, recently replaced the Lounge's old dartboard with this free-floating new one. So far, no one has gotten a bulls-eye and, for some unknown reason, I'm unable to keep my darts out of the black area.

Go figure.

Saturday, August 07, 2010

Man in the Earth

Being Jonco Bugos is not an easy job as I've said more than once before. The fact that I'm a published author in my own right after penning Blind Fool Running in 2009 and the fact that I write two blogs, Think-A-Holic Lounge and Jonco Bugos, and the fact that I'm the star reporter for the free monthly online newsletter The Pluto Observer doesn't seem to be enough to flesh me out. I'm still just the mere reflection of science fiction author Michael Casher, not the Real McCoy.

I wouldn't mind being a face in the mirror and all that galling second-class-citizen stuff if it weren't for the fact that I see Michael Casher everywhere I go. I mean everywhere, not just his face staring back at me from his side of the looking glass. For example, the other night I decided to look at the moon through my new binoculars. It was so clear out, the moon had just come up and I wanted a close up view of "the man in the moon."

But I didn't see the man in the moon. I didn't even see the moon at all. Pictured here is what I saw. I thought about telling Michael Casher what I saw in the sky the other night but I'm afraid it would just go to his head.

Sunday, August 01, 2010

Bear Bob

Think-A-Holic Lounge is an intergalactic watering hole for writing and publishing misfits from throughout the space-time continuum and, even though it takes up no space in the physical universe, it's still a natural place for fights on the weekends just like any other dive bar on planet Earth.

And that's because a lot of people who frequent the Lounge on the weekends are disembodied spirits and astral selves and dreamworld figments from Earth and nobody picks fights like Earthlings with issues. And Earthlings always have issues. It's almost as if they were born for the purpose of working out every type of personal and social issue that can possibly confront a biped creature.

Summertime bar brawling requires special tavern security (see pic). Just after the big Fourth of July blowout brawl that lasted elebenty-leben minutes and destroyed almost half of the Lounge's tables and chairs, Angus McCloud, the Lounge's bigass head bartender, hired a special bouncer who was formerly from from Pennsylvania's Allegheny Plateau Region on Earth.

Angus calls him Bear Bob. This formidable-looking creature is a hybrid biped who was created in a lab by the Grays in the early 1960s. Bear Bob is half Pennsylvania redneck and half Pennsylvania Black Bear, which gives him the appearance of a Minnesota Brown Bear in an Ozark Mountain costume. Go figure.

There have been absolutely no fights whatsover at Think-A-Holic Lounge since Bear Bob was installed at the front door. And that's because no one has been brave enough to approach this hostile-looking bruin bouncer, let alone pass his scrutiny.

It won't last, though. When Angus McCloud's tip money starts to dry up and he can no longer afford his chauffeur-driven limo, Bear Bob will be history and things will be back to normal around here. I can't wait. I haven't had a taste of think-a-hol, myself, since Independence Day.

Thursday, July 01, 2010

Busting My Chops

What makes Think-A-Holic Lounge stand out among other intergalactic watering holes is that it occupies no space in the physical universe. That means it can't be pinpointed by astronomers or cosmic conquerors or celestial powers-that-be or anyone else who exists in the real world. That's the main thing.

The second thing is that Think-A-Holic Lounge is a hideout, a "safe house", if you will, for personalities and mental frames of mind and alter egos who wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell of being fleshed-out in the real world, no matter how exotic the planet may be. The fact that Think-A-Holic Lounge eventually became a hideout for all the outcasts in the publishing underworld, and especially in the independent publishing world, came as no surprise to anyone. It was an eventuality that happened when its time had finally come.

Like frequenting any tavern or bar or drinking establishment in the real world, and especially on planet Earth, hiding out from the real world can get very lonely at times. That's what bartenders and fellow patrons are for. To use as sounding boards or shoulders to cry on and, hopefully, some chops to bust. It's no fun blabbing your head off if nobody's listening. And there's no better way to let someone know that you're listening to them than by talking back to them.

Pictured here is the latest edition to the Think-A-Holic Lounge staff. Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartender and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, calls him Jabber. Jabber's job is to get you to talk about your problems by making you answer his continual questions about yourself or to respond to his endless, running commentary about everything in the universe. Jabber never, ever talks about himself and that's what makes him so special.

Last night I was in another one of my blue moods where I think I'll be dead a hundred years or more before anyone ever knows that I was alive. Jabber sensed this right away and asked me a question I just couldn't resist answering.

"Why don't you tell me about your novella?" he said, fully aware of the fact that he was addressing Jonco Bugos, Michael Casher's alter ego, and not the over-exposed, jaded Real McCoy, himself. "Tell me all about it."

Naturally, I had to get set up with another round of think-a-hol and a big bubbly chaser which I naturally paid for myself. The fact that Jabber has no physical mechanism for imbibing makes it all the easier to order more drinks for myself. And, yeah, I may be just a face in Michael Casher's mirror but I know a clever ruse when I see one.

While Jabber gets you to talk about yourself (everyone's favorite topic) he also gets you to spend more money. Who cares? At the far end of the space-time continuum life is no different than the real world in one respect. You get what you pay for.

Friday, June 25, 2010

The Bot Is Back

Pictured here is that press-loving prick of a Worm Bot that's infected most of the computers on this side of the space-time continuum. I've only seen this bubble-blowing imp once before (see The Worm Has Turned posting) and seeing him again last night filled me with a kind of ambivalence I'm just not comfortable with. I mean, I can love and hate anything at the same time right along with the best if them but, when it comes to loving something one minute and then hating it a minute later, that makes for a very long day.

This particular worm bot is allowed to frequent Think-A-Holic Lounge because he's supposed to have turned over a new leaf. Or so Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartender, was led to believe. I even bought this gum snapper a shot and a beer before I realized that he was not the Real McCoy but an actor hired by the Management (Angus McCloud) to play the Worm Bot we had all gotten used to. Replacing the real Worm Bot that had apparently spurned us for brighter horizons, piggybacking his way on broadband feeds from Earth. What a stupid, dirty trick. Going Hollywood or going Madison Avenue in this part of the Milky Way Galaxy will only backfire on you and Angus should have known that.

And I should have known this joker was a phony the moment I walked into the Lounge last night. But I've always been a day late and a dollar short. So, I had no clue until I popped one of his biggest bubbles with my pocket knife and wound up someplace I'd never been before and someplace I hope I never have to visit again. Just the very thought of entering such a wormhole gives me the willies. And when I get the willies I lose my ability to do anything except mezz out in front of the tube with a six-pack and a TV tray filled with munchies.

It's enough to make you wish for a real worm bot. Having your browser hijacked is nothing compared to the upside down and inside out world that awaits you if you so much as look in his direction. And, whatever you do, don't burst his bubble.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

The Shapeshifting Blog from Outer Space

Our bigass head bartender, Angus McCloud, is always trying new gimmicks to attract new patrons to Think-A-Holic Lounge. I'm instantly reminded of the Brain Bot incident that had everybody laughing at me. Then there was the Zippy Portraits fiasco, the little arty-fartsy dweeb that Angus pretended not to hire and then fired when that scam backfired on him.



And now, the ugly old ghost of a 400-year-old poet from Scotland came up with another "draw" gimmick that's almost guaranteed to backfire on him. This time it's a laptop computer that's fastened securely to the bar and keeps displaying the same screen images over and over again (see animated pic). So far, nobody can figure out what the deal is. And ol' Angus is not giving out any clues.

As far as I'm concerned, this latest gimmick to attract new patrons has all the earmarks of an indie-author royalties kickback. In fact, under-the-table palm greasing is written all over this so-called "Shapeshifting Blog from Outer Space".

Sunday, June 06, 2010

Illegal Tender

Now that Michael Casher's sinister astral self comes and goes as he damn well pleases at Think-A-Holic Lounge, counterfeit money is popping up all over the place this side of the space-time continuum (see pic below).


The Author from Another World — as we Lounge regulars like to call him — opened up a Pandora's Box of trouble during his first visit to this intergalactic watering hole and we're all regretting the day he waltzed his independent author's butt in here and bellied up to the bar.

Just because Think-A-Holic Lounge is a hideout for outcasts in the publishing underworld doesn't mean some smart-guy indie author can just up and print his own money and then spend it here. Who told this joker he could do that? We're not sure just how rich or poor The Author from Another World is but if he has to pay for his think-a-hol with homemade Casher dollars he might as well go ahead and print off some more for the rest of us.

At least the indie snob could have had the decency to buy rounds for the whole house instead of just for me, Jonco Bugos, and Angus McCloud, our starry-eyed bigass bartender. Then we could probably learn to accept his funny money without making a great big fuss about it.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

The Author from Another World

Life outside the space-time continuum is actually not all that different from life experienced within its more predictable confines, like planets and solar systems. In regular space, the biggest unwritten rule of thumb is that shit happens and the second biggest unwritten rule of thumb is that when shit happens it happens when you least expect it.

So, just imagine what life is like beyond the space-time continuum, where there are places with no position in space, no coordinates for the eternal forces to pinpoint for karmic retribution, no location on a map for the mortal and immortal powers-that-be to close in on and crush opposition like a bug. Places like Think-A-Holic Lounge, where just about anything goes, except the presence of real flesh-and-blood patrons who need sustainable gravity and controlled heat to stay alive.

But leave it to cosmic nature to invent and unleash upon the unconfined realms of the universe creatures who transcend all the laws of mortal, flesh-and-blood nature. This is an example of what happens when mortal nature and cosmic nature play soccer with a mortal, independent author from planet Earth. Instead of getting rid of a thing, they create, and even empower, another thing. And last night at precisely midnight, Earth Time EST, this thing (see pic) darkened the forbidden doorway of Think-A-Holic Lounge for the very first time.

It's a nightmare come true for all of us at Think-A-Holic Lounge and it looks like we won't be able to hold back The Author from Another World any longer.

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

Packie

There was a break-in at Think-A-Holic Lounge last Saturday night after closing. Angus McCloud, the Lounge's bigass head bartender, was madder than a hornet because his refusal to keep the security bots on duty round the clock had backfired on him.

Being the ghost of a true penny-pinching Scot, Angus had figured that if he saved the management a little money on security patrols they'd be grateful and give him a big raise. He figured wrong. In fact, they docked his pay for the two cases of brew and the three bottles of think-a-hol the burglars had made off with after they found the cash registers empty and the safe nowhere to be found.

Undaunted by his big slip-up, Angus hired a new security guard (see pic) and claims that he's paying for her out of his own pocket. The new perimeter patrol is not a bot at all but a living female creature from a nearby planet ruled by elephants and hippos, a Nazi-like world where they put all loose humans in zoos. This particular pachyderm goes by the name "Packie".

We hear she works for peanuts.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Powerballs

The scuttlebutt around these parts is that shortly after those two Lounge lizards installed the new neon sign there was a brief power outage. Since Think-A-Holic Lounge was the only establishment on this side of the space-time continuum to go dark all of a sudden, we regulars assumed it was a local problem. We were right.

This is a snapshot of the local problem. His real name is unpronounceable but we call him Powerballs because he can never remember to turn the power off before he does any electrical work. Powerballs hails from the planet Zapsum Two in a galaxy far, far away. Thank heavens for that.

Friday, April 02, 2010

A Sign of the Times

About a week ago I left the stultifying confines of my mirror and strolled down Constellation Avenue to Think-A-Holic Lounge for a much-needed shot of think-a-hol and a cold, bubbly chaser. Not so much to get altered as to clear away some nasty cobwebs that had attached themselves to me ever since a certain indie author started making money from his Print-on-Demand science fiction novels.

They weren't jealous or envious cobwebs, the kind that can strangle you in your sleep and make you dream stupid things like not being able to find your way home or being butt naked in a crowded room. No, I have dreams like those all the time. I'm talking nightmare here. The nightmare of disillusionment and disbelief. The kind of reality that creeps up on you and forces you to confront it when you're wide awake.

Just imagine my surprise when I saw the new neon sign hanging just above the entrance to Think-A-Holic Lounge. I knew something awful had happened. I sensed the presence of flesh-and-blood where it didn't belong. I sniffed the air and knew that, from now on, it was a brave new world.

"Where'd the new sign come from?" I asked Angus McCloud, our bigass head bartended and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet. But I already knew the answer to that. I had issues and they ruled for the time being.

"Isn't that something?" Angus cooed, like a star-struck girl. He set me up with the usual while I sat and stewed quietly.

"It's a bit overdone, don't you think?" I pressed on.

"It's gift from ol' Happy Sad," Angus said in a nonchalant manner that made me want to spill something on him. But I tossed back the ol' elixir and sat nursing my draft. The ball was still in his court and he knew it. But Angus refused to play by the rules.

"Izzat right?" I said, waiting for the bomb to land in my lap.

"Yeah," Angus responded, both elbows resting on the polished mahogany bar. "When he got his first royalty payment back on Earth, ol' Hap bought us this new sign. UPS delivered it last Friday and two of the regulars installed it on Saturday. Ain't it a beaut?"

"Lovely," I said, not wanting to act the party pooper. Then I ordered a triple shot of think-a-hol without the usual bubbly chaser. Now I needed to get altered.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

The Trouble With Crocuses

Just this afternoon some swaggering intergalactic meat merchant from a local star system drank his fill of think-a-hol and then pleaded poverty when presented with his bloated bar tab. Faced with physical violence from the management, he pulled these strange life forms out of his big coat pockets. As expected, Angus McCloud (our bigass head bartender) accepted them as full payment, soft touch that he is.

Then the old ghost bartender quickly planted them outside and these purple and yellow things took a real liking to their new soil immediately. Angus thinks they're cute as hell. But I'm thinking trouble is ahead.

Crocuses, my butt. Next they'll be chortling and making more of themselves. Rumor has it that their favorite food is think-a-holics.

Sunday, January 03, 2010

Whatever Happened to SciFiFoFum?

The scuttlebutt around Think-A-Holic Lounge these days is why SciFiFoFum, the video-making alter ego of science fiction author Michael Casher, pulled his own plug at YouTube. Being as nosy as any other alter ego, I asked Angus McCloud, the bigass head bartender at the Lounge, what he thought of the sudden disappearance of yet another side of this controversial, little known author from planet Earth. It was a Wednesday afternoon, my favorite time of day at Think-A-Holic Lounge, and I knew the old ghost of a long-dead Scottish poet liked to wag his chin about authors.

"Beats me, Jonco," Angus replied as he plopped my single shot of think-a-hol and a bubbly chaser draft down in front of me. "I never really knew they guy, y'now. Hell, he never showed his face around here."

"Unh hunh," I grunted back, lifting the shot glass toward my lips. I knew damn well that Michael Casher, being a real flesh-and-blood human being, couldn't even find Think-A-Holic Lounge which occupies no physical space in the universe and therefore has no position in the space-time continuum. Still, I knew that independent authors were an odd lot and had their own way of coming and going. When you least expected to see one, there he or she would be. In your face with another book. And, in this case, another stupid little video.

"I hear people were posting his videos on all kinds of inappropriate websites, just for the hell of it," Angus suggested, moving quickly to the end of the bar to pour another drink for one of the regular Lounge lizards.

"Oh, really?" I said with feigned indifference.

"Yeah, that's what he claims," said Angus, coming back and taking up a sentry position in front of me. He scanned the Lounge like he half expected Michael Casher to pop in out of thin air at any moment. He leaned forward and talked out the corner of his mouth, as people often do in dimly lit taverns all across the galaxy. "But you know what I think?"

"No," I said, tossing down the think-a-hol and feeling the burn. "What?"

"I think the ol' guy was so embarrassed by the videos he made that he just up and left the social scene altogether." Angus straightened up and squinted into the smoky crowd. "Yep, I think SciFiFoFum is hiding and that he may never come out again."

"I'll drink to that," I blurted out, rather curiously, surprising not only Angus but myself with the sudden outburst. "Let me have another shot of the ol' elixir. And make this one a double."