Think-A-Holic Lounge hasn't really recovered yet from the big business slump that began this past Black Friday, Earth Time, and that was
supposed to end when the last January White Sale on Earth had ended. Nobody here knows exactly
when the last January White Sale ended on Earth but everybody knows that January 2011 is history now and so is February 2011. And the
Lounge is still in a slump. But that didn't deter our big-ass head bartender,
Angus McCloud. In fact, when the chips are down that's when ol' Angus is at his best.
The other day he hired the astral body of a dead comic from Earth, a loudmouth nicknamed Mouthpiece by the few regulars like me who still haunt this gin joint in the middle of nowhere. This dead comic was never reincarnated anywhere in the universe, was never allowed into any afterlife at all by the cosmic powers-that-be, because of the enormous karmic debt he built up by being one of the nastiest "insult comics" to ever play the Catskills, that notorious graveyard for comic has-beens whose worn-out routines are even too lame for motel cocktail lounges in Reno. Which makes them ideal for Think-A-Holic Lounge. Don't ask me why.
It was almost midnight this past Saturday night, Earth Time, when Mouthpiece took the wireless mike and hopped onto the tiny platform Angus had built as a stage for
Pear, the female exotic dancer who also washed out here a long time ago. For somebody who was nothing but a head with hands and feet, Mouthpiece sure was agile. I knew I was in trouble when the little shithead zeroed in on
me right after his opening remarks.
"Oh yeah," he began in a loud, irritating voice that was part used-car salesman and part carnival barker, "I knew I wasn't in the Catskills the minute I set foot in the door. You know why? Of course you don't know why. Your heads are all up your butts looking for your futures. And, guess what? You're looking in the right place."
Nobody laughed, but I swore I heard Angus McCloud suppress a chuckle which made him sound like he was clearing his nasal passages.
"Take that one over there," he said, pointing me out to the small, silent crowd of sorry indie authors and author wannabes, POD publishers, freelance ghost writers and whatnot, most of them disenfranchised astral bodies, just like the fat-head comic about to heckle me. "Yeah, that blue-faced, balding guy with the stupid smirk on his face. Hey, buddy, is that really your head or are you blowing up a balloon?"
That smart-alec remark cracked the place up. The Lounge erupted with what sounded like "canned laughter", almost as if the dozen or so patrons were hooked up to an "I Dream of Jeannie" laugh track. I tried to dismount my barstool so I could throttle the little prick on stage but a big arm belonging to Angus McCloud held me back.
"Whoa!" declared Mouthpiece, holding up both of his fat palms in a cheesy, lounge comic plea for restraint. "Somebody get this guy a couple a eBook royalties before he gets outta control." More canned laughter from my former lounge lizard pals whom I'll never forgive in a million years. "Yeah, somebody give the poor boy a freaking' mercy read already before he has a fatal attack of the blues or something. Oops, too late!" The "I Dream of Jeannie" laugh track got louder, turning into a hideous "M*A*S*H" laugh track, as if by magic. "Hey, Blue Boy, is that really your fist or did you chew your nails down that far?" I heard more mindless tittering and even a few loud whistles. "Oops, I think I hit a nerve. Probably the only one he has."
"Up yours," I said, loud enough for everyone to hear but not so loud it could be considered an outburst. I wanted to stand up but I saw Angus watching me for any signs that I might suddenly lunge toward the stage. It seemed to me that the old bastard was having the time of his life. At my expense, of course. See how big your next tip is, I said to myself.
"Y'know, I just love it when somebody heckles me from a barstool," Mouthpiece said to the crowd. "I'm not kidding. Whenever a lousy drunk gives me advice it always makes me feel bad that I don't have a freakin' pen on me. Yeah. If I could only write down all the great advice I've gotten from bar rats over the years, I'd have enough material to write a book. Of course, I'd have to self-publish the freakin' thing because it would stink to high heaven."
At this point, if I'd have had a gun, I'd have used it, even though a bullet wouldn't have done anything to an astral body. An astral body in control of itself to the point of seeming out of control to everybody else is one of the most dangerous entities in the entire universe. I held my ground and kept my mouth shut, which made Mouthpiece look for a new target. I was so glad it was Angus McCloud.
"Hey, you!" said the talking head into the wireless microphone. "Yeah, you. Jack-o-lantern head." His big fat mouth was so close to the mike his words sounded like wet thumps. "Yeah, you, pal. The big ugly-ass bartender. I mean, you do work this pathetic watering hole, don't you? Or are you just parked here for the night?"
Angus' jaw dropped open as if he were in disbelief. I, on the other hand, was about to have the time of my life. We both waited for the inevitable onslaught of insults.
"Don't act deaf and dumb." Mouthpiece taunted the big-ass, four-hundred-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet. "I mean, you don't have to act deaf and dumb for me. It's written all over your face. As a matter of fact, is that really your freakin' face or did you just pull your pants down and stand on your head?" Mouthpiece's comic timing was perfect as he scanned the audience for unwitting co-conspirators.
The "M*A*S*H" laugh track had now become an old laugh track from "The Jeffersons", it was so loud and raucous. As poor old Angus McCloud stiffened and tried to maintain his professional bartender composure, I ordered a double shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of Buxx Brew, the space beer that makes all female creatures in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine (I'd had enough humiliation for one night). I knew it was going to be a great night after all.
