Mooned

I waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge this afternoon like I owned the place, which was pretty easy because there was only one other customer at the bar, an indie author like me who cries in his beer every Wednesday afternoon. We never bothered to ask him why he cries in his beer. We know. Abysmal book sales, eBook lending to the point of piracy, copyright infringement, no fans, no followers and the list goes on and on. So, Angus and I indulge the poor bastard. It's the least we can do.

As I already told you before, Wednesday afternoon is my favorite time to be in the Lounge, mostly because I almost have the place to myself and, secondly, because I feel like a schoolboy playing hookey instead of sitting behind a desk somewhere taking a lot of guff from customers and co-workers or toting barges and lifting bails and all that workday rot. Plus, it gives me a quiet, semi-private place to cry in my beer.

I was just about to ask Angus McCloud — our bigass head bartender — when that Fred & Red comedy team from Mars would be doing their first gig here when Angus spilled the beans himself. He said Fred Fortune found out that Angus was the one who reported Fred to the Pluto police a couple space years back and Fred got mad and nixed their contract on the Lounge deal.

"So?" I didn't really give a hoot. I was in a funk about my eBook and that it only sold one copy so far. Besides, I think Fred & Red are funny but I can't stand looking at that goofy top hat and those outdated Jack E. Leonard glasses. I hear the nose is real and that's the only reason I never poked fun at the little homeless grifter.

"Well, there's more to it than that," Angus said out of the corner of his mouth. "The little prick mooned us. Mooned us all real good."

"Whattaya mean he mooned us?" I asked, not really interested.

"You'll see," he sighed. "Wait until after dark and then you'll see." Then the homely old spook lumbered over to the other indie author and poured him another cheap draft. Cheap is all we can afford these days.

I stumbled down the front steps around eight-thirty, full of happy thoughts again and when I looked up at the starless sky this is what I saw (see pic). I don't even want to know how he did it. All I know is that Fred Fortune will be two dirty words around Think-A-Holic Lounge from now on.