Sufficiently Spooked

...this is a post script to the post Tip Treasure

After seeing McCloud Castle, where our big-ass head bartender, Angus McCloud (see pic), has been living for over four hundred years as the ghost of a dead Scottish poet, I have a renewed respect for the ugly old spook. It will be an unwelcome companion to my envy regarding the fact that Angus is decidedly a lot wealthier than any of his customers at the Lounge had ever imagined.

So, while I can't help being intrigued by the McCloud royal bloodline that placed a wealthy family ghost behind the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge, I'm rather perturbed by his basement cache of loot, knowing that a lot of it is horded tips that I personally gave him. Sufficiently perturbed. Ticked off enough that I'll never willingly over-tip the ugly old fart ever again.

This was the look Angus gave me when I tipped him the bare minimum after last call the other night. I kept waiting for him to say, "Boo!" but that never happened.

Tip Treasure

Concluding this little story, when Angus McCloud's limo driver told me to wait in the car, that merely fortified my determination to find out more about Angus and his ghostly castle at the edge of the space-time continuum.

Therefore, I did not stay in the car. I followed the driver, being careful not to let him see me. He entered the basement of the castle and, after winding through a convoluted series of dimly-lit passageways and stairwells, he came to this room. There, on the floor, lay either the McCloud family fortune or else a monstrous horde of tips stashed away from four hundred years of Angus tending bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge. My slant on all this treasure leaned toward the tip theory.

I took out my cell phone camera and snapped this picture without flash before the driver filled two small sacks with coins. Then I hustled back to the limo before he caught me in the act.

I vowed to never use this photo as leverage against Angus, our big-ass head bartender at the Lounge, but just having this ammunition made me feel a lot better somehow.

End of Story. For now.

McCloud Castle

Continuing with the previous story, Angus had arranged for his limo to take me home because I was over my limit of think-a-hol.

No sooner did the limo driver tell me that he had to stop at Angus’ home to pick up something than the limo shifted out of hyper-drive and this scene appeared ahead of us.

“What the hell is that?” I asked Angus’ driver.

“That, my good man,” replied the driver, “is McCloud Castle.”

I always knew that Angus, the big-ass head bartender at Think-A-Holic Lounge, was the ghost of a dead Scottish poet named Angus McCloud but I never knew he was any kind of royalty.

“And this is where Angus lives?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“For over four hundred Earth years,” he responded.

“Now I know for sure that I’m over-tipping him,” I muttered to myself.

“What’s that, sir?” asked the driver as he piloted the limo in for a landing.

“I said I just love the triple moons,” I fibbed.

After we landed, I was asked to remain in the limo and I told the driver that was just fine by me. Another big fib on my part.

To be continued...

Thinkers Can't Be Choosers

This past Saturday night I found myself over my limit of think-a-hol once again. It was disconcerting, to say the least, when Angus shut me off before I was ready to go home.

The big old Scot, who is the ghost of a dead Scottish poet and the head bartender at the Lounge, saw that I was beside myself with embarrassment. He tried to make it up to me by offering the services of his limo and driver to take me home. I was so over my limit that I accepted. This also proved his point that I needed to be shut off.

Before the limo got very far, I fell asleep. When I woke up, this is what I saw from the back seat. I heard the driver say in a glib, matter-of-fact tone that he had to pick up something for Angus at his home before he dropped me off at mine. Then I fell asleep again.

To be continued...