The Secret Room Part 3

concluding this little story... Let me begin by saying that I'd originally planned to finish this little serial-post deal last month, the story about the new Secret Room that Think-A-Holic Lounge added on behind my back last summer. But I was way too busy having a life of my own.

Excuse me all to hell and back, but two pigs playing tic-tac-toe with one another on their own, high-end. state-of-the-art personal computers with big-ass plasma screens and built in quadrastereo didn't make me want to lay a bet on the outcome. Not at first. But later I just had to.

It just so happened that the pinkest pig won seven out of the ten games I was forced to watch. I was forced to watch and participate in illegal sports betting by Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender (and the ghost of a 400-year-old Scottish poet) because he ran out of money so we went halfers and then we split our winnings. 

The fact that the pinkest pig won the tournament meant nothing scientifically because Angus told me that the paler pig won seven out of ten games of tic-tac-toe last week on Saturn. But that meant absolutely nothing to me, either, because they toss their senators around on Saturn every weekend on The Saturn Outernet and then nuns from Uranus bowl for dollars, unless the Outernet managed to hijack a Mexican soap from Earth.

It's all illegal and all crooked. Nothing but a bunch of attention-getters grabbing glory for a group of greased palms. The nuns, by the way, have to wait their turn as the third most popular sports show on The Saturn Outernet, after Pig Tic-Tac-Toe and Saturn Senator Tossing. Don't ask me why. I'd rather see a happy nun bowl for fun and glory anyday.

The pigs are from Earth and they play mostly for food and then for attention. But the most popular pig sport in this part of the space-time continuum is Pig Soccer, also from Earth. Another pig sport that's only popular because it's illegal and only illegal because of illegal sports betting.  Angus and I were up seven Solar Quid by the time the pigs keeled over from exhaustion. Afterward, Angus had to throw the other betters out on their ears for trying to welch on their bets.

Seven Solar Quid notes don't divide evenly so Angus took four and I got three. Then I really had to pee like a Russian bull so that's what I did. Well, that's the end of this sad but exciting story and if I ever see another peephole in a door anywhere I'll just pretend that I have to go to the bathroom so bad that I can't take the time to check it out. Then I'll just run in the opposite direction and never look back. Three Solar Quid might buy a lot of think-a-hol and big-ass bubbly chasers but I'll be hearing pigs squealing and stomping and grunting in my sleep for years. You know, it serves me right.

The Secret Room Part 2

Continuing with this little story... About three weeks ago I found myself at Think-A-Holic Lounge again after a long summer absence. I was on my way to the male species room for a little relief when I decided to lift the lid on the peephole they installed on the door to that new back room here at the Lounge. The hair that's left on my head stood straight up and I got goose pimples all over my hairy arms when I saw what was causing all that pig-like squealing and snorting and those creepy undertones of what I thought were illegal sports betters making cute, innocent pigs fight one another for sick fun and profit.

Well, to make a long story short, the snorting and squealing was coming from pigs. Two of them, in fact. And the unmistakable sound of gambling junkies in a secret room placing bets on illegal sports action was, indeed, the sound of our big-ass head bartender Angus McCloud and a handful of regular Lounge lizards. Their fists were full of solar dollars and solar fins and solar sawbucks and I even saw an occasional Intergalactic Quid note being peeled off big fat bill rolls. They muttered and blabbed and barked out new bets to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

But the pigs — two pale-pink, full-grown, big-ass bacon makers — weren't going at each other with hoofs and snouts and teeth. Nossir. They were both sitting on their haunches in front of their own personal computer with a big-ass plasma screen and specially made keyboard with only five keys on it. That's when I saw a big brown eyeball staring back at me through the peephole and the door was opened by Angus McCloud himself.

"Got money?" he said, pulling me into the dimly-lit back room. Before I could reply, he closed the door and locked it. Then he flipped the peephole lid back down and led me to the betting table.

to be continued...