Tales from Adrian's Bar

[zelda_pinwheel]

Originally Posted by Slite

Ok, not as good as LS, but here goes

i thought it was brilliant.

"TDD?"
"Temporal Displacement Disease, nasty stuff and the only thing that helps is a shot of No, you don't want to know"

nasty stuff, don't i know it ! the worst is when it hits you and there's no "No, you don't want to know" available.

I shuddered slightly at the thought of what a drink named like that really contained but decided that I really did not want to know.

for the best, my friend. for the best.

All of a sudden the Jukebox came running by with something that at first glance looked like a raging fury hot on it's heels. As they crossed over into Monday, the fury caught up with the Jukebox, got it pinned down and managed to unplug it's speakers with a vicious half-nelson that made me green with envy.

"He must have tried to play something by Abba" I thought as I recognised the fury as Zelda. The Jukebox obviously tried to apologise, but with disconected speakers, all that came out was a kind of low humming sound.

hmph. i did warn it first. repeatedly.

"He'll never learn" was the only comment from the Marc as he handed me another glass of ZCD.

he hasn't so far, anyway.

Originally Posted by LazyScot

I'm sure Elle'll reconnect the speakers. I think she has a thing for the Jukebox....

aha ! so you've noticed too ?

Originally Posted by LazyScot

"Then what the…" I, and everyone else, fell silent. Marc had turned round and opened the little glass cabinet that contained the key. Marc took out the key and walked over to the mythical quadruple glass cabinet, and to a chorus of ooohs and aaahs unlocked the cabinet and reverentially removed the quadruple ZCD stein. Before we could ask, Monday's door slammed open, and we were deafened.

"shums" Zelda explained, with a conviction that you would not have thought her lungs were capable of.

you sound surprised, which leads me to believe that you have never been confronted *personally* by shums.

I personally suspect that the bar area has various scientifically impossible force fields protecting the bar-entity from untoward events occurring within the bar.

i'm not allowed to confirm that, but... wink wink, nudge nudge, know what i mean ? (oh, and the nerf gun is in "a safe place". )

"shums." Reiterated Zelda, directly at what I was convinced was the model Ikea store, before charging towards it and picking up the baseball bat. "shums." She repeated as she set about whatever it was, adding assorted words in French that had Verencat (in her "Mac was entrapped" teeshirt) blushing, and various other English words conveying an impression that the shums had not been particularly quiet or helpful. Strangely, she seemed to be beating some small plates of fresh crusty bread, assorted cheeses, olives and garnished with some frisée leaves out of the whatever it was she was hitting. A few minutes later, somewhat subdued, she put down the bat, collected the plates and wandered over to the bar where Marc passed Zelda the now full quadruple ZCD stein.

there's really nothing like a good piñata to work off your nerves. i'm thinking of installing one here, too.

Marc proffered me a Long Island Iced Tea with a ZCD chaser and his trademark poly-syllabic enigmatic smile.

So I enjoyed the Iced Tea, ZCD and the friendship of Adrian's, and do you know what? Ikea and Thursday slowly faded from my mind and the games area.

that's just what i love about going to adrian's.

[ShortNCuddlyAm]

:applauds Slite and LS:

[Slite]

Hmmm, LS, it just hit me... No, not one of the Ducks at Adrian's.

Do you think we are in danger of getting sued by Spider robinson here?

[montsnmags]

Originally Posted by Slite

Hmmm, LS, it just hit me... No, not one of the Ducks at Adrian's.

Do you think we are in danger of getting sued by Spider robinson here?

I suspect that the tropes occupying the pub might be a conglomerate of a hell of a lot more than that of a single author's setting. Call it all "inspiration", call it "allusion", but don't call it "plagiarism" or me late for Happy Hour.

Cheers,
Norm...err, Marc

[Slite]

Blackout at Adrian's

Stumbling out of the temporal vortex two things struck me instantly. First, it was pitch black. The second, was of course one of the resident water fowls that connected with my forehead with a solid "THWACK"

Muttering about stupid ducks I quickly assumed a somewhat more ground hugging posture, as in, dropping to the floor and crawling in the direction of what I assumed was the Bar.

All of a sudden I felt something soft and furry next to me. At Adrian's soft and furry however is not necessarily a good thing. I had a quick flashback to the time KennyC had gotten totally schnockered and by accident opened a time portal filling Adrian's with tribbles.

Yeah, tribbles are real; Gene was at Adrian's that night and got the idea from there. As to getting rid of them however, he got it all wrong. The only effective method involves the use of a copy of Abba's Greatest Hits, A MkVI Atomic Welding Torch, A gerbil and a bucket of Sauce Béarnaise. But the exact procedure is something I really don't want to go into. Or even remember to clearly. It's THAT kind of memory, you know the ones. Those that run away from you screaming in terror when you try to access them.

So while trying to be as unobtrusive as possible I ventured a soft "Hello?"

"Oook!"

"Adrian! What the heck is going on?"

"ook oook ook"

"No shit Adrian, I certainly noticed it is pitch black in here"

"ook oooook ook"

I sighed; of course I should have known that the R&D department of Montsnmags Inc was involved in this somehow.

"They did WHAT?"

"oook ook ooook ok!"

"I sure hope you had 'words' with the original Marc?"

"Ook!"

"Good, so how long before those twits at R&D get a leash on their pet singularity and we get some light back?"

"Oook ook!"

And just then, the lights came back on and everything was back to normal. Well, normal by the standards of Adrian's anyhow.

Seems like some moron at the R&D department had brought a pocket-sized black hole with them that had been triggered by entering the bar.

Adrian looked less than pleased as he picked himself up off the floor and headed over to a group of guys in white coats. They looked very nervous as they spotted Adrian swooping down on them. Can't say I blamed them for that though. If Adrian was after me, I would curl up in fetal position and think of a happy place. I still woke up screaming "I will never touch a Nerf Vulcan EBF-25 again!!! I promise!!!" from time to time.

Adrian stared at the poor guys who looked more and more nervous by the millisecond. Suddenly he snapped his fingers and with a soft *POOF* the R&D guys were gone. I felt like inquiring as to where was not a good idea and instead headed over to the Bar.

Marc handed me a triple ZCD with a smile and a nod.

"Guess you need that" he said more like a statement than a question.

And I did. Downing the glass in one huge gulp before remembering what it contained. But I was forcibly reminded by the feeling of suddenly having a brain that was 8 numbers to large for my skull, but a bunch of pixies was working hard to reduce it to normal size with the help of angle grinders and electric guitars. I was pretty certain that at least one of the little guys was using a pampered chef's mandolin as well.

With a shudder I turned back to the bar, held up a finger, not trusting my vocal cords to produce anything even close to making sense and got another ZCD from the Marc, a single this time. Zipping it, I felt my innards shift back into their accustomed places, sighed and slid onto one of the barstools and placed the glass in front of me.

"Thanks" I said when I finally had oriented myself back in to the current (and hopefully correct) space-time continuum.

"No problem" the Marc said and sauntered off to serve one of the other guests.

I contemplated going for a walkabout before remembering the last time I had done so at Adrian's, I'm still a bit unsure about exactly how I ended up in the girls showers at the Walla Walla University gymnasium. But that’s one of those little things you have to expect when frequenting Adrian's. I had a heck of a time finding my way back though, since it turned out that Walla Walla is one of those places that only have an exit from Adrian's. Come to think of it, I never DID get a satisfactory explanation from Adrian as to why exactly that exit happened to lead to said shower-room. In light of that unpleasant "incident" I decided that it made more sense to just stay where I was and enjoy my drink.

Suddenly there came another muffled *POOF* from behind me, and as I turned I spotted the poor guys from the R&D were back. Well, at least in their physical forms. They did not look quite the same though. For one thing, on every one of them their hair had gone white. And there was a distinct look of mind numbing terror in their eyes. I'm pretty certain I heard some low whimpering as well. Needless to say, they exited Adrian's pretty rapidly.

"Where did you send them?" I asked Adrian before I even considered if I really wanted to know the answer to that or not.

"Ook!" Adrian stated.

"Really? Dude, that’s just mean"

"Ook Ooook!"

"Yeah, I know, I know.... But hell, Adrian... Meatball day at IKEA?"

[montsnmags]

Originally Posted by Slite

...
"Yeah, I know, I know.... But hell, Adrian... Meatball day at IKEA?"

[zelda_pinwheel]

Originally Posted by Slite

"Yeah, I know, I know.... But hell, Adrian... Meatball day at IKEA?"

note to self : do NOT get on adrian's list. (as if you needed the reminder.)

i'm tempted to suggest that might be considered "cruel and unusual" punishment but i wouldn't want to annoy him.

[montsnmags]

Originally Posted by zelda_pinwheel

note to self : do NOT get on adrian's list. (as if you needed the reminder.)

i'm tempted to suggest that might be considered "cruel and unusual" punishment but i wouldn't want to annoy him.

Adrian's told me has two open-ended tickets to ABBA Day at IKEA, and he's looking to take you with him on a date. He intends to dance! I mean, I grew up listening to ABBA, but even I go hide in a closet when Adrian dances. Wars have started over less, and, this one time, India tried to move out of the way of him and accidentally ran smack bang into the rest of Asia.

I've suggested to him to wait until you list all your liseuses on your profile, as clearly that's a red letter day worth celebrating with a dancing queen (and, coincidentally, an unseasonally cool day in Satan's backyard).

Cheers,
Marc

[zelda_pinwheel]

Originally Posted by montsnmags

Adrian's told me has two open-ended tickets to ABBA Day at IKEA, and he's looking to take you with him on a date. He intends to dance! I mean, I grew up listening to ABBA, but even I go hide in a closet when Adrian dances. Wars have started over less, and, this one time, India tried to move out of the way of him and accidentally ran smack bang into the rest of Asia.

I've suggested to him to wait until you list all your liseuses on your profile, as clearly that's a red letter day worth celebrating with a dancing queen (and, coincidentally, an unseasonally cool day in Satan's backyard).

Cheers,
Marc

yes, absolutely, let's wait for that.

[pshrynk]

As Harv and Vivaldi ran down the alley, trying to get away from the mutant Nazi Stormtrooper Salsa Dancers, they were having a hard time finding any doors that were conveniently open. After what they had just seen, there was a lot of hope and desperation in finding some place to bolt into.

As the skittered around the corner, a bright light illuminated the only doorway in this particular section of the city. "Adrian's" flashed in garrish neon. "Tuesdays by appointment only" underneath.

"This could get tricky," said Vivaldi.

"Tricker that what's following us?"

"Good point. Let's go!" They both bolted at the door.

"By the way, is it Tuesday?" yelled Harv as they hit the event horizon.

"Not in Oz!"

With a loud "slurp" they disappeared. The Nazi Salsa Dancers crowded around the corner and saw only a blank wall, trying very hard to look nonchalant.

"Get some crowbars, private! Nothing is going to stop us from getting that package back!"



As they rolled onto the floor, they were aware of lots of eyes turned their direction.

"Um... Hi!" said Vivaldi, weakly.

The man behind the bar handed them each a drink. Harv set Vivaldi's on the floor and said, "Don't mind if I do! Say, is that Ska playing on the jukebox? I'm really starting to like it, you knoooooooooooo eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaa!"

Harv's face went rigid and he started hopping on one foot and singing showtunes from the forties. Vivaldi looked up and said, "What?"

"Just a minor side effect of the he just drank." said the bartender.

"Is that going to happen to me?" Vivaldi looked down at the nearly empty bowl.

"Has it, yet?"

"No."

"Then apparently not," said the bartender, rapping on the dispenser atop the bar.

"Oh, God! The clowns! The horrible horrible clowns!" screamed Harv as he came to once again.

"Hey, Boss! What happened to you?"

"Don't want to talk about it. TURN OFF THAT DAMNED MUSIC! HOW CAN YOU STAND TO LISTEN TO SKA WHEN YOU KNOW IT'S GOING TO BRING THE CLOWNS DOWN ON OUR HEADS?"

The jukebox shut off with a screech and tried to look contrite. It sauntered over to Monday. Behind a bench thre judges held up scoring cards.

"A 5.6," said the bartender. "Usually he does better than that."

Harv held his head and stumbled around in a circle for a bit.

"Listen," he said, "There are a bunch of mutant Nazi Salsa Dancers following us. If they ask about us, pretend you've never seen us."

"Depending on when they come through, I moght not have," said the bartender.

Harv and vivaldi raced through the door marked "After hours."

"Did anything in there strike you as unusual?" asked Vivaldi.

"Like my head exploding in the colore A flat, you mean?"

"No. I just could have sworn that I saw two other me's in there. And two you's and the guy behind the bar looked like Dr Montsnmags without the speech impediment."

"Nope. I was too busy having my ears scan teh walls for orange."

"Huh. Weird place."


Back at Adrians, there was a flash of light over Thursday and a dozen men dressed in Salsa costumes (except for the one in lederhosen) and brandished their weapons.

"Don't move! We are trained nazi operatives and we have no fear! Where are they... Oh bugger!"

All of the residents of the bar turned and looked at the Salsa Dancers at once. They were grinning.

"Och! This is better than the pinata!" cried LazyScot, from his recliner.

[zelda_pinwheel]

is that Ska playing on the jukebox? I'm really starting to like it, you knoooooooooooo eeeeeeeeeaaaaaaa!"

see, you really have to love any cocktail which includes instilling an appreciation of that great and glorious musical genre that is ska as one of its side effects.


(i won't comment on the clowns though.)

"Och! This is better than the pinata!" cried LazyScot, from his recliner.

[montsnmags]

So, at least now I know I'm not a fictional character a.k.a. "Dr. Montsnmags" - I just look like him.

However, apparently I might be a fictional character called "Marc".

I'm okay with that, just so long as nobody kills me off.

Cheers,
A convenient fiction

[Greg Anos]

Originally Posted by montsnmags

So, at least now I know I'm not a fictional character a.k.a. "Dr. Montsnmags" - I just look like him.

However, apparently I might be a fictional character called "Marc".

I'm okay with that, just so long as nobody kills me off.

Cheers,
A convenient fiction

And have to fill out all that paperwork? You know, death certificate, MI6 search, re-writing 47 treaties over 300 years (past and future), EPA contamination reports, US Senate hearing (6 different senates), you know, the usual....

[LazyScot]

<This tale got the better of me, in much the same way (if you know the scene) that the instant pudding almost got the better of Woody Allen in the movie Sleeper. Anyhow, now that the story is victorious, here it is, split into (I hope) three parts. Still, I think I come out of this better than one or two of the actors.....>


I entered Adrian's on my hands and knees, for a multitude of reasons. Primarily, however, since it was Adrian's (and the usual rules of cause and effect work sideways) so starting a trip to the bar with a crawl should act as a pre-emptive strike on the effects of a visit. That and the fact that I'd had incredible difficulty avoiding the ducks---

THWACK.

As I came too, it dawned on me that Marc must have abandoned the moratorium on low flying. Unfortunately. It also occurred to me that my attempts to achieve retro-effect hangover prepayment had succeeded, but I was now paying interest on the forgotten headache component.

In a desperate attempt to exert my free-will, and get rid of the Shum house band that had just take up cranial residence, I decided against alcohol. No dice; the band had obviously seen This is Spinal Tap, and in revenge for my attempted self determinism and the consequential eviction notice, promptly turned their volume controls to eleventy.

"Marc," I croaked, "I need –"

"Fentiman's Mandarin and Seville Orange Jigger with ice. Twice over," he said passing the first of two highball glasses each holding a divinely coloured orange drink. I still can't get my head round the ordering perfection of Adrian's. Sure enough the Jigger hit exactly the right spot. Specifically, the Shum band's amplifiers. Which immediately shorted out.

"Ahhhhhh," I sighed, thankfully. Fortunately all the band's instruments were electric, and the amount of noise they make without amplification is very limited. Sadly, the same couldn't be said of their singer.

"Here. Knock Yourself Out." I looked up at Marc and the proffered drink, and quaffed it in one rather than decide if what he had said was a command or a case of antonomasia (a frequent delivery at Adrian's). Once again, the drink hit the spot. In this case it was the Shum's lead singer. Who was promptly knocked out.

"Thank you," said wholeheartedly as all I was left with was the Shum's musicians attempt at River Dance. Which, given they had chosen to wear MoonBoots, was not really a much of a problem – tending more towards a rather stiff mental massage.

"Well, you needed it. Wouldn't want you to be unable to enjoy tonight's entertainment. You've got to be able to say "I'm feelin' alright", or better yet sing it." And with that he giggled a little. Looking around I suddenly noticed the stage. And immediately remembered what was going to happen in two weeks time, and the stage made frightening sense.

<At this point, if you please, imagine the cheesy wavey line picture cut as we do a temporal cut. Failing that, just shake your head a bit. Thank you.>

[LazyScot]

<Thank you for bearing with the messages from our sponsors>

It will all have started (English tenses really hate the requirements of Adrian's) when Adrian dropped in (literally; Adrian's has trapdoors in its skylights) on his way back from a conference he'd organised in a little universe that was just the other side of the colour giggle. (He claimed the conference was just a temporal tax dodge – something to do with the charitable status and care in the community. I'm not sure I approve of using charity legislation to avoid paying taxes, but the one bit I do remember from the upcoming Christmas party makes me think that at least most of his hearts are in the right place, so I'll let him off this time.)

Now this conference was, apparently, for Mad Scientists and Surrealist Authors (did I say both counted as charity cases?), entitled "Colourful Routes to Universe Domination". Adrian had it liberally provided with ZCDs, montsmags enterprises version of lego mindstorm (think what lego mindstorm would have been, if the trades descriptions act had been rigorously enforced by the ACME company of Wile E. Coyote fame) and large bowls full of every possible flavour of hyperstring (it's unclear if Adrian intended these as nibbles, construction materials or attire; given it was Adrian, probably all three). The excuse for all these provisions (which of course he profitably charged himself to supply) was "to help the creative juices flow into working prototypes" (my thanks to pshrynk for the translations of Adrian's words, though I must admit it very worrying when he (yes, either of them) said it).

Whilst Adrian passed through, Pshrynk asked him how the conference had gone, causing Adrian to backflip sideways onto a stool for a quick chat. According the pshrynk's translation, the conference was a great success, or to quote Adrian "the resultant cross-fertilisation was exceptionally fecund." Adrian then headed off to consult with his IPR lawyers, his back pocket containing several hundred huge crates from the conference. However, when he'd stopped to chat with Pshrynk, a small box had fallen out from between the crates in his back pocket.

"Oh, look what fell off the back of an Adrian," said Slite as he reached down to open the box. This was despite the fact that, sitting on his shoulder, his common sense jabbering manically and desperately whilst wildly beating him about the head with a huge foam cluebat. But ultimately all his common sense attempts were futile.

"Oh goody, a toy!" he exclaimed as he took out what looked like a gun with a helmet in place of a barrel, and a USB port in place of a magazine. At this point his common sense gave up, uttered "I'm never working with that again", headed over to the bar, drank two ZCDs and one ZCP in quick succession and proceeded to try and chat up the squid (much to Verencat's annoyance). I always had my doubts about Slite's common sense (as does Slite himself, if the rumours are true). Meanwhile, while Slite's common sense was failing in its cephalodopic romantic intentions, Slite was fiddling with his new toy, fortunately without much success.

"Why don't you try putting something into the USB slot?" I said (it should be pointed out that my common sense eloped to Hawaii well over a year ago.)

"Oh thanks" and with that he fished out a USB key from his pocket and plugged it in.

"I wouldn't point it at Zel---"

BANG. The helmet flew off the gun and landed on Zelda's head, adjusting its size and orientation for a perfect fit, whilst turning into a little red beret that perfectly matched her liseuse. WHirrRR. Spark. Four little helmets spun off and landed on Ralph Sir Edward, Bilbo1967, MoeJoe and Nate the Great. And then all the helmets flew straight back to the gun turning back into their normal singular form en-route.

"Well that was a bit disapp-" Slite stopped abruptly as he looked at Zelda who seemed to be turning even more glowing green than usual, and adopting a sparkling fairy outlook that was getting Mindy very tempted to complain about avatar infringement. Then Zelda suddenly flew into the air and started singing, trailing green dust as she went.

"Would the USB key have some of your movie collection on it?" I asked.

"The hills are alive with the sound of….." Interjected Zelda very musically.

"Yes? Why? Oh. OHHH, " said Slite, before concluding (in dangerously mischievious tone, whilst fishing in his pocket for more USB keys.) "Hmmmm."

"We'll fight for Freedom! Beauty! Truth! and Love!" Ralph Sir Edward, Bilbo1967, MoeJoe and Nate the Great interrupted tunefully.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I said to Slite. (It is possible some faint echo of my common sense was still left bouncing round in the vacant spaces of my skull).

"Does that matter? I laugh in the face of gods! I giggle uncontrollably at the three Fates! I'm not even perturbed by squirrels!" shouted Slite (it is just possible he had been in Adrian's sampling Marc's concoctions for more that a few minutes).

"Children of the Revolution…" concluded Zelda repeatedly, before she, and her backing singers, started all over again.

"And please don't point that at me…" I don't actually remember any more for a fair bit (and no, I don't want to know more), but both Marc and Slite seem unable to look at me and not start laughing anytime the JukeBox starts playing anything by Shania Twain (which thankfully is rare).

The next thing I do remember is myself and about fifteen other guests of Adrian's in rather unnatural poses and postures, and Marc saying "You know, a karaoke or music night might be quite good fun."

"What…" I asked, somewhat more disorientated than normal (and for Adrian's, that is saying something!).

"What do you feel like?" asked Slite, giggling.

"A drink. ZCD ple—oh, thanks Marc."

"Drat; he's back to normal."

"What happened to the gun thing whatdymacallit?"

"We have top people looking after it," said Marc, in a tone that closed the discussion.

"I still haven't forgotten about that tipper truck load of squirrels," I muttered, glaring at the two of them, with the mental image of a crate being wheeled into a warehouse. Come to think about it, it is slightly worrying the number of potential weapons or deadly "substances" (and I'm not talking about Marc's concoctions) that seem to make their way into Adrian's and promptly disappear. Anyone might think someone was worried about a potential future fracas of frightening ferocity.

<At this point, once again please, imagine the cheesy wavy line thing and shake your head a bit. Thank you. (Though I'd be worried by the rattle when you shake your head like that – maybe you should see someone.)>