Tales from Adrian's Bar

[mvisconte]

Oh, hullo. I just got in. I'm supposed to be meeting someone here. You're not someone, are you?

[mvisconte]

Being a stranger here, I suppose I'm allowed some literary license. I haven't paid this year, but I'm going to take advantage anyway.

Do you really let just anyone in here, or was I over-looked? It's the height, isn't it. I get that a lot.

Anyway, the man next to me. Or, the man who WAS next to me. Um... he didn't leave without paying his bill, did he? Oh good. Anyway, he said the next round was on him, but he said it to me -- which I hope means that you'll get me something to drink and hope to charge it to him, if you ever see him again.

Anyway, again, I noticed immediately his hat. You don't see hats like that much, anymore. Carbide lamp, polished mirror, that sort of thing?

He was reading a book. Huge book. It was an eTome(tm). Huge, electric, but with pages. And he kept turning pages, and saying "Fascinating". He said it was a book on "phototherapy for the treatment of acute melancholia". He said it was "light therapy". For SAD. I asked him "erm, Marguis?"

Now, even *I* can tell it was the wrong book. There were no fold-outs. I suppose, over here, you call them center-folds.

You know, fold-outs. Staples in the belly?

Not ringing any bells... hm..

OK, here's what I pictured, sort of. A collection of pre-67 Playboy magazines, in e-reader format. Ah, ok, I begin to see the the confusion...

First, no fold-outs. Second, no staples -- but that's not a bad thing. Third, not in color. Heaven, not even any PICTURES. How can you have photo therapy withou-

No, really. When ever I get sad, I look at my dad's collection of ol--- oh. I see. Um, well, it's like this...

He said Photo therapy. Right? He said cute melons. He said head-lights.

Oh bother. He probably wasn't even a real doctor.

Well, he insulted me. No, it's not important, but I'll tell you, my mother wouldn't be proud! First of all, I CAN read, and secondly, she's never been under a porch in her life!

Anyway, -- Look here, why do you keep getting me off track!? Retired train-enginee--- oh, VERY punny. A-N-Y-W-A-Y,

Where was I? Well, I told him "Piffle to you! You can go to the Devil!" and he ... disappeared. No, really. He kind of flickered for second, then he said "Speak of the Devil, and his minyan appears" and Poof, he was gone.

See? Here's his book.

[LazyScot]

"Yarrrgghh!" screamed a clearly startled Pshrynk from behind the bar, nearly spilling the Hoegaarden he was pouring.

You see, given the difficulty I'd been having entering Adrian's, I'd decided to skip the entering bit and just appear. Clearly, Pshyrnk hadn't been reading the notes that Marc had left him.

"I'll have a H—" and with that Pshrynk, attempting to regain the air of an international gentleman of intrigue, passed me the Hoegaarden.

"There are better wheat beers, you know," he said in what was, I assume, a knowing tone (let's face it, I wouldn't know a knowing tone even if it appeared in front of me complete with a diploma, a notarised family tree and an affidavit from entire universe moderation team, wearing the gowns of knowledge and singing the song of the all-knowing [whatever that is]).

"Well I like Hoegaarden. What happened to Marc?"

"He's out doing more Christmas Shopping for Adrian," said Pshrynk as he mixed what appeared to be the mythical anti-matter ZCD in a collection of magnetic jars. "He should be here about—"

And with that Marc strode in, carrying a large collection of shopping bags, including (worryingly) some from an "Agricultural Supplies Specialist" (the shop name was hidden). Marc grabbed the newly mixed anti-matter ZCD and downed it in one, gave a tiny burp, went cross-eyed while floating in mid-air for exactly e seconds courtesy of his beanie. I guess Christmas shopping does that to you.

"He's cheating," said Pshrynk to Marc, somehow managing to pull a pout that would have done even an older toddler, deprived of its favour toy, proud.

"Don’t worry, it's under control. Anyway, I've wrapping to do. Let me know when the tree arrives." And with that Marc headed off towards his office.

"Oh, did Pshrynk give you that message," I said just before Marc disappeared.

"No, what message?"

"Oh, I'd forgotten about that. The Police popped by last week," answered Pshrynk, gesturing to them leaving the message with him at one of the other bars.

"What did they have to say?"

" De do do do de da da da was all they had to say…. to … you," said Pshrynk, glaring at me.

"Ouch" said Zelda.

"Hardly surprising," I added. "It was probably a Sting operation."

"Double groaning ouch," said Marc. "LazyScot, why don’t you open the advent calendar. After your last advice no-one seems to want to."

"Can you blame them?"

"Hey, you don't have to drink anything. It's just put in front of you. It's not like we force it down you."

And with that he disappeared into his office.

Oh well, I thought, and opened the advent calendar door. "Acronymitis? That sounds dangerously tame." And with that Pshrynk put the drink in front of me. "But don't think I'm that stupid," I added, leaving the drink alone.

At this point, Verencat wandered by, yet again wearing that mis-spelt tee-shirt that had been grating with me for some time.

"That teeshirt is spelt wrong. Robbie is spelt with two B's."

"No, it's not. It's spelt with one," replied Verencat, distractedly whilst heading over towards the Squid.

Zelda giggled. We both looked at her.

"Two B or not Two B's. That is the question," she said and giggled some more.

At that point a delivery man arrived, or more accurately the delivery suit of plate armour arrive. I guess we should have expected things to go down hill from here especially since it turned out to be electrified and was wheeling in a huge, riveted stainless metal box, that clearly had dents in. Dents that had come from the inside. Hmmm. Interesting. He seemed unaffected by the waterfowl who bounced harmlessly off the helm.

"Delivery for Marc?" shouted the suit of plate armour, with a strange reverberation that might have been avian induced.

"I'll take it," said Pshrynk.

"You sure? You don't look like you're kitted out," replied the armour, looking Pshrynk up and down.

"It's a tree, right?"

"Ummm. Sort of."

"Yeeeouch," shouted Pshrynk getting an electric shock from the armour has he took the clipboard, signed for it and tore off the delivery note.

"Right, I'm outta here. Damn tree," said the delivery suit, with a look that screamed thank ghod, and I don't ever, ever what to see that again. At that point the armour exited both positively and definitively, and with the sense of purpose only attainable by someone who was going to go out and drink a reasonably large proportion of his danger money as soon as possible.

"What's a Saxfed Crystmex Tree? Lazy, Squid, why don't you open it?"

So whilst Pshrynk puzzled over the paper work (something he was professionally experienced in, I guess), the Squid and I approached the huge riveted container. Which looked like something out of a very dodgy horror movie (or a cheap television series).

"Yeeouch," I explained, getting a really nasty shock off the metal box as I tried to open it. Nursing a slight burn, I stepped back as the Squid approached. For some reason, some sort of vortex opened above the metal box, and a long piece of high-tensile tinsel slowly drifted through. Just as the Squid was about to touch one of the catches, the tinsel touched the container. There was a puff, a sound of cursing coming through the vortex, a bang from the container and the tinsel evaporated. Then the squid undid the clasps, and stepped back.

The top flipped back, and the sides started to fold down, and I threw myself to the side, just avoiding getting flattened by a very large, heavy, riveted metal sheet. As I picked myself up off the floor, I looked at the contents.

I beheld the most amazing, glorious Christmas tree I had ever seen. It was covered in beautiful white lights, subtle and tasteful baubles and tinsel. And the most amazing collection of beautiful shiny toys, glittering and dancing from the branches, begging to be picked of the branches. Entranced, I found myself stumbling towards it. (Though, somewhere in the dim depths of my hindbrain, something was gently composing a memo about Angler fish and that perhaps, a degree of caution and contemplation might be more conducive to a long and happy life. Or at least getting to see tomorrow from the other side.)

At this point several things happened simultaneously.

Firstly, there was a loud bang, and three squirrels, armed to the teeth, tail and almost every other part of their anatomy (try not too think too much about that one – it can lead to mental instabilities) appeared immediately between the squid and the tree.

"Simon, I told you to check the temporal aiming on the vortex. We're too early. Recalibrate it immediately," said the squirrel with the gold epaulettes.

"But Sigfried, we could take them out and capture everything ourselves we—"

"No sodding way. You know what happened to the last team that tried to take him," said the third squirrel, indicating the Squid.

"Simon, just do it. That's on order."

"Nuts," grumbled Simon, resetting the machinery and pressing a button.

Secondly, Pshrynk eventually made sense of the paperwork and wandered into the office. There was an animated discussion which ended in Pshrynk indicating that the container had probably just been opened. At which point, Marc shouted something that sounded like it should be repeated here, followed by "But the plants of Saxfed Crystmex are carnivorous."

Thirdly, the memo from my hindbrain eventually got forwarded to such limited higher cognitive faculties as I had left. This arrived just in time to slow my approach to a particularly attractive and shiny shiny toy, and make me look at the tree. Strangely, if you looked at the tree's needles in just the right light, they looked less like pine needles and more like needle sharp teeth.

Fourthly, the squid raised an eyebrow quizzically at the tree, as if to say "do you know who you are messing with". Which is really impressive as the squid doesn't have eyebrows.

Finally the tree decided that it would like a little Scotch as aperitif, a few kebabed squirrels as starters, and a squid as main course. It made various moves, and caught hold of the squirrels first (at exactly the moment Simon pressed the button), whilst various branches transformed into crosses between Venus Flytraps, John Wyndham's triffids and what Alicia Dupre (a six year old girl from High Wycombe) looks like if you happen to be a bar of pink chocolate.

As Marc burst out of his office, there was another large bang and the three squirrels, who were now attached to the Christmas Tree, disappeared together with the Christmas tree, which in turn, took my pride with it. Which was quite impressive since I was sure I'd lost that some time ago (not least thanks to Adrian's National costume day, an industrial scale wind machine and a selection of carnations).

The squid lowered its non-existent eyebrow at Marc as if to say "What are you worried about? What did you expect to happen?"

"Do you know where I could get a couple of those, delivered untraceably to a certain set of establishments?" Zelda asked Marc.

"I guess I'll have to order another tree tomorrow," said Marc, looking at the Saxfed Crystmex tree that wasn't there. And with that another delivery appeared. "I hate paying the extra for yesterday delivery," muttered Marc.

"It's not decorated," I observed, pointing at the newly arrive tree.

"You worry too much," replied Marc, tossing something in the air and in our general direction.

"Mine," shouted Slite, moving very lithely and catching it. "Montsnmags Enterprises Christmas High Speed Decorations Deployment Device, Mark Eleventy," he read off the side of the device (it was rather large). At which point he started waving it about dramatically (I'm a little worried about Slite's fondness for playing with Montsnmags Enterprises toys).

"Please don't point that in my—"

I must admit that I've never had much empathy with a Christmas Tree before. I've thought that they can look very pretty, and do like having them about during the festive season (which, for the record, really should not start more than two weeks before the actual day). Let me explain a few points as to why we should have some sympathy with these trees. First of all, there are the fairy lights. These things can get hot. It is not pleasant having little burns. That can really hurt in some places. Then there are baubles. They're not too bad, but someone thought many-pointed stars are cute. Stars have points. Points chafe, especially when covered in sandpaper like glitter. You can loose quite a lot of skin as you struggle, you know. I'll mention those cute little jiggle bells later. And then there is tinsel. This stuff works itself everywhere. And I mean everywhere. And it ties you up so you feel like a trussed turkey. Pretty, yes. Comfortable, no. (And if anyone knows why my better half giggled when I explained this, please keep it to yourselves.)

Anyhow, after a little while the decorations ran out. If you think I would be happy about this, I should point out that it would be more accurate to say that the decorations tried to run out. Fortunately, I managed to grab hold of the bar before they dragged me too far.

At this point Sam the Jukebox wandered by. He took one look at me, and decided to play Jingle Bells (Sam later told me he nearly played Oh Tannenbaum, so I suppose I should be grateful). Unfortunately the really cute jingle bells decided to play along. I now have a lot of empathy with Quasimodo. I could really have done without that whilst trying to hang onto the bar.

"What on earth is that rumpus?" said Marc coming back out from the office. He surveyed the scene, he wandered over to Slite and pressed a button on the Mark Eleventy, at which point the decorations returned from whence they've ever come. Ever been de-decorated by a Mark Eleventy, a disgruntled Australian and a disappointed Bernese? No? Trust me, you don't want to. Just don't ask about my walk, okay?

"Tree" said Marc, pointing at the newly arrived Christmas tree, to Slite, who proceeded to decorate it. (I must admit, he did a beautiful job; I never realised Slite had such good taste.)

"I need a drink," I said, getting back onto my stool by the bar, and adjusting my (somewhat damaged) clothing. In my defense, I will say that I was somewhat befuddled by having nearly been crushed by a falling metal sheet, eaten by a Christmas Tree, decorated and de-decorated. And so I did what comes naturally, and drank the drink in front of me.

"ODISHDT," I said, and blinked. I was sure that the message I sent down to my mouth said oh dear, I shouldn't have done that. Slowly, I began to put one and one together. The Acronymitis Cocktail. I glared at Marc, and quickly established a vetting committee to check what I was going to say to make sure I didn't utter any naughty words that would get me into trouble, given that I nearly said imbibed rather than done.

Marc giggled. That can be extremely discombobulating.

"INANE," I said (which had originally started out as I need an antidote, now, or else, before it was mugged by the cocktail on it is way to my mouth).

"Yes, you are rather," said Marc continuing to giggle. Which was starting to grate. Fortunately, Mrs Al Paca was trotting in my direction with some more of her Christmas mince pies.

My immediate response was something along the lines of Thank heavens Elspeth, you deserve unlimited Christmas karma for antidote supplies. Naturally, the committee took care in studying this and approved it as non-naughty, forwarded notes off to my memory and other departments, before letting the message travel down the highway to my mouth to get held up and deprived of most of its letters by the cocktail highwayman en-route. Now normally, my self-preservation department (on permanent over-time and a perpetual state of red alert, it seems) should have received a copy and taken appropriate action. However, the day's confusion had resulted in its copy being accidentally delivered to the catering division. Sadly, they ignored it until after lunch, after which they eventually sent it to the correct destination (suitably stained). This arrived in time to do no more than trigger a whole range of ultimately futile threads of consciousness for a few fractions of seconds which, in their fight for supremacy, totally paralysed me from taking any preventative actions. For the record, the threads included:
But I'm safe this close to the bar

• Damn Marc, I bet he had this planned all along
• Strange, Marc, Pshrynk, Zelda, mvisconte and everyone else seems to be, but I'm not. Should I be worried?
• I need to have words with the scriptwriter. Serious words. Delivered with menace aforethought.
• Is it too late to order a suit of plate armour?
• I wonder what the cocktail is doing with all the letters it is collecting.
• Throw yourself to the floor, quickly, you fool!
• Can I request a transfer out of this?
• Oh B—

"THEY DUCK FAS—" I said, and the predictable happened.

THWACK

Thump.

Apparently, in a couple of weeks someone will send me the following security video. Unlike previous one, this one will come with audio. So, assuming you were not present, imagine yourself watching this…

Marc leans over the bar and peers down at the prostrate form of LazyScot, and says, "He never learns."

"I thought they weren't allowed this close to the bar," comments Pshyrnk.

"Revised operating procedures. Been posted for several weeks," replies Marc, gesturing to a grain of sand stuck to the wall by the bar. "It's all in the small print."

Pshrynk wanders over and peers pointlessly at the grain of sand; "God, Marc, you make Machiavelli seem like a four year old."

Marc's gaze looses focus, giving the impression of a pleasant reminiscent. "Ah yes, I remember him," he says, "one of my better students." His eyes re-focus and he looks over at Pshrynk. "Almost as good as VivaldiRules."

"Wait…. What?" says a somewhat startled Pshrynk.

Marc's face slowly shifts into one his poly-syllabic enigmatic smiles.

[zelda_pinwheel]

Originally Posted by mvisconte

Anyway, -- Look here, why do you keep getting me off track!? Retired train-enginee--- oh, VERY punny. A-N-Y-W-A-Y,

Where was I? Well, I told him "Piffle to you! You can go to the Devil!" and he ... disappeared. No, really. He kind of flickered for second, then he said "Speak of the Devil, and his minyan appears" and Poof, he was gone.

See? Here's his book.

well that could have been any number of regulars, not to mention the irregulars.

Originally Posted by LazyScot

Marc's gaze looses focus, giving the impression of a pleasant reminiscent. "Ah yes, I remember him," he says, "one of my better students." His eyes re-focus and he looks over at Pshrynk. "Almost as good as VivaldiRules."

"Wait…. What?" says a somewhat startled Pshrynk.

Marc's face slowly shifts into one his poly-syllabic enigmatic smiles.

I KNEW IT !!!!!!

[mvisconte]

Barkeep... barkeep? You've got a Scot on the floor. Anybody here? I know I saw somebody...

Hey, buddy... can I get you anything?

Zelda! Good to see you, I've been thinking I'm here all alone. Except for the lazyscot. And the ducks. And -- there, did you see him?

OK, I really COULD use a drink now...

Anyway... Zelda, do you know this place opens on both sides of the street? I've been in places that have entrances on both sides of a block, but street?

No, really! I've tested it. I walked out the door, crossed the street to a bar on the other side, went in, and I'm in HERE! This is amazing! Hey, why are there trapdoors in the ceiling? Problems with the tenant upstairs?

I don't remember fountains in here... hold on, I'll be right back. DON'T GO AWAY.

[mvisconte]

OK, now... where are we?

I just left the bar across the street, ran across the street (pretty heavy traffic, by the way), and dashed in this side. And you're here. You were there, and now you're here.

You were there, right?

AHA! There's no scot on the floor in this bar. And no fountains. And... you look... different. HOLD ON! Don't leave!

(dashes out the door, turns around a second later and dashes back).

SEE!? You're HERE!

And there's the scot.

Is he really ok down there? He's mumbling something...

Hey! Fountains!

And ducks!

Do they live here? Ooo! Motor-operated bar stools! This is really a dream, isn't it?

[zelda_pinwheel]

Originally Posted by mvisconte

And ducks!

THWACK !

...they never learn. well, in his defense, he's new around here.

just give him a few minutes, he'll come ar---

ah ! there you are ! feeling better ? how's your head ? quit running around like that, you'll wear yourself out. you really should save at least a bit of strength for the side effects of the cocktails. so how's tricks ? i see you've been admiring the architecture. i find it comes in handy when i unexpectedly have to avoid, say, the occasional stalker ex-boyfriend, for instance. just climb up on this barstool, take it slowly, and let's get you a drink.

[mvisconte]

Ooohhh...

Pshrynk? Whoa... did you see what hit me? I think this headache will last a while.

Where am I? This isn't the lounge, is it? Why am I on the floor, and who's the guy next to me? GREAT SCOT! It's LAZYSCOT. Is he gonna be OK?

Zelda? Wow. Good to see you... you'll never guess, I just had this wild dream. You were in it!

The last thing I remember was this guy, sitting at the bar, reading this book. Interesting looking fellow, quite tall... pointed chin, yellowish eyes, small teeth... you always notice the teeth.

Anyway, I was just kind of looking him over, you know, distrustfully, and he SPOKE to me... nobody speaks to anybody where I'm from until they've been introduced.

Makes getting waited on pretty hard, actually.

I know some couples married with grown children that don't talk -- never been introduced. Anyway...

So, I look shocked... kind of like this (attempted look of surprise and shock, and maybe a little chagrin, with a smidge of vermouth) -- you know, it's kind of hard doing impressions from the floor, can you help me up?

So he says "It's the horns, isn't it? Makes me look demonic. No, no, I know, I get that a lot. Typecast, that's what I am. You don't know me! I could be very trustworthy. You're just letting your petty bourgeoisie attitudes blind you to the potential beauty in a fellow imaginary creature. THAT, my friend, is PREJUDICE!"

Now, the last time someone talked to me like that and said "my friend", I came up several hundred dollars shorter.

I detached his hand from my wallet and moved about a step away. Didn't seem to bother him in the least... kept right on talking. Said something about calling the ICLU on me... I didn't know imaginary creatures HAD a union. Asked me if I'd buy him a drink. Of course, I refused... I don't know him! Besides, I didn't get my own drink yet.

He offered to buy ME a drink, and when I glared at him, he had my wallet again. I hate imaginary creatures, always pulling that appear/disappear/poofing stuff. Hate it, I tell you. I snatched it back, and stuffed it back in my pocket and as I was pulling my hand out, he laughed and had my wallet in his hand again.

"LISTEN," I say, "I'm not a violent man, but if you don't . . . "

Then he points over my shoulder and says "LOOK! A DISTRACTION!"

I kinda turned my head, you know, looking over there, and in the back of my mind, there's this little voice... pretty loud for a little voice -- much louder than my normal ones. "NO!!! DON'T TURN YOUR B---" I had to strain to hear what it was saying, because about then, the floor was trading placed with the walls, and the ceiling was trying to get into the act...

well, the next thing I know is... wait... where's my wallet?

[zelda_pinwheel]

Originally Posted by mvisconte

Where am I? This isn't the lounge, is it? Why am I on the floor, and who's the guy next to me? GREAT SCOT! It's LAZYSCOT. Is he gonna be OK?

meh... i'd say, at this point he's probably pretty used to it. he goes to great lengths to avoid it but somehow it never works.

Then he points over my shoulder and says "LOOK! A DISTRACTION!"

wow ! i never thought of trying the straightforward approach ! usually when i do that i say "look at the size of that cat !"

well, the next thing I know is... wait... where's my wallet?

well, if you're lucky, adrian lifted it from the guy who lifted it from you, so you might get it back. i wouldn't count on seeing any bananas you had in there again though. i'd inquire at the bar if i were you.

[LazyScot]

Originally Posted by mvisconte

It's LAZYSCOT. Is he gonna be 0K?

I certainly hope not! That's almost as chilly as Pshrynk's icebox. Sheesh. Even the idea is cold. Anyone got a hot toddy ready?

[pshrynk]

Originally Posted by LazyScot

I certainly hope not! That's almost as chilly as Pshrynk's icebox. Sheesh. Even the idea is cold. Anyone got a hot toddy ready?

Well, my brother's name is Todd and he gets pretty steamed when we call him Toddy...

[mvisconte]

On the edge of the bar sits a rather large cat... The cat is both large, and green. It's possibly a Maine Coon, but maybe a Martian Dobble. The green isn't just green, but it's glowing, yellow-green -- an irridescent, shining, gloriously scintillating vision, with waves of aqua rippling down it's body like bristles corruscating down a fuzzy-wuzzy catapillar's bulk as it races for the next tasty leaf.

The cat is sitting on a wallet crammed full to bursting with ripe bananas. There is a faint scent of warm bread. And warm nuts.

Floating above the cat is a neon sign... an arrow outline, bobbing and tilting, flashing periodically, pointing towards the cat. The arrow is orange. The arrow is curved, artistically, arching with 1930's pinache, and a dash of cinnimon. Inside the outline, in bright yellow, are words in a single, long, squiggle of gleaming glass. The words read
"look at the size of that cat !"

I went down like a sack of potatoes.

This was starting to get on my nerves, in between the throbbing in my temples. What was it with these distractions.

From the floor came a weak groan, followed by a strained "can I please have a very large gin martini and several ibuprofen?" There was a man lying on the floor. He had recently been dropped, from behind, like a sack of potatoes. More significantly, he had been dropped BY a sack of potatoes.

Don't they usually deliver resturaunt supplies at the kitchen entrance? Don't they usually bring 50# sacks of potatoes on a cart? Don't they usually stop asking questions after the second bodily injury? We may never know.

"Please, try the soup. It's potato." I didn't recognize the voice, but at this point, I didn't recognize anything but the brass foot-rail at the base of the bar. Shiney, shiney brass...

I could feel my eyes start to roll back into my head. Unfortunately, they didn't stop. They spun up, up, over, and back. And under, and up, up, and... my eyes started spinning much like the counters on a slot machine, if slot machines had only two wheels, and if they looked like eyes.

I could taste dirt. I could feel the grit of sand in my molars. I caught a whiff of copper. "Must be French Potato Soup" I thought to myself. I would ask for seconds.

I didn't bother waiting for the drink or the ibuprofen, I passed out. I hoped that I would feel better on the other side, but based on the drums sounding inside my head, I had my doubts.

[LazyScot]

"Nnnnuururgh!" I exclaimed exhausted and desperately on appearing in Adrian's.

"Jamaican Blue Mountain, and here's Mrs Al Paca with the Cinnamon Toast", said Marc plunging a huge cafetiere and pushing it over to me together with a pot of warm milk and a similarly warmed cup and saucer. I poured myself a cup of the life giving black fluid.

"Mmmugh," I said thankfully and eloquently .

"Christmas shopping?"

"nunngh," I replied, shivering in fear at the thought and experience of hundreds of baying crowds grabbing at anything and everything, bloodshot eyes and near deathlike shuffles – it was as if I'd got stuck in a favourite book of Dr Drib.

"Well, maybe you'll like tonight's movie."

"mmmng?" I attempted to ask, since as I looked around I could see no evidence of screen or project, or anything else.

"This is Adrian's" said Marc by way of explanation. I suppose that should have been enough to explain things to me, but it seemed about as helpful as punk rock is to a headache. I put this confusion down to my brain-addled state following on from the shopping. After all, since Adrian's does everything differently, why should showing a movie mean showing a movie?

And with that, the house lights dimmed and the curtains opened. Given that this is Adrian's, however, it meant that there weren't any house lights, no lights whatsoever dimmed and the curtains never moved. After Christmas shopping, my mind really didn't need this complexity.

[LazyScot]

Voice Over: With the coming of the great Christmas shop, many eyes imprisoned in shopping malls turned hopefully, or desperately, toward the freedom of the electronic books. MobileRead became the great embarkation point. But, not everybody could get to MobileRead directly, and so a tortuous, roundabout refugee trail sprang up - Paris to Firefox... across the Plugins and Tabs to the great search engine... then by mouse, or luck, or redirect across the internet, to the Lounge. Here, the fortunate ones through karma, or questions, or a good joke, might obtain liseuses and scurry to MobileRead; and from MobileRead, to the New World of Electronic Books. But the others wait in the Lounge... and wait... and wait... and wait.

An officer of the Great Christmas Shop reads aloud, "To all officers - two mall executives carrying important lisueses mugged on train from the great search engine. Mugger and possible accomplices headed for the Lounge. Round up all suspicious characters and search them for stolen documents. Important."

And all over the usual suspects are rounded up. WetDogEared, who tried to escape by saying he Was Deliberately Excused. It didn't work. Slite attempted to reduce the officers to giggles with his Bad Christmas Jokes – he was thrown into the van with extreme prejudice for infringing Crackers rights.

The camera follows the van as the usual suspects are driven away, and finally alights on a sign that once read "Adrian's" but has been very crudely scribbled over with "Pshyrnk's Café American".

Pshrynk is wandering around in a natural, proprietorial fashion, chatting with the various customers, providing the occasional free drink in exchange for a them booking a session with him. In the background, Sam the Jukebox is playing a selection of music. VivaldiRules enters the bar and wanders over to Pshyrnk.

"Hello Pshyrnk."

"Hello Vivaldi."

"Looking at you here, you'd think you've been doing this all your life."

"What makes you think I haven't?"

"Well, when you first came into the Lounge, I though—"

"You thought what?"

"You're right, what right do I have to think?"

"Why don't you take that line with my scripts?"

"Because you never send them to me until after we've shot the scene. So of course I ad-lib. Not my fault if the parts you play are so easy to upstage." VR sits down. "Too bad about the shopping mall executives."

"They got a lucky break; six months sick leave with company paid psychiatric help."

"You're a very cynical person, Dr Pshrynk, if you'll forgive me for saying so."

"Dr. Pshrynk. I like the sound of that. Indicates the appropriate deference you owe me. I forgive you."

"Then I need a favour from you," said Vivaldi, and he reached into a pocket (which was, admittedly, somewhat surprising given he was a dog), and took out two liseuse. "I want you too look after these for a few hours."

"Who did you bribe for these? Hijack the MR Christmas competition?"

"No, I found them."

"Found them? I don't suppose you know anything about those mall executives?"

"Look, is it my fault if they sit around flaunting their bacon sandwiches. So naturally, I wandered up to them, smiled and asked if they wanted to share. It's just unfortunately that, um, their crown jewels were at the same height as my teeth, that they didn't react well to talking dogs and ran off. So I helped myself to the sandwiches."

"I heard a rumour the mall executives were carrying liseuses."

"Hmmm. Well, I'm sure they wouldn't leave things like that lying around."

VivaldiRules wanders off, and Pshrynk chats with ShortNCuddlyAm for a bit, before telling her go home, and sending TallNHairyDave with her. Then YvanLeTerrible, in a captain's uniform wanders in.

"Hello Captain Renault, I mean Captain LeTerrible, I mean Louis…. I mean Yvan," said Pshrynk.

"Hello Pshrynk. Throwing women away, again?"

Pshrynk studied his drink.

"Well, I thought to inform you, we will be making an arrest. A mugger no less."

"Oh?"

"You won't do anything, um, stupid, will you?"

"Definitely not. Not for that upstager."

"A wise policy."

"I shall have a guest. A Major LazyScot. Of the Shopping Mall. I wish him to see the arrest. And how efficient we are."

"I see. But what brings him here? Surely not just to see a bacon sandwich snaffler arrested."

"No, there is a rumour that MoeJoe will be arriving here shortly. He has chased this man all the way from Paris."

"MoeJoe?"

"That's the first time I've seen you impressed," said Yvan.

"Well, he's succeeded in impressing half the world."

"It's my job to make sure he doesn't impress the other half. He must never reach the world of ebooks. He must stay here in the lounge."

"You think you can hold him."

"Oh yes; he needs not one, but two liseuses."

"Two?"

"He's travelling with a woman."

At this point Verencat arrives, "Sir, Major LazyScot is here."

"Pshrynk, if you'll excuse me? I'll introduce you after this evenings entertainment." and with that Yvan and Verencat headed over to Major LazyScot.

<CUT TO NEXT DAY>

MoeJoe and Zelda walk into the bar, and get taken to a table.

"I can’t see anyone who looks like VivaldiRules. We may have to find another source for our liseuses."

At that point, YvanLeTerrible entered and wandered over to their table.

"MoeJoe? Welcome to the Lounge. May I wish you a pleasant stay."

"I don't intend to stay long. But may I present Zelda."

"I was informed you where the most beautiful woman ever to visit the lounge. This was a gross mis-understatement." There was, it must be said, a loud muttering throughout the lounge at this point.

"Captain LeTerrible, the music?"

"Sam? He's been with Pshrynk since he arrived from Paris."

"Zelda, I'd be careful around Pshrynk. He's well, he's Pshrynk." And with that Yvan left. The couple watched him depart

"I need to find a source of liseuses," said MoeJoe and wandered off to question the more shadier members of the bar (of which there was an ample supply). Unfortunately, most seem to take the matter of liseuses very seriously and it appeared that a few arguments were taking place.

Zelda wandered over to Sam.

"Hello Sam."

"Hello Miss Zelda. I didn't expect to see you again."

"Yes, it's been many years. Play a song from the old days."

"I'm not sure I remember any."

"Play it, Sam. Play the "House of Fun", the Ska classic."

Reluctantly, Sam started playing. He got about five bars into the song before Pshrynk came charging over.

"Sam, I told you never to play that—"

Pshrynk and Zelda see each other, and look at each other.

<At this point we need to have a flash back reminiscence. So if you could just shake your head so to simulate the effect—Ah. I see you still have the rattle when you do that. Have you seen the doctor's about that? No? Oh. Um. Can you try shaking a little more gently? Ummm. That rattle is definitely getting worse, and is very distracting. Okay. Umm. Right. Let's just skip this reminiscence. Suffice it to say that Pshrynk and Zelda have some sort of "history" in Paris that was marked out by a collection of Ska records (that Pshrynk could dance surprisingly well to). It abruptly ended with the arrival of Christmas shopping, cold Winter temperatures and, unbeknownst to Pshrynk, MoeJoe. And you really ought to have your head checked out. It sounds as if something is loose in there.>

"Pshrynk, do you know where I can find some liseuses. I need to get out of here?"

"Even if I have them, why should I give them to you?"

And with that MoeJoe returned.

"So you are Pshrynk?" Pshrynk nodded. "Then at least use one to help Zelda escape the march of Christmas Consumerism."

"And why would you want me to do that."

"Do you think I'm just a figurehead. Some abstract concept only interested in the triumph of an ideal? That all I care for is the victory of my beliefs. Do you really think I could believe all this and not care for those around me? Is it really impossible for you to believe that I might have human compassion. That my beliefs are driven by that and not the other way round. I'm a man. Dammit, I love her and want to see her safe from this insane march of purchasing. And you can do that for her."

"MoeJoe, don’t," started Zelda.

"And why shouldn't I?" interjected Pshrynk.

"Pshrynk, you've got to give us both those liseuses," demanded Zelda.

"Make up your mind, then."

"Look---"

At that point Yvan and I wandered over.

"Major LazyScot," said Pshrynk and MoeJoe together.

"I believe you have two liseuses on you person, Pshyrnk. And you acquired them by, shall we say, nefarious means. Given them to me."

"You don't want me to do that," said Pshrynk.

"Give them to me," I said. And with that Pshrynk reached into his coat and took out the liseuses, and passed them to me. I opened them to check them. On one of them was a single word.

"Duck?" I enquired.

THWACK

"He never learns, does he?" said Pshrynk, who took the liseuses from my unconscious hands and passed them to MoeJoe and Zelda. "Take these and get to the freedom of ebooks.

"Hmmm," said Yvan, looking at my prostrate form. He reached for his radio. "Major LazyScot has been thwacked. Round up the usual suspects."

"This is the beginning of a beautiful kitchen… er friendship," said Pshrynk.

"You're a rank sentimentalist," replied Yvan.

<with profound thanks and apologies to Epstein, Epstein and Koch>

[zelda_pinwheel]

Originally Posted by mvisconte

On the edge of the bar sits a rather large cat... The cat is both large, and green. It's possibly a Maine Coon, but maybe a Martian Dobble. The green isn't just green, but it's glowing, yellow-green -- an irridescent, shining, gloriously scintillating vision, with waves of aqua rippling down it's body like bristles corruscating down a fuzzy-wuzzy catapillar's bulk as it races for the next tasty leaf.

The cat is sitting on a wallet crammed full to bursting with ripe bananas. There is a faint scent of warm bread. And warm nuts.

Floating above the cat is a neon sign... an arrow outline, bobbing and tilting, flashing periodically, pointing towards the cat. The arrow is orange. The arrow is curved, artistically, arching with 1930's pinache, and a dash of cinnimon. Inside the outline, in bright yellow, are words in a single, long, squiggle of gleaming glass. The words read
"look at the size of that cat !"

I went down like a sack of potatoes.

exactly !!!! and you can see how effective that is.

Originally Posted by LazyScot

"Hello Sam."

"Hello Miss Zelda. I didn't expect to see you again."

"Yes, it's been many years. Play a song from the old days."

"I'm not sure I remember any."

"Play it, Sam. Play the "House of Fun", the Ska classic."

"This is the beginning of a beautiful kitchen… er friendship," said Pshrynk.

...or something, anyway (those beautiful kitchens always make me cry !).