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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.
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