THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME FOR A BEER a sci-fi satire by John Patrick Gallagher

56 original color illustrations by Joe Mauro and web-links to 10 songs

 2011 John Patrick Gallagher and Joe Mauro All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any mechanical or electronic means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher and authors, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages. CrimeFamily Publishing 33 Old Field Hill Road #42 Southbury, CT 06488 The characters in this book are fictitious, or reside in an alternate universe. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead in this universe, is coincidence and not intended by the authors.

Table Of Contents
PROLOGUE P.1 Little Stevie Hawking P.2 The Meet P.3 The Party That Killed Christmas PART ONE 1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 1.7 1.8 1.9 Christmas Eve In A String Dimension Near You Mollycoddled Home, Sweet Rudy's Seven Years Previously Dublin, Ireland Gun-Molly Raps Enter Pachuco Back In Time Say Hello To My Little Weed-Wacker Merry Christmas Panties Enter Velvet Vinnie

1.10 The Pig 1.11 Back In Time Atlantic City 1.12 Whinos 1.13 Enter The Capo 1.14 Back In Time Hoboken, New Jersey 1.15 Evil For Dummies 1.16 Panic! Panic!! Panic!!! 1.17 We Wish You The Beeriest 1.18 Hello D'Oliya 1.19 D.C. Dom-Off 1.20 I Wanna Believe In Santa Claus 1.21 86'd PART TWO 2.1 Not So Long Ago The Greatish Escape

2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8 2.9

Partying In A Winter Wackyland Dance With A Dolly When Pigs Fly Angels Who Want To Get High Adventures Of A Teen Terror D'Oliya's 'No Choice' Choice A Man And His Trashbags Molly Blows Boston

2.10 Ice Cave Fever 2.11 When Pigs Attack! 2.12 Back When Jersey Louie 2.13 Back In The Same When Pachuco 2.14 Dreams Of Easy Street 2.15 D'Oliya In The Same When As The Back When Before 2.16 Lounge Lizards 2.17 Beer Run, Rudolph 2.18 Get This Christmas Started 2.19 Rescue Me 2.20 Damn! PART THREE 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 Multiple Universe Transition Devices Rule Home Again, Home Again Keystone Kops Construction Company Santa-tized Don't Whizz Into The Fountain Bathroom Break Gotta Get Warped Secret Weapon Santa Claus Ain't Coming This Year

3.10 Molly Wii-Wiis

3.11 Chuggalugging Again 3.12 I'm Gonzo 3.13 I Couldn't Think Straight 3.14 Once More Into The Breach 3.15 Plan A Launch The Clydesdeer Missile 3.16 Plan B The Santa Trap 3.17 Silent Night Bar Fight 3.18 The Santa Seduction

PROLOGUE

P.1 Little Stevie Hawking

The young woman was about to rip off the smartest man in the world. At this particular time, in this particular string of one of the 11 to the 11th universes, the smartest man was named Little Stevie Hawking. Stevie's intellectual parallel existed in all the known universes. In almost of them, a version of Little Stevie was the Numero Uno Smarty-Pants with the exception of one String. That was the one where the man with fastest synapses and the most efficient neurons was a library-educated grape picker named Manuel Aguilar. Manny was the man who achieved perpetual motion. He discovered it while trying to develop a new strain of Sauvignon Blanc grape, which turned out to very unusual properties normally only found in black holes and reality tv. Unfortunately for Manny and his world-string, the young genius was killed in freak accident. Poor Manny and his world-changing apparatus containing the genetically altered grapes were unaccountably run over three times by six oil tanker trucks and 2,021 more times by the Energizer Bunny. This tragic event returned Professor Hawking the top spot on the Most Smartest list. Up until the Big Epiphany, Hawking's pretty intern had been having a wonderful time working with her scientific idol. She adored him. She even thought his wheelchair ruled. Just listening to Little Stevie speak through his voice box thrilled her. The concepts he came up with were mindboggling. They were so amazing they made her tingly in her tingly places. The best times they had together were when he would chase her around the lab in his souped-up wheelchair shouting risqu equations at her. As an experiment, one evening, she let him catch

her. He found it very inspirational. It was during this particular hands-on experiment that he shouted, "That's it. That's it. That's it," which it was. It was the concept that would dwarf all his other discoveries, theories, theorems, postulates, hypotheses, and limericks. The same CERN Institute scientists who had discovered a new measurement of the antiprotons mass made an unexpected finding in their antimatter "God Particle" experiments. They included it as a footnote in their paper published in the Journal Of Irregular Scientific Movements. Because of the manipulatory inspiration, Little Stevie knew what that footnote meant, and it worried the hell out of him. He worked for weeks extrapolating from the data from the Cern scientists' work. Professor Hawking use of the data not only validated his multiple-universe string-theory, but determined his theoretical work could have real world applications. Real world consequences. Multiple-string, multiple-universe, cosmos-shattering consequences. It was a discovery more dangerous than the splitting of the atom. Atomic bombs could only destroy a world. If engineered to its potential, the result of Hawking's discovery could destroy a billion universes. The Physicist deemed the results too dangerous for anyone else to learn about. "If this got into the wrong hands, it could destroy reality as we know it. Everywhere and everywhen," his voice box vibrated with emotion. Dr. Stevie asked his trusted intern to wipe all of the hard drives in his lab, double erase his emails, shred and burn any hardcopies that might exist, and bring him a triple scotch with no ice. Molly Walsh, his trusted intern, brought him his malt whiskey, but she deemed his work too valuable to completely destroy. The biggest theft of all times and spaces took 90 seconds. The data that could change all the worlds in all the universes was copied to the memory stick so fast and took up so little space, Molly Walsh was also able to copy Hawking's collection of Katy Perry videos.

P.2 The Meet

The meet took place in neutral territory. Or at least that's what Louie thought the young blonde thought. She couldn't possibly know that Louie owned the abandoned brewery on West 30th Street. He didn't know that Molly Walsh had come by last night and wired the place with enough explosives to blow up Cheyenne Mountain. Molly didn't know the gangster had two shooters in the rafters. At least she didn't until she saw them when she casually scoped the room. These local muscle-heads couldn't have shined the Kevlar vest of her lifetime adversaries, the Brits' SAS murder squads. She noted that both of the gym-victims crouched behind big I-beams that were in range of the smaller explosives she'd set. The situation was turning out pretty much as she thought it might. Amateur night. Louis Augustus Como, aka Light-fingered Louie, was dressed in his signature pin-stripped suit, dark shirt with a red tie, red lapel rose, and a Fedora. The mob boss liked it old school. He liked being a throwback to an earlier era, a time when you could give a massacre as a Valentine's Day gift. She could see the mustachioed mobster was carrying. He was. A big tell-tale bulge. The muscular wide-body should have know a .44 Magnum was not close to the most powerful handgun in the world, although Dirty Clinty fans seemed to think so. It was a chump's gun. Can't you pronounce, 'Glock'? Molly had outfitted herself like a silly college girl. She wore a neon orange, deeply scoopnecked, cut-off top with the words "Druids Rule" curved across her braless boobs. The top slipped off the shoulder to reveal a butterfly tat on the top of her pale left breast. She wore daisy dukes to show off the full extent of her long legs and the good sized blue sapphire displayed in her pierced belly-button. She completed the outfit with bright green running shoes with yellow laces. To all appearances a cute, dippy blonde who dressed for the boys.

Louie gave the 5' 6" blonde with a green streak in her hair a good looking over. He wasn't buying the cutesy "I'm just a ditz " look. She was definitely not carrying weapons. Actually, Molly had a wooden Celtic medallion hanging around her neck as if to draw attention to a nice bit of cleavage. It pulled apart to give her a short fire-hardened wooden knife for close work. Her hands and feet were just as lethal as the antique Druid blade her Mutha had given bequeathed her after her untimely death. Molly Walsh was also wearing a bright pink 'Hello Kitty" backpack. You wouldn't think it would hold a Mini-Glock, a sawed-off shotgun, three smoke grenades and her lunch of a strawberry yogurt and a banana. At least Louie had no idea her backpack could hold all that. She also wore an oversized watch. While it looked like a Diver's watch, it was actually a detonator she'd designed herself and had built by the best bomb maker in Belfast. Light-fingered Louie Como pointed his cigar at her. "I've been wanting to meet you." "I thought you might." "But not for the reason you think," said the guy doing an impression of a pin-stripped tank. Molly looked confused. "Not about your man Bruno and the basket cases?" "No, I admire your work on them. Very professional for a kid." Molly didn't reply. This old hood didn't scare her. After her experiences in Belfast, nothing scared Gun-Molly Walsh all that much. But this tough wide-bodied dude gave her shivers. Mob boss Louie Como had a bad rep according to her Uncle Ownie. She didn't think it'd be a good idea to mouth off about being called a kid. Hell, in two months she could legally buy cocktails in the joints she already went into to buy cocktails. If he wasn't after her to collect, or to extract revenge for the losers he'd sent to collect, what did he want? "I read your blog." Molly's pretty face showed surprise. Hardly anyone had read her blog. She had the Google Analytics to prove it, which is why she wrote things on it she probably shouldn't have. She wondered what he'd read. "I like the one about how the Pope stole the Solstice celebration from the Romans and turned it into Christmas." "Not just the Romans. The Vatican and the Church Councils made Christmas out of pieces they stole from every religion that didn't worship cows." "I know, but we Italians were the first, and we had the biggest piece of the action." That was true, so she didn't disagree. She was also relieved. Molly Walsh wasn't what Louie had expected. She looked softer and came off harder. Quietly harder. She was no mouthy college kid trying to weasel out of her debt and a triple homicide, begging to make a deal to put off the inevitable.

"I also read your posts on String Theory." Whoops! "You did?" "Brilliant." "You understood them?" He smiled at her emphasis on the word you. "I didn't completely grasp the equations, of course, but I think I get the basic theory." "If you can really understand them, then when I get home, I think I'll be deleting them." "Too late, Miss Walsh. In my case, anyway. I printed them out. And copied them to disk. Along with some other interesting facts I dug up about the life of the author." "I'm flattered. Would you be wanting an autograph?" "I want my sixty-two thousand, the sixty-two you borrowed from my late unlamented associate, Bruno. But I'm willing to work something out." "Yeah, right," responded the frowning babe. :We can if you do actually have a working String Dimension Controller like you wrote those blogs about." "Don't believe everything you're reading on the Internet." "I don't. I don't believe everything people tell me, either," said the gangster. "A String Dimension Controller? C'mon. It's science fiction," said the young blonde, fingering her watch. "The equipment you bought with my sixty two grand is hardly fiction. And the 190 grand you put in yourself for your experiments, that's not fiction either. Did you make all that money from your gun-running biz while you were at Columbia and MIT, Gun-Molly? " She thought, "Oh, shit." She said nothing. The old mofo had her. He just smiled. "What do you want?" "Sixty two thousand's worth of the action." She didn't say anything, but she took her fingers off the detonator. Louie continued, "And your help with a little project I have in mind."

P.3 The Party That Killed Christmas

Posted by Molly Walsh, January 16, 4:34 am Christmastime wasnt always what it is now. It has changed significantly over the years. The holiday has had its good times and bad. But it has always been a time of rituals, feasting and merrymaking. From way before Joseph and Mary's son picked up his first hammer and saw. The low point of Christmas may have occurred in jolly olde England, when back in 1647, the English Parliament actually passed a law abolishing Christmas, because the holiday had turned into one big orgy. Kinda makes you want to jump into the olde Wayback Machine and dial in 1646 in London to get your jollies in the Party That Killed Christmas, doesnt it? To understand why this particular time of the year is mega-party time, you need to understand the science behind the holiday. Yes, science. In the northern hemisphere, the Winter solstice is day of the year, near December 22, when the sun is at its lowest arc in the sky. It is the longest night of the year. When we think longest night, we might think more time to party. But when an ancient guy with the education of an Oklahoma Baptist cheerleader thought longest night, he thought lets not let this dark night get any longer. Please, Lord, let's not let the sun get any lower. What can we do to bring back the sun? Better do some rituals and make some sacrifices. Yeah, and get drunk, unvirginize some 14 year olds. Yeah, and hope to god when we wake up that the days will get a little longer." They did just that, and damn if it didn't work. The days started getting longer again. Many, many cultures the world over performed solstice ceremonies. At their root was an ancient fear that the failing light would never return unless humans intervened with anxious vigil or antic celebration. Traditions of today such as candles, evergreens, feasting and generosity, are echoes of a past Pagan holiday that extends many thousands of years. And while much of the Christmas culture is Northern European, the Mesopotamians may actually have been first. The Mesops held the first 12-day festival of renewal, designed to help the god Marduk tame the monsters of chaos for one more year. Never heard of Marduk, huh? Back then, he was bigger than GaGa, the Beatles, and Manchester United combined. You don't know Marduk, because his name was outlawed by the Christian Church, which is really no big surprise when you think about it. The Romans called their Solstice Dies Natalis Invicti Solis, the Birthday of the Unconquered Sun. The Roman midwinter holiday which evolved into Saturnalia was both a gigantic fair and a festival. Riotous merry-making took place, and the halls of the houses were decked with boughs

of laurel and evergreen trees. Fa-la-la-la-la la-la la la. Lamps were kept burning to ward off the spirits of darkness. Roman schools were closed, the army rested, and no criminals were executed. Friends visited one another, bringing good-luck gifts of fruit, cakes, candles, dolls, jewelry, and incense. Roman temples were decorated with evergreens symbolizing life's continuity. Processions of people with masked or painted faces, wearing fantastic hats, danced through the streets like it was Gay Priders infiltrating the Macy's Day parade. Does any of that sound familiar? Well, it should. It is what the Church stole from the Romans to make their holiday. In pagan Scandinavia the winter festival was the Yule. Great Yule logs were burned, and people drank mead around the bonfires listening to minstrel-poets singing ancient legends. It was believed that the Yule log had the magical effect of helping the sun to shine more brightly. Now we come to mistletoe. Mistletoe was sacred because it mysteriously grew on the most sacred tree, the oak. Plants were ceremoniously cut and a sprig given to each family, to be hung in the doorways as good luck. The Celtic Druids also regarded mistletoe as sacred. Druid priests cut it from the tree on which it grew with a golden sickle and handed it to the people, calling it All-Heal. To hang it over a doorway or in a room was to offer goodwill to visitors. Kissing under the mistletoe was a pledge of friendship. Mistletoe is still forbidden in most Christian churches because of its Pagan associations, but it has continued to have a special place in home celebrations of middle-aged women wanting a shot at their neighbors' husbands. The Carol of the Bells is based on the Ukrainian carol called 'Shchedryk' which has the same melody as today's Carol of the Bells, but different English words. The word 'Shchedryk' means the 'Generous One'. It refers to the god of generosity, the Dazh Boh, the Giver God, aka the sun. Dazh Boh's feast was on the winter solstice. That, of course is when old Dazh started his return. With the coming of Christianity to Ukraine in 988, the people did not forget their ancient customs; they incorporated them into their new beliefs. To this day Ukrainians sing the "Shchedryk" during Christmas season. No, it did not make it to Western Europe. Who can pronounce Shchedryk except a Ukrainian? Hey, who'd want to? So it is obvious to everybody, but people who make their living out of religion, that to make what we call Christmas, the elements of the pagan Winter Solstice were overlaid with Christian stuff. Thinly overlaid with a manger story. It played because people were already celebrating something a whole lot like it. Somehow along the way, probably because of some Church influence, we lost some of the deep connection of our celebrations to a fundamental seasonal, hemispheric event. In other word, we got ripped off. We lost our cultural heritage. We lost the why of the celebration of the Winter Solstice. Let me tell you about the first real Christmas holiday. Believe it or not, December 25th as a Christian holiday was first decreed in 274 A.D. by the Emperor Aurelian. 274! Since the nonChristians viewed this time as the rebirth of the sun, it made sense for the Church to also mark this period as the celebration of the nativity of Christ. In other words, the Christians stole Saturnalia from the Romans and renamed it Christmas in 247. Christmas as a holiday has stolen more rituals from more religions than politicians have stolen votes. That's not all, elf-lovers. It has escalated from a theft to a con.

Lets talk about the con of Christmas Gifts. The practice of buying large fancy gifts for Christmas Day didn't really get rolling until Macys made the greatest marketing move in history. In 1867, Macy's, the major department store in New York City, stayed open until midnight Christmas Eve. Seven years later, in 1874, they were the first to design their window displays around a Christmas theme. That was the start of the gift-giving craze in America that spread around the world faster than a computer virus. The tradition of presents goes back loosely to the Three Wise Men, who brought gifts of gold, Frankincense and Myrrh to the infant Jesus. Yes, gifts were given, but they weren't anywhere near as central a part of Christmas as they are now. In conclusion, while I am a huge fan of Christmas, I think it is time we returned to the basics, and crank up the volume on what is really a pagan party on the longest night of the year. Saturnalia Rules! Or at least it should.

PART ONE

1.1 Christmas Eve In A String Dimension Near You

I looked up from my paperback to catch Esther's act. Between Googling around, throwing sentences at my blog, and 140 character holiday witticisms at my tweets, I was reading a Louis L'Amour book. One I'd read at least nine times before. Hanky-Panky, a bad-ass acquaintance who'd just gotten out, once told me that L'Amour's Westerns were the most popular books in prison. Hanky said it was 'cause L'Amour heroes were all past-their-pull-date cowboys who started out the books with nothing but a good horse, a Colt 45, and an attitude. The cowboy then proceeded to shoot and kill his way to get the girl with the big ranchero, you know, the American dream. My dream, too, I guess. Esther flailed her little stick arms and kicked her little stick legs like she was being puppetted by a hiccupping meth tweaker trying to hold back a sneeze. Esther called it dancing. The rest of us in the dive bar thought of it more like a self-demolition derby. We all stayed way the heck out of her way. Esther was almost 90 years old and her 86 pound body was as permeated with alcohol as the rock candy in the Rock and Rye bottle that Vickie kept behind the bar for her. One drink and her blood alcohol was over the legal limit, mostly because she didn't have enough blood inside her frail frame to make a Bloody Mary for a vampire. The cute old stick lady in the cute green skirt and reindeer sweater danced alone under the Christmas lights that twinkled only because there was a short somewhere in the wiring. Esther twirled to music in her head more than to the Chuck Berry Christmas tune on the jukebox. There was very little room between the bar and the booths, so it was lucky she was so tiny. Esther scared the recycled beer out of me. If I got up out of my booth in the back of the bar, the chances she'd grab me to dance were up there up there with the chances of a crack addict needing money to get something to eat. Old Esther was happy to dance alone, but she was even

happier to find a partner who could catch her before she fell down trying for a move that was hair-raising as hell, even back before WW2 when she'd perfected it. The times Esther had caught me in her talons, I found out how she liked to swing dance, lifting up my arm and twirling underneath. She had her own style. Freestyle jitterbug. Tai Chi on speed. A spinout its way toward an inevitable hip break. All the guys at the bar had turned and were watching her. You could see the fear in their eyes, even the old ex-con Westies who didn't fear much of anything. All of us were scared that when Esther fell and cracked one of her brittle old bones, Vickie the Bartender would have to call an ambulance and it might slow us down in getting our next round. That was the kind of barflies we were, hanging out in Rudy's Bar on Christmas Eve. Regular Hell's Kitchen people. Working class, yeah, but most of us hadn't worked since before the recession. Some way before. We were semi-retired, semi-employed, semi-hopeless men of leisure looking for a warm place to waste away a winter evening. I knew most of them, by sight at least. Odd-ball characters Damon Runyon would have envied me knowing. Old Westies. Actors, some of who even acted. Dealers. Hookers, pro and prosumer. Unemployed musicians. Songwriters looking for a cut to reinvigorate careers that were never vigorated. Oldsters on SSI who lived to brag on their medical problems. Dudes with handles like Jersey Mike, Little George, Guru, Georgie The Hat, Panama, Gianni Pasta, Ramrod, the Colonel, and the Fartful Dodger. The scurvites of Hell's Kitchen. Men with families who would not speak to them. Men whose only friends were bar buddies they'd known for years without knowing their buddy's last name unless their last name was all they went by. Like me. I was Bogus. Actually it was Patton Lee Beaugus. I'd have liked my friends to call me Paddy, that is, if I'd ever found any. Then theres Dandy the Manager who looks like he stepped out of a Barbershop quartet. I must mention Vickie, the hot barmaid, who remembers my name and remembers what I drink, which is whatever beer is cheapest. Then there was me. Home for the holidays with all my loved ones meaning alone in a divebar in the big back booth with an old Mac Powerbook, my much read paperback, and a cheap brewski. The pretty young blonde was a surprise. How could I have missed her coming in the door? Esther sure hadn't. Esther danced over in a ludicrously provocative way and ambushed the surprised newbie. Esther yanked on the young lady's arm. The girl who was wearing a short fur jacket worth more than the wardrobes of all the customers who'd been in this year, was trying to check her handheld and was seemingly in a hurry. Probably, to use the restroom. Why else would an up-class babe like that choose to be a downscale saloon like this on Christmas Eve? I mean, even if Rudy's had achieved the dubious honor of having been voted New York's best dive bar. Everybody had their eyes on the dancing girls. A girl-on-girl show was what these guys would pay beer money to see. Maybe this particular girl-on-girl was not what they had in mind, but it was as close as it was going to get on this particular Christmas Eve. They seemed to know it. The young babe was dressed for the holidays in a simple white blouse, red mini-skirt, and candycane thigh-high stockings. Yummy. I heard Vickie the bartender yell, "Hey." Vic was flying at Mach 2 toward a guy in a Santa costume who I'd never seen before.

"Put down that money," she shouted. Esther would not let go of her dance partner. I know the feeling. The young lady smiled at the sweet old nut job, dropped her coat in a smooth move, and started cutting the swing dancing with the rock'n'rye-ing octogenarian. The old broad and the college-looking kid were really cutting a rug as Esther sometimes called it when she wanted to sound hep. The young blonde even twirled Esther into a dip, which gave us barflies the biggest thrill since the '69 Mets had won the series. Except for me, of course, being the only Cub fan this side of 7th Avenue. The Santa at the bar tried playing dumb. Like he hadn't put his fake beard over the bar change, so he could glom onto it without anybody noticing. "I only picked up my change." Vickie wasn't buying it. She knew all the tricks, having to deal with the trickiest of the Hell's Kitchen tricksters bent on coming into the gin mill with five bucks and trying to spend eight hours drinking. Even at Rudy's prices, which were cheaper than my old girlfriends, that took a lot of maneuvering. "You picked up Esther's money. She gave me a twenty and her change was right there." Esther and the hottie stopped. The red suited thief tried to make it to the door, but three of the Westies were in his way. They were past their pull-dates, but they still had the flat blank stares that said "We've put down tougher scum than you." These guys had looks that would make a wolf cringe. This phony Santa was no wolf. The old St. Nickalike spun around and sprinted for the back. He almost knocked Esther off her feet, but the young blonde swept our dancing queen out of the way. The young woman's look was almost as hard as the Westies. I started to get up to stop him, but then I thought about how there was nowhere for St. Nick-TheChange to go but the rest rooms and the backyard patio that was closed for the season. And which had no exit. He was dead-ended. I didn't need to do anything, which I what I was good at. If I had thought Vickie needed help, I might have got up and tried to do something. One of my commandments, replacing the ones the evil nuns had taught me, is "Stand by your bar maid." It is my third commandment after "It's five o'clock somewhere." and "You gotta know when to fold 'em." Most of my other seven commandments are lyrics from country western songs. The ones that aren't, well, they probably will be someday. Besides having commandments, I also have a philosophy which is my third favorite tweet, "If you don't play, you can't lose." This philosophy has been so successful that I am hanging out in a dive bar on Christmas Eve drinking cheap beer, eating free hot dogs and Googling "Santa's helpers celebrity nip-slips" on my Mac just in case there were some new Lindsay Lohan posts since this morning. But I digress.

BTW: I digress a lot. It's how my brain has wired since high school when I tried to get high by pouring Annie Greensprings Strawberry Wine into my ear. I suggest you try to get used to them, the digressions, I mean. Anyway, as the St. Nick ran past her, Esther's dance partner deposited Esther on a bar stool, and then moved quickly after the faux Santa. I think she would have kicked the ornaments out of Santa's sack, but she seemed to sense the Westies behind her. She moved out of the way, her nice behind leaning on my table. She glanced back at me and seemed to change her mind about joining the magilla. She jumped right in. I don't expect young ladies to fight like Jackie Chan, but this girl was a bigger klutz than well, even I am. She had been such an elegant dancer. It almost looked like she was trying to get in the way of the Westies, you know, while wailing on St. Nick. I mean, like accidentally head butting Mayo, elbowing T.J. in the gut, and stomping on the Sick Mick's foot. Finally, the Sick Mick had had enough when she inadvertently swung St. Nick around, knocking down his sidemen. From behind, the Mick grabbed her around the waist, or maybe a little higher. He spun her around and out of the action. At least out of fight action. He'd thrown her in my direction. When she stumbled a bit sideways it was directly at me. Face first. She might have hurt herself against the side of the table but she had just enough oomph to launch herself above it. Like a swimmer diving into the pool for a 100 meter freestyle. Only there was no pool. Just me. "Help," she yelped as she came flying in. Hell, I was the one who needed help. She slammed onto the table and into my computer and my beer and me. She managed to twist her body to cradle the computer, but her hand knocked my beer right onto my chest and lap. Somehow she ended up sitting in my lap. "Thanks for saving me," she said. "Uh" I replied. We watched the rest of the fight together. It didn't take long now that the girl wasn't helping. She squirmed excitedly on my lap, seeming to relish watching the Westies deliver Hell's Kitchen justice to the grinchy guy. After the would-be-thief was properly chastised, they dragged him by his red pants the length the bar, slowing only to make him return Esther's cash, and to buy her another Rock n Rye. The guys deposited the red-suited loser in the dirty mushy melt that ran down the Ninth Avenue curb. When the boyos came back into the bar, we all applauded. She was still on my lap, but no longer squirming, but the damage was already done, but I wasn't complaining. "Sorry for spilling your beer on your vest." My beer! My last beer. She'd spilled my last beer! All over me! My last beer splashing my seersucker jacket, red vest and blue jeans. My last beer!

My reflexes tried to make me jump up and head for the bar before it was too late, but she was still atop me. She said how sorry she was as she pulled me out of the booth. She was strong because I'm no lightweight, except maybe mentally. She quickly unbuttoned the three buttons on my red vest. WTF? I was too flabbergasted to speak. She spun me around and yanked me out of my seersucker jacket and vest. I grabbed my belt before she could depants me in front of everyone and reveal the effect of her lap squirming. Nobody noticed us. They were all still cheering the Westies, while the old gangsters gave them an instant replay which looked more like a Three Stooges routine than the WWE. She said how sorry she was again. "The jacket's not wet at all," she said handing it back. She hung the vest up on a hook over the booth like it was a red flag. "Youmustallowmetoreplenishyourbeer." "I, uh" I said articulately. "And I'll pay for the cleaning." I actually laughed. I can't remember getting anything cleaned. Like ever. Laundromated, yeah, but dry-cleaned was not a phenomenon that occurred on my financial astral plane. She seemed to understand without me explaining. "Okay, two beers." I lit up like a Christmas tree being torched by my psycho brother, William. She started toward the bar, then turned back. "Is a pitcher okay?" I grinned like a guy who had just been pardoned. A pitcher would last me to midnight and I'd have reached my goal of seeing one more Christmas morning from my booth at Rudy's bar. Ten in a row. If there were a Hell's Kitchen Christmas Beer Drinker's Trophy, tonight I could have retired it. Maybe my luck had changed! Upon reaching her cute hooded jacket, she reached into the pocket and took out her handheld. She sent a couple of quick texts.

1.2 Mollycoddled
As she was walking back to the booth, I noticed the dancing or the fighting or the flying through the air had unbuttoned more buttons on her blouse than should be unbuttoned. I thought about saying something, but I didn't want to embarrass her. Gentlemanly, right? The pretty young lady, with the too open blouse, was returning with a pitcher when I noticed she was also carrying two pint glasses. Two glasses! The beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated, tasteful, young sex-bomb was going to join me. Join me! This was so mind-blowing, I didn't feel but a single, very small regret about not having the whole pitcher to myself. Except for the babe, it was typical evening in the best dive bar in Hell's Kitchen, only usually without guys in Santa suits, although some of the patron's drinking togs made the Santa outfit look absolutely Wallstreetish. Like Ramrod had these leather chaps and. well, never mind. Okay, so it wasn't all at typical. But that was this bar. Typically untypical. Abnormal was the norm. Odd was better than even. Play was our only work. Uh, and like that there. Another untypical part of the evening was the weather. It was a warm Christmas Eve, after an unseasonably warm day, after a week's snow storm from Nordic Hell. The nice day was a nice Christmas gift from Mother Nature. Of course, from the back booth, I couldn't enjoy it to the fullest. Actually, I didn't really give a care. It think the great outdoors is overrated, except for the backyard patio, which was closed anyway. Before sitting down, the young lady bent over and poured us both a pint. Wow! Then she sat down with me. Me! Sat down right there next to me. I quickly closed my browser before she could notice my research into Santa's helpers nip-slips. She smiled at me. At me!

She sorta smiled at me like she knew me. It was one of those crooked little smiles that if I were under 30 again instead of double that, it would have meant something. I knew from experience that it only meant she needed glasses badly. Or maybe she wanted something. If the latter, that was okay with me. Whatever I have left, pretty young women with shoulderlength strawberry blonde hair, porcelain skin, and pretty legs in pretty short red miniskirts and high black boots can have with seconds. Assuming I could come up with seconds.

1.3 Home Sweet, Rudy's

If I could afford business cards with an office address, itd be Rudys Bar in Hells Kitchen, NYC. Rudys had everything including beers, which were the cheapest in a six hundred mile radius, a restroom that wasnt the cleanest, and hot dogs that were the freeist with mustard. But wait! There was more! I got a free WiFi connection to hook up on the web, and if I timed it right so I get this big booth in the back, I could get a power hook-up, which I need because my old battery lasted about as long as the prayers of an atheist. In addition to all this, if I wanted to go upscale using my EBT food-stamp card, I could walk down the street to the market and bring back a jar of Planters cashews without Vickie or Dandy giving me the evil eye. Rudys was practically heaven for a semi-almost-not-quite-derelict blogger and amateur tv producer like me. I guess because it was Christmas Eve in the early evening, it wasnt as crowded as it usually is with Uppies. You know, the kind of hotshot Upper Westsiders originally from Nebraska and Indiana. Pricks with office jobs and nice apartments who enjoyed slumming at Rudy's. They'd drive out us real customers by ordering expensive drinks and actually tipping in bills. You must know the kind of people I mean, the damn curve breakers in high school. The ones who had dates and marriages that lasted longer than a weekend. But they weren't here now, just us regular day-drinkers extending our holiday celebration into the night. Back to the young lady in the red miniskirt. Her unbuttoning revealed a matching red bra under her thin white blouse. She took a look at what looked like an iPhone or a GPS device, then took a sip of the beer and said, Hi. Thats all she had to say. I said, Yes. Yes? And to what would you be yessing me?

Whatever. I think you are too easy. The easiest, I agreed. Why play hard to get when there isnt that much to get anymore She bent over a bit letting me ogle the lace on her red bra. "Are you executing a task of importance?" she asked. I told her I was just tweeting, although in truth I had just found a new Lindsay Lohan nip-slip to bookmark. I hoped the girl hadn't seen it when she was grabbing it on the fly. No, she couldn't have. Are you like on the internet? she whispered. She smelled a bit like pine. Like a Christmas tree thatd just been watered. "Are you?" Yeah. I wanted to say something really witty and charming. Instead I said, Yeah. The blonde leaned over, rubbed her finger across the top of my Mac, and asked, May I be checking out my email correspondence? Sure. I considered making a comment about the speed of my hook-up and the size of my ram. I resisted, as neither is any more impressive than my other attributes. She bumped what looked like an iPod onto the side of the Powerbook like she expected something to happen. Nothing did. Maybe there were computers that could transfer data on a bump or an incantation. Mine couldn't. I was blue-toothless, "Doesn't your iPhone get email," I asked. "This? It's not an iPhone. It's a wee bit more specialized." "Really? What's it do? "It's an inter-dimension parallel universe, time and space locator with an app for multi-target acquisitional GPS adaptable to the current string. And a transporter. It's called an iMust." I laughed. She smiled. She had a nice smile. "It also plays compressed audio files." "You mean mp3s?" She frowned as she scoped out the bar as if to determine where she was, "Ah, you are correct." "It also has the apps for weather, locations of every pub in this world that is a nexus of improbability, and the current status of Santa's delivery schedule," she said. "Don't want to miss him." I smiled at her joke what I thought was a joke. She sat down at the booth and gave me a bit of a hip bump to move me over although it was a booth of a size that could hold a basketball team. I love this bar. Of course, other than Vickie, the bartender, there werent that many pretty ladies to get hip-bumped by, and I only got hip-bumped by Vickie in my fantasies, although she once hit me in the face with a bar rag.

I watched the hip-bumper as her fast fingers frolicked over my keyboard. Okay, maybe she just typed. In my imagination what she was doing went at least as far as frolicking fingers. Not a lot of me is still working, but my imagination was as good as it was at twelve. The old Westies at the bar were giving me a number of different looks, ranging from curious to nasty. I assumed Mayo, T.J., and the Sick Mick would sell the wheelchairs they stole for their mothers to buy this babe a drink. I gave them one of my patented shit-eating grins that makes people want to pound me into beer soaked sawdust. From their looks, it sure 'nuff worked. The babe's email name seemed to be Gun-Molly. Yes, I peeked. So, Im nosy. At least I didnt spend the whole time checking out her red half-bra. Yes, it was half a minimal amount of silk, and the other half was a generous amount of her. I was so gentlemanly, I barely glanced at the soft pale skin that was showing between her red-striped stockings and what dreams are made of. At least my dreams. Molly's email must have been good news because sighed a big sigh, which drew my attention once more to her red bra, which was really improving my Christmas spirit more than the shortedout Christmas lights strung around the bar. Hey, I know Im a dirty old pervert-derelict-barfly. I believe that having dirty thoughts, especially those not expressed, are one of the perks of being a pervert-derelict-barfly of a mature chronological age, if not a mature mental age. She looked at me like the malleable sucker I am, and asked if she could download some files, which she said might take a "bit more of my computer time". Take all the time you want. It was a perfect Christmas Eve. No family to bug me asking insidious questions like how/what/why/who I'm doing. Or when I'm going to pay them back. No friends to buy presents or drinks for. Just me and pretty stranger wanting to download something on my old Powerbook. I felt like there must really be a Santa Claus, and he'd got to me early. I was glad the young lady was downloading a rather large number of large files. For the first time, I wished Rudy's had a slower internet connection. "Is your download important?" I asked. She looked like she was thinking about what to tell me. Only to me. And to the.. uh group." She hesitated. "I recorded a rap break for a new Christmas carol, and I have yet to hear it mixed. Youre a rapper? I asked. I'm still finishing my doctorate, but I guess I am a singer-rapper, too. Oh, sez I, in my most non-committal manner, I dont know too much about gangsta rap. Were more gangster than rap. A truism I didnt fully appreciate at the time. "Have I heard of you?" "Not yet. Our leader Louie, he believes in aliases," she answered like it was a secret. "And in selling out from the beginning. It's his philosophy. BuddaBings is the name we want to use to score a deal with Budweiser, because Louie has contacts their from his distributor franchise. We've also got versions where we punch in the MillerLites, the Colt 45s, the Adams Family, and the Coke Fiends, which I don't think works all that well. Vinnie says we'll get Bass, and have to be the Bassholes, but that's Vinnie, always looking at a glass that's half full and saying the bartender probably spit in it."

I didn't understand a word, but she had great green eyes. "My worst nightmare is being one of the Heinies. The PartyMob works best for me, even if it doesn't be getting us a sponsor." "Yeah, the PartyMob," I said. I've learned that when you don't understand something, you just repeat a part of what was said. Then the speaker won't be able to tell how gormless you are. At least that's what I think, but how would a gormless guy like me know? "I think I should get my coat," she said rising from the booth. This was a good idea in that leaving something unattended in Rudy's is not the best move, given that some of the riff-raff are even riffier than me. A few even raffier. When she headed for her coat, I noticed that it her download was almost complete. That's when I accidentally hit the power key with my elbow as I reached for my beer, which actually isn't as easy at it sounds. When she returned with a cute little white fur jacket with a hood, I noticed no one had spray painted 'Animal Murderer' on the back of it, so she couldn't have been in NYC that long. I said, "Gosh, I'm sorry. We have to reboot." She just smiled at my blatant dishonesty, as if she approved of it. I stuck out my paw. My name is Paddy. Molly. She offered no last name. What? Do you think women in New York City give their last names to strangers as strange as me, even in the best dive bar in Hells Kitchen? I glanced at my Macs screen. Still rebooting. Cool. What are you studying? a lame opening I used to use ineffectively back in the last millennium. At least it was better than 'what's your sign?' or 'do you come here often?' or 'didn't I abuse myself to your photo on the cover of Maxim?'. I am reading theoretical physics," she said. My eyebrows made a question mark. Well, not an actual question mark. If my eyebrows could do that I'd be the favorite on America's Got Talented Eyebrows. Her face became animated. "String Theory is quite interesting, don't you think? All the dimensions and possibilities. As you might have guessed, this was not a conversational gambit I could field. I wondered if it was true, or she used it as a conversation stopper. I tried to think of another conversational grabber beyond, "How long have you been out?" That one served me pretty well with the other customers in the bar, at least the ones I hadn't seen for a while. I didn't think she was from around here. She didn't seem to speak Hell's Kitchen English, that's for sure. She hadn't said 'fuck' once. "Uh, you're not from around here, are you?" I queried. "Yes and no," she answered with a smile.

I liked her smile.

1.4 Seven Years Previously Dublin, Ireland

Fourteen year old Molly Walsh was smiling as she waited in the cold Dublin rain for the explosion. The six fires she'd set had already evacuated the building. The Fire Brigade had not yet arrived. They were stuck in traffic on O'Connell Street, a traffic jam caused by a queue of over 100 cars outside Paddy's Public House which just happened to be serving free Guinness. It was a traffic tie-up the teenage freedom fighter had orchestrated with the same expertise she'd used to set the fires, evacuate the building, and now. The explosion broke windows for six block around the Great Britain Nosh Factory. GBNF specialized in pub fare like Steak and Kidney pies, Toad In The Hole, Curried Kipper, and Jellied Eels. Brit food so bad, it deserved to die. As she ran from her cover behind the rubbish bin, she was spotted an officer of the Garda, the Dublin police who are considered by the Irish to be the enemies of all good men. She couldn't help herself looking back on her handiwork. She'd done a better job this time. She'd learned that what was important was to obliterate all the supports and let gravity have the rest of the fun. Explosions were both an art and a science, and Molly Walsh had worked hard at both. The building came down exactly as she's planned it. Straight down. Not a brick crashing into the Church of St. Brendan next door, which didn't matter as much as Michael McThurkell's Pub on the other side, the destruction of which would have been a sacrilege. She'd taken out some stained glass windows in the Church, but it was nothing compared to what the church had done to her people. The food factory destruction was fine, textbook in fact, but the policeman saw her bright red hair and her freckled face as clear as the big letters in the Book of Kells. "Stop!" yelled the Garda. Molly didn't stop. She had only thirty feet to get to the door that was her planned getaway. She slipped on a discarded piece of pineapple pizza laying in wait like a claymore mine. It lay submerged in a puddle two steps from the door. She flopped on her skinny bottom. She twisted around and started to crawl toward the door. The Garda reached out. He had her foot. With her other foot, she unleashed a kick that put the shocked policeman on his back. Molly made the door on her hands and knees. She slammed it behind her. She was shaking as she clumsily locked the three extra locks that would keep out anything but an RPG. She'd gotten away. But she'd been seen, which meant she hadn't gotten away at all. Red-headed, freckle-faced Molly Walsh had a record a rather long one for a 14 year old. The authorities would know who she was, where she lived, her record for violence, and probably the number of lads to whom she was a near occasion to sin. As a child in Dublin, Molly Walsh had been a prodigy. While she did well in school, her status a prodigy lay elsewhere. In mayhem in general, but bomb-making in particular. Not that her fighting skills were anything to ignore as a many boyos acting the maggot had found out. She worked her way through grade school as a runner. Both of her parents were killed by the Brits in a thwarted attack on a British Brewery in 2004. It was a brewery which had the audacity

to brew Guinness in London and call it an English beer. While her parents died patriots, their work did not go unnoticed. The London brewery closed in 2005. The messages Molly carried were important to the IRA. Unless there was a package that she couldn't open because it just might send her on a one way trip to Druid heaven, Molly carried the messages in her head. She could memorize the schematics for the most intricate explosive device, fail safes, arming mechanisms, remote controls, and breakthroughs in modern brewing equipment. At the other end of her path she could draw the schematics like she was an AutoCad. The young Irish patriot excelled in Math, Bomb Making and Gaelic at St. Grimonia School. The Menscoil was also an IRA training facility where she studied hand-to-hand combat and Irish dancing. Her missions made it critical that she be safe as she traveled the streets. She was. Anyone who bothered her would find themselves on the ground with Molly doing her favorite number from Riverdance on their faces. Now, she had to leave that all behind.

1.5 Gun-Molly Raps

Can I hear your song when it downloads? She turned a color red that went neither with her mini-mini, the stripes on her thigh-high striped stockings, or her bra. She nodded, not quite gulping as she did so. The last shy young woman in New York City. I liked that. "It's just the rap section of Chuggalugga Christmas." That made no sense to me, so I ignored what she'd said. A lot of things in this world make no sense to me, so I ignored most of what was going on around me. I listened to Molly's Rap on the headphones I carry around just in case I find a lost iPod looking for a loving home and a man who would appreciate it. We made our move on the holiday groove. Yeah, the BuddaBings now own Christmas! Say u want a tree? U gotta go thru me. U wanna hit the mall? Yeah, we stole it all. So we make it clear, if you like reindeer, You gotta buy them horny flydeer here. Christmas anything, stocking, card or bling. Budda, budda, budda, budda, budda bing bing.

She watched my face like she cared what I thought. "That was good." "You really think so?" I looked into her big green eyes and nodded. "You need to audition the entire composition to be completely understanding it." I liked it. Of course, I would have told her it was good if it were atonal Rap Opera in Swahili built on truck engine loops and samples of Homer Simpson farts. As I glanced around, I noticed the old bad-asses at the bar were giving me dirty looks. Eat your hearts out, bar scum! It was such a wonderful Christmas Eve. So far, nobody had tried to get me to pay back a fiver theyd lent me in a moment of weakness. Nobody wanted to punch me out. Not yet, anyway. The blinking Christmas lights were giving the whole crummy dive bar a feeling of the days of the Lemon Drop Kid and Dave the Dude. Even the red duct tape on the vintage plastic seats made the booths looked festive. It was too good to last. .

1.6 Enter Pachuco

Suddenly, this tall dude in a pork-pie hat was standing there, frowning down on Molly and me. Even if I didn't notice the wet pork-pie hat or the flat stare he was giving me, he would have been hard to miss, considering he was wearing a fluorescent yellow rain slicker dripping with rain. I couldn't see the front widows from the back, but I didn't think it had been raining. This dude's slicker was even brighter than the slickers they gave us patrol boys back in the day when I'd try to get the cute girls to pay a toll in kisses for me to help them across the street. I flashed back to the punishment session, getting lectured by the principle and losing my patrol boy gig. I think that was what warped me for life, and not the incident with the school nurse and the rectal thermometer, as my court-appointed shrink had once suggested. Howsitgoin, Pachuco? my cute new friend said brightly. "Walsh," he answered in a flat voice. She checked her handheld. "You're right on time." "Lucky. There was a tornado on 8th Avenue." "MoNat," said Molly. The big dude looked around, checking out the joint. His head didn't really move much, but his eyes moved like lasers. His expression gradually took on the kind of look people who are comfortable in the Oak Bar get when they step into something something like Rudy's. "Louie?" he asked. "Not yet," answered Molly.

"This place? Really?" " 'Tis." "Back there?" he nodded toward the back door to the patio. "Yes, but not yet. We have to transition later." As I looked closer, I noticed his yellow slicker had subtle matte yellow images on it. They were funny cartoon line drawings of Ren and Stimpy, Pinky and the Brain, and Homer Simpson squeezing the pee out of Sponge Bob. "Him?" he nodded my way. She introduced us. "Pachuco. This is Paddy." He nodded down at me without reaching out a hand to shake. "Hey," I said in my friendliest suckupiest manner, the one I use on a new acquaintance who might buy a round before discovering it is against my religion to buy the next one. "Number 7?" the tall guy asked. "I was number 7 in Little League. Same as Mickey Mantle," I said proudly. She said holding her digital device toward him. Holding the device toward him, she said, "His gradient for unexpected, incongruous actions splashes off the charts." He ignored the device, leaned over, and got in her face. He spoke slowly, like people often speak to me. "Going into an op with the right personnel is critical." She shoved her face into his, "I know. This is my operation." "Louie's." Molly was not intimidated. "If you say so." Maybe Gun-Molly Walsh was not intimidated, but I was. You might wonder how a person like me can get intimidated by a dude with a yellow patrol boy slicker with pictures on it of Ren farting. The answer is everything intimidates me. Not just smart women, pretty women, young women, big ass-kickers, ex-cons, or washroom attendants in hotel restrooms where I'm not registered. Everything. Pachuco didn't want to let up on her. He said as he removed his slicker without turning his back to her, "I come across strings, back from where I'm dead, and you want to risk it all on a barfly, right?" I wanted to say "I resemble that remark," but I found that humor built on the Three Stooges classic lines sorta kinda lower my credibility when I have a shot at borrowing money. Although if this dude appreciated Stimpy humor and knew all the words to Happy Happy Joy Joy. Molly said, "Back off. You are out of your league on this, gunny. This is the string. This is the place. Back there is the East Poll. This is The Guy. And this is the key transitional device." she said pointing to my Mac. It's already loaded.

When the dark skinned stud with the pencil thin mustache took off his slicker he looked like some kind of time-warped dude from the Zoot Suit riots. Well, in this bar, maybe his purple pinstripped zoot suit wasn't that out of style, although, it might have been more appropriate in one of the gay bars up the street. He just shook his head. Molly said, "Don't worry." He shook his head again. "That's my job." They stared at each other. "That's why Louie brought me in." he said. Molly seemed to accept that. She turned to me with such a pretty smile, I almost melted. "Pachuco is our music producer." He glanced over at me, "Play an instrument?" "I play the beer bottles." They both gave me stunned looks, the kind of looks that I've gotten used. So many people have looked at me that way so many times over my long career as a genius nobody understands. "Xylophonically." They still didn't get it. I explained, "You drink down the beer in like 7 bottles until the beer is like all at different heights. So they have different tones. You play them with a couple of spoons like a xylophone. Or if you want to go an octave down, you can do it by blowing into them like a 7 piece jug band. Before they get warm, you drink them all, and make a new instrument. If you buy me 7 beers, Ill show you. There were no moves to take me up on my offer. Once again, my beer xylophone scam had failed. "Really, Walsh, you want this seersuckered beer-sucker as our go-to guy?" asked the big Pachuco. I came very close to speaking up. Insult me or my mother, but not my one good piece of sartorial splendor. I know my seersucker jacket was way cool, even if nobody in Rudy's Bar seemed to. I thought it was like festive for the holidays. I got my seersucker for only four bucks at the Salvation Army because it was after Labor Day. For a measly four bucks I could take it home without even trying to stuff it down my pants when Captain Masterson wasn't looking. It even sorta fit, if I wore it unbuttoned or pulled in my beer gut. As long as I kept it on, nobody could tell I'd repaired the ripped lining with duct tape I'd borrowed from the sticky vinyl seats at Rudy's, or that my blue t-shirt had a mustard stain that resembled the state of Texas. "Sergeant, 'tis my call." "Little girl, Louie was the one who asked me into this op. We're partners." "You were back when, too, until he shot you in the gut, then smoked a Cohiba as you bled out," said Molly softly. The big guy was trying to stay cool, but not doing a very good job of it.

"Partners until on your string, you took his head off with your weed-wacker," Molly said turning away from him and towards me. Weed-wacker??????? Pachuco didn't like what she'd said. He reached over and grabbed her by the shoulder to turn her back. When she turned back to him, she wasn't smiling any more. I looked down from her pretty face at her pretty stripped stockinged leg which she had lifted up onto the taped up booth seat. It made her little red mini-dress show about as much pale thigh as possible. A very nice thigh it was. And her panties were all pink and Christmassy. What I didnt notice right away, busy admiring other things, was that in her pretty hand was wrapped around a small strange-looking gun that looked that had suddenly appeared out of her high black boots. She put her hand on my shoulder. This is my op, Pachuco. Mine. After noticing her sc-fi gun, I could see why she picked her email name as Gun-Molly. It didn't seem as cute, now, somehow. "Aren't you pushing this a little far, a little fast, Walsh?" "I don't have time to dilly-dally or we'll miss our next window," she answered. The tall dude, who was still standing over us, opened up the long zoot-suit coat. Hanging inside his long jacket was some kind of stick. Maybe it was another sci-fi weapon. No, it looked more like the weed-wacker, Molly had mentioned. Wow, that was the coolest weapon in Rudys since the Sick Mick had turned his electric shaver into a taser and tested it on Rammy's dog. Then he used it on Guru Jonz when the poor guy fell asleep on the bar, which is a 'no-no' even in Rudy's. I mean sleeping on the bar is a no-no. Not tazing a guy for cause. I couldn't believe I was seeing a weed-wacker. And it had a big blue sapphire on the end like at the end of a sword. What the hell kind of person carries a weed-wacker like it was Excalibur?

1.7 Back In Time Say Hello To My Little Weed-Wacker

Luke Skywalker's light saber. Indiana Jones' whip. Pachuco DellaVega's weed-wacker. Great heroes. Legendary weapons. Luke received his from Obi Wan. Indiana discovered his signature whip while trapped on a circus train inside a railroad car full of one large perturbed lion. Pachuco discovered his weedwacker when he was on punishment duty from the last time he was almost thrown out of the US Marines. After high school, when his smarter, richer sidekick Louie went off to college, Pachuco looked at his future and saw only prison. Nobody was hiring. His Dominican father could not hook him up with a job as a janitor. The cleaning company Alejandro DellaVega worked for was laying off. His Dominican mother couldn't land him a job as an office cleaning person because what company would invite a 6'3" Mexican/Dominican with a juvie record to roam their offices at night? Pachuco should have gone to college like his best friend Louie. Unfortunately, he did not receive the baseball scholarship he'd hoped for because of his juvie record. The boy's hardworking immigrant parents didn't have the bread to give him bus fare. He was screwed. His future found him at 3 am sitting on his parents couch watching The Magnificent Seven, a film which couldn't even find Mexicans qualified to play Mexicans. They'd rather cast a Jewish dude as the Mexican bandit leader. The Mexican good guy was an actor named Horst Buchholz, for god's sake. Life sucked. Nobody wanted Mexicans. Or Dominicans. Or Latinos from anywhere. He took another hit on his doobie as the commercial came on.

The Few, the Proud, The Marines. Yeah, baby! The place to go to see the world and shoot people while getting paid for it. The only time Americans wanted to see a Mexican-American with a gun was in uniform. Pachuco found a home in the USMC. He rose to the rank of Gunnery Sergeant, a classification which isn't so much about guns as serving as the operations chief of a 180 man company. The position was known throughout the Corps as the hands on disciplinarian. Sergeant Pachuco DellaVega was perfect. With only 90 days remaining in his three tours of duty in Bush's Sand Wars, Pachuco committed a few minor infractions which did not bring honor to the 2d Marine Division. The charges against him should have resulted in an Article 15. But on the Commander's whim, he was spared a dishonorable discharge. He wished he'd had his old sidekick, Louie, to help him set up the store for things you can't get at the PX. Louie would have figured out a way to make it pay better. If they had been together, they wouldn't have got caught. At least, they had never had been. Pachuco was sent back to Camp Pendleton and put to work policing the yard. Picking up gum wrappers. Cutting the grass. Pruning bushes. And yes, weed-wacking the enemy weeds that had infiltrated the perimeter and established a forward position up against the sides of buildings. He knew the weed-wacker was for him the first time he had it in his hands, lopping off the heads of the dandelions like he was strafing a bunch of unfriendlies with his SAW. The weed-wacker felt better than any pistol he'd ever held. Better than the switchblade that he'd carried since second grade. It felt better than the throwing knife the Corps had trained him to use. Better than the grenades which he could throw farther and more accurately than any man in his battalion. The only things that felt better involved skin and members of the opposite sex. He practiced until he could use it to shave the mustache off a wise-ass in a bar. After DellaVega left the Corps, he'd spend some time testing numerous heavy duty wackers. He chose one made by the same company that manufactures chain saws. He thought it prophetic. His Stihl weed-wacker was perfect. It was so heavy duty, it could cut through a baseball bat being swung by an angry bartender. It fit on a strap under his long coat. He could draw it faster than a hip-hop artist could grab his coke spoon. When he demonstrated it on someones tie, their iPhone, or the paperwork on their desk, people just naturally listened. And agreed to whatever offer Pachuco decided to make them. It was like popularity and power on a stick! A man and his weed-wacker. What could be sweeter?

1.8 Merry Christmas Panties

Watching the tension build as Pachuco and the girl were about to go Mano a Molly-o. I felt like I was watching a gunfight staged by Tim Burton in a spaghetti western. "You really want to play Blood Bath right here? Right now? asked the big zoot-suited dude with his hand on his weed-wacker. Would you really like experience the internal joy of having your hydrogen molecules separated from your oxygen molecules in zero point two nanoseconds? I didnt know where to look. This Pachuco dude looked mean. His weed-wacker looked mean. Even his little mustache looked mean, belying the 'Happy Happy Joy Joy' on his slicker. Mollys eyes were hard. Her Spaceballs gun was hard. Her thighs looked soft above her black boots and red-stripped stockings. By raising her leg onto the seat to pull her gun out of her boots, I noticed her pink cotton panties seemed to read 'Merry Christmas' in very small letters because they were very small panties, indeed. As their staring contest continued in silence, being of a literary bent, I tried to see if there is any more writing on the panties. Mom had taught me a gentleman doesn't stare. I must have shown my gentlemanly side by looking away at least six or seven times. I think Molly noticed me noticing, but she turned her head back to stare down the big guy, without changing her position. She was my kind of woman. Uh, I lied. Normally, my kind of woman is falling down drunk and has already taken her teeth out. WTF had I got myself into? Here I was nicely beered up in a Hell's Kitchen bar on Christmas Eve caught between Mr. Weedwacker and a young lady possibly even more wacked, even if she was damn cute. "I think maybe I'd better go," I said closing my computer. "I think I forgot to lay out the milk and cookies for Santa." "I don't think so," said Pachuco, not taking his eyes off Molly. "Clydie is bringing all the milk and cookies Santa will ever need." He drew the weed-wacker out like it was a sword. She sweetly asked him if he wanted his epitaph to be, "The chancer died with his weed-wacker in his hand?"

1.9 Enter Velvet Vinnie

That's when the singing began behind Pachuco. "It's the most wonderful time for a beer." The Singer was a short dapper dude standing on a beer keg, which almost made him as tall as Mr. Weed-Wacker. He was not only singing, he was semi-subtly recording himself on this iPhone while he serenaded us and the rest of the bar. With all the stores selling, and ads that are telling you 'Buy that crap here!' He seemed to be singing his song to a Christmas tune I think was called the 'The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year'. It's the most wonderful time for a beer. The adversaries seemed taken aback. They seemed to realize that a bar fight with a weed-wacker against a sci-fi pistol was not the best way to spend Christmas Eve, assuming they didn't want to get arrested. Or dead.

It's the hap-happiest season to drink. All those holiday greetings at crowded bar meetings with people who stink. It's the hap - happiest season to drink. I thought he had a point there. There'll be parties to go to with chicks who wont know you. And upchucking out in the snow. There'll be slush in your new shoes and memories of bad news From holidays long, long ago. Our singer was a short dapper citizen in a Frank Sinatra hat wearing a tux with a white silk shirt sporting sapphire studs. The tux material was too expensive and much too well cut to belong to a waiter, waiters being this bar's usual tux-wearers. It's the most wonderful time for a beer. There'll be no mistletoeing with babes who are glowing When girlfriends are near. After digesting his lyrics, I thought this short dude could sure benefit from some happy pills in his Christmas stocking. And I just happened to know an importer at the other end of the bar who could provide them along with other recreational stocking stuffers. It's the most wonderful time for a beer! Everybody in the bar applauded. We weren't used to singing unless it was by atonal drunks loudly wailing along with the jukebox singing 'I Love This Bar' or 'Assholes' which is the bar's theme song. "Merry Christmas," said the little singer to the three of us. I noted that while Gun-Molly had put her gun back in her boot, she was keeping her leg up on the seat in case she needed to make a fast draw. At least, I thought that might be the reason. I didn't really care why. Nobody had answered him. He repeated Merry Christmas, in a mellifluous voice.

I wondered if his Merry Christmas meant he was reading Molly's panties, or if he was just in a holiday mood. Have I missed anything? he asked. "Not if you can read her panties," I thought, but didnt say out loud, trying as usual to act like a gentleman, even if Im not. It's an ongoing problem I have. I always seem to be in the middle of two sides of my brain fighting with each other over philosophy, morals, and which side of me was manic and which depressive. "The scientist and I were just discussing relative ranks and responsibilities," said the tough guy in the zoot suit. "I don't know about this joint," said the short dude sitting down at the table. "Didn't you see the name on the door?" asked Molly. "Rudy's? Yeah, prophetic. Will Red Suit and Horny be stopping in here for an after-work drink?" "It's my favorite bar," I volunteered. Not volunteering that it was the only one of two bars I could afford to drink in.

1.10 The Pig

"Did you see the Pig guarding the door?" asked Molly like that was proof of something. The Pig in front of Rudy's is a six foot two ceramic statue that is kind of a symbol for something I never quite figured out, although us regulars pretty much identify with it. The Pig wore a ceramic red jacket, buttoned high, and a spiffy black bow tie. I heard this was how the old timey bartenders used to dress in NYC's more elegant saloons. None of us regulars in Rudy's Bar dressed as well as the Pig, well, excerpt for me when wearing my seersucker on special occasions like tonight. I love Rudys Pig because every summer a bunch of touristy cuties take one look at it, stop in their tracks, then want to get their picture taken with it, sometimes in semi-erotic positions I didnt think possible. I like to rush outside to volunteer to push the button. Sometimes, I had such much fun playing photographer and director, I didn't even try to accidentally drop their camera or iPhone into my pocket. "It was just some kind of a statue," replied Pachuco. "It didn't say a word to me. It wasn't even checking IDs or doing body cavity searches." "I know that disappoints you, Sergeant," she said. "Your judgment in picking a krewe disappoints me, Walsh." "You are doubting me and my abilities? After my String-Controller pulled you out of your downhill existence. We have completed six transitions already, every one bringing us closer to fortune and glory." Pachuco was not convinced. He turned to the short guy. "Our number 7 is this old winehead.

Beerhead, I said, defending myself automatically. I mean, anybody whod drink the wine in Rudys has to be a tourist who went the totally wrong way from Times Square, or a bonehead far goner than I am. The beer is cheaper, anyway. The little dude raised an eyebrow at the blonde. She nodded. I just finished using Paddy's Powerbook to download the data for this String. Geez, she remembered my name. That was really impressive since I rarely remember it, myownself, after 10 pm. Molly took it for granted that she could continue to use my computer. I had no objection. If I were more sure, I wouldn't get caught in a cross-fire I could have enjoyed the excitement. The only excitement we usually have is when somebody objects to being '86d or the Westies give the dude some help to find the 9th Avenue curb, like the red-suited thief. Even without the guns and weed-wackers and guys singing Christmas song with strange lyrics, this was the most exciting thing to happen to me since a hot actress named Willie Jean got carpet-bombed and insisted I drink shots of tequila out of her belly button to prove it was concave it was after her tequila diet. The most exciting part of that night of wonder was that Willie Jean bought the tequila. "I ran into a snow storm on 42nd Street," said the little guy. "Fucker turned into a raging hail storm a block away." Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas' started playing on the juke. I'm a bit psychic that way. The jukebox underscores my life. Mostly, the sad songs though. What else would you expect? "It's gonna be a bad mutha. Real bad. The weather, I mean," said Vinnie sitting down on the other side of Molly. "Bad? Bad is good. A whiteout is what we'll be needing." said Molly, again checking her handheld. "Did you scope out this dimension?" asked the little dude. "Man, it sucks worse than the Gumby one." The big dude shook his head. "Yeah, it's like a metaphysical desert." "It's been that way since Disney took over Times Square," I said. "Fucked, I knew it," whined the short dude. This was not a chap with most positive attitude I'd ever encountered, even among me and the other Eyores in this hang for New-York-class go-fuck-yourselfers. "No Toontown. No talking sponges. They don't even believe in the Easter Bunny here." "I do," I said, hoping to be humorous. "Have you seen E.B.?" asked Molly. "Only on tv." Actually, I didn't believe in anything except death and taxes. I'd avoided taxes by going underground years ago. I have some plans about cheating death that I can only divulge to people buying me beers. So I guess I don't believe in much of anything at all. "How about Santa? You seen him? asked Pachuco. "Try the Macy's Parade," I suggested.

Both the tall guy and the short guy looked like I'd let loose with a silent but deadly. We were in the biggest booth in the joint. It didn't matter. I felt a little boxed in, especially by Pachuco who was still standing over us. On the other hand, uh thigh, Molly was pressed up against me. Youd think a man of mature years like me would not get excited be a little elbow tit. Well, youd be wrong. Molly made the introduction. Velvet Vinnie. Paddy. We smiled at each other. I wondered if Velvet Vinnie was packing some exotic weapon. The slight bulge in his well-tailored tux made me guess he only had a small piece in a shoulder holster.

1.11 Back In Time Atlantic City

Vinnie could shatter her kneecap. He could drive the nasal bone into her frontal lobe with the heel of either hand. He could tear out her larynx, pop out her eyeballs or break her fingers and thumbs. He could shoot her, knife her, or shove a grenade up her horrendously fat Philly butt. But he could not collect the $4,450 she owed to cover her casino losses over the weekend. Vinnie had had a bad feeling about his new gig as a collector. But then, Vinnie had a bad feeling about almost everything. His favorite moldy oldies, not counting Sinatra's of course, were CCR's "Bad Moon Rising" and "She Fucking Hates Me" by the happy guys in the group Puddle Of Mudd. When he won big at the track, Vincenzo didn't break into a victory dance and kiss the nearest babe. Nope, he worried the IRS was going to go after him for their share, then audit him, and then well, it would not be pretty. So this bad feeling about the collection was a 98.6 on a scale of 10. As he knocked on the door to the "Whale Suite" he was singing softly to the music that was playing in his head, "I see the bad moon arisin'. I see trouble on the way. I see earthquakes and lightnin'. I see bad times" Sarah Simon opened the door. She bad times, indeed. The lady was 40 something years old and probably did not weigh the 400 pounds Vinnie estimated. She probably didn't weigh more than the average pro tackle. Vinnie wished she were a football player. Then Vinnie could hurt the guy enough to get him to fork over what he owed. A guy would understand that even a little dude like Vinnie could hurt you bad if he knew how. A pro would be able to tell Vinnie knew how that he was a mongoose with whom the nastiest cobra didn't stand a Hail Mary. The big, fat, vociferous and domineering Mrs. Simon didn't see the young man in a tux as a threat. She saw a guy stretching to make 5 foot nothing who weighed about as much as her left breast. She saw his sartorial splendor and what Vinnie called his "Sammy Davis" shoes as compensation for being a wimp. And where did he get that stupid little Justin Timberlake hat? Inside his head, Vinnie was singing a polka, "You can have her. I don't want her. She's too fat for me. Hey!" Life to Vinnie was an MGM musical where he played Sinatra. Mrs. Simon wondered why they sent the tiny lounge singer to do a big man's job. It was insulting. Sarah The Terror, as she was known at the PTA, figured she would sit on him and crush him before she'd pay her blackjack losses. She said so. Loudly. She said she was comped for two more nights at the Hotel Casino, and she wasn't checking out. If they wanted their money, they'd have to give her more credit. She left him no choice. He had to hurt her bad. Or walk away. He walked away singing "Beat it, beat it, No one wants to be defeated."

He'd known this was a bad idea from the get-go. Bobby the under-boss who gave him the collection assignment had picked the wrong guy. Vinnie was a hitter, not a threatener. He couldn't frighten a paranoid squirrel if he had a hawk on his shoulder. Damn, Vinnie hated being right so often about things that were about to go wrong. Because it seemed they always did. ~ "Whataya mean she said she was going to sit on you?" screamed the underboss. "Gimme a break, Bobby. What was I supposed to do? Whack her and call you to get a crane from SeaWorld to haul the corpse away? Bobby sat behind the cluttered desk, shaking his balding head. An underboss of the consulting firm in charge of collections. Bobby also supervised the off-the-books extracurricular activities the Casino did not want taken care of by staff. Bobby wore a Hawaiian shirt that probably meant he was packing. Bobby's big black glock wasn't a threat to Vinnie. Pissing off Bobby and getting his tiny ass fired him from his Atlantic City gig was the threat. Velvet Vinnie Vincenzo had it made in a low end kinda way, which was more than an unlucky guy like him could expect. "Why couldn't she use a credit card like everybody else?" wondered Vin. "She maxed out three of them." "Then what's a little more chump change matter?" "It matters to Tommy," frowned the under-boss, "because it matters to The Casino." Vinnie envied Bobby the large photo of the Rat Pack behind his desk that dated back to the time Bobby was a pit boss at the Sands. It was signed by all of them. Frank. Dino. Sammy. Peter. Joey. Even Angie who looked like she was goosing Dean. "Vinnie, Vinnie, Vinnie, you're putting me in a bad spot here." Velvet Vinnie had a gig as a Lounge singer at the Casino where he could sing all the Sinatra he wanted. Heaven! There was an in-house recording studio where he could work on his latest cuts. The money from the lounge gig barely covered his cleaning bills, but his real work as a problem solver and crew organizer kept him in silk tuxes, hand-made suits circa 1964, and Sinatra hats straight off his album covers, which had recently come back into style. "I don't what I'm going to tell Tommy." "You want me to go back and mess her up? Put her in critical condition?" asked Vinnie. "That's no good. We just want the money. Her husband is a whale and the bosses don't want to piss him off." "She's the whale. Like an blue whale on chocolate steroids." "Vinnie, I'm not sure you're cut out for this."

"You want somebody done, I'll do 'em. You want to send me after one of the boys who knows the score, I'll come back with the goods. You want me to organize a crew for a road trip to acquire some art, I'm your guy." "I know, I know, but you just ain't threatening. You couldn't scare a middle school cheerleader into giving you her lunch money." Vinnie said nothing. He remembered once trying to threaten a pom pom girl, and Bobby was right. Vinnie knew he was screwed. The only question was how screwed. "Give me something real to do." "There ain't much call for real, kid. It's about how badass you look, not how badass you are. "You ain't even got a tattoo." "I could" "Vinnie, baby, the days of leg-breaking and break-ins are gonzo." This was not good. If he didn't have the second gig, how could he cover the losses at the turtle races? Vinnie forced a smile, like it was no biggie. "Gotta go. I'm on in 10 minutes." "I'll see you after the set and we'll see what we can work out." Vinnie was late going on. Okay, it was because he'd had two too many Black Jacks with a couple of forty year old groupies from Camden. He'd consumed enough liquor for both Frank and Dino after a Saturday night set. There were fewer people than normal in the Loser's Lounge as he thought of it. Low rollers, quarter bag ladies, retired guys who need their afternoon nap before catching the free bus back to Philly. And a pair of newlyweds playing kissy-face and finger games in the back booth. It was depressing, Nobody was listening to the velvet-voiced crooner. Here he was at a second class Atlantic City casino singing to people who didn't care. Fuck Bobby. Fuck Bobby's boss Tommy. Fuck The Donald and his disgusting comb-over. The Donald wasn't even Italian. So he didn't deserve any respect at all." "I'd like to dedicate this next song to The Donald." Nobody looked up. Not until he improved the lyrics to "I Did It My Way." It might not have been too bad if newly-wed Annabelle Georgia Lee from Lincoln, Nebraska hadn't caught it on her cell phone camera and uploaded it to YouTube. Vinnie could not believe "I Combed It My Way" went viral. Shit, this year, he'd must have put up thirty videos on YouTube and had a total of 87 views. "Combed It My Way" had 190,000 views in three days. Some kid copied it off the web, and reedited Vinnie's performance mixed in with less than flattering shots of "Mr. Combover". It hit 350,000 views in the following week. It beat GaGa but didn't do as well as puppy driving a garbage truck. Something was wrong somewhere. It was in the world or in him. Or both.

He wasn't surprised when he was fired. It was his fate. There nothing but the same around the corner, not that he could foresee in his chipped, cloudy crystal ball. But it wasn't all bad, he was a one-week wonder on YouTube. Maybe it was his break. Maybe he could reload some of his other videos and see if they'd catch on. Maybe someone would see one of them and Naw, it'd never happen. Maybe if he redid some songs with comic lyrics. Naw. Maybe. Naw. Fuggit-about-it. Velvet Vinnie Vincenzo was doomed.

1.12 Whinos
Vinnie said, "This damn caper better go off as planned, Walsh, or I'm taking up the Rumpelstiltskin. My ass is persona non grated in A.C. I'm blacklisted everywhere. Unless this gig goes and I can get back into the studio with some new material, I'm as dead as Milli Vanilli. A one YouTube-hit wonder. "I can't even organize a decent heist. All the friggin' money is digital. Every object worth taking has serial numbers or some kind of id they can find from space. If I did pull one off, there are no great fences anymore. Just little guys eaking by on druggie ripoffs. "You ain't alone, Vin. I'm all in on this one, too," said the week-wacked zoot-suiter. "I guess we all are," said Vinnie. "Except maybe D'Oliya." "Didn't you hear? She blew her big gig. Her Grand Old Pee-ers won't touch her. Or let her touch them. But at least she's in the right universe. I'm stuck here. Even if I could get back, there'll be nothing left for me." I could go back to Louie like when they were partners, but Louie's liquor distribution and cartage businesses are in trouble. Louie's old man pissed off the Family by going gay and marrying an ex-governor. His whole family are pariahs. Louie's loan shark biz ain't what it was. He put everything into the caper. They both stared at Molly. "I'm not exactly golden here. I'm all in, too. I'm wanted in every English speaking country but Belize," replied Molly defensively. That didn't make Vinnie any happier. He stared at Molly. "When you and Louie got back in touch and asked me to come into this deal, I thought it might be just what I needed. An easy hit on a clueless target. Access to a new audience. A real professionally produced release. A bit of money for a tour. A chance to wack a name-guy. Now, I'm not so sure. If you and Pachuco, and you and D'Oliya can't get along, we're screwed." I must have looked confused. Probably because I was confused. I give good confused. After smart-ass, Im best at confused. "I'll play my position," said Molly. There was a silence at the table as Happiness Is A Warm Gun played on the jukebox. We are making a Christmas album, said Molly in such a bright happy cheery voice I knew she must be lying. I couldnt figure out about what. "For grownups." added Vinnie, "if we ever get it done." "With Vinnie's lyrics," said Molly, "but first things first. And tonight will be the last of the first." Huh? Gun-Molly and the two members of her singing group had me so confused that I went a record 21.24 seconds before taking another sip of beer with my mouth open, even. "I don't know," said Vinnie. "Me, either," said Pachuco.

1.13 Enter The Capo

I suddenly smelled a cigar as a wide-bodied mofo was now standing by the table. "Molly and I know," said a wide-bodied guy with a mustache. I started to tell him that theres no smoking in here. He didnt look like a person who could take constructive criticism. Whats going on? asked the scary dude. Uh, I mean, the new scary dude. "Just getting acquainted." "Just a little misunderstanding," said Pachuco. Vinnie disagreed. This can't be the place, Louie!" "'T'is," said Molly. "It took me six transitions to get here," complained the little guy. "It took me three," said Pachuco. "Just Mutha Nature trying to pulling our strings back to square one," replied Molly. "This place isn't anything like Rudy's back home. The Pig isn't even checking IDs. " "This is the time, the place, the string," countered Molly in a threatening voice. I said, The dog ate my homework. They stopped a second to stare at me like I was a talking gold fish, then Vinnie continued to whine to the wide boy, who must have been the boss.

However, from the look on his face and his posture, Pachuco didn't seem to think Louie was the boss. The mesomorphic dude, seemingly named Louie, was wearing a clich Mafia outfit out of the Godfather. Dark pinstriped suit. Black shirt. Red tie with a sapphire stickpin. And a red, red rose in his lapel. He dressed like a cartoon character. Hell, come to think of it, they all did. Vinnie found a new complaint, "The service in here sucks. "There's no table service," I informed them, as in hint-hint. In the silence that followed, the wide one said nothing to them. He looked directly at me and smiled, sticking out a paw. Im Louie the executive producer of this thing. Pachuco, who had been introduced as the music producer seemed surprised at Louie's title." Im, uh, Patton Lee Beaugus. Uh, Paddy. Molly put a hand on my shoulder like she was vouching for me. Every time she touched me, I wanted to rub up against her like I was a puppy. Louie frowned a question at Molly. She nodded, smiling. "Louie Como." Gesturing to the empty bench seat next to me, Louie asked May I? I nodded. If the tall Latino was intimidating, this soft-spoken, polite thug was absolutely dead scary. He looked like an ex shot-put champion who kept in shape tossing bodies around instead of 16 pound balls. Your Powerbook? I nodded again. "Fully loaded," added Molly. Decent Wifi here? He had a look that made me think that shaking my head no instead of nodding in the affirmative was a bad idea. Its perfect. And I downloaded our stuff including the cross-string, cloud upgrades into his Mac, said the babe. "You're PaddyLeeB, right?" He knew the web handle I blogged under? "I follow you on Twitter." I was dumbfounded. I have this blog that I call Bar Vivant. I mostly write about things I know like the proper way to off-load after a night of mixing beer, cocktails and hotdogs. I tweet under the name of PaddyLeeB because my whole name won't fit within their silly Twitter rules. I used to be PattonLeeBeaugus, which is even stupider than the horrendous name my parents gave me before they left me on the steps of the tattoo parlor.

I try to tweet about meaningful things like beer and coffee and my Medicaid. I ask questions of great literary import like "How large is humongous as compared to big-ass?" I have a lot of followers, but mostly because I followed them to get a follower count, and they did the same. They tweet important things like how I can save on gutters for my roof, so I mostly just tweet instead of reading the tweets of the twitterers I follow. Besides 9th Avenue has all the gutters I'll ever need. I also have this tv show on public access, you know the channel that let's anybody do anything but perverted sex. My show it called in-nyc what's in out on the edge in New York City. I had a website to go with it, but it became like work, so I let it go. On my show, sometimes I just read my blog or my best tweets. Sometimes I interview downtown Art Stars who do a lot of poetry readings, performance art, original songs, and bizarre stuff I swear to God that Lady GaGa steals. I do my tv show so I get to go to their live shows for free. Putting the Art Stars on in-nyc and doing rave review sometimes even gets me free drinks, which is, of course, my goal. "Did Clydie make the transition?" the thick dude asked Molly. Instead of looking at her pda thingie, she checked my computer that had some kind of a map up on the screen. "Her signal is not registering. Anywhere. And D'Oliya's late. If she doesn't get here soon, we'll miss the window. I'm going to text her again." "Red Suit and the Schnozz?" asked the guy built like a mustachioed tank in pinstripe camo. "Nothing, yet." Molly must have downloaded something when she downloaded whatever she had downloaded when I had been too interested in elbow tit to notice. "I knew it. We're screwed black and purple," said the short, but big mouthed nay-sayer. "Purpler than Pachuco's zoot suit." "We'll just need to reroute thru another extra string or two," argued Molly. "We knew from the beginning that this wasn't going to be easy. I told you Mutha Nature will try to snap the string back, and we never had the Beta I needed, so I'm not completely calibrated." She directed this at Louie, as if the lack of Beta was his fault. Her reassurance wasn't good enough for the little dude. The big mouthed little guy went on a rant. "I gotta say, Louie, when you and Walsh tell me this is The Guy and this is the nexus, I gotta begin to wonder about you guys. When I see Pachuco and Walsh can't get their who's-doing-what-to-who act together, I get even more nervous. When D'Oliya is playing prima diva-reeno and ain't on time, man, I start thinking of a total disaster that could take us somewhere where you can't get back from there." "Chill, Vin. We're cool," said Louie. Pachuco was equally as reassuring. "Don't worry, Vin. Molly and I have worked it out. I know my job and I'll do it. She's the mad scientist science officer and I'm her master sergeant." Louie frowned at not being included. "And Louie is the six star general," amended the tall guy with the weed-wacker. Louie gave him one of those looks.

"Five, just wouldn't be enough or a big guy like you," snarked the zoot-suiter. Vinnie continued, "I got too much at stake. What if D'Oliya is late and we miss the window? What if Clydie gets lost or something? Lost with all the stuff we need. She ain't the brightest light on the tree, you know. What if the TimeWarp don't work? What if Redsuit and the Schnozz don't take the bait? Any of these things go down and we're horses' heads in bed." "We have contingences," said Molly "And we got how long to pull it off?" "About three hours," she answered. "Midnight," I said. "Now, I'm totally confident. The Guy can tell time. No sweat. Sorry I brought it up. My bad," Vinnie mumbled. I wanted to be smart ass. Tell him I could also write my name, count to 20 even after I ran out of fingers and toes. I wanted to tell him I almost graduated from college, which I bet he didn't even almost do. I wanted to. I didn't, of course. "You've met everyone?" Louie asked me. "I don't know. Are you everyone?" He took one look at my nervous look and laughed. Everybody laughed with him. "You're a funny guy." When women say that, it means they like me. When guys say that to me, it means they think I'm a nebbish. George Thorogood's "Bad To The Bone" started playing on Rudy's jukebox. I think my impossibly coincidental music thing was happening again. It occurred to me I might have fallen in with seriously evil companions, even more so than the normal Rudys clientele of Poligripped Westies, sucker punchers, clowns who steal ATM machines, social security impersonators, and dealers in party favors. These gangsters definitely werent from around here. What were they doing in a Hell's Kitchen joint like this on Christmas Eve, assuming they had any better place else to go? Almost anyplace would have been a better place to go. Even Newark! Why did Gun-Molly want me with them? And what was I doing there with them? And why? Maybe it was because I gave off a vibe that attracted evil companions, because I always wanted to be evil. At least I thought I did! "Did my old buddy Patch tell you we go way back?" "Uh, he hasn't said much of anything," I replied. The man who had been introduced to me as Pachuco did not seem to appreciate being called Patch by his 'old buddy'. "Seems like another world," said Louie wistfully.

"It was another world," said Gun-Molly Walsh, "in another dimension."

1.14 Back In Time Hoboken, New Jersey

Louie and Patch began their nefarious careers in Hoboken, New Jersey, ripping off school reports from their classmates, rewriting them as their own, and selling them to other students. At the St. Guido middle school, Louie Como fixed his first election. He put basketball team captain, Patch DellaVega, in as Class Treasurer. This coup allowed them to score enough cash on Hall Passes for a weekend on the Jersey Shore. From their hideout in the backroom of the Chatterbox Lounge in Seaside Heights, they posed as missionaries from Indiana, collecting funds to teach basketball to needy Pakistanis. In high school, they became bookies, and in the process, not only fixed Louie's wrestling matches, but spelling bees, and the girls high school bakeoff. They then ripped off the bake-off recipes and were published by Betty Crocker. Their primary modus operandi was thus established. Rip it off. Change it. And sell it as your own. But these boys were not one trick ponies. They also sold bootleg CDs and fake Military IDs to thirteen year olds. Their only big failure was when they tried to sell the gymnasium to newly arrived Islamists who were looking for a place to put their mosque and weapons cache. The boys may have hung together, but they were as different as pasta and pinto beans. Patch came from a poor immigrant family. Dirt poor. Louie came from a Family family, a mini Sopranos with enough lira to buy Louie a Camaro convertible on his 16th birthday along with a garage big enough to store it and 42 television sets that the boys had found that had fallen off a truck. The boys' nemesis was Sister Faustina, the vice principal. Sister Faust didn't trust these two JDs further than she could project an eraser out of her butt. She was sure it was those two who had entered Sister Genevieve in the Miss Hoboken Beauty contest. The judges couldn't refuse to accept Sister Gen because it would be discrimination against women who hit children with rulers. When the local papers picked it up, and it became a national story, Bishop Benzadrino decided it was impossible for Sister Genevieve to drop out without at least competing. Too much bad publicity. Sister Faustina could not prove it had been Louie and Patch who had filled out the forms and sent in Sister Gen's photo. She couldn't figure out why they did it, because everyone liked the young novice. The boys had no real ulterior motive other than that Louie thought Sister Gen had nice hooters and wanted to see them. Patch said she'd have B-cups, but great stems. Patch was proved right as they discovered when Sister Gen competed in the bathing suit competition. For months afterwards, Patch ragged Louie about who knew the most about women. Louie never forgave him. Literally. As a result of finishing as a second runner-up, Sister Gen dropped out of the order without talking her final vows, got a boob job, and took a position on the New Jersey Channel 8 News Team as the 'Beach Closed For Medical Waste' reporter. During all this time, Patch, the star athlete, was the leader. Louie was his trusty sidekick and coconspirator. Actually, it was Louie who had all the good ideas like selling all the school lockers to Louie's cousins. But it was the popular Patch who the other kids thought was the role

model for a successful life of crime or sports, which if you think about it are pretty much the same thing. They were best buds, but their families did not approve. Patch's parents didn't want him hanging with a Mafia kid who was destined to follow the footsteps of his father and grandfather, which would probably disco him into a federal prison. Louie's parents didn't want their boy hanging out with a spic. They had standards. Niggers and spics did not measure up. Both kids ignored their parents, and considered them as totally out of date and as prejudiced as the Grand Wizard of the KKK, who happened to be the school psychologist. While they were best buds, they were quite competitive. Although generally they didn't compete head to head. Patch made the basketball team. Louie got cut. Louie went out for wrestling where he could vent his frustration on guys from other schools. Over his high school career, he was disqualified from 16 matches while breaking seven arms and two legs, setting a conference record that still stands. Both played baseball. Louie a catcher. Patch a shortstop. Louie hit homers. Patch had a higher batting average. Patch made all conference. Louie had to watch Patch go to the High School World Series from the stands. Both tried for out football. Louie made a starting guard. Patch didn't like being a benchwarmer, so he quit and ran cross country, where he went to state. They were Ying and Yang, which gave Louie a metaphysical jock rash because it hated being fucking Yang. It was like being the guy in Aerosmith who wasn't Steven Tyler. Louie was the brains, but Patch was the sports star, dated cheerleaders, and got grades almost as good as Louie because teachers gave him a break. Ying loved Yang like a brother. But he'd never forgive Louie for hanging the moniker Patches on him in grade school. Pachuco was proud to be named after the Latino Warriors of the Zoot Suit riots. Patch he could take. If anybody but Louie called him Patches, they ended up in their underwear, hanging upside down from a bridge over the New Jersey Turnpike. Ying and Yang. Buddies for life. Then Ying went one way, and Yang the other.

1.15 Evil For Dummies

As I sat there in Rudy's with this very scary musical group, I tuned out their talk about their tunes and cd release. It was something about how the songs with unexpectedly warped lyrics were so important timing was to their caper. Velvet Vinnie was irrepressable, "This caper ain't gonna work!" Molly hit him in the arm, with a quite a bit of power behind to judge by the wince of Mr. Positive. "If you don't cut that out, Vinnie, I'm going to tear out your vocal chords." Louie smiled, "She can do it, too." They went on and on with Vinnie complaining. Molly making explanations. Louie playing the HMFIC while Pachuco put a dead look on his face. Instead of eavesdropping, I zoned out, and I thought about how Ive always wanted to be evil. I mean Evil with a capital E. Maybe this was my chance. Maybe it was why I loved Hell's Kitchen. Maybe this was Fate finally coming through for me. Actually, Ive always wanted to live on the dark side. Be the bad guy. Wear the black hat. Frighten little children just by smiling at them. Kinda like this Louie character, who was saying something about timing and how they had to get Clydie here right away. Although to be honest, which I rarely am, I'd prefer Fate hit me with a winning lottery ticket. It'd have to be a lottery ticket I'd found on the sidewalk, as I saved my money for more sure things, like beer. Maybe these gangsters were my lottery ticket that would make my childhood dreams come true.

While other kids were practicing sports, I practiced a mad laugh patterned after some mad scientist I saw in a b-movie on Shock Theater. The only person my laugh scared was my little sister, Jody Lee, who was also afraid of her Guardian Angel night light. I was fortunate in that I was raised as a Catholic at a time where an eight year old kid could a commit a mortal sin with cheese on a Friday afternoon at McDonalds without even trying to be bad. Eternal damnation with fries. Every Friday. As long as I didnt go to confession, I was made! Unfortuitiously, I went to a Catholic School where we had mandatory confession every Saturday morning, which was more often than some of us bathed. Joyously damned on Friday afternoon. In the state of grace in time for Communion on Sunday. I just couldnt win! Ive always identified with baddies, starting when I was a little, little kid and watched Soupy Sales at lunchtime. There was Soupy and White Fang and Black Tooth. White Fang was "The Biggest and Meanest Dog in the USA," so he was my favorite. Lo ho ho! Then there was my favorite movie character. He was in the Mary Martin version of Peter Pan Captain James B. Hook. I learned the words to all his songs like the one about poisoning Wendy with a cake with icing mixed with poison, 'til it turns a tempting green. Hook made being bad so cool! I looked at my drinking companions and decided Louie reminded me of White Fang and Pachuco had a bit of Captain Hook in him. Molly did not remind me of Cruella DeVille, of which I was glad. Molly just reminded me of how old I was and how young she was. I listened for a second or two. They were checking stuff on my powerbook, and talking about doing a reality check and I tuned out again. Back in the day, when grownups asked us rugrats what we wanted to be when we grew up, my cousins would say President or cowboy or nurse or fireman or astronaut. Id say, henchman. But it was not to be. Not then, anyway. I gave it my best shot. I did. When I was a teenager I sold my soul to Satan. Well, to be honest, which I often am, even though I dont want to be, it was more like I gave my soul away. Im not even sure if Old Nick accepted it. You see, Id just read George Bernard Shaws play, The Devils Disciple and like the hero, Richard Dudgeon, I decided to stand by Satan in this life, with the understanding hed stand by me in the next. It made a man of Dudgeon, but it seemed to have no affect on me, my soul, or the growing of chest hair which I was convinced was a prerequisite for evil. That lack may have been the prime reason I never quite reached the evil incarnate stature of Charles Manson, Idi Amin, or Howard Stern. In high school I did acquire the nickname Beelzebub. Unfortunately, that handle wasnt earned by acts that lived up to Nazi bedtime stories. I got the nickname partially because back when I had hair, I had bright red hair. It was mostly because when the other kids took flash pictures, everybody had eyeballs except for me. In my case you could only see the whites of my eyes. Eerie, but not as evil as performing operations on small woodland creatures while chanting in upside-down Latin. I would gladly have become a vampire, even before vampires were all rage on movies and tv. The height of my high school fantasies was imagining a date with Cheryl Mary Slamkowski, our head cheerleader. In my fevered imagination, the date would end with warm, sticky, copperflavored blood dripping down my chin onto her pure white blouse unbuttoned just enough to lay one perfect drop on her white cotton bra! What a great fantasy, huh? It never happened. I never

got the date. I never even asked Cheryl Mary out. I never was bitten by a vampire. I was never able to lay a wet one on Cheryl Marys neck like I was sure she would have wanted her Evil Overlord to do at the stroke of midnight on our first and last date. My table mates were talking about how I was 'The Guy' and this was the place, if the West Pole was in the back like Molly predicted. It seemed they had to make another transition to get Clydie or they couldn't get the Fatman. They made no sense. I swigged the last dregs of the last beer I could afford to buy and ignored them. Over the long boring years of no mass murders, no human sacrifices, no parking in handicapped spots, Ive had to face up to it. At evil, Ive always been pretty much of a non-starter. I know I could have been great at evil. I just didnt know how to do it correctly. What Ive needed all this time is a Handbook like Evil For Dummies. While Ive been a Dummy all my life, I never found a Dummies Book that could teach me to be as nasty as I wanted to be. They dont have anything like that at the New York Public Library. Or even on Amazon.com. Darn it, I need that damned book quickly, or pretty soon Ill pass away and my headstone will read, He Led A Nice Life. The worst Ive ever done is to register and vote straight Republican. Ill bet after all my disclaimers of never making it to the advanced levels of evil, youd have thought I couldnt have achieved such infamy. Youd have been wrong. Ah, ha, ha, haa! I know when I stand trembling at the edge of the fiery river that surrounds Hell, and that giant three-headed poochie asks what Ive done to earn my place among the Evil Damned, I can proudly say, I voted for Dick Cheney three times, once on a absentee write-in ballot for Governor of New York State. I used to think those votes just might be enough for me to achieve my rightful place on the Plateau Of Evil Men. But probably not. Maybe these evil companions could give me my chance! Oh Paddy, dream on, I thought, as I took a sip of of nothing!

1.16 Panic! Panic!! Panic!!!

I had no beer in my glass. No beer! No Beer! No BEER!!!! I usually order one when I get down to about a quarter, just so this never happens to me. I mean what if Vickie takes a break. I could be left for three or maybe four whole minutes, standing at the bar, looking longingly at the taps. Like a man in the dessert looking at an oasis he can't get to. Or, Rue Paul looking at the Presidential nomination. NO FREAKIN' BEER! No beer. No Beer! NO BEER!!!! I began having a panic attack. I was trapped in a booth of the toughest bar in Hell's Kitchen surrounded by mob goombas from Jersey or somewhere worse. Even worse than worse, the worst of the worst, my pint glass was empty. Empty! Empty!!!!! Ahhhhhhhhhhh! I had no beer. I had no breath. I had no money to buy a beer. My lungs were going to explode if my head didn't explode first. Think Paddy, think. No money for beer. No credit. No suckers to borrow from, even if I could get out of the booth, which I couldn't do, because I was surrounded. Paaaaaanic. Paaaaaanic. Paaaaaanic! I needed a paper bag to breathe into, but who carries a paper bag? Not even bag ladies carry paper bags, and I know because I use to date one. Thinking of Delbrina made me panic even more. Ahhhhhhhhhhh! I had no choice. I started breathing in and out of my empty pint glass like it was a paper bag. It

seemed to be working and the beer fumes helped to take the edge off my beer jones. Molly put her hand on my shoulder, "Are you all right?" I couldn't answer her. When I got back a modicum of control my eyes started sweeping Rudy's bar again for somebody who owed me a drink instead of the other way around. I saw nobody who could help me. Mayo, T.J., and the Sick Mick were arguing like they always were. I'd bought the Sick Mick more than a few rounds. That was to be expected, and was like buying health insurance you absolutely positively did not want to get cancelled. So I wrote Da Mick off as a possible touch. "Paddy?" Molly touched me again. The panic was returning. Paaaaaanic! I went in for another pint of breathing therapy. "Beer!" I croaked. Looks like we need a round of drinks," said the mob boss smiling. "You want another, Paddy?" "Like a crack ho needs a rock," I replied in authentic Hell's Kitchen vernacular. I knew what I was talking about there too, because I used to date Chrissy the Crackhead, whose actions were so depraved that she had been permanently 86'd from Rudy's, which is about as low as you could get, without doing porno with animals, which she once told me didn't pay as much as you'd think it would. "Whatre you having? Louie asked. As there are no waitresses at DIY bars like this one, I thought this might be my chance not only to get a beer, but to escape being boxed in the booth. I usually sit alone, so I was getting claustrophobic as well as unbarleyhopsaphobic. Allow me, I said trying to get up. "I'll fly if you buy," which is my mantra and my favorite tweet. This offer didn't seem to have the desired effect. I decided to sweeten the deal, "Anybody want hotdogs? I'll get those, too. My treat." Of course, the hotdogs were free, so I wasn't really going out on a big financial limb, especially if I overtipped Vickie out of their money, which might earn me a buyback after the Mob split for more upscale pastures. That's my philosophy. You gotta plan ahead in this world. Or you'll end up in Hell's Kitchen in a dive bar like Rudy's on Christmas Eve without the three bucks to buy a brewski, unless you dip into your emergency stash in an impregnable vault disguised as my left shoe. (The impregnable part has to do with my socks.) Louie looked at Pachuco who just frowned. A very small glance from the wide body directed at Vinnie had the short dapper dude popping up. Vinnie sang in a Sinatra-ish voice , "Fly me to the bar, and I'll buy us all a brew." "Don't worry, Paddy, Vinnie's got it," said Louie with a smile. The betuxed one seemed to already know what the others were drinking. What flavor beer, Paddy? Maybe he was as waiter, after all.

Rudys Red. It was the second cheapest beer. I hate drinkers who upgrade when somebody else is buying. I admit I considered it. Hey, theres a little larceny in everybody. In my case, not enough to do me any good. As Vinnie did a little soft-shoe number on the way toward the bar, Vickie, the cute barmaid moved down quickly from the other end, like shed been watching us, which she probably had. The three PartyMobsters looked at each other as if expecting the other to speak. It was an uncomfortable silence, broken by Louie, who turned to me. Did Miss Walsh explain the concept behind our PartyMob music release? I must have looked as clueless as I felt. I shook my head in both negatory directions, as in no-no. These folks had me confused. They didnt look much like a singing group, but they did look like they were in costume. I wondered if Louis was carrying heat like Molly, Pachuco, and Vinnie. If so, why so? The neighborhood isnt that bad, but it isn't that good, either. They don't call it Hell's Kitchen after the stupid cooking show on tv. Molly was clearly upset. "Damn D'Oliya, she thinks she's the Dom of all creation. If she doesn't get here soon" "She will," said Pachuco and Louie almost simultaneously. "She likes to make an entrance," said Louie. "Cue the follow-spot," mumbled Molly. Vinnie returned quickly with the drinks, setting a new land speed record for a round trip. Maybe the spiffy threads he was wearing was a waiter's tux. Other than my pint, Vin had double brandies for everybody. In snifters! I didn't even know Rudy's had snifters. "Slinte!" toasted Molly. "Take what you can get, and never give anything back." I think Pachuco stole that line from Pirates of The Caribbean, but maybe they stole it from him. "To St. Nicholas, patron saint of Christmas and prostitutes!" "Salud," "L'chaim" They told me they were turning Christmas Carols into drinking songs. With Vinnie's lyrics. Mostly beer drinking songs, because Louie's the biggest beer distributor in Jersey." "Or was," said Pachuco. "Currently losing money in 10 dimensions." added Vinnie. Louis laughed. But it was clear, he didn't think it funny. Pachuco shook his head. "Too true." "It's not like we're a one trick pony," put in Louie. We sing about other booze, too. But mostly we sing about beer."

1.17 We Wish You The Beeriest

With absolutely no segue, they broke into song. We wish you the beeriest, the beeriest, Yes, the beeriest. Yes, the beeriest. We wish you the beeriest, the beeriest, the beeriest Yule cheer. They made me their audience as they sang the silly lyrics, which somehow resonated deep with in my psyche, probably the part that dreams of beer. Beer and babes. Beer and babes in bikinis on beaches. Beer and more beer. They sang pretty well, and while I believed they were recording something, I felt that wasn't all. In this neighborhood, you learn to feel when you are being conned. I had that feeling. I wondered what they were really up to. And how it involved a lame lush like me.

We wish you the happiest, the happiest Yes, the happiest. Yes, the happiest. We wish you the happiest, the happiest, the happiest New Year. After they finished, I noticed that silence had descended on the bar. No applause. Silence. I thought it might be Esther dancing again. No, it wasn't Esther. The Sick Mick and the swarm of barflies were staring at the door. Molly checked her handheld. "About time."

1.18 Hello D'Oliya

Posed there was a very tall gorgeous babe the likes of which Rudys hadnt seen since Drew Barrymores krewe of supersluts used to hang at this very booth, with forays into the big backyard patio to powder their noses. I think this babe know how to make an entrance. She seemed to know she had the attention of every male in the joint, because she made a production out of removing her dark mink coat, and revealing her revealing outfit. Louie and Pachuco enthusiastically waved at the babe at the door. She sashayed our way. Molly whispered to me, "Be careful, D'Oliya's trouble." I thought about saying that she was the kind of trouble I'd like to get into, which is the kind of thing I always think, but don't say, because I don't think of it fast enough. Even if I'd thought of it in time, and there was a break in the conversation, I didn't want to say it in front of Molly, just in case it might offend her, and she wouldn't want to give me any more elbow titillation. The hottie acknowledged Louie's wave with slight nod. She slinked toward us. She was tall, in her early thirties with dark hair and caf au lait skin. To say she was built would be the equivalent of saying I drank a little beer upon occasion. She was wearing a short, skin-tight dark-green dress with slits cut almost to her armpits. When she walked, those long legs most definitely announced their presence. In my mind, my mental underscoring was playing ZZ Top's She Got Legs, and she knows how to use them. BTW: I do that a lot, underscore my life like it was a B-movie, even if they don't have B-movies anymore. It helps that Rudy's jukebox seems to read my mind. But not this time. It was playing Wale's Bad Girls Club.

The killer babe was dragging something in a three foot long rectangular black case. Based on recent experience with the other 'band' members, I wondered if it was a Tommy gun, an RPG, or a portable Patriot missile. In that dress I figured she couldn't have any other weapons other than the ones nature had over endowed her with. I was wrong, as I learned later. Those slits were there to do more than to show off her long legs. The irregular regulars at the bar followed the progress of the tall babe in the little dress like they'd just put another four quarters in the peep-show meter, and wanted to get their money's worth. She gave them a look back. It was a hard look. A show me whatcha got, mofo kind of look. Vinnie started singing softly to himself, "Hello D'Oliya. Oh, Hello D'Oliya. Looks like you're gonna start it up again." Vinnie must underscore his life, too. Only he had a great voice. I have a great voice in my head. Too bad my vocal chords won't listen to my brain. Hey, a number of body parts no longer listen to brain. So what? I don't even listen to my brain. Oh, shit-on-the-half-shell. The babe attracted the attention of the wrong people. The wrong people being the Sick Mick and his ex-Westie cronies. The word on Da Mick was he used be a hitman. I don't know about that. He had a rep as an enforcer and collector. The boyo, as her referred to himself, carried heat, like my new bar buddies. To put this in perspective, back in the day, bartenders would pay the Sick Mick out of their tips just to take his custom to some other watering hole. He was nobody to mess with. If you have a choice of who not to mess with, mess with Texas. The babe saw Da Sick Mick staring. She shook her head like saying a small 'no'. Da Mick ignored the signal and stepped out in front of the hottie. "Hello, sweetness." The lady gave him a look that would have had me bowing and scraping, and apologizing for breathing her air... while I tried to look down her dress, of course. Not Da Mick. He used to date actresses, if those are the correct euphemisms. The boyo fancied himself a ladies man, which might have been true a dozen years ago. "Let me buy you a drink, and I'll tell you stories that..." She pushed past him, pushing hard, real hard, knocking him back onto his barstool. She turned and stood over him, with her legs spread wide like a linebacker standing over a wide receiver she'd just ground into the turf, daring him to get up. She then grabbed his earlobe with her nails and squeezed. Jeez, Da Sick Mick is not someone you want to piss off. But he just smiled a really big smile like he enjoyed the pain and humiliation. "Maybe later." She smiled back. "I'd think I'd enjoy that." It was like they understood each other. I felt like she'd dodged a bullet. Or a hail of bullets because Louis, Vinnie and Pachuco were reaching under their coats. What scared me more than a gun was Pachuco's Weed-wacker, which I did not want to see start up inches from my eyeballs. I was disappointed Molly didn't go for her gun, because I'd liked how she wished me a Merry Christmas. Molly looked like she'd have been happy if the dark babe had gotten the full Sick Mick treatment. The hottie sashayed up to the table. Now, being a college educated derelict, here and there Ive read about ladies who sashay. Id never witnessed it up close and personal in real life before. Let me tell you that a sashay done in the right way can be very impressive and uplifting.

The pinstriped Italian and the zoot-suited Latino both stood up. Both had big grins on their faces. Both looked like they wanted to do the huggy-kissy-kissy greeting, but the dark babe wasn't having any. "Hey Doll," said Pachuco softly. She gave him back a warm grin. Vinnie offered her his seat next to Molly, I grabbed a brandy for you, just in case. What a sweetie, she said as she bent to kiss the little faux waiter on the cheek. It also looked like she pinched his ear in a way that would have had me screaming in pain. Weirdly, the little man seemed to enjoy it. Vinnie turned a light shade of purple and grabbed a stool from the bar and sat across from me further blocking my escape. I like looking down on you genetically oversized folks. Even Pachuco smiled at that. Louie made the intro. Paddy. DOliya D'Abo. At first DOliyas look was cold and dismissing like I was a pizza delivery boy who was not only late, but who had left off her mushrooms and replaced them with really hairy anchovies. "This place lacks class. Even second class." She looked at me when she said it. "But it's got more third class than you could find most third world countries," I volunteered. Molly laughed at my half-witticism. No one else did. I wondered if everyone she met felt the same need to impress this woman. While Molly projected this girl-next-door who might let you peek in the window kinda look, D'Oliya came across as you will worship me. And it seemed all three of the guys did just that. D'Oliya sipped her Cognac, "I had a hell of a time getting here. Your instructions sucked. And it was raining fish everywhere I went." "It wasn't my fault," Molly snapped. "It's Mutha." "It was a bitch for me, too." added Pachuco. "I thought I'd never make it," said Vinnie. "I fought through a flood around Columbus Circle, big deal!" Louie replied, "This is not a caper for wussies. You knew it'd be tough. Molly will get us through." Molly pitched in. "We can still do it. We are getting more interference from Mutha Nature than I'd anticipated." She checked her handheld. "We have two hours and 22 minutes until transition. You know what to do." D'Oliya looked like she hated taking orders from the kid. "We're off course. I feel it. I know it. We're all going to die in the next transition," screamed Vinnie. "No, it's just that now we need to do a dimensional bank shot."

"That's all?" whined Vinnie. "Maybe a two rail bank shot," she replied. Patch wanted to know how hard that was. Molly told him that she had the math. This set Vinnie off again. "Knowing the math doesn't mean you can make the shot. Or Einstein could have out hit Ted Williams and wiped the table with Willie Mosconi." Molly pulled my computer in front of her and stared crunching numbers, slamming data and bending equations. Man, I had no idea my beat-up, old Powerbook could do all that stuff. I asked her how she could do such complex stuff so fast. She said she'd installed a new Operating System with a virtual cloud burst generator, and reconfigured the bandwidth of bar's wifi. "Oh," I said. Vinnie was losing it. "A horrible death, pulled apart by 10 dimensions, and left without a coffin to rest in." Molly touched my arm whispered in my ear, "Vinnie collects coffins like Pachuco collects comics, or D'Oliya collects guys and handcuffs." When she heard her name mentioned, DOliya seemed to notice how Molly was pressing up against me. She turned on a smile. To judge by her movements, it was a smile that must have been powered by wiggle and jiggle. Molly eyeballed her and gives my elbow an extra thrill. Hello Dolly, said Molly. DOliya, corrected DOliya. "Only Louie can call me Dolly." Good Golly, I said in a small little voice only God and I could hear. I mean, assuming that God so little to do that He/She/It eavesdropped on dive bar conversations on Christmas Eve.

1.19 D.C. Dom-Off

D'Oliya D'Abo sat nervously in the green room of the K-Street Neo Consultants. She was dressed in her best business attire with an American flag pin in her breast. D'Oliya was the one who normally made others nervous. Some guys peed in their pants after taking one look at her. Sometimes they paid her for doing so. Not this time. Based on her stellar performances with the Chaplain of the House of Representatives, D'Oliya had been invited to interview for the most prestigious position in her field. The was a huge opportunity for a position of power with the National Committee. Power not only over individuals one a time. But power over the people who had power over the people. Her experience and letters of recommendations were impeccable. She answered the questions perfectly, knowing the exact moment to take charge and put the interviewer on his knees begging for the whip. She was in the final four. This time, it wasn't going to be an interview. It was to be a competition built around a format that combined American Idol with The Apprentice with an appearance on the Howard Stern show. Her performance, along with the three others, would be part of an invitation-only intranet broadcast to Congressional office holders, key staffers, the leaders of the most influential conservative PACs, and a coven of born-again ministers. Yes, she was going to be judged by the BSD's, aka Big Swinging Dicks, of the National Committee. She demonstrated her craft artfully with a Congressman from Indiana. She removed her trademark business attire to reveal she was body painted in the football uniform an Ohio State Buckeye. The Congressman sang "Hail, Hail To Old Purdue" while she spiked him again and again with a football. D'Oliya even went into an erotic end zone victory dance while she forced the Hoosier Congressman to sing the Ohio State fight song from the prone position. Very creative. Very entertaining. A real top level performance. It could only have been better if she'd had goal post to work with. She figured she'd nailed the gig as the unofficial Official Dom of National GOP. Who could beat that performance? She was ecstatic. Finally, she'd be in the big time. Her own suite on K-Street with closet big enough to hold a Greenwich Village toy store. The clientele of her dreams. She might even get a chance to do Loofa tricks with spineratator, Wild Billo. She didn't get the job. A former advisor to a two term cowboy President explained. "Dolly, you are beautiful and talented. A credit to the party. You have all the tricks that make us proud to be punished for the d little white lies we must tell to save America for real Americans." "But" started D'Oliya, in shock.

The balding, beglassed little Turdblossom continued, "You are very qualified. You proved that by becoming the number one Dom for Long Island, NYC and New Jersey. You were highly recommended by all office holders. Unfortunately, you have not been selected for this National honor because you are left handed and you use lubricants too liberally for Tea Partiers who want the straight hard stuff." The man who was once a President's brain, and now another organ, announced the top Dom was once again The Coultergeist. The Coultergeist was a women who could trash talk a Congressman into submission in less than twenty seconds. She could do it at a distance, on a cable news show, so the entire House could enjoy it on a Sunday morning before playing hide the golf ball with the big donors. Damn, thought Dolly, it was a fix. They had always wanted to stick with the tall blonde skel who'd had the position for the last few years. The Coultergeist had the nastiest, most cutting mouth on the planet. But the real reason was that she was in the in-crowd. D'Oliya wasn't. As D'Oliya was walking away, wondering how many of them she should send to Arlington Cemetery, the Majority Whip stopped her. "It's not because you're black," the white prick from Virginia said. "Old white Christian men love to be abused and debased by negresses. It's Annie, she just has the verbal chops to turn us to jelly. You dont. She's more intellectual. You're more physical. It's just a style thing. But that doesn't mean you and I" She made a move and the Big Swinging Dick was on the ground, in a fetal position, whining. And it was not the enjoyable kind her customers liked. "No charge," she said as she walked away. She knew she had just burned her bridges with napalm. D'Oliya wondered if in a different universe, a fair universe the skeletal Blonde Bitch would have died of anorexia, and she, D'Oliya, would be the Top Dom. Her mood morphed from angry to devastated to angry to acceptance. She'd had her chance. She'd blown it. She could rise no higher in the party. It was like the U.S. Army. She was like a Colonel passed over for the third time. D'Oliya needed a new army, one where she could be the Dom de la Dom. She needed to put the Status Quo into bondage, and kick it in the Quo-honies.

1.20 I Wanna Believe In Santa Claus

"Have we at least acquired the target?" asked D'Oliya. "We're still too many strings away to track Red Suit," replied Louie. "Five minute warning," said Molly ominously. Louie nodded, then turned to me. You know what I want for Christmas, Paddy? I sorta leaned my head at an angle, adding to my bobblehead repertoire. Presents? "Christmas. I want Christmas." Everybody looked at me expectantly. WTF? Should I laugh? Was it a joke? Uh, do you have a song about it? I asked. Smart kid, said the head honcho. DOliya opened her case and I saw that while it may have been semi-automatic, it was a semiautomatic keyboard. I was almost disappointed. Louie plugged a wireless gizmo into the hot babes keyboard like it was something hed done many times before. DOliya started playing. Pachuco made bass bum-bum noises. Molly shook her bracelet like it was a tambourine. Vinnie got out a harmonica. If I'd have had six beer bottles, I would have joined them. Vickie, the hottie bartender, saw her setting it up, and yelled, You cant play that in here. Louie gave her a cold, hard look. "Well, you can't," Vickie said, reaching for the Bowie knife she used to cut lemons and limes, and to send a message to rowdy customers. Mayo, T.J., and the Sick Mick leaned forward like they were going to join in the argument. Nobody messes with the barmaids at Rudy's. Louie reached inside his coat, and grabbed for a silver weapon in his shoulder holster. The Sick Mick got up, holding his winter coat, with his hand in the pocket. Molly was reaching into her boot again. D'Oliya had reached back under the slit skirt, and retrieved some kind of shiny weapon. Worst of all, Pachuco was going for the Weed-wacker. Aw, shit-on-a-pizza! A bar fight in Hell's Kitchen on Christmas Eve. Just what I wanted in my stocking a broken drinking arm. I looked around. The backdoor led nowhere but the big backyard patio. The PartyMob blocked my path to the filthy restroom. There was no escape for me, just like there had been none for the change-stealing Santa. At least I was trapped with a beer in front of me. I took a gulp. Hopefully not my last gulp, or this story won't make all the way to Christmas morning. It looked like a standoff between the PartyMob and all of Rudy's, which if not exactly a bloodthirsty mob, is close enough that you sure as hell wouldn't want to be Dr. Frankenstein if they

were storming your castle. Louie completed the motion, pulling out a silver gun... no, it was a wireless microphone, out from inside his pinstriped suit. Vickie backed down. The bartender said, Well, maybe just one more little song, if you're not so loud. After all, 'tis the season..." She turned and went to the other end of the bar where I saw her dialing her cell phone. The ex-Westies sat back down, but kept their eyes on us. Us? Oh, shits-apoppin', I hated being part of an 'us'. I like being just me. Alone. Just me, myself, and my beer. Being part of this particular 'us' did not look like it was going to be the most fun way to spend my Christmas Eve. Even if I got a free beer. Or even two. DOliya started playing. Pachuco made bass bum-bum noises. Molly shook her bracelet like it was a tambourine. Vinnie got out a harmonica. Louie sang a song I'd never heard before. Not a rip-off, not a parody. He asked, "What do I want for Christmas?" I want to believe in Santa Claus, I want to believe in Christmas. I want to believe in Silent Night, In that little star that shone so bright, I want to believe in Christmas.

I want to believe in peace on earth. In Three Wise Men at the Christ child's birth, I want to believe in Christmas. I want to believe in eggnog toasts, In mistletoe, in Dickens ghosts, I want to believe, I want to believe, I want to believe in Christmas. I want to believe that it's not too late

for me to go through the Grinch's fate. I want to believe in that wonderland of Dancer and Prancer and Frosty the Snowman, In brotherhood, an end to strife I want to believe it's a wonderful life. I want to believe in Santa Claus, I want to believe in Christmas. I want to believe, I want to believe, And that's what I want for Christmas. Louie ended the song with a tear running down his cheek. The others look proud. People in the bar applauded. Even the Sick Mick and the ex-Westies who ninety seconds earlier, were ready to pound him into yellow snow. I looked around. Where was Ashton? Maybe these folks were for real in some kind of unreal warped kind of way. Maybe whatever they were here for wasn't so bad after all. Or maybe bad in a good way? Or good in a bad way? I stopped trying to think. Thinking only makes me want to drink.

1.21 86'd
Dandy the Manager had walked in the front door while Louie was singing. He had come over to our table in the back. "Nice song" He went on to tell us that there was no singing allowed. Cabaret Laws he said. He did not get any cooperative looks from us. I heard other people singing when I came in earlier, said Pachuco. They were singing along with Assholes, said Dandy as if that explained it. A song on the jukebox, sez I, attempting to defuse the situation. "Assholes? You've got to be kidding," said D'Oliya. The three gangsters looked at me as if that made no sense at all. Well, a lot of people and things at Rudys dont make sense, which is once reason the dive is so popular among such an eclectic clientele. Rudys is off the chart nuts! Its a song about Assholes, I said just in case that particular classic tune wasnt favorited on their iPods. I think the only place in the world you can find it is Rudy's, because it ain't the one by Jimmy Buffet who is also into assholes. D'Oliya turned to Molly. "Do you believe this shit?" Molly beamed, "It's brilliant." Dandy continued, Everybody here sings 'Assholes.' Its a Rudys tradition. Like they sing along with 'You Never Even Call Me By My Name' at Coyote Ugly's. Only Vickie doesnt dance on the bar." "I think she should," I volunteered, especially on slow evenings. "And the customers can't dance either." Molly was grinning. "What kind of backassward rules do you have? What about that little old lady who was?" "Doesn't apply to women over 80."

DOliya sashayed up to Dandy, the Bar Manager. You mean if I asked you nicely," said D'Oliya moving with the song on the jukebox 'Santa, Baby', "I mean very, very nicely, you wouldnt dance with me? She was now rubbing her sumptuous body against the flustered Bar Manager. I would have felt sorry for Dandy's dilemma if I didn't envy it so much. He continued. Im sorry, but no nudity, no sex in the bathroom with members of either or both sexes, no standing on your head the bar, no smoking of cigarettes, cigars, grass or opium. I mumbled, 'except in the backyard patio'. But softly because Dandy pretended not to know. "This place ain't no fun," said Vinnie. "It's just what we need," gushed Molly. "This is definitely the optimum location for our transition." Louie did not seem to appreciate the ban on cigars and chomped down harder on his Cohiba. I looked at Dandy with hope. Maybe if they were ejected, Id be saved from finding out if these were good bad guys or bad good guys. I closed my old Mac Powerbook, ready to make my exit. Ten after looking at Molly who was looking at me looking at her, I stopped and reconsidered. Take it somewhere else. demanded Dandy. Vinnie was incredulous, You are 86ing us? Us? Molly was almost jumping up and down with excitement. At least jiggling with excitement. D'Oliya and Pachuco got up and moved toward Dandy. Pachuco said, We dont get 86d. Ever. He opened his coat and reached for his Weed-wacker. Dandy replied, Well theres always a first Louie interrupted, We are the 86ers. I believed him. I hoped Dandy did, too. I didnt want to be anywhere near if he didnt, but I was trapped in the booth. I saw Molly grab her pda thingie. She did so with a satisfied smile like this was exactly what she wanted. WTF? D'Oliya stepped back against the wall, and reached into the high slits in her dress to pull out what looked like small ninja throwing stars. Ninja throwing stars? Naw, couldn't be. The Sick Mick and Westies hung back and watched. They did not interfere. They'd kick butt for Vickie or the day barmaids, but mostly they figured Dandy could take of himself. If he couldn't, they didn't give a flying fire truck. I mouthed the word, G-U-N-S because I didn't think "WEED-WACKER" or "NINJA THROWNG STARS" would make it across the no-sound barrier. Dandy didnt seem to very good at lip reading. Oh, shit-on-a-snowman! I seemed to have been thinking 'Oh, shit' in various permutations a lot in the last few minutes, when I wasn't thinking WTF, which made me think 'Oh, shit' about constantly thinking 'Oh, shit.' Oh, shit.

The jukebox started playing the class song from my High School senior year, the Animals singing "We Gotta Get Outta This Place." I know from experience that I should listen to the digital jukebox, because it not only made a lot more money, it was smarter than I am by about 46 IQ points. You aint throwing us out, said Pachuco. You cant sing in here, Dandy replied. He was not backing down, which by the way, I considered ill-considered. He shrugged. I told you, Cabaret Laws. I cant risk my license. Sorry. This didnt seem to satisfy any of them. Smoking laws. Cabaret laws. Laws against murder, mayhem and kidnapping. Machs nichts. The old Westies, sensing an opportunity for some fun, were moving toward the back, toward us. Louie smiled at Dandy. Dandy wasn't smiling. But Molly still was. Louie looked over at the oncoming Westies, then over Dandys shoulder at the back door. "There must be some way to resolve this situation. I mean, somehow. Vinnie, I think we need a couple of bottles of cognac." I was frantically twisting my head, pointing the shiny thing at the backdoor. Ah, he saw me. Dandys no dummy. If you want to sing or dance, take it out to the backyard patio. Vinnie said, Its December out there!" "December 24th," said Dandy. "Christmas Eve," I added astutely. "I'll freeze my boobs off! added D'Oliya. Everybody but Molly took a good look at D'Oliya's endangered cleavage. I mumbled, "I certainly hope not." Dandy moved to the back door and pulled it open. A cold wind blew in, which actually felt good on my hot, sweaty face. Everybody was frozen in place. Even the Westies. The bar's flickering Christmas lights suddenly brightened up like there was a power surge of some kind. "No singing in here. I don't care what you do out there." "Permission to do anything," said Molly with a sense of wonder. Dandy turned on the outside lights, but there was some kind of fog out there. He said, Don't forget to take your coats and stuff. Feel free to warm yourselves up with your songs. Feel free to come back in when you're finished singing and dancing. Molly, her sapphire ringed hand high in the air, and reading her handheld, led my new companions reluctantly out through Rudy's back door into the cold Christmas Eve fog. Overreluctantly, I thought, like community theatre actors playing Foreign Legionnaires marching to

their death against the fearsome Bedu, played by actors wearing old sheets. "Certain death," whined Vinnie. "A cold freezing end to a life that has barely begun. And I never had a top ten single!" A kind of glowing fairy dust seemed to swirl around Molly's ring. She stopped, checked her handheld and said, "Contact." "Thanks. Very kind of you." said Louie, addressing Dandy and ignoring Vinnie's latest whine. He pulled out a cousin of Molly's cell phone and said to his band of brigands, Be right with you. Molly's voice was stern, "Don't be lollygagging now, our window closes in 2 minutes and 15 seconds." I figured this was my chance to bolt. I chugged the rest of my beer. I was going to get out of this! Whatever this was! With a free beer, and no hassle about no reciprocation. Then Pachuco came back and casually blocked my exit, We would like you to join us. Hear some more of our tunes." Sure, thanks. Id love to hear more of your songs, like on a jukebox in cop bar in another part of town about 20 years from now. I mean, these bad-asses were really interesting, but they always seemed to be on the edge of going nuts and shooting someone. Or weed-wacking them. I dont mind people going nuts, or I wouldnt be hanging out in Rudy's Bar and Hotdog Grill. I just didnt like the idea of going nuts with guns, and with throwing stars and weed-wackers with me in the vicinity. He smiled. "Maybe jam with us on the beer bottles. Right then, I decided my childhood goal to be a bad, evil, rotten, son-of-rat-bastard maybe wasn't such a good idea after all. Mom used to say, "Be careful what you ask for. Or your father will beat you like an army mule." "Mommy!" Damn and Hell and hemorrhoids on a popsicle stick. I was being quietly kidnapped by bad, badass bad baddies, which was really bad. There was nothing I could do about it. I smiled and said a prayer to the beer gods, who weren't very effective at anything, with the exception of occasionally getting me a buy-back. I would have grabbed my coat, if I'd had one. I didn't. I grabbed my beer-soaked red vest, and headed for the backdoor, thinking I was probably going to turn into a beer popsicle in a Hell's Kitchen second, which is like a New York second, but takes a little extra time to finish the belch. On the other side of the backdoor was Rudy's backyard patio. I knew it well. In the summer, it was my Hamptons. Or at least, my Jersey Shore. A place where I could get high just on second not-cigarette smoke. There were even electric outlets to plug in my computer. What more could one ask but women in skimpy summer outfits? It had that, too. It was the closest I could get to heaven in Hell's Kitchen. I knew the backyard in winter was something else. It was a big cold empty space. Empty except for one refugee of summer a lonely table with a furled Cinzano umbrella giving the world the

finger. Old barfly legend had it that this place was once an old Indian burial ground. For old Indians who weren't going to get any older, I imagined. They say that back in the day, it was haunted. They say there was a giant sequoia where the Cinzano umbrella was, that the Native Americans had carved with deer totems. There was supposed to be kiva built on a platform high in the tree. If any brave brave from the tribe climbed it like Jack and Beanstalk, they would disappear into the sky, never to return, which I don't really believe. Or didn't until later that Christmas Eve, I discovered that there were even more impossible possibilities that were, uh, possible. Pachuco had his weedwacker in his hand, like he expected to be attacked by weeds when we went through the door. A big blue crystal on the end of it brightened as we went through the door. As the bar door closed behind us, the snow flurried in our faces, like a whiteout. I closed my eyes and slid down the steps that were covered in snow, trying not to slip and drop my beer or computer bag. When the snow blew out from in front of my face and I could see further than from my nose to my pint, I could see that it wasn't Rudy's backyard I was looking at. It was as much like Rudy's backyard as a South Beach model is like a snow blower. It was kinda like a cave.

PART TWO

2.1 Not So Long Ago The Greatish Escape

The situation was just intolerable. She had to escape. Had to. She was trapped. Trapped in a cell she didn't belong in. Chained to a wall. Trapped in a body she shouldn't have been born into. Forced into manual labor. Treated like an animal. Whipped like a slave. Made to appear in tv commercials without residuals. "Wah-haahhhhhhh!" she screamed. She knew it was her fate, the fate of all her kind. But she was going to change her fate. She had just about come into flower and the big studs were checking her out. Soon they'd make her breed. Not with a mate of her choice. But their choice. Giving birth to another slave. A child they would force to pull her weight in a work gang like the one they had forced Clydie into. She couldn't do it. She couldn't continue the vicious cycle. She had to break it. She had to escape. And she would. She could do anything. She knew it. She was different. Special. The team was away from home. She had no idea where, as they had kept her locked up on this trip. This sure wasn't her normal cell in Grant's Prison Farm back in St. Louis. It appeared security here was more lax. Fewer guards. Cells an inbred donkey could break out of. Not even video cameras. She would make her escape in the wee small hours when the guards were dozing. Once she was out, Clydie would change her look. Change her nose. Change everything. A complete makeover. They'd wouldn't find her until the North Pole had been relocated to Key West. Clydie had found the secret identity of Lady GaGa's magnificent stylist on the internet. Damn, Clydie hated computer keyboards. It took her hours to do what a fifth grader could do in minutes. But she had found the stylist's name, email, and where the genius would be for the next two weeks. It was New York City, where the stylist would be prepping the Great Ga for Madison Square Garden, a venue where Clydie had appeared twice. It was a sign. She was confident she could find a way to meet the stylist even if she didn't have a backstage pass. Clydie was of the bag is half full breed, even when the bag was almost empty. Then oh, then! Then she'd do it all. Learn to speak proper English. Learn to fly.

She knew everything would turn out super. Fate was on her side. Nothing could stop her. She'd make her own destiny. "Look out Rudolph! Clydie is coming." The Clydesdale should have known escape would not be as easy as pulling a beer wagon in a parade. A bolt in the side wall that held the chain to her neckpiece was shiny new obviously upgraded to hold two thousand pound tv stars in bondage. She twisted her head left and right. Banging her head against the walls wouldn't do any good. She tried backing up to put pressure on the chain. But her butt ran into the back door of the stall. The chain was too long. "Wha-hahahahaaa," she trumpeted in frustration, rearing up on her hind legs. Damn, even then she couldn't pull it taught. In anger, she lashed out with her front hooves. She put two gashes into the front wall of the stall. They were big, deep gashes. Big! Deep! She backed reared again raising a ton of angry, well muscled Clydesdale into the air. Her newly shod hoof came down on the bolt that imprisoned her. It made a screeching noise like it was crying for help. It wouldn't get any from Clydie. She slammed it again. How long was the damn bolt, anyway? Where were the guards? Would they hear? She slashed at it again. The bolt was finally ripped out of the wall. Oh yeah, she thought, her shod hooves were for more than prancing on. She quickly destroyed the stall gate in three massive back kicks. It felt good. Breaking through. Breaking out. Where were the guards? Clydie was valuable property. A star on Budweiser tv commercials for which she received no pay and from the Belgian slave owners. The guards must have heard. They must be running toward her like the idiots at the bull run at Pamplona. They were. One man saw her. "Stop!" he yelled. Clydie hesitated. She was conditioned from birth to obey. The guard had some kind of stick he waved in the air as he backed away. Backed away? Damn, the man was afraid of her. Of her! Well, of course he was. She was ten times his size. And a hundred and twelve times as motivated. She went from zero to sixty in 32 feet four inches. She bashed him with her shoulder, knocking him into the next county, but not without taking a painful hit from his electric prod. Deary me! That hurt! Those things should be illegal. She thought she had made it. Or she would have thought so if she didn't see a dozen more guards running toward her like a mob storming the field in a miscalled soccer match. Their glowing sticks were held in the air like torches. She galloped around the side of stable. There stood her last barrier to freedom. Only a fence. An electrified fence. Only? It was taller than a barn. Could she plow through it like a juggernaut? If

the electric prod hurt like hell, what would the electrified fence feel like? Would it kill her? Maim her? Ruin her good looks? The damn fence was four time Clydie's height. She'd never jump it. As those skinny-legged, little Arabians used to tease, Clydesdales can't jump. No wonder there were no guards. The stables were surrounded by the equivalent of an electrified Great Wall of China with razor wire on top. This was impossible. Clydie started to cry. Tears the size of shot glasses. It was impossible. The philly's dreams were dead. She couldn't do it. "Get her!" But she had to. Had to. Tonight, for her nothing was impossible. "I can do it," the Clydesdale chanted through the tears and sniffles. "I can. I can. I can." The guards were coming closer! Six of them. Clydie knew it was something like a billion-and-forty-nine to one shot. Impossible by any rational standard. But she would make it possible by will power alone. She'd make her own space. In her own world where she could achieve her dreams. She felt the electric prods on her hind quarters, at the same time lightning filled the sky. It shocked her out of her lethargy. She started her galumph toward the fence, still dropping tears like a burst water main. She took other hits with prods. Zzzt. Chootz. Zap! The men were screaming at her to stop. Instead, Clydie broke into a gallop. She wouldn't stop for anything. Liberty or death! "I can. I can. I can fly. I can fly. I can fly." Another electric prod hit her where a lady should not be hit. She leapt. And damn! She flew. She heard a note inside her head like a guitar string breaking. She flew. The joyous philly flew into a new life. Into a new world. A simple Clydesdale no more. Clydie was truly something else.

2.2 Partying In A Winter WackyLand

The snow had created a whiteout. I had no idea it was snowing so hard. It sure hadn't been when I'd come into the dive bar for a breakfast of beer and free hotdogs. Or in the afternoon when I walked downs to the market to use my Food Stamp card to buy potato chips, cashew nuts and a small bottle of V8 to pour into my beer for that part of my daily vitamin intake which was not satisfied by the free hotdogs with mustard. Because of the blowing snow, I was as blind as a stock market oversight committee, I walked carefully, worried that I'd slip on one of the steps down to the patio. I stumbled because there weren't any steps. I heard Molly say as she looked at her strange pda, "We've transitioned again, but" Suddenly, the snow let up. Like a switch on a snow machine had been thrown. I saw we were in something like an ice cave, maybe twenty feet long. WTF? I stumbled forward, wishing I had brought a beer. I had really screwed up. I hoped I didn't have another beer withdrawal panic attack. It would be too much on top of the growing where the hell am I panic I was feeling. When I walked out the other end, I was stunned by the sight of a winter forest glade bathed in golden moonlight from a moon four times the normal size. It was as if this place owed its existence to a fairy story. There was a tall totem pole where the round table with the big Cinzano umbrella had been in the real world. I didn't understand the carvings except at the top where I saw what looked like the Pig that stands in front of Rudy's. Only this one had wings. Weird. "You're not in Hell's Kitchen anymore, Dorothy," whispered little Vinnie in a big mad scientist voice. The center of the glade had a foot or so of fresh wet snow. It was gorgeous. Reminded me of my

third freshman year in college when I went to Aspen on Spring Break. We had skied in our shirtsleeves all the way from the bunny hill to the aprs ski bar. The swirling wind had created snow drifts all around, like a mini amphitheater fronting a circular wall of giant pine trees, trees big enough for Rockefeller Center. The mobsters looked around like I did. They looked as perplexed as I did. "What the fuck?" I mumbled. Yes, I'm redundant when discombobulated and I use the f-word a fucking lot. Louie was the last through Rudys back door, his sapphire tie-tac glowing like Molly's ring and D'Oliya's earring. Thank the beer gods, it must still be the world's greatest dive bar back there. Or if it wasn't, whatever it was still served drinks. Or had the real Rudy's cease to exist when Louie passed through? Louie looked around the forest glade and then at his PartyMob. "Excellent." The mob boss had a couple of bottles of Courvoisier and started filling up the snifters. Louie even pulled a snifter out of his raccoon coat for me. Too cold for beer. I didn't argue with Louie's judgment, or with the cognac I could not have afforded even if I sold blood, which they won't let you do. Not if you've been drinking, which is the only thing that had stopped me from selling enough to keep a vampire drinking club smiling. I squinted back into the cave which was illuminated by a weak blue light, seemingly being emitted by the ice. There was a dark door at the back, but it did not look like the door to Rudy's bar. That wasn't the strangest. I looked up above the cave entrance. Instead of a decrepit 1930's building built out of doo-doo colored bricks, the ridiculously bright moonlight revealed the side of a gorgeous mountain like a ski slope in Aspen or Vale. Or an Alpine resort with the word Mont in the name. Or someplace else I'd never been, because the NYC metro system didn't run there. Mont Rudy, I thought. Maybe Mount Tellerudy? Or maybe the Rudyhorn? What happened? Where were we? Where was my next beer coming from? Did that strange dungeony door still lead back into Rudy's Bar? Or to Middle Earth, Metropolis, Narnia, Toontown, or that strange world they report about on FoxNews, the world with even less reality than Toontown, Jersey Shore, or the new reality hit, Kum On The Kardashians? WTF! The stars were strange. For one thing, there have been no stars shining over New York City since Edison put up the first street lamps. All the stars in NYC are getting in and out of limos, wearing no under things, so they can attract the paparazzi. The stars above me were bigger brighter than in a Montana planetarium. The PartyMob looked different, too. Like that bigger brighter moon that seemed to cover half the sky appeared to have brought out their basic colors and saturated them. Like they were the same, but different. Almost cartoon-like. More colorful, more joyful. D'Oliya was even more outrageously curvaceous like she'd had a Barbie-doll-job. Vinnie looked more like a gnome Sinatra. Pachuco looked taller and more menacing like the Grim Reaper's evil brother. Molly, oh Molly, Molly looked even younger, more innocent, and more of everything I'd never get my sweaty palms on.

I wondered if I had changed too. I looked at my hand. The same reddish, freckled, wrinkled hand with nails that could use a serious manicure. I think these guys must have thought life was an MGM musical. Vinnie and D'Oliya broke into the old song. "Deck The Halls." Everybody joined in. In harmony. Molly leaned over and confided that this was their big Christmas song. "It is totally original, except for the parts we ripped off." From the classic 'Fa-la-las', they segued into something more rock-and-rolly that I hadn't heard before. Its Christmas, Chugga-lugga Christmas Its party time again, so Off we go, thru the snow, so So we all can fill our mugs, and Chugga-lugga-lug Chugga-lugga-lug, Chugga-lugga-lug glug glug glug glug. I really can't do justice to the tune and the harmonies. You should really hear them.

Then it was back to "Deck The Halls" with their own lyrics, which I must admit, appealed a lot more to my brand of Christmas spirit. Drink until the world gets hazy, Chugga-lugga-lug, glug glug glug Tis the season to get crazy, Chugga-lugga-lug, glug glug glug. Down we toss a shot of whiskey Chuggalug Chuggalug glug glug glug Shouldnt mix, its very risky. Chugga-lugga-lug, glug glug glug. While Molly performed the rap she'd played for me in the bar, the rest of the mob started playing in the snow. Building a snow man, singing, and horsing around looked like so much fun I almost joined them. But, of course, I didn't.

Then the number changed like into "We Wish You A Merry Christmas." Only it was "We Wish You A Beery Christmas." Cool. These guys were growing on me. I was almost glad they'd kidnapped me and took me to some kind of alternate reality. Almost. Louie was making a wide snow angel. Vinnie was juggling snowballs. I was sipping my brandy. Its Christmas, Chugga-lugga Christmas. Its party time again, so off we go, to get a mug, so we all can fill our mugs, and we can have a beery, beery Christmas. Molly yelled, "Wait!" She was looking at her handheld thingie. The singing tapered off while still Chugga-lugging. "Something's wrong with my SPS app. I mean, it looks like we're in a SD-range where Clydie can find us and we can make the final jump to the FatMan's world-string, but some of these readings are off. Something isn't right." "Not right? Fu-u-u-ckkkkk! We're lost. Doomed. Stranded," said you-know-who. "Without a coffin for a decent burial. And god knows how many thousands of miles away from Sinatra's grave." That's when D'Oliya hit the short nay-sayer in the face with a big fat handful of snow. He retaliated. The snowball fight was on, faster than I could accidentally steal a tip. They hardly took time to pack the snowballs. Grab and throw and dance away. It was the oddest Christmas celebration I've ever seen. Pachuco had the best arm. Molly was the quickest. They went at each other with screams and trash-talk and acted more kiddier than any kids I'd seen in years. Even in the years before the restraining order went into effect. Pachuco caught Louie with a fastball in the back. "Coward!" yelled Louie, throwing a high hard one that missed. "You never could throw anybody out," laughed Patch. D'Oliya's favorite target was Vinnie, and as he got pummeled again and again, I think he was actually enjoying it more and more. He ended up sitting in a snow drift with D'Oliya standing over him with her legs spread. She had that same look she'd given da Mick when she walked in. I wondered if Vinnie could see up her dress and if she had any festive message printed on her underwear, assuming she was wearing Oh, hell, I'm sorry. I can't help it. At least I don't think I can help it, although it's been quite a while since I've tried. I was distracted by a whirring noise. I turned and there was Pachuco starting up his weedwacker. "Oh, no," I thought. But it was okay. He was using his psychotic garden tool to carve a huge snow angel out of a gargantuan snow drift. It was a naked 3-D snow angel who was built a lot like Buddha in drag or Queen Latifah with a double F boob job. Everybody applauded. I joined in.

"Pachuco's a real artist with that weed-wacker," I said to D'Oliya, as I failed valiantly in not trying to look down her cleavage which seemed to be quite a bit more cleavager since we had gotten to wherever we had gotten to. "You have no idea how great an artist," said D'Oliya. "You should've been there the time Pachuco used the wacker to shave the beard off a schmuck who insulted my shoes." I was impressed. "He can even use it to remove a dress," she looked nostalgic. "A tight dress." "Wow," I said, even more impressed as D'Oliya sashayed back into the celebration. The PartyMobsters were all silly and grinning and giving each other high-fives and hip bumps. Molly and D'Oliya even put a time-out on their animosity and gave each other jumping boob bumps. I wished for instant replay. It also made me wish I were one of them. The last time I had fun in the snow was in 3rd grade building a snow bombs which we dropped off the overpass onto Police cars. Wait, there was one other time when I won the 'write your name in the snow' contest at Gacey Middle School. Man, that was a long time ago. I wondered what it would be like to have joined the PartyMob in the snowball fight and to have experienced real camaraderie instead of the one-sided, imaginary camaraderie us Giants fans experienced watching tv and yelling at the screen. Somebody hit me with a snowball. And another. It was Molly. "Join the party, you old Scrooge." She ran toward me with a big grin on her face. Whatever she had in mind, I was ready. Well, it turned out I wasn't. She tackled me, driving me into a snow drift. She grabbed a big double handful of snow and popped it onto my face, then added more and more, rubbing it in. Damn, I'd never had a snow job before. It was great! "We need you, you know?" she said to me. She washed my face again with another pile. "I need you. And your computer." She must have been a world class liar, because she really looked like she meant it. I believed her. I never believed anybody. I didn't even believe my Mother when she'd write me about how wonderful her cell-mate was. And how they were going to get married after they were paroled. Something was strange. Not with my mom. Here. They clearly wanted to be exiled back here. And wanted me with them. WTF? "We're gonna give you a chance to be a somebody, Paddy. Maybe even make you famous." "You have a crystal ball?" "No, a sapphire," she said flashing it front of my face. I swear to God there was something moving inside the big stone. Swirling like a flushing toilet, only sparklier and beautifuller. I bet a month of food stamps, this was not a stone you could find on West 47th, and those Hassidic dudes had about everything. But not this. This was uh like alive? A living sapphire? That bothered me. What am I thinking? Bothered me? Confused me? Made me doubt what I was seeing? Well, what else is new? Over in the middle of clearing, something was happening.

2.3 Dance With A Dolly

I heard Louie singing softly and slowly. He was swinging it like an old Duke Ellington number. As I was walkin down the street Down the street, down the street. I met somebody who was mighty sweet, mighty fine to see. Louie had D'Oliya in his arms and was crooning while he slow-danced her across the snow. They almost seemed to float in the bright moonlight.

I asked her, baby, baby, baby, would ya like to talk, have a talk, make some talk? All of the fellows standin on the walkre wishin they were me. Vinnie slid over to where Pachuco was putting the final touches on his snow sculpture. "Nice moguls," said Vinnie slack-jawed in awe. The buxom snow woman was five times his size. "Thanks," said Pachuco, his eyes weedwacking the dancers. Gonna dance with a dolly with a hole in her stocking While our knees keep a-knockin and our toes keep a-rockin", Dance with a dolly with a hole in her stockin, Dance by the light of the moon. "That's their song," mumbled Vinnie. "Only Louie was too cheap to have me improve the lyrics. Like "Dance with a dolly who ties me up with her stockings." "That's way better, Vin. More on the money. We had a song, you know. Me and her. It was the music video playing we met. It was Poop Dogg's "Titty Fuck The Sig I Killed The Cop With." Doll was in the video, you know. Sang backup and danced." "Didn't know that. Think it's still on YouTube?" "The censored version is. In that one, Poop only wounds the cop by shooting him between the legs. And Rihanna doesn't do the thing with the sig." Mama, Mama, Mama, put the cat out tonight, Cat out tonight, cat out tonight, Worked all day, Im gonna scat out tonight And I wont be home until dawn "If me and D'Oliya had a song, which ain't gonna happen," said the universe's greatest pessimist, "it'd be like a mashup of "Hello, Dolly" and "She Got Legs" with Tom Lehrer's "Masochism Tango" only with better lyrics like "She got legs and she knows how to use them for autoerotic asphyxia." I wanna dance. C'mon and Whap. A snowball blasted Louie. He immediately turned toward Pachuco. Louie's boyhood rival clearly hadn't thrown it. The big zoot-suiter did give Louie and D'Oliya a seriously dirty look, however. We heard a massive grunt reminiscent of a Maria Sharapova slamming a backhand. Then a snowball hit me from above. Hard. Another bounced off Molly's shoulder. It was raining snowballs! No, they were being thrown down at us. I squinted. It was by some big fat flying creatures, like mini dirigibles. We heard more grunts like a sky full of Sharapovas hitting backhands, and forehands, and overhead smashes. D'Oliya took a snow missile on the top of her head. She screamed, "What the fuck is going on!" My sentiments exactly. "Incoming!" yelled Pachuco, diving under the protection of the boobs on his Latifah snow sculpture.

Molly had out her device. "It's not there's something I can't..," yelled Molly, as she took a series of snowball hits from above. "What is it? commanded Louie. "We've been twisted into a parallel universe where anything can happen. We're in a dimension where Pigs Can Fly!

2.4 When Pigs Fly

The Flying Porkers were raining down snowballs and ice-balls. Fortunately, their arms were too short to get much more heat behind them than a Little League knuckleballer. But gravity was on their side. The flying pigs looked a lot like pig on top of the totem pole, which looked like the ceramic pig statue in front of Rudy's. A lot. Like they were clones. Or more likely that the pig statue was a clone of them. Rudy's Pig was six foot tall standing straight up on its hind legs with a big fat four foot wide body dressed in a red jacket and a bow tie. These porkers had the same coloring. They had small white wings like on a St. Valentines Day cherub, like more for looks than aerodynamics. Okay, they flew poorly. They had all the control of a fat Jersey slut on a reality tv show. The Blue Angels they were not. The important thing from a duck and cover standpoint was that Porcine Patrol flew at all. They seemed to swarm like bees rather than fly in any kind of a pattern I could see with my hands over my head, hiding under the minimal protection of the tall totem pole. When one of the pigs dived on us. Others lined up behind. Like pig-pig-pig-pig. There must have been three zillion of them swarming like hornets after you'd hit their nest with a badminton racket because your sister dared you to. Okay, maybe more like fifty of them. Forty of them, anyway. A couple of dozen, at least. A lot! When the Piggies ran out of snowballs, they dive bombed us trying to catch us from behind, knocking us into the snow. Their bodies were hard like their ceramic likeness in front of the bar. One pig slammed Vinnie onto his face. Then the pig's wingman plopped his big fat pig body on top of Vin. The oinker was smothering the little guy. This wasn't like them joining our fun snowball fight. They wanted to hurt us, kill us. Vinnie was in real trouble. I wanted to help him. To do something. I yelled, "Vinnie!" and pointed.

D'Oliya saw Vinnie was down and let loose with one of her ninja throwing stars. It shattered the ceramic pig. "They break!" yelled D'Oliya. Three other were quickly star-struck and exploded in a rain of ceramic uh rain. "They're damn golems!" cried Molly. I knew golems were a Jewish thing. Empty mud beings that maybe had a paper inside? I could think of nothing so irreverent as golems that were pigs. I mean, worse than peanut butter on communion wafers, or a joint called Sacred Cowburgers for Hindus. When the pigs flew too close to Patch, he weed-wacked them into shards. He shattered a half dozen or so before the pigs caught on. The pigs stayed away from him after that, but he still could throw and he did. But while his snowballs distracted them, they did no real harm to their hard ceramic bodies. Molly had her sci-fi pistol and was blasting away, mostly hitting what she aimed at and blowing them into Hog Heaven or more probably, Hog Hell. Louie was blasting the porkers with his .44 Magnum which was really loud. Not loud enough to scare off the fat ferocious fliers, however. Vinnie had out two Berettas, but he was still groggy, stumbling around, firing and missing. I was so scared I threw a brandy bottle at one. Missed, of course. I think the PartyMob nailed half of the bombardiering bacon brigade. Or a lot of them. But no where near enough of them. None of my evil companions seemed to have extra clips. Nobody had expected a gun battle. They were running out of ammunition. I went to retrieve the brandy bottle from a snow drift. I rationalized it was my only weapon. I took a swig from my weapon. Yes, my ammunition was good to go. Too many flying pigs. Too much advantage from the air. They caught Vinnie again from behind, opening a wound in his head. D'Oliya ran to help and three of them barreled into her, knocking her down. We all rushed in to save her. I mean they did. I rushed for the cave. Patch weed-wacked three of them. Louie slammed the barrel of his .44 on the head of the one that looked like was dry humping Dolly. Molly grabbed Vinnie by the collar and started to drag him toward the cave. "Back into the cave!" yelled Pachuco. I grabbed the other brandy bottles Louie had brought out, saving their half-full lives! I saw a couple of snifters and scooped them up on the way in. I felt like a damn hero! I felt so good I had this mad desire to sing the Mighty Mouse song, "Here I come to save the day. It means that Paddy Lee is on the way." Man, this singing jones must be contagious.

2.5 Angels Who Want To Get High

Gun-Molly's covering fire allowed us to scramble back into the ice cave. The moonlight reflected on the icy walls bathed it in blue light. The Flying Swine Force made one more attack, flying straight into the cave after us. Or trying to. Molly blasted them into shards like it was a video game. The ice cave was about the size of a one-car garage, a little longer and a little un-wider. It was bright near the entrance. As I may have mentioned, the moonlight was brighter than I'd ever seen it back in NYC, the city that never turns off its lights because of all the lawsuits filed by muggers tripping over their victims. The first ten feet of the cave were lit by the blue ice that covered walls, ceiling and floor. Then there was a place where it curved in an out again. After that it became darker and darker until it ended at the dungeon door, like an old medieval dungeon in the dark castle of a deranged high school principal. I prayed to the Hell's Kitchen Beer Gods, that we didn't have to go through there. It was a fervent prayer. I even sacrificed a drip of brandy. I figured this would be a treat for the Beer Gods who are mostly asked to win a petitioner like me a $5 bet in exchange for the sacrifice of a spilled splash of Bud. "Our boy okay, Doll?" asked Louie. "He'll live." Vinnie did not agree. "No, I'm going to die. Die without a coffin. Frozen like a wooly mammoth. We're all going to die." If I'd have had a coffin, I'd have stuffed him in it. Not that I was sure he was wrong.

Vinnie stumbled toward the back of the cave and reached for the bar that held the dungeon door shut. Patch grabbed his arm. "Vinnie! Wait. Think about it. The forces who are trying to stop the op and save Christmas, they did this to us. They did it to leave us no choice but to go thru this door. I say we don't." "Who's they?" demanded D'Oliya. "Gimme a break, Doll. How the fuck should I know," answered Patch. "Ask her," pointing at Molly. Molly guarding the cave entrance, looked back and shrugged. "Mutha Nature?" Pachuco continued, "Whoever the enemy is, they want us to go through there. It's some kind of trap. I'd rather go back out and face the flying hams." "We have to do something soon," said Louie. "We have a limited window." "And it's cold," added Vinnie as if we needed a reminder. I plopped down against the wall, and my "winter coat" out of my old khaki bag. I didn't have a winter coat per se. I had a long green scarf with the logo of Mickey's Malt Liquor imprinted on it. I'd found it, of course, but I thought the bottle green color went well with the blue and whitish striped seersucker jacket and my red vest which was still a bit damp from the spill. I felt fortunate my unmatched gloves were both black and both warm. People were always losing gloves in bars and on the subways so I upgraded as I found a new one. I'd been wearing a purple knit glove on my left hand until yesterday. I'd turned that glove inside out, because it was a rightie. Now I had a black leather rightie and a black leather leftie. The lining and stitching were different, but I knew nobody would look at my gloves when the whole world never looked at me at all. Okay, I like feeling sorry for myself. Fuck you and the Toyota you rode in on. What I had for a winter coat were giant black trash bags. I'd made a slit for the head, and holes for my arms to stick through. Double-bagged for the really cold weather, I liked to think it matched my gloves. When I put my computer bag on my back, and the trash bags on top, and had my scarf on my chest, it was almost no, it wasn't almost anything like warm. It sucked. But there've been days, I didn't even have a trash bag. "Break the string. We have to break out of this string," said Louie. "Use your machine," ordered D'Oliya. "It doesnt work that way. It measure the windows where and when Strings cross where we can crossover if we change the dynamics of the string." "What." replied D'Oliya. "We have to do the most opposite thing we can do. At the right time. Or maybe the wrong time. And then hope we start a new reality, and then bounce over to a different dimension when we're snapped back." Huh? "Like do what opposite?" demanded Patch.

"What do you want to do right now?" demanded Molly. "Weed-wack somebody!" said Patch. Mnage trois, I thought to myself, right after nailing Vinnie into a coffin, "Curl up in a ball and cry," said Vinnie, "wondering why I ever let Louie talk me into this doomed adventure to steal Christmas." Steal Christmas? "I want to chickenwing one of those flying pork chops, put a guillotine choke hold on him, then tear off his stubby arms and legs." said Louie, demonstrating the various wrestling holds on an invisible opponent, who Louie then knee-dropped for a coup de grace. He raised his hands in the air in victory and bounced around the cave like he was still a high school wrestler. "That means we don't do that?" asked D'Oliya with disappointment on her gorgeous face. "That means we." hinted Molly. "We do the ." "Opposite?" I volunteered. "Which is?" "Party?" wondered Louie. "Party," nodded Pachuco. "Party!" yelled Molly and D'Oliya together. I figured they'd watched Animal House too many times. So did Mr. Optimism. "Party?" whined Vinnie. "Are you fucking brain-drained?" After D'Oliya shook him like a rag doll, Vinnie began singing. The song they molested this time was Angels We Have Heard On High which old guys like me call "Gloria In Excelsis Deo." Only the arrangement they were using had a heavy backbeat provided by D'Oliya's keyboard and Louie popping his mic with his hand. I wish I had my beer bottle xylophone so I could join in, but once again I was left out. Well, I pulled the cork out of the brandy bottle and did a one note jug band thing. Louie took my bottle, took a sip, and passed it around like I used watch people pass a joint back in the late '60s. You angels who want to get high Sipping sweetly thru the night Need to find the drink to buy That will give you warm delight They all joined in, singing between sips of the brandy. Courvoisier in a brandy snifter Courvoisier in a brandy snifter Molly whispered that they weren't going to record it until they picked up promotion money from Courvoisier. If we do, we'll change our name to the Coniyacks.

You can sip it in a coke Any way that floats your boat. Any mix you do is cool. Straight on ice, or brandy float. This was absurd. If somebody wrote it in a story, even a cartoon story, nobody would believe it. But I guess that was what Molly needed to do, to do whatever she was trying to do that everybody was mad at her for not having done. Absurd. Courvoisier in a brandy snifter. Courvoisier in a brandy snifter. As they finished singing, Molly checked her ring. Apparently, nothing happened. The others checked their bluish stones, too, but were disappointed in what they saw. "Are we..?" whispered Louie into her ear. "No change," she whispered back. I believe we might be kind of trapped here." "Trapped!" cried Vinnie. Of course, we could all hear the pigs making noises like another kind of porkers at a sorority lunch. I took another hit off one of the other brandy bottles I'd accidentally forgotten to share. "Are they" wondered Vinnie. "Still out there," said D'Oliya cuddling the worried little guy. "Clydie isn't necessarily lost," Molly said, "but the dear deer is probably our only chance." Their reaction to this announcement was about the same as my family's the time at Aunt Betty's anniversary when they caught me farting in the punchbowl. "I told you guys I resent her with our new coordinates and left them on her iMust" she said. "I did, too," added Louie. "We're gonna take it up the poop-shoot," whined Vinnie, who would always be the first person to find a glass half full then to break it while bitching about the vintage then complain about the sharp shards. "All this for nothing," snapped D'Oliya, staring daggers at Molly. Molly didn't share their misery or anger, "Chill." "You mean freeze." Molly was not daunted by D'Oliya's bullying or the situation. "We've still got time." "How much time?" demanded D'Oliya. "Not too much," admitted Molly "Why isn't it working?" Vinnie asked Molly. The readings on her thingie didn't seem to have changed. She looked more determined than frightened. "I don't know, but we'll get out of this. I've gotten out of tougher spots."

"Ones with fucking flying pigs?" demanded D'Oliya loudly. "Mine couldn't fly," Molly mumbled.

2.6 Adventures Of A Teen Terror

The young patrolman sitting across from the cute genius couldn't take his eyes off her boobs. Admittedly, they were nice ones. They looked especially nice tonight. That was because it was her celebratory evening of graduation from MIT. Tonight, Molly had been looking forward to picking up a less-than-MIT-complex Southie boy-toy. To the furtherance of that end, she hadn't worn anything that could be sold by Victoria's secret. Her calculation that she could land a lad of Irish descent whose muscle mass exceeded his IQ had a high degree of probability. Southies were easy. For her boy hunt, she'd picked a downscale South Boston sports bar where they served more beer than Beaujolais, more margaritas than Mojitos, and the jukebox played more J-Lo than Jay Z. It was a big place with two floors of humongous plasmas and tables of guys, guys, guys. Working class guys she could find and forget. Molly had her own philosophy about sex. Anything went as long as she was the decider. She might pick up a guy. But it would not be the other way around. That wouldn't happen. To Molly's mind a slut was a woman who let a guys pick her up, let him have his way with her, and then wondered if the macho ball-bag would ring her later. Picking up a guy of her choice and doing what she wanted with him on her own terms was the only way to go. Of course, her philosophy on this and other things which always demanded she be in control, had kept her from ever having a serious, long-term relationship. Or a cat. She was like the hook in a Rilo Kiley song, "I can take my clothes off. I can not fall in love." Well, frug it. The young Boston cop's attention made her glad of her decision underwear-wise. Then again if she had been wearing panties when she danced on the bar and sang "California Girls" she might not have started the mini-riot that had got her arrested, which was bad. Very bad. If she didn't do something about this situation before she was finger-printed, she'd be identified as being on the Terrorist Wanted List. Not on the top of it, of course, but there. Even after four years, she was there. She'd looked it up on the Internet. She was way down the list at number 14,243. Still she was there. Everybody knew IRA bombers never ranked as high as Islamic physicians who were suspected of planning to relieve their bladders in the bushes outside a Prayer Breakfast. For a photo, the best they could do was her in a white dress for her first Holy Communion. It was of a skinny, freckle-faced, red-headed, fallen angel missing a front tooth. Interpol had used one of those computer programs to enhance it. The pix didn't look anything like the lovely features on the 5' 8" inch brown-haired nineteen year old with ivory white skin on a tight runner's body. Only the green eyes were the same. This graduation night, it had taken six of the Boson PD's finest to subdue Molly. That she was subdued at all was only because her good sense overcame the bad tequila and she decided it was better to give up than to put them all in the hospital. It was a glorious bar fight in which more than twenty guys took part while the others cheered. As a result, the cops put the arm on a dozen of the worst offenders, those who were too drunk to lurch their way to the parking lot. They put Molly and 5 other fighting drunks in back of one of Boston's new Paddy Wagons.

Molly was lucky she hadn't brought the backpack she normally carried. If they had found it and weapons it contained, she'd be shackled hand and feet, instead of wearing the plastic cuffs they'd put on her with her hands in front of her. She guessed they didn't take her seriously. She was pretty sure that she should try to escape from the Black Mariah, but after two pitchers of Margaritas she'd imbibed, she wasn't sure how. She never drank tequila, and really didn't understand the power of the Margaritas to make her crazy. Ordering something she never ordered was part of her life philosophy. Never do the expected. Never date the same guy twice until it was time to change predictability of her actions. Her life was doing the unexpected. Never giving Fate a chance to frug her. Tonight, she'd said to the bartender, "I'm celebrating, surprise me." He had. It was like that with the backpack. She almost always carried it. But to change the dynamic, she hadn't. If she only had some of the C-4 and a smoke bomb she carried in the backpack, she'd be golden. But the only things she carried were a credit card, and her Celtic cross worn on a leather cord. Of course, the Druidic symbol was more than it seemed. It could pull apart revealing a small, but sharp oak knife which was used over a thousand years ago to sacrifice sheep and a few those pesky Christians who were always trying to forcibly convert the heathen Celts by burning them at the stake. Since the BPD had her for drunk and disorderly, underage drinking, resisting arrest, indecent exposure, assault and battery, and throwing up on the asshole who grabbed her knee when she was performing her Katy Perry impersonation, she didn't think she could talk her way out of it. The gift of Blarney only went so far even in Boston. She thought of Uncle Ownie, but his clout didn't extend beyond Manhattan and Queens. Her best chance to get out of this was to work on the cop with the areola eyes. The patrolman, who was two weeks out of the academy, really couldn't help himself. He was a guy, after all. She was hottie with no bra, a very, very thin blouse, wet with perspiration from drinking and singing and fighting. She lifted her arms in a yawn and the cop practically created a drool pool at his feet. He probably could have ID'd her breasts from a full page of Google search results for "see-through, wet, teen, breasts". But since he'd only glanced at her pretty face, he probably couldn't have picked her out of a lineup with four Whoopie Goldberg look-alikes. This was exactly what her Uncle Ownie had warned the red-headed kid about. She'd been smuggled out of Ireland and landed on her butt in New York City before Interpol had time to post her picture on the Terrorist Watch List. There at debarkation, she was met by a man who looked a bit like a reincarnated Irish President. As a Druid, Molly believed in reincarnation, but in the case, the age seemed to be wrong for Ownie Madden to be the next iteration of Jack Kennedy. Uncle Ownie took her in and allowed her to live with him in his upper West Side townhouse in the room one of his grown up daughters had lived in. Ownie Madden was a financial something on Wall Street. He was also a fundraiser for the arts, local Democratic candidates, and a certain political movement back in the Emerald Isle. In other words, he knew his potatoes and how to get them boiled.

Uncle Ownie explained to the wild, smart-mouthed 14 year old that she had to keep a low profile in terms of the authorities. If she was arrested, they'd send her prints to Interpol and she'd be in Belmarsh Prison before you say "Up The Brits." Molly had been a good girl. At least, she'd been good at not being caught. Up until now. Molly had changed her hair from the bright red that had earned her the nickname in Belfast as The Molotov. Well, maybe that nickname wasn't just about the hair. She colored her bright red hair a mousey brown. She bought clothes that weren't all grey and black. She tried to be as American as lighting farts on fire, tipping cows, or calling football 'soccer'. She'd worked on her accent until she could sound like a bridge-and-tunnel person, a Harlem hottie, a Jewish American Princess, or her cowboy boot wearing dance teacher who added a fake lisp to class up his West Texas drawl. Madden had Molly take a battery of placement tests so he'd know what school to hide her in. She tested off the charts. Of course, when it comes to education, American charts pretty much top out where European and British charts begin. Even Irish charts. Given Molly's wild and violent past, Ownie didn't trust her. He wanted her close by so he could keep an eye on her. He didn't want her enrolled in one of NYC's notorious public schools. He figured she'd be a gang-leader in two months and start a gang war, two months later. Molly refused to attend a Catholic School, which was probably best. It was where authorities would look, if they were looking. They probably weren't, but Ownie had been successful for not planning on the most likely outcome, but also for the one that could hurt you the most. He believed in mini-max game theory. So did Molly after he explained it to her. The closest school without deputy marshals patrolling the hallways with tasers and scatter guns was LaGuardia High School of the Performing Arts, aka the famous Fame high school of yesteryear. LaGuardia was a walkable distance from his brownstone in the 80s. At least it was walking distance for an Irish street urchin who was used to hoofing it around the city as an IRA messenger. High School was to be her cover. It wasn't that easy. Molly had to audition to be placed in the premier performance and arts high school in the world. LaGuardia normally had a thousand applicants for every one they chose. Worse, it was midyear, so even getting the audition took some doing. Luckily, she could sing and dance a little. Irish dancing was mandatory for Irish kids. As mandatory as a year of government service was for Israelis, or experimenting with gayness was for the English public school boys. Her singing was limited to pop rock and a few patriotic Irish ballads, the ones mostly played for the tourist in Irish pubs. Molly was nervous. She'd never auditioned for anything before. This was scarier than ambushing an SAS patrol with an untested crew. She could barely move. Barely speak. These kids could sing and dance like pros which many of them were. As she was very nervous, she was very early. She wandered the hallways listening and watching. She was amazed. These kids weren't students. They were as advanced as 13 year old Russian tennis players. She heard cries of "I got it! I got a national!" and "My manager has me up for Billy Elliot" and "He told me I sang like a mink!" Molly slumped in a hallway corner doing deep breathing exercises.

A pack of girls passed her and snickered. But there was a boy, not a cute boy, but a nice one who asked if she was okay. He told her his name was Marvin. He was studying the violin. He walked her to the audition room. His only advice was so surprising she giggled. "Kick 'em in the balls," said Marvin in a Long Island accent. It was the kind of advice she understood. She sang Adele's "Rolling In The Deep." It was sorta okay. Got all the words right. Hit all the notes. Brought a little emotion to it. She could tell none of the judges were impressed. Her number from Riverdance was better, assuming Irish Dance was considered real dance by these people. The three judges did not break into applause. Or even smiles. One said "Thank you" and that was that. By any fair and rational standard, Molly should not have been accepted, but Uncle Ownie had come through for her. It seemed there was a vice principal and three LaGuardia teachers producing and performing in an Equity Showcase for their cross-dressing musical version of Reservoir Dogs. Amazingly, despite reviews ranging from "horrid" to "made me gag" the educators found a producer who looked like a dead president to give them funds for an Off-Off-Broadway run down in the Village. There, to even their amazement, it ran for a year and a half. Ownie actually made money on it. A win-win if there every was one. But Ownie Madden had that kind of luck. Molly took a minimum of "art and performance" classes. Just enough to get by. As American education sucks, she was ahead of everyone in math and science especially the math and science required to blow things up with sophisticated electronic devices that could not be defused, hooked up to Bluetooth timing mechanisms that seemed like next year's science fiction. She tested out of all the high school math and science courses, then tested some more and piled up advance placement credits for college. On the performing arts side, she actually made it into the chorus in the "Music Man" after a girl dropped out to play the nasty, fat slut part in the spinoff 'Jersey Shore Does Disneyworld'. Molly also was the lead singer in Marvin's Country Rock band, which did a lot more Charlie Daniels than Taylor Swift. She dated Marvin for a while, breaking his cherry and teaching him things every teenage boy wanted to learn from a pretty girl who could talk dirty in Gaelic. The Bad-Ass Bachs never made it beyond a couple of gigs at open mic nights in Alphabet City bars. Molly had a chance to improve her work on the Irish tin whistle, but she was still not good enough that they'd mic her on it. When Molly tired of Marvin, she took up with a shy Sihk Theatre History major who played drums in the band. From Jake she learned a little drumming and among other interesting uses, how to employ drumsticks as weapons. She hadn't known about Sikhs and how they were all warriors and the turbans were like Kevlar helmets. As with Jake and the rest of the high school boys, there was no intellectual connection. Uncle Ownie was the only person she could talk to about important things like international politics, timing devices, and the chemistry inherent in the brewing of Irish whisky. When the newly Americanized Molly was in her second semester, her SATs scored thru the roof. She got early admittance to Columbia, which was also within walking distance of Uncle Ownie's townhouse, if you liked even longer walks. She did. She graduated from Columbia in two and a half years, having figured out that working on your own and testing out made more sense than going to classes. People who played by the rules were

left behind. She had time to party, take up Tae Kwon Do, open up a gun-running business, and to develop into a beautiful young woman. Her extracurricular college activity of gun running, which she did out of her own secret apartment on West 106th Street, supplied her with adequate funds. It wasn't so much that she needed the money, but old habits are hard to break, even for a 17 year old on the run. Then came MIT. In Boston. Away from Uncle Ownie. Freedom! Molly spent two years at MIT, excelling there, too. It was the hardest work she'd ever done. Among the other wonks, she felt second class, and therefore worked even harder. It amazed her, and most of the other students who knew her, that she, Molly Walsh, been selected for a Fellowship to work with the world's most eminent physicist, Little Stevie Hawking. She was never sure how many strings Uncle Ownie had pulled to get it for her. He said none. But he was a born liar. It ran in the family. None of this passed through her mind as she rolled through Boston on her way to an Irish terrorist prison, probably for twenty years or more. It was the near future that concerned her. She could not allow them to take her to the police station. The young policeman still couldn't keep his eyes off her boobs. She didn't need a bra even for her c-cups and since she was out to pick up a boy toy she hadn't worn one. It was like the cop was trying memorize every little bump on her damp areolas. When she stretched, lifting her hands behind her neck the cop's open mouth could have held a football. No one was looking her way. The rest of the drunks were slumped over, or leaning over with their heads between their knees. Just in case, you know. Molly didn't want to kill the cop. That would be bad. It wasn't so much she was against killing. But it would have made her feel bad for days afterwards. She needed him to expose the back of his neck. He hadn't noticed that her mini was riding up high on her thighs and that she was only wearing herself under it. She squirmed in her seat, which got his attention. When she crossed her legs, she saw his head was practically in her lap. Molly slammed her two entwined fists down on his head. Twice, just to be sure she had his attention. She cut the plastic cuffs with her disguised neck knife, grabbed his key, and was two quick steps to the back door. Well, it would have been if she hadn't had to run the grab-ass gauntlet of drunken Southies. One seemed to want to get even for the brawl. Two were satisfied with a cheap feel. One seemed to want to give her a medical exam. And the other was trying not to loose his evening's investment of alcohol. They had her all tangled up. The cop was woozily getting up. She should have hit him a third time. Molly was in a hurry, so she only broke three of their fingers. And she broke a guy's nose with her elbow. A small chop to the neck solved the dilemma of the guy who couldn't decide if he was going to throw up or perform cunnilingus.

When she unlocked the back door, she saw the Police RV was moving at about 40 miles an hour through city traffic. Back at IRA Girl Scout camp, she'd been trained to jump off the top of moving trains at twenty miles and hour onto soft ground. This was not the same at all. She wasn't James Bond. And she didn't want to die. She wished she hadn't jumped up to dance on the bar. She wished she could live in a world where she hadn't. She didn't know then that there was just such a world, but she vowed, that if she got out of this mess, she would find it.

2.7 D'Oliya's 'No Choice' Choice

Pachuco and D'Oliya were chatting in corner, head close together, seemingly comparing battle scars. She straightened the lapels of his yellow slicker, laughed, and touched him on the arm. Intimate-like. Louie didn't like that at all. He walked back to them, invading their space. "Back off, Patch. Dolly's with me." "That right, Doll?" asked Pachuco. Louie interrupted. "She had a choice back then and Dolly made it, replacing the mono-filament on your weed-wacker." Patch glared at the babe. "You ?" D'Oliya shrugged, "It's true. It's true." The tall guy just stared down at her. "Okay, I exchanged your diamond-dust-coated monofilament for your wacker with licorice strings from one of my edible thongs." "I loved those thongs." "I know, Patchy. Sorry." The tall man shook his head. "I know that's not true. You backed me, and put gummy bears in place of Louie's bullets, so they just bounced off my chest." Louie was shocked. "Dolly!" "I didn't. At least the me that's me now didn't."

Now they both were staring at her. "I had to make a choice between you. But I chose you, Louie." Patch drew his weed-wacker. Louie had his hand on his Dirty Harry. Molly interrupted. "In your string, Pachuco, she chose you. But not in Louie's." "You are the one she chose in this string, Louie." D'Oliya stood up straighter. "You two arrogant retards gave me no choice except to make a choice. One of you was going to kill the other. I couldn't stop you. I flipped a coin. And it came up Louie. Molly said, "And in an alternate world it must have come up Pachuco and started another string which is the one he was on which is why you both died somewhere. And you're both here since I did the string link and extracted Patch." The boyhood friends moved closer. Nose to nose. Waiting for other to make the first move. "You both won. Can't you see that? Can't you accept winning?" They both slowly backed up, without backing down, without removing the glares from their faces. "Winners win," said Louie. "Losers eat farts," responded Pachuco in what was clearly a childhood mantra. Each looked over at D'Oliya, the lover who had betrayed them. Neither was very happy with the sexy babe. Vinnie was the only happy one. Now, maybe he had a clear field. For the first time, I saw the naysayer grin.

2.8 A Man And His Trashbags

While I cowered in a corner, guarding the liquor bottles, I thought about my new companions. These were not good guys. Liars. Thieves. Killers. Con-men. Sadists. And ripper-offers of copyrighted music. But I sorta liked them. Except for Vinnie, of course, who was a total pain. Yet, he'd never screwed me. And I liked his lyrics, well, some of them. They were clearly my ride to reach my childhood dream of being evil. But were they really evil as much as bad-ass? Molly sure had been nice to me, hadn't she? She seemed to get a kick out of me appreciating her Merry Christmas panties. And hadn't she said something about making me famous when she showed me that strange ring. Louie, he was tough. Yeah, but the wide dude had real tears in his eyes when he sang that song about wanting to believe in Santa Claus. He'd bought me drinks, hadn't he? D'Oliya, the dominating Halley Berry lookalike, was a strange one. It seemed like the meaner she was to somebody, at least somebody like Vinnie, the more he liked it. I think under the right circumstances I might like her being mean to me. I was afraid that I might like it a lot. Pachuco didn't like me. That was clear. But Mr. Weed-wacker didn't like me for all the reasons I didn't like myself. He called me borachone. Well, I was a bit of an all-day drinker, wasn't I? The ex-sergeant didn't think they could count on me to come through during an operation. I knew they couldn't. Could I fault the guy for good judgment? But did they have good judgment? What could they want with a sixty-something, shaved-headed, white-bearded, seersucker-jacketed, trash-bag overcoated, overweight, cowardly, morallychallenged, underachieving barfly like me? Would I like it when I found out? Would I live long

enough to find out? She knows what reality we're in, and shes bringing the axes, right? D'Oliya asked Louie again, like a kid wondering if "we were there, yet." Louie, talking thru his cigar, said what sounded like, "The deer girl wouldn't let us down." "Besides, it's her dream to do this," said Vinnie. "To dream the impossible..." Everyone gave the little singer a dirty look like I get from bartenders when I ask to run a tab. Vinnie put the breaks on mid-lyric. "Uhh" I said from my seat on the cold ground from where even my double layer of Hefty bags couldn't keep my butt warm. "I don't Uhh, could you?" Louie helped me out. Clydie Deerest. Shes bringing our instruments and stuff." Golly-gee-whiz. 'Instruments' Why didn't I believe him any more than I do the weasels who barge into Rudy's to sell Rolexes that had fallen off the proverbial truck on 11th Avenue? Pachuco stuck his head out of the cave to see if the Porcine Air Force was still blocking us. After a avoiding a barrage of about a hundred and fourteen snowballs dropping in 1.3 seconds, he reported, "Still there. Still trapped." I was huddled in a corner with my brandy and my computer bag. I was beginning to start to agree with Vinnie about life in general. I didn't understand what was going on. I didn't understand what I was doing here. Molly turned to me and said brightly. I bet youre wondering how we can execute our plan. What plan? I wondered. We can accomplish it because of String Theory and the alternate realities that exist in 11-space. We merely needed to transition into the correct potential reality at the right time using improbability theory. "Huh?" Maybe I should stop looking for Ashton and his krewe. Maybe I should be straining my eyes to find a black-and-white Rod Serling smirking knowingly. Did you hear me, Paddy? We arrived here and we're going to get to Santa because of String Theory and the alternate realities that really exist in 11-space." Get Santa? I wondered to myself. Santa Santa? Like Ho! Ho! Ho! Santa? Like Santa Claus Is Coming To Town Santa? Molly continued, "All we needed to do was to transition into the correct potential reality by manipulating the decision tree while minimizing the R squared option on the probability curves. Yeah, no problem there, I almost said. Louie added, Like we already did to get here to this string-reality to pick up you. "No, we picked him up in the last universe, the one behind that door in the dive bar from which we were 86'd onto this string," said Molly. "Understand?" Huh? "Why should I want to understand?" I asked.

"You have to understand so you can make The Decision." "What decision?" I demanded. "The big one," Molly replied, Louie bragged, All this was all Mollys idea. Did you know shes a big time physicist? Molly blushed the shade of her Christmas panties, a memory that seemed to cloud my vision whenever I looked at her. "She's a genius," said Louie. Molly knew that wasn't quite true, but you didn't contradict Louie unless you had to.

2.9 Molly Blows Boston

Molly was sobering up. But not sober enough. She was at Logan airport waiting for boarding on the plane to Europe leaving in 46 minutes, assuming the departure monitor didn't lie. Believe an airport announcement? It would be like believing a horny young grad student who just wanted to meet you for a drink and talk about 'God particles'. Yeah, right. Every person who looked at her was a policeman or airport security. Why were they staring at her? She realized her blouse was clinging to her like a second skin, and her mini was too mini for anything but a pickup bar. She still had her credit card in the secret pocket inside her mini, the one she'd used to buy the ticket. Even if they had identified her by now, which she doubted, the card should still be good for a while. She picked up a whole new outfit in one of the tourist shops. She did not want to look like an attractive, intelligent grad student whom guys always gave a second look. She found the perfect outfit. Molly looked like the biggest, most retarded Red Sox fan in the world. And that is certainly saying something. She'd bought a Sox jersey three sizes too big. She tucked her brown hair tucked underneath the matching ball cap. She even had on a pair of Red Sox sweatpants. With matching running shoes to look like cleats. She felt like an idiot. But she looked like a normal Sox fan to everyone in the airport. Go Bosox! Still, she felt dumb. Not only because of the way she was dressed. She had had only had one goal since escaping from the bombing back in Ireland. To survive. And she had survived. Easily at first. Tonight, not so easily. And it wouldn't get any easier when she was back in the UK doing her fellowship. It was a ridiculous situation. She had to avoid arrest at all cost. To fit in. To be unnoticed as part of a crowd.

Unfortunately, she had no other goal. She didn't want a husband and family. Not now, anyway. Maybe not ever. She'd like to have made her dead parents proud. But what did that mean? Fight the Brits? Follow her Mom's footsteps into an early grave? She no longer cared about planning the ultimate terrorist pie attack on the Prime Minister or the Royals. Did she really need to hold on to the Irish hate for the English which was almost as much a joke like the silly American's feud between the Hatfields and the McMuffins. She didn't care about politics or economics or other such tv reality shows. Religion didn't matter much to her. Her mother had made her a Druid, even though she'd raised Molly as a Catholic and sent her to Catholic schools. Should Molly seek out other Druids so she could run naked through the woods like she and her mother used to do? Should she worship the mistletoe and the bounty of the earth? Ever since her parents' friends told her their death was "God's Will", Molly had put the Christian God on her shit-list, along with Fate, inevitability, English politicians, and stiletto heels. Science had taught her that nothing was inevitable. Life was all probabilities. It was the minimax theory Uncle Ownie lived by. Like the flip of a coin. You had to play the odds, but that didn't mean you wouldn't get screwed. Did she really want to back to IRA and use her newly acquired scientific education and skills for destruction? It was all so past tense. Physics and Math were her only friends. It could be different now. Molly was going to be working with the smartest man in the world. In a lowly position, an intern's position, of course, but still. On the positive side, she could finally get rid of the mousey brown hair color she'd adopted in the States. She could not return to her natural carrot red, of course. Especially, not in Britain working with Hawking. Strawberry blonde, maybe, to match her pale complexion. Purple, with green stripes? Maybe shave it all off. Do something unexpected. Could she be more herself in her new phase of hiding out in plain sight? She wondered who herself was these days. The terrorist kid was long gone. The dedicated grad student? The Druid convert? She didn't know. Entrepreneur? She'd made a ton of money in her local gun running business supplying uptown gang lords and upstate militias. No, she hadn't really made a ton. Enough to pay tuition, room and board for a couple of years at an expensive university, but not really a lot. Not enough to call it fuck you money. When they called "Boarding" on her flight to Amsterdam, she was still wondering what she wanted to be when she grew up.

2.10 Ice Cave Fever

Patch and Molly had too much adrenaline to sit still. Two people pacing in the tight quarters invariably had to end in some kind of contact. The second time Molly hit Patch with a shoulder, he went for the weed-wacker, and she had her hand in her boot. Louie cooled it down by instructing them to "Take it outside." "Ladies first," said the Zoot-suit warrior. The pigs had formed a semicircle in the snow around us and more of the Porcine Patrol was still in the air. Molly and Patch both laughed. Louie stood guard near the cave entrance. Every once in a while Pachuco's pacing would take him to Louie and they chit-chat. Sometimes it looked like they were joking. Other times like they wanted to smash each other. On one lap, Molly confronted Louie with, "See, I told you. I never had my Beta Test. Look what's happened." Louie was not cowed by the fearless young woman. "You'd traveled a dozen strings." "At random. To understand the different parallel universes. To acquire technology like my laser and the stuff Clydie is bringing. And to make a start on my mapping of the strings. Not to create a route to a specific dimension at a specific time to nail a specific guy and his fucking reindeer." Louie bent his big wide mustached face close until they were nose to nose. "What exactly would you like me to do about it, now, Walsh?" Molly spun away having to make a quick juke to avoid slamming into Patch again. The ice cave wasn't really large enough for both Molly and Patch to do their frantic pacing. "I can't take this cave." Vinnie then sang the hook from anthem of my high school class, "We Gotta Get Outta This Cave if it's the last thing we ever do..."

Nobody joined in, although I think we all agreed with the sentiment. "Let's make a break for it," whined Vinnie. "A break for where exactly?" asked Patch. "There's no place to go," said Molly. Vinnie looked at the back door. The door that looked like it belonged in a dungeon. The door with the bar across it that looked like it was there to keep out the three headed dog on the other side. The door that in horror movies, the next-girl-to-die figures must lead to a Starbucks. DOliya changed the subject. Gun-Molly once did Stephen Hawking. She made it sound really dirty, which I found endearing on a level I didn't want to explore further at least until I was alone by myself in my SRO with a oh, never mind. I interned for Professor Hawking in London, for a semester, Molly snapped back. I did not do the great man, exactly. I mean that is a far from a precise expression of our relationship. You might say I handled small tasks and hands-on jobs for him. I would have flat out done him, said DOliya. "Given the smartest man in the world a BDSM seminar. Trapped in that chair, I wouldnt even have to tie him up... unless he begged me to in his cute little electronic voice." Jeez, if D'Oliya would do Little Stevie Hawking... I knew a guy with a wheel chair. I could steal borrow it the next time he climbed off it to get up on a bar stool. I tried to remember if I'd seen FDR earlier that evening. Louie interrupted my line of thought before it could descend to the depths it was destined for. Molly figured out a way to control alternate realities which is what were in now. Alternate for us, anywho. He seemed to enjoy bragging Molly up like he was his personal discovery, which I guess she was. Well, I admit I integrated some of Hawky's principles into my theory. "She stole it, lock, stock and equations," said Louie as if stealing it was something to be proud of. Like Apaches being proud of stealing ponies. Or politicians of stealing elections. "Actually, I did and I didn't, crib the idea I mean. Yes, I copied some of his work, but it was anything but intuitive. I figured it out only after I left Dr. Hawking and came back to New York City. I was channel-checking the news while working on my Tai Chi. I landed on Glenn Beck guesting on the Sean Hannity FoxNews show. After about 48 seconds, I thought, "What convoluted wormhole did these mad men come through? In what dimension did they learn their history that both agreed was true?" Suddenly it all made sense. "Glenn Beck made sense?" I wondered. "No-o-o-o!" they all said in unison. "Hannity?" "No-o-o-o!" they all said even louder. As if she was talking to a moron, she slowly said, "The Alternate Reality Multi-Universe Transporter" explained Molly as if that explained anything. It didn't. At least to me. Your Rudys Bar is a nexus of improbability. Did I say that right? asked Louie.

Molly nodded at the boss. "Your dive bar is a place where the strings tangle and untangle. For what we want to achieve on Christmas Eve, this is the one of the best place in all existences." I didn't get it. I tried to put my brain in gear, but I think I had over-lubricated the transmission. Nexus of improbability, huh? Like Rudy's Bar edges on the unreal. Thats the first thing theyd said that almost made sense to me, even though it didnt really make any sense at all. But I was used to things not making sense... especially after 11pm. We need to be here, or somewhere like Rudys that's a node connected trans-dimensionally to the right parallel universe that's connected to Rudolf and Santa, so we can take our actions past the edge of improbability in order to phase into other dimensions. We're at the exact coordinates." "Oh," I mumbled. "Right, sure, makes a lot of sense." Hey, I excelled at fractions back at St. Thomas More grade school. I eventually got through 'Introduction To Remedial College Math' by taking the course for Physical Education majors, but this String Theory Physics stuff wouldn't have made sense to me, even it made sense to me, which it didn't. "If Clydie ever finds her way here," mumbled Vinnie, a buzz-killer who made the Grinch look like a positive thinker. "If we could get out of this ice cave," accused D'Oliya, like it was all Molly's fault. "To make the improbability thing work, we have to do things," said D'Oliya looking into my eyes, "improbable things. Going boldly where angels fear to tread." "Transporting us to an alternative string-dimension in time and space." Louie said it as if he understood it. It is like a maze, a ball of strings all tangled up, and we can go from string to string or we can get tangled up, too. Right Molly? said Louie. Right. But Paddy, I think Ive figured out which strings to pull and which ones to cross, and if we set up our own sense of unreality on the improbability curve we can cross over to the next thing. At least theoretically. She still remembered my name! "More than theory, Molly, because here we are," said Louie. "Assuming we don't destroy any realities, with a little luck and a couple more transitions we can pull off the biggest caper in the history of history in any of 11 to the 11th dimensions." "It'll be legendary," said Pachuco. "Yeah, legendary," piped up Vinnie, "if our heads don't explode. Or we don't explode the entire 11 universes like Hawking warned her about." "They'll write books and songs and blogs about us," said Louie, ignoring the negative waves emanating from Vinnie, Vinnie wasn't assured. "If Clydie shows up, and if we don't miss our window, and get the strings all tangled up. And if we don't end up stuck in this pig-infested glade or have to go back through that door and live in the drunkie's bland reality for all time and space, if that's what's on the other side of the door." I was beginning to seriously dislike this bad-attituded little prick. I vowed to get even by stealing his bar change next time I had the chance.

Molly came up very close to me. I could smell the brandy on her breath, as she said, "Trust me." That bothered me, because I knew what I meant when I asked someone to trust me. I said softly to Molly, "You really understand all that?" Molly whispered in my ear. "Well, I understand it well enough to make it work. I need a lot more time to work on both the theoretical and engineering ends, but I'll have that after Louie is the Claus. That's what I want my dream is my own lab, a D-ring particle accelerator, and an audio recording studio in a small campus in Kilkenny." I had questions. Were they going to make their window of improbability? If they didn't make it, what would it mean to them? To me? Would I get another drink? To add to all my other questions, "who the hell was Clydie everybody was waiting for'" Did any of it matter if we couldn't get out of this fucking ice cave? And when and where could I take a piss? D'Oliya had joined in on the pacing. When she and Molly passed, Molly made no effort to side step and they banged together. D'Oliya was on her before I could say "girl-fight" and think about them ripping the rest of their already tattered clothes off. Before my fantasies could come true, our lookout Louie yelled, "The pigs are coming. The pigs are coming."

2.11 When Pigs Attack!

Suddenly, as if the doors at Macy's had opened for the 6am Black Friday Shopping Specials, the hogs came at us in herd. The PigMob vs. the PartyMob. They were inside the cave. We fell back to a spot where the walls narrowed. It was Molly and Patch who held them off at the bottleneck. Molly with her sci-fi gun. Patch with his Pig-Wacker. Only one porker could attack at a time. None of the rest of us had ammunition. When Molly's gun when silent, Louie took her place with nothing but his fists and wrestling moves. He and Parch made a great team. Louie would set them up. Patch would carve them up. But it wasn't going to be enough. Not like that Battle of the something-or-other bridge I read about where couple of good guys held off a whole lot of bad guys. (I thought it might be good to add some educational stuff here to give you on a bit of history, so you felt it was worth reading this shit. I leave the name of the bridge and battle as an exercise for the student, because who remembers anything from history but 1066, when King Arthur bought England from the Picts for twenty-four quid. Molly ran back and confiscated my brandy bottle which I'd been nursing, so it was still half full. "Where are the other bottles?" I gave her another one which was being kept safe in my bag for emergencies. D'Oliya found another the third one. Molly poured equal amounts of brandy in each bottle. Then Molly ripped off her blouse, ripped it into strips, and shoved the long pieces in the bottles soaking them. She yelled "Light me." Shit, nobody had a match or a lighter. "Louie," she yelled.

"I'm a little busy right now, Walsh." "I need your cigar lighter." "In my suit coat pocket." I would have said my front pants pocket even if I knew it was in my coat. I guess that's why Louie was the leader and I was whatever I was. Molly lit all three fuses. "Make a hole!" The did. Molly literally climbed a mountain of dead ceramic pigs. All alone on the other side of the barrier, she flung her Molly-tov cocktails where the attacking pig army were the thickest. With the fired brandy splashing this way and that, and bumping, and lighting each other on fire and the general pig panic, she must have got a hundred of them. A couple of dozen at least. The pigs backed off. Retreated. A strategic withdrawal. I thought they were pretty smart for golem pigs with empty heads. It appeared better off than before their attack, because they had provided us with a wall of deadies to block off party of the cave. I mentioned Molly had ripped off her blouse and was only wearing a red half bra. I decided if I survived, I would do a Google search on half-bras to further my education. Did I mention how the red of the bra sharply it contrasted with pale Irish skin? Or how she had a sprinkling of freckles across the tops of her breasts? Did I say how thin the silky material was, and how it had slipped a little bit to the left in all the action? Did I? No, because mentioning such intimate things would be uncouth and ungentlemanly. I considered offering Molly one of my trash bag ponchos as a cover-up, but I was afraid she'd take it. Each of the gentlemen offered her their suit jackets which were also torn to shreds. We looked like a rag-tag band who dressed so bad we'd have to use the backdoor to pick up free clothes at the Salvation Army store. They do that to some people. Believe me, I know. Fortunately, she said no to the guy's suit jackets. Unfortunately, she had her short fur coat to put back on. Fortunately, the front had been ripped up in the fighting, including the zipper. "Nice job, guys," said the former Gunnery Sergeant. "Molly, I'd fight beside you anytime." Louie didn't look happy. Molly was his discovery. This was his idea. His operation. Patch was overstepping. Trying to take over. Again. Like he had with Dolly. They were all congratulating each other. Nobody mentioned that I had saved the day by saving the brandy. And now we had no more brandy. And I needed to take a piss. I checked the door in the back. It still looked like it led to an orc hotel in Mordor. But maybe it was just a door, and it led back to Rudy's where there was a restroom six feet away. Maybe I should try it. No, bad idea. Better idea, try to get Vinnie to try it. I had to do something. I screamed, "I want to go back to Rudy's. Youve got no right to kidnap me and transport me over state lines or parallel dimension lines or whatever you did. I've got to take a piss. Who do you guys think you are?"

Louie said they were singers who sang, which explained nothing about what they thought they were doing in kidnapping me. I didn't care what they were. I wanted to take a piss. And I said so. They tried to feed me more shit about themselves. I still didn't care. I really needed to take a piss. I mean, really. "Here we go a wassailing, and breaking into homes. Heisting all the silver and raping garden gnomes." Vinnie stopped and everyone stared at him. Needs a little work, said Molly kindly. Especially the raping garden gnomes part. added Pachuco . "You hate it!" whined Vinnie. "I totally suck! I had it. The magic touch. Now, I've lost it." He'd grabbed D'Oliya's whip and started hitting himself on the back with it. D'Oliya grabbed it away. Don't. That's my job, she said putting her arm around his shoulder, smothering his face with her marvelous breasts only pulling away when he started to gasp to turn purple. I can make up dumber lyrics than that, I thought jealously. And I maybe would have if I didn't have to take a piss, which made it difficult to make rhymes other than miss and this and kiss. I could tell Vinnie appreciated their kindness, especially D'Oliya's, he said gasping. I thought about rhyming breaking into cribs with stealing babies bibs. That didnt quite work either. "Sinatra didn't write his own material, either" said Louie. That seemed to perk up the dapper little dude. These folks acted serious, but how could they be serious about String Theory and raping garden gnomes. It was crazy, even for the kind of people I usually met at Rudy's Bar. But maybe it wasn't them that had gone all TeaParty-brained. Maybe it was me. Hallucinating. Again. Flying Pigs? Come on, Paddy. Come on. Come on! "Why am I here?" I screamed. Louie put his big muscular arm around my shoulder. I love Christmas, as you know. I love it so much I want to improve it. Make it better. Give it a 21st century facelift." Our Louie is more than a great drummer and a beer distributor. He is a visionary businessman. said Patch. Hes like a Jersey Jobs of cartage and numbers." "And knocking off kids on Halloween and reselling the candy in Mexico for re-import to WalMart." I assumed that one was a joke, but I didn't care, because I had to take a piss. Louie said, "Patch and me, we've been doing this sorta thing since we fixed out first spelling bee back in grade school." Pachuco said proudly, We made $8.75 on bets. Each! We never looked back." "Except when we were being chased, laughed Louie.

"Nobody ever caught us, except for them that wished they hadn't." "The good old days." Louie put out a fist. Patch bumped his fist against Louie's. "Yeah, Lou, we had some."

2.12 Back When Jersey Louie

Business was good. Louie thought his old pal was a good junior partner in many ways. His time as a Gunnery Sergeant running a company of hard-ass fire-pissing jarheads had made him a good COO for Louie's many enterprises. Louie needed a hard guy who could keep his troops in line. That was his old buddy, Pachuco, even without the weed-wacker that drove fear into the toughest of the tough. Pachuco had brought his contacts in the Club world which had certainly helped Louie's beer and liquor business. His contacts in the music world made life a lot more exciting and fun. Yeah, looking back, bringing Patch in was another great decision in a long line of great decisions that had taken Louie to where he was. On top. But Louie was looking forward. He knew he was ready for the big time. To be a player on the national stage. To be a household name like the Teflon Don or The Donald. He figured he'd earned it. Louie was ready to put his name on an AC casino. His name in lights you could see from NYC, if not from geosynchronous orbit. His face on the hundred dollar chips. Maybe produce a reality tv show that took place in one of his chain of Gentleman's Clubs, Louie's Labians. Be on the talk shows. Have his own line of linguini. Advise Presidents on how to create a new Great Society where rich people like him and corporate executives like him would have titles like they have in England. Lord Louie. He didn't need Pachuco. In fact, his old grade school buddy was holding him back. Louie couldn't let that happen.

2.13 Back In The Same When Pachuco

Business was good. Pachuco thought his high school wingman was a good partner in lotsa ways. He was a great idea guy. His connections with the GalMauro Crime Family gave them entre everywhere and clout where they needed it. But Louie really didn't understand business. He could come up with some wild-ass stuff, but he didn't know good ideas from bad. And he couldn't execute for shit. Now, Louie wanted to go high profile. He wanted to have a "famous name" like Machine Gun Kelly, Tony Soprano, or Eric Cartman. He wanted to be Lord Louie. Lord fuckin' Louie! His old friend was losing it. He was bat-shit, rat-shit wacko. He was going to fuck it all up. Everything they'd built. They'd have to get rid of all their quasi-legal enterprises, pay taxes, wear condoms the whole nine yards. Louie even wanted to rename their gangsta rap music company Pachuco had founded. The arrogant Guido wanted to call it the Lord Louie label. Pachuco couldn't let it happen. The Lord Louie label was a really bad name. Pachuco knew Louie thought that he was holding Louie back. It was just like back in school when Patch was the hero, and Louis was his sidekick. Louis was still trying to prove something that could never be proved. Holding him back? The ungrateful asshole! Pachuco made it all work. He was the Man. Holding him back? Pachuco thought he should hold Louie's head underwater until he came to his senses. And if he didn't, maybe hold his fat head under until it didn't matter anymore.

2.14 Dreams Of Easy Street

The ice cave was still a nightmare to me. And my butt was freezing. The mob, however, took this time as an opportunity to dream on. We figure taking over Christmas is gonna be a lot more profitable than anything we've gone into since we took different paths, said Pachuco. "If we don't get raped by garden gnomes in the process," offered Vinnie, with an expression that made me think he might like it. "A hostile takeover of the holidays is just good business," added Louie, ignoring Vin. "When we take down the FatMan and Louie becomes The Claus," said D'Oliya, "we'll be on Easy Street." "The Easy Street Gnome Cemetery," added Vinnie. What did that mean? 'Louie becomes the claws?' "Easy Street." repeated D'Oliya. "Maybe, if Clydie ever shows up," Vinnie wet-blanketed. "Easy Street!" screamed D'Oliya, grabbing the short shit by the throat, and reaching under the slit in her dress, where she kept her throwing stars and other softer weapons a gentleman doesn't mention. "Okay, Easy Street... probably the one in Toontown in the Gumby universe where all the werewolves are cops, and everybody has athlete's foot." "I give up," said D'Oliya, grabbing the little buzz-kill and pulling his face into her cleavage once more, just to shut him up. I still had to piss.

2.15 D'Oliya In The Same When As The When Before

Which one? One of them was going to kill the other. Each of them wanted her help to do the deed. The were both connected. Maybe made guys. Who knew for sure? It was not made guys wore Phi Beta Capo keys as club bling. Pachuco knew "Doll" as a hot club babe. A semi-famous video vixen who also sang backup for some of the biggest hip-hop acts in Newark. They'd met in Pee Doobie's Club before it went tits up. The event was an after party for a big budget YouTube video release. Pachuco was there by an act of serendipity, brought along by club-slut he barely knew. Poop Doggie's video was on the big screen and Doll was rocking to it. Pachuco had to look twice. Yeah, the woman next to him was one of three hotties on mic. The tall handsome, athletic Pachuco sidled up and asked if she were really singing. She sang along with herself. Poop Dogg heard her and came over and did his rap with her and the screen, only using the real actual dirty, filthy lyrics which drew a big enthusiastic crowd. When Doll and The Poop went into the bit of the choreography from the video where he pulled up her slit skirt and spanked her, the crowd went crazy. Louie didn't know anything about any of that. He knew "Dolly" as the Long Island Hit Lady. He'd put out a contract on the Lt. Governor of New Jersey who was a dishonest politician. In the garden state, the definition of an honest politician was one who when bought, stays bought, and shuts-the-fuck-up. This politician had a change of heart when it came to greasing the legislative wheels for the construction of an exit off the Interstate that ran right into the front gates of Louie's Liquor Distribution Business. The lousy pol even went on tv telling people he was against it. D'Oliya D'Abo as she was introduced to Louie, took care of it within a week in a most creative way. The guy who would be Governor was found in a BSDM brothel handcuffed, and chained, with a bottle of Crystal up his butt, and a ball-gag in his mouth. He had apparently suffocated. But none of the state or local authorities wanted to dig any deeper. They were afraid what they'd find out would be toxic to any one involved, including them. That's what had happened all the other times. Each of the guys took D'Oliya great places. Different kinds of places. Pachuco took his Doll to the NYC clubs and VIP events. Louie took his Dolly to Vegas and Monte Carlo and like some big casino in Slovenia where she had a "meeting" with an animator who had created a Mafia type character called Mustache Pete who wore a pin-striped suit, had Louie's thick mustache, his Meso-Mesomorph physique, a penchant for cigars, and who was dumber than Homer Simpson after 22 Duff beers. Dolly took care of the guy. Louie had someone else burn down the studio that held all the film prints and computers. It took a while for her to figure out her two boyfriends were actually partners who didn't know about the other. When she finally got it, she thought back on their conversations and complaints. Clearly, these guys were on a collision course. Only one partner would survive. But which one? And what could she do to make sure the survivor owed her big time?

2.16 Lounge Lizards

I had to take a piss. I mean, I really, really had to. Unless you are an old guy like me, I doubt you can comprehend how much of an emergency this can be. I had two choices. Relieve my agony in the back corner which was gross. Or I could see if the strange door with the huge metal bar led back into my favorite dive bar. These are the kind of challenging, esoteric mental exercises I go through all the time figuring out where to piss. Keeps me sharp for decisions like if I buy one more beer, what are the odds of getting buyback before the bartender changes shift? The corner relieve-iation option seemed best, but in the confined space, the smell would give me away, even if I was not caught letting it all hang out. On the other hand, the door could lead right back into Rudy's where the bathroom was three quick steps away. If it were Rudy's, I could get another beer if I dug into my shoe vault, and I would have saved us all from the flying pigs. The beer decided me. I quietly lifted up the huge metal bar that was bolted into the stone next to the door. I listened. It sounded like Rudy's as I slowly pulled it open a crack. Jukeboxes with Christmas music and drunk-talk. Music to my ears. Opening it a crack more, I could see a little string of blinking Christmas lights just like Rudy's! I pushed it open farther and took a better look. The joint looked like Rudy's with same red duct tape holding everything together. But this wasn't my Rudy's because these weren't my regulars. These barflies were lounge lizards. Literally, like back in time some T-Rexies ate the monkeys we would have evolved from. These scaly dudes were evolved from those mean monkey-eating mofos. I started to slowly close the door when it was slammed against my head, making a noise like a big-ass door slamming against the shaved head of a moron. The slammer had a T-Rex head on a

seven foot body dressed in a leisure suit. I yelled for help as I tried to hold the door against a bigger stronger drinker who probably did not have as much to drink as I had. Anyway, that's my excuse and you can't prove it isn't true, even if it isn't. It was not a fair contest. The door slammed open and Rexy got a good look at us. He was so surprised he dropped his quart mug of beer. I think that saved us, because he took a moment to mourn his loss. Just what a real Hell's Kitchen Lounge Lizard would do. I have to give it up to the PartyMob for bravery. They didn't hesitate. They were in the back, pushing on the door, before I could say, "Sorry." It took all of us, rather all of them, because I had gone the other way to give them room. The Rex was punching and clawing. Molly was karate kicking it in what I assumed were its reproductive organs. D'Oliya was stomping her stiletto heel into its size 24 Converse All Star. Vinnie had a blade he slammed again and again into the creature's thigh. Rex fought back. He kicked Vinnie across the cave. Louie took a good punch to the face. Patch took a two foot scratch that tore into his zoot suit into rags. D'Oliya got her hair messed up, which really made her angry. The door wasn't going to close because Rexy had jammed his arm in the door. An arm twice as thick as my leg. We could hear the other Lounge Lizards rushing to the back. Probably exWestie lizards. We were fucked. If Patch hadn't started up his weed-wacker and tore into the lizard skin door blocker, we'd have wished the pigs had gotten us. I never thought I'd say that I love the whirring sound of a weedwacker, or the site of spatters of blood spinning through the air like a sparkler. But I do now. Louie slammed the door. D'Oliya dropped the bar. They all put their backs to it as the lizards tried to break it down. Eventually, given a choice between knocking down a door or finishing their drinks, Lounge Lizards will choose the drinks every time. The pounding subsided. "That's not my Rudy's," I explained. "Good to know, huh?" After our little bit of excitement, the PartyMob was not in a party mood. I had almost kinda-sorta probably maybe killed us all. On the positive side, it seemed that my actions were within their expectations, so nobody yelled or screamed to threaten to 86 me. On the negative side, I'd eliminated the door as an option. Depression set in. "We need action," said Patch. "We might try to sing Clydie in." Molly considered it. "It might work." "What the fuck," I said. What it has singing got to do with anything? How can you sing someone in? What is all this singing all the time, anyway? Who" Molly answered. "You know about incantations and magic words?" "Yeah, but" "They work." "They don't really"

"No, they don't always work. But words have power. Group chants have more. And songs have power to change the world." "That's ridiculous." I replied, confident as usual in my analysis of things I knew nothing about. "You didn't know the Beatles' music started an underground movement that had more to do with the fall of Communism in the Soviet Union than any politician." "Well, I did see a show about it on PBS, but" Molly continued, "Lee Greenwood's "I'm Proud To Be An American was the catalyst for the arrogance, nationalism and meaningless wars that led the United States downward spiral to become a second class country worse off than England or Greece." Louie took out his mic. D'Oliya went to the cave entrance. "I need my keyboard. It's out there." It was leaning up against the totem pole in the center of the clearing. At least twenty yards away. I won't bore you with all the details of their brave sortie to retrieve D'Oliya's keyboard. It was stupid. Louie had a plan. Then Molly told him she made better plans when she was nine. Patch said he was the best trained. Louie tried to pull rank as the leader. Neither Patch nor Molly was buying that. Molly said she knew best because this was like guerrilla fighting. What a cluster-fuck. Three leaders who wouldn't follow. Louie finally sided with Molly just to piss off his old boyhood buddy. Patch shoved Louie and he fell, bouncing back up with his empty .44 in his hand and death in his eyes. D'Oliya stepped in. "Not again. Back it on down." Surprisingly they did. Dolly looked stern. "Pachuco. You make the plan. You're the real soldier trained to do this sort of thing." She looked at Vinnie who nodded in agreement, "It doesn't matter. Fine." They looked at me. I asked, "Do I get a vote?" "No," they screamed in unison. Well, at least they agreed on something. It was moronic. Made no sense. All over a stupid instrument case. All to sing a stupid song. From where I sat at the cave entrance, the high points were when I saw a glimpse of Molly's Merry Christmas underwear as she kicked the head off a flying pig. D'Oliya was such a whirlwind, I almost missed her breasts falling out. All took nasty wounds from the Flying Pigs. Vinnie saved D'Oliya by jumping on a flying pigs back. He was lucky when he feels the hundred feet or so that he landed in a snow drift. Yadda-yadda-yadda. Brave bullshit. Heroic actions that would have been the play of the day, if fighting flying pigs was a sport with a New York team in first place. I didn't want to watch. I tried not to. But Molly's karate screams kept grabbing my attention and

making me wonder if she were a screamer. You know, like a screamer? Louie and Pachuco may have been at each other's throats in the cave, but they worked together like a Circ du Soleil act with mayhem on their mind. The most spectacular was when Patch stepped into Louis hands and Louie flipped him ten feet in the air where he took down three pigs at once with his pig-wacker. The PartyMob succeeded in rescuing D'Oliya's keyboard case by grit, determination, superior fighting skills, and general heroic-ness, all while I watched from the door, thinking about taking a piss. But it is not worth the telling any of this because I barely saw any of it, and all I could think of was that I had to take a piss. In asshole vision I always think of hindsight as Asshole Vision anyway, in retrospect, I think while the fighting was going on, I could have made it behind a pine tree to take care of the important business. And if seen, I could have said I was creating a distraction. But I didn't. I didn't do shit. The story of my life. "Our song should go across the Strings and bring her here. Like a homing beacon." said Louie. "How will she know it's for her?" asked Vinnie. "We need the right song that resonates on a visceral level," said Molly. "Do you all remember Vinnie's version of Run, Run Rudolph?" "Yeah, that should piss her off big time." I wondered how an old Chuck Berry tune could help. Well, everybody has always ripped off Chuck Berry and by now he must be used to it. Molly came over to me. "Paddy, I need your Mac. I downloaded some loops. And I need them." Oddly enough, I didn't hesitate giving it to her. What was wrong with me? The set up by the door. D'Oliya ,Vinnie and Louie sharing his mic. Patch providing weed-wacker percussion. Molly on my Mac. She said "I'm going to try to broadcast it to her handheld." "Will that work?" asked Vinnie. "Of course not," said Molly. "That's the whole point."

2.17 Beer Run, Rudolph

They sang. Beer run, Rudolph, Flydeers gotta get us some brew. Santa make him hurry. Tell him take up to mach 2 Beer run, Rudolph. 'Cause we want to party with you.

I thought they were talking this song-knockoff thing to extremes. I thought about it for a moment more and decided knocking off songs is better than knocking off people. Suddenly, everybody was looking up into the star-filled sky. I saw something, too. It wasn't a bird! It wasn't a plane. No, it was a big bird hauling a plane behind it! Huh? I squinted. My eyes aren't too good. I have no depth perception which is good because it kept me out of the Vietnam, so I didn't have to run to Canada and become a hippie, so I could stay in the US of A and become a hippie, which was good training for my current occupation, or lack thereof. Anyway, I squinted. No, wasn't a bird at all. It wasn't a pig, either. It also wasn't a man of steel. It looked like it was a big flying horse pulling what looked like a big red '54 Caddy convertible packed with twice as much stuff as the Grinch's sleigh. Jeez, my eyesight couldn't be that bad. How fkdup was I? In my misspent youth, and even my misspent middle age, I've had some memory lapses in the morning following an evening when I've been over-served by sadistic bartenders, but I'd never hallucinated before this evening. At least not just drinking bar booze. Maybe all of this was just one big-ass hallucination. It wasn't even a logical hallucination. There didn't seem to be a driver of the Caddy. The vintage car was like totally over packed with a twelve foot high pile of bags and boxes and stuff I couldn't identify all in the front and back seats. The whole apparition looked like something for MythBusters to debunk. I was baffled. The Flying Pigs must have been baffled, too. They'd taken up a v-position above and behind the Caddy.

2.18 Get This Christmas Started

The car radio must have been playing on the Caddy because there was music I was hearing wasn't from the PartyMob. The music was loud like it was coming through arena speakers. I think it sounded like that P!NK song. Only the words were wrong and it was being sung by what sounded like Mickey Mouse doing a Mr. Ed impression. I'm flyin' down so you better get this Christmas started. I'm flyin' down so you better get this caper started. Get this Christmas started, I say start it tonight. PartyMob ain't waitin' for the day to arrive. Taking over Christmas, that's our holiday thing. Doing Christmas parties where we drink and we sing. Our party's gonna kick ass, we give our word, With a lot of class, although mostly it's third. I'm flyin' down so you better get this Christmas started I'm flyin' down so you better get this caper started. The PartyMob started whopping and breaking into applause, and hugging each other. This was the signal for the Flying Porcine Force to go on the attack. They pummeled the Caddy with snowball like they had us. It did no damage. Then as the Caddy was closing in on us, they went to Kamikaze maneuvers, bashing themselves against the car. It didn't stop it either. It didn't even knock over the stuff that filled the seats like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. When the hogs went after the Caddy puller, which looked to me like a deformed Clydesdale, they had better luck. It swerved erratically trying to kick at the pigs, which when the swinging caddy connected, it shattered them into ceramic butcher shop cuts. As the Caddy came in for a landing, the Mob rushed out to help. I rushed out to take a pee behind a tree. It was another epic battle, I guessed. I was concentrating on not peeing on myself. But it wasn't another epic battle. No! They were hopping aboard the Caddy as I was zipping up. They were carrying their instruments. Molly had my Mac. Damn-shit-cokesacker-muthaforker-dog-breath-crap-eating-catamite-transvestite-and-gosh-darnit! The PartyMob were still battling the pigs as they took off. As they accelerated into the night sky and across the moon I thought I heard Vinnie singing the Fifth Dimension's "Up! Up! And Away!" I felt like I did as a kid when the cool kids ditched me. I felt like a sixty three year old Macaulay Culkin like in Home Alone 145. Or the astronaut dude who landed on The Planet Of The Apes. Or the Ned Beatty character in Deliverance. I screamed "Sooie!" Damn and all that other stuff. That was the wrong thing to scream when the sky was full of Flying Pigs. They gave up on the Caddy and dive bombed me. I was not going to make it back to the cave. I was not going to make it back to Rudy's. I was not going to make it, period.

My whole life passed before my eyes. Mostly it looked like a dive bar.

2.19 Rescue Me
I felt like I did as a kid when the cool kids ditched me. I felt like a sixty three year old Macaulay Culkin like in Home Alone. Or the astronaut dude who landed on The Planet Of The Apes. Or the Ned Beatty character in Deliverance. I screamed "Sooie!" Damn and all that other stuff. That was the wrong thing to scream when the sky was full of Flying Pigs. They gave up on the Caddy and dive bombed me. I was not going to make it back to the cave. I was not going to make it back to Rudy's. I was not going to make it, period. My whole life passed before my eyes. Mostly it looked like a dive bar. I squinted into the bright moonlight. Up in the sky above the pigs. It was a bird. It was you know where I'm going with this, so I won't. It was the PartyMob returning for me. " O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' I chortled in my joy. Actually, I said something like FuckinA! three or four times. A big horse was pulling the red convertible. Louie and Pachuco were sitting on the front hood. The girls were in the car surrounded by boxes and bags and more bags and stuff. Molly threw something like a snow globe at a pig that had me in its piggy sites. She hit it and the evil porker swerved away with a cracked chest. As the Caddy sped by, Louie held Pachuco's belt so he could lean way out, then reach way the fuck outer, grab my arm and swing me into the Caddy like a cowboy hero rescuing his poor sidekick who had the brain of a casaba melon, but was good for comic relief. Patch swung me over the windshield into the laps of Molly and Dolly wedged amidst a huge pile of stuff. Molly was relieved I'd made it. D'Oliya started pummeling me, yelling for me to get off

her. I tried. I did, but we were crunched in-between all the boxes, and bags, and junk that filled the Caddy's front and back seats. It was a total accident that I pulled down the top of D'Oliya's dress. It was! It was probably because she was hitting me, and hitting me hard, that my face kept falling onto her left breast. Hey, if I made motorboat noises, it was because I was just happy to be saved. I was not going for a cheap thrill. Really! Okay, I made up all that stuff about pulling down D'Oliya's dress and exposing her magnificent fun bags. But I thought about doing it. And I did make motorboat noises. The flying pigs were still in pursuit, but it appeared we were much faster. But nobody was driving. Nobody. Then I remembered what Molly had said. We were in a place where 'Pigs Could Fly' What could I expect? Yeah, I was in a flying car pulled by some kind of flying horse with no wings. Very Rudolph-The-Red-Nosian. We were all torn up, covered in grey ceramic pig dust with colorful splotches of Rex blood red. Our clothes were ripped. We were further decorated with all kinds of cuts, bruises, and sprains. We looked a mess. But we were ecstatic. We had gotten away. And I had taken my piss. Ahhhhhh! Molly yelled over the sound of the wind. "We've got to make a transition sometime between six to eight minutes." "To where?" demanded Dolly loudly. "Any one of the half a dozen strings where Rudy's bar and Santa Claus co-exist." "Somewhere like where elephants fly?" I wondered. "I certainly hope not," responded Molly. "So messy." "I always wanted to meet Dumbo," yelled Patch from his position on the hood. "The best choice would be Paddy's dimension or the one closest to it," finished Molly. I heard Louie yell, "Clydie! Into that fog bank." The Caddy convertible swerved that way. Louie was obviously trying to lose the flying ham-heads on our six. They had fallen back, but were still in sight and sound. That tennis player grunting was really annoying. Almost as bad as Vinnie's whining. Or the sitar rock licks in a Bollywood music video. From the back, although I'm no expert in horses' asses, at least the ones that are attached to four legged creatures, the big horse pulling the Caddy looked like a Clydesdale. You know, like one of the huge beer-wagon pulling horses. Only this one was decorated for the holiday season. Its harness was extensive and covered in Christmas tree lights. When it turned, I noted the big red nose, battery operated I assume. It blinked at the same rate as the tail light of an airliner on approach. It got better. Or worse, depending. The horse had big phony antlers on. Like idiot tourist wearing a statue of liberty crown which in Hell's Kitchen is like a sign saying "I'm from Indiana. Rip me off. "

"Clydie?" I asked Molly because there was no one else for Louie to be directing. She nodded. Clydie is formerly of the Clydesdales you probably saw on tv in your former reality. What reality? Where in any of this was there any freaking reality? The Maria grunts were fading. We must be pulling away from the Bacon Bombardiers. I heard D'Oliya say, Now our girl, Clydie Deerest, is gonna be the new Rudolph a better, trans-species, better dressed, kinkier, feminist Rudolph. Better in every way. Huh? Louie and Patch were punching each other in the arms and goofing around on the hood of the car. Like they were ten years old again. Like there wasn't danger of a fall that would break a meteor in 8,567 pieces, let alone two goombas. Idiots! "Where's Vinnie?" I yelled over the howling wind. D'Oliya yelled into my ear. "I tied him up and threw him in the trunk. I was tired of listening to him kvetch, and I didn't have the time or inclination to teach him a lesson." Molly was worried about the antics of Louie and Patch. "We should stop them," she said in a quieter voice they wouldn't hear. D'Oliya disagreed in a whisper. "Nothing can stop those two from going at it. It's their destiny to kill each other." "Destiny?" I asked, softly. "Like Inshallah. Fate. Kismet. Whatever you want to call it." "Like the curse of the Billy Goat making the Chicago Cubs lose," I mumbled. "I don't believe that shite," said Molly. "Or that everything happens for a reason. You make your own space in whatever string you're on." "Believe what you want. Someday those two senior delinquents will be getting it on like in that place in the bible where the guy rode all night to escape his fate and the Grim Reaper was waiting for him with a bucket of fried chicken and a one-way ticket." "Sumatra," I said, showing off my Jeopardy chops. "Samarra," corrected Molly casually. I hated women smarter no, not true. If I hated all women who were smarter than me, I'd hate all women. "That's just the way life is. Same for us." Then D'Oliya sang "Que Sera Sera. Whatever will be will be." "We're the proof that's not true," argued Molly. A big wind picked up the caddy and bounced us up and down. If we were a basketball, you'd call it being dribbled. "We haven't made it yet, have we? Even if we get to the right place, Red Suit may not be so easy to take down."

"If you don't believe in this, then why are you here?" Molly demanded. "I have a debt to pay." Dolly nodded toward our fearless leaders who were now arm wrestling. "To which one?" I asked. "Both, it seems. In different strings, to both." Putting two and two together and getting 2.2, I asked. "Then they aren't from the same dimension placey?" "Different parallel universes," said D'Oliya. "That I'm sure of. It was the thing that made me believe in this sci-fi crap." Molly told us she'd heard some things from Louie. "Did he really kill Pachuco?" Dolly nodded. "And it seems Pachuco took out Louie in the dimension you found him." Molly explained that Louie told her the two of them made a great team that he needed Patch for this caper. That they had never failed when they had each other's backs. He told Molly to hijack Pachuco from another string where they both survived their disagreement. But there was no string where they both survived. One had always killed the other over a woman they were both boffing. Or over a power struggle in their business. Or over a game of Risk. D'Oliya jumped in defensively. "It wasn't my fault. They had grown in different ways and they didn't want their old personal baggage and old competition. I had to make a choice." "You were there when it happened?" I asked D'Oliya said softly, "They left me no choice." Louie turned back toward us. We all froze. Had he heard? The wind picked up and the caddy started to bounce and buck like my twenty dollar girlfriend, Pathological Patty. "Yo, Molly! he yelled. "What do we sing and when do we start?" Gun-Molly screamed back that they could sing anything as long as it was as dumber than a porn star interview, and that it went down in the next two to four minutes when the vibrating strings came into harmony. (Actually, I took poetic license and put in the porn star part. Molly said 'dumber than a Texas Governor', in case you're a freak for accuracy, but I like my line better, and I'm writing this thing, so blow me if you don't believe in artistic license.) The wind direction was now changing every few seconds. We caught a wind shear that blew us thirty feet sideways. Patch lost traction and slid off the car. He was airborne for an instant before the muscular Louie grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. "Good catch," said Pachuco as if Louie had just reached into the stands to haul in a foul ball. "You never know when a weed-wacker will come in handy," replied Louie as if it were no big deal. I hate fucking heroes. You know in the movies, the aw shucks, that's what make you that guy horseshit. Why can't the guys in the movies be like more real? Like more like me? And these

fuckers were like movie characters. Or maybe super hero cartoon characters. The two old buddies performed a high and low five, then when another buffet buffeted us, both hood surfers grabbed the top of the windshield and hung on like their well, I guess their lives did depend on it.

2.20 Damn!
I heard the strange Mickey Mouse-Kermitty voice start to rap. Damn, it kicks ass to fly with gangsters. A Partymob gangsters always stylin'. A Partymob gangster parties his way. Partymob gangsters gets free valet. The buffeting was getting worse. Molly was keeping track of something on my computer. She yelled, "Keep going, babe. Something's happening." She thrust her hand into the air like she wanted the teacher to call on her. I wondered who-the-fuck was singing. I looked at the two hoods on the hood, their faces and bodies pressed against the windshield. It wasn't them. The rapping continued.

Wanna-bee gonna-bees are flashin everybody how theyre big time, But Partymob gangsters get the hot dolls, Cuz Partymob gangsters got the meatballs. There was a burst of thunder and lightning all around us. Very hokey, I thought. "Was one of them going to yell, "It's alive!" They didn't, so I did. Molly's ring on her raised hand started to glow like it had when we were 86d from Rudy's. That swirling fairy dust thing. The convertible dropped thirty feet straight down. Molly yelled. "We transitioned. But Santa is just a legend here. Keep going. We need to get closer." Who was singing? Vinnie from the trunk? In a chipmunk voice? If he had nitrous oxide, I wanted a hit. Everything is cool in the mind of a gangster, A Partymob gangster aint no weenie. Were the PartyMob, and we steal Christmas songs.

Partymob gangsters like linguini. Molly yelled. "Shite! We only have another minute or we're stuck here." And all I gotta say to you wanna-be, gonna-be Soprano-lovin, carol-singing pranksters, when the carols are gone, what the freak ya gonna do? Damn, it kicks ass to fly with gangsters. Molly's ring had that strange glow again. Like it was projecting one of those cool cosmic photos from the Hubble Telescope. Molly checked my computer and yelled over the thunder. "We transitioned again. But this Rudy's is a Gay Bar for Astrologist Stock Brokers. Keep singing." And all I gotta say to you Christmas-past, candy ass, old-timey carol-singing pranksters, when the hip get to hoppin', what the freak ya gonna do? Damn, it kicks ass to fly with gangsters. Lighting! Just what we needed. If lightning had a brain, I would have guessed it was aiming at us. Or maybe Molly's ring, which she was again holding high up over her head like Lady Liberty held her torch. I've never smelled lighting before. I prefer the smell of stale beer. Damn, it kicks ass, It's such a damn blast, The thunder rolled, as Molly's ring flared again. As did Louie's sapphire tie-tack and the stone on the end of the handle of Pachuco's weed-wacker. WTF? Molly yelled. "Brilliant! We made it! The singer finished with: Damn, it kicks ass to fly with gangsters. "She did it. You did it! Take us down. Operation Red Suit Down, here we come," screamed Molly, hugging me. I hugged her back. I had no idea why, but who cares!

PART THREE

3.1 Multiple-Universe Superstring Transition Devices Rule

Posted by Molly Walsh, May 6, 5:22 am It is now possible to engineer a device that will allow travel to alternate universes through string space. By string-space I mean 11 permanent universes, each with 11 permanent dimensions, which works out to over a ten billion alternate realities. Utilizing superstring research data from experiments performed at the Cern particle accelerator and on my personal adaptations of Little Stevie Hawking's theoretical work, I have been able to construct a prototype of a Multiple Universe Superstring Harmonizer and Transport Device that performs across 1010 of the 1111 string-spaces. I have developed original string theory equations which are valid on both micro and macro levels. I have also integrated probability theory, in particular, mini-max game theory into my Theory of Multi-Dimension Superstrings. Actually, I have discovered a corollary to probability theory I call Improbability Theory, which is a key to creating the right kind of frayed string from which to trigger transportation to alternate dimensions and universes. Underlying Science Back when technology was a sharpened stick, the search for rational explanations of everything led early man to religion which was built upon parables, stories and magic words. Religion was very predictive in the sense that if you sacrificed a virgin, the volcano god would probably go back to sleep. If you sang at church and tithed, you went to heaven. Then came Newtonian theory more or less built on simple equations, like F=MA, which were based on simple experiments of the observable world. For example, Newtonian physics could predict when an apple fell out of a tree, how hard it would fall on the head of a scientist sleeping off a mead hangover. Then came Quantum Mechanics, invented by Max Planck in 1899, refined uncertainly by Werner Heisenberg in 1925, and later by Erwin Schrdinger in 1935. Schrdi, however, was so obsessed with his cat's existence, that everything Quantum became uncertain. Quantum Theory worked superbly in predicting atomic and sub-atomic events. It is still used in backward cultures to create entertaining toys like thermonuclear explosives. The problem with Quantum Physics was that it was not predictive of macro events like the universe, gravity, and balls on a rubber sheet. Albert Einstein created Relativity Theory, which you may know a small piece of as E=MC2. Relativity Theory was able to provide answers at a universe-wide level. When Einstein attempted to integrate Quantum Theory into Relativity Theory, he failed. As a result, Al was never heard of again, and ended his days in a backwater of New Jersey.

String theory was the next iteration. It attempts to explain how gravity and quantum physics fit together. I have discovered that everything is tied together with strings in granny knots. String Theory is also called the theory of everything by people who don't know much about anything but computers and quarks. For our purposes, we don't need to go too deeply into verbal explanations of vibrating micro-filaments in supersymmetry. To paraphrase a political scientist of our times, it's the math, stupid. I'm assuming you don't have the math, so I'll try to squeak by on analogy. The importance of string theory, for purposes of this blog and my patents, is the existence of alternate universes which I have discovered can be accessed, i.e. traveled to. And I have the tools to do it. Transporter Power Source My Multi-Dimension Transporter is powered by the sub-microscopic black holes existing between atoms. Yes, I said a mini-black holes. Most people are aware of the mega black holes created by a star exploding and imploding. Black Holes are the basis of the sci-fi worm holes that are predicted to be the off-ramps of the 26th century. There are also sub-atomic black holes that exist inside everything. It was upon these I constructed my power and transport devices. For sentimental reasons, I used the black holes that exist in the atoms of Powers Irish Whisky for my experiment stage. The Transporter Mechanism I have been able to suspend these mini-black holes in a crystalline maze that resembles a Peruzzi cut blue sapphire. I am able to fit a sixteen carat sized power plants on a platinum band very similar to a tasteless engagement ring which a large-breasted reality tv star might receive from a Texas HoldEm Champion. The Good Vibrations Methodology To facilitate our transitions to alternate universes, I employ an iMust (multiple universe string transporter) of my own design. The process begins by creating a string-fray an aberration on our current string. We accomplish this by creating highly improbable situations in which we utilize musical vibrations. Good vibrations. At the point where another string is harmonically in tune, we have a window of opportunity in which we can use the iMust, powered by the mini black hole, to transfer people or objects into a string dimension on the same timeline into another parallel universe. When a person makes a series of improbable choices, three things can happen. 1. A new string can be started a long term or short term string, which remains part of the same universe, the same dimension. 2. A fray can be created. This is a small discontinuity. It is like little hair sticking out of a string. It goes nowhere and will revert to the main string relatively quickly. 3. You can also create a fray that when acted upon by my iMust, allows you to be transitioned into a different string essentially jumping to a new dimension. The Problem Physical objects have a tendency to return to their natural state. Nature is all about inertia. An object at rest, tends to remain at rest. An object that is moving tends to continue moving unless

acted on by an outside force, such as gravity, resistance, or Congress. It is the same with strings, dimensions and universes. When a new string is created it has a tendency to revert to its original state, like a rubber band. If this were not the case, we'd have a new dimension every time we decided what dressing to put on our salad. Using string theory for multi-dimensional travel is many ways more like rubber band theory because after the string/rubber band is stretched, it tends to snap back to original reality. If that were not the case, there would be an almost infinite number of strings, as opposed to a mere ten billion. My discovery is that when a frayed string is extended through a series of improbable events, a transport window opens to nearby strings. With the right power surge, the new fray can interact i.e. cross over to another string. The key to the efficacy of my transporter is to be on the other string when both snap back. Nature has normal expectations that provides for a limited number of strings. When improbabilities occur in a string, Nature wants to return to the original state. By creating an improbable number of improbabilities, it makes that snap-back more difficult and slower, giving us our opportunity to fool Mother Nature (MoNat). By creating improbabilities in the current string by doing improbable things, we can extend the fray, and with the correct amount of power ( six x 1061 Energizer Bunnies), we can direct the transfer overcoming dimensional inertia. We create improbabilities in the same way ancient witchdoctors drew power from other universes with words, music, and actions that are outside the norm. The way it works is we harmonize our string with a nearby string and make transfer over when the improbability quotient is strong enough. Navigation At this stage, it is difficult to navigate to a specific string because we can not see it or take the measure of it until we arrive there. There are no maps of the string universes. There is no sheet music. We play it by ear in many ways. We create the improbabilities and the harmonics and basically take a jump into the unknown. Very Christopher Columbusish.

3.2 Home Again, Home Again

The PartyMob and their panicked kidnap victim, me, landed in what looked like the backyard patio of Rudy's. The one I knew. The one I remembered. The one we should have been in when Dandy 86'd us. It was still night, but alight with patio lights. It was bright enough to see the snow falling softly, almost magically, even Christmas cardishly. Yes, it looked like the home away from the home I didn't have. The cacophony of cars made it sound like home. And the stale beer smell mixed with weed that permeates even the great outdoors around here Yes, it was home. Rudy's Backyard Patio. The patio was a big empty space behind the dive bar. The space was shoehorned between three other brownstones at the back and on the sides. You could probably fit 3/4 of a tennis court on the brick floor, although why anyone in Hell's Kitchen would want 3/4 a tennis court is beyond me. The door back into Rudy's lived on a little balcony five steps off the ground. It was big enough to hold a picnic table and some guys standing around smoking. The usual smokers weren't there, but the picnic table still was. Against the side walls were those shelvey-thingies with an outside lip to hold drinks. There were five or six electric outlets scattered around there, too. In summer, the area was full of tables and customers, mostly youngish. But it wasn't summer, it was winter and cold. The sole survivor of summer was a big heavy round table with a large Cinzano umbrella in the center. Other than that and six inches of snow, the patio was empty except for the horse, of course, of course, the caddy convertible full of more shit than a congressman, the PartyMob, and me.

The torn-up, bedraggled, battle-weary PartyMobsters were as ecstatic as I was at having made it back. D'Oliya was jumping up and down like a little kid, and her bounciness upped the level of my ecstaticism to an eight point five. The big clunky flying horse had just landed us in the snow like a Harrier, and these uh, gangster musicians, seemed to take the miracle in stride. I guess it wasn't a miracle to them. If my boxer shorts ran for Mayor and won, it probably wouldn't phase them. I could not imagine living in a world with no rules, no natural laws where craziness ruled. Clydie Deerest! shouted Vinnie, when D'Oliya let out of the trunk. "You great big beautiful doll." "Brilliant," shouted Molly, running over and giving the horse a big hug. Clydie pawed the ground modestly, like the big dumb horse with the big dumb fake antlers could understand. Louie looked over at me. The wind was Chicago cold, and I was fucking freezing my ornaments off. To the Mob boss I must have looked like a comic book cartoon with a balloon above my head that said, "God, I need a drink." Louie turned to Vinnie. "More drinks!" I started for the back door to the bar, but Louie's next words stopped me. "The good stuff in the Caddy!" That was the cue for the wind to pick up and the snow really start to come down. It was snowing like a snow globe being given a handjob. Hey, if you think there is something sick about a seemingly mature gentleman who thinks about a snow globe getting a wack job to make the snow come, you are no doubt correct. My court appointed shrink thought so, too, so I'm not going to let her read anymore of this. Na-na-na-na-naaa-naa.

3.3 Keystone Cops Construction

Molly turned to Pachuco. "We're on the clock. T-65. Let's get barreling, Gunny!" In his Sergeant's voice, Pachuco shouted, "Commence Operation Rockwell." The gang quickly removed the harness from huge animal, so it was no longer attached to the Caddy. The horse was still decked out in lights like a big brown Christmas uh, horse with antlers? Its red nose kept blinking, the freaking Christmas lights kept shinning. The Caddy's seats and trunk were piled high with lotsa stuff. Christmas stuff. Furniture stuff. Bizarre stuff. The gang moved so fast and with such coordination, I thought it was like call to stations in some submarine movie, only without the klaxons, and nobody was yelling, "Dive, dive." So I yelled it. "Dive. Dive!" Everybody ignored me. They must have been too young to see the Gable/Lancaster movie. I have always identified with the Don Rickles character in that flic. Lately, I identify with any Wilford Brimley character, but old Wilford wasn't in this particular movie. But I digress. Yeah, again. Vinnie was doing whatever he did, mumbling about not making it, being screwed for life, never having a hit single, or a mnage with groupies, and his feet were wet and he was going to catch pneumonia, and he'd lose his voice. One could only hope. "Are we back on schedule?" demanded Pachuco as he pulled a huge roll of heavy bricky stuff out of the caddy's trunk.

"We will be if we hurry," answered Molly, as she grabbed what looked like a tall thin fish tank which would have become a Frisbee if D'Oliya hadn't given her a hand. Vinnie pulled more bottles labeled Courvoisier VSOP out of the Caddy. "We'll never make it in time," yelled the little guy as they started setting up the stuff in the bar's backyard patio, like to some prearranged plan. It was like watching a flower blossoming at high speed on the Tulip Channel. WTF! Louie was schlepping a giant mirror, leaning into the wind to keep his balance. As he passed in front of me, I noticed my reflection wasn't what it was supposed to be. Shit-in-a-shoebox, I was beginning to look like a cartoon. We all looked like cartoons. How could I not have noticed? You could have knocked me over with a sip of O'Doul's. It didn't make sense before. Now it made, I don't know, more less sense? We were fucking Toons! Maybe I'd been transported to Fantasyland. After all, Disney had bought up half of Times Square. Maybe this was a new Wackoland right behind Divebarland. Maybe I was suffering the effects of a two dozen years of intensive barstooling. Post-Traumatic Drunk Syndrome. Ashton! Come out, come out, wherever you are! I trudged through the snow to get some of the brandy Vinnie had set up behind what looked like a real bar. A short bar that wasn't there a minute ago. I said casually to Pachuco as he flew by trying to find a place for the poinsettia, "Uh, you know, you, uh, look like cartoons." He gave me a look like I had lost my mind. He shook his head and said, "Duh." OMG. I now seemed to be in a Toon reality where flying Clydesdales just dropped out of the sky with red '54 caddies in tow full of more stuff than a fleet of Lady Gaga tour trucks, packed like Harpo Marx pockets in which there was no end to the stuff that you could pull out. Now my cartoon companions were doing a Keystone Cops imitation and constructing some kind of something that included what looked like a tatty couch stolen from a great grandmother, two worn easy chairs, a couple of unmatched barstools, a poinsettia, a rocking chair, and one of those cutesy Dickens Villages that included a town hall, fire station, pool hall, and free VD Clinic. Triple WTF!!!!!!!! With a side of OMG. I thought maybe I should go inside and grab a beer, but I had no beer money. No, the brandy would be better, I rationalized. Didn't those big St. Bernards carry little barrels of medicinal Christian Brothers brandy for guys in shock like I was? I was probably going to blow chunks anyway, so I poured another snifterful. Louie was whistling the "Hi Ho" song from Snow White, as he wrestled with a big-ass Christmas tree he'd yanked out of the Caddy's trunk. He fought the wind and snow for every inch before he set it right in the center where the Cinzano umbrella used to be. This was also the spot where the totem pole stood in the Flying Pig universe. And the legendary Native American beanstalk. He opened the huge tree like it was a big golf umbrella.

"I claim this new West Pole for the PartyMob," intoned Louie cryptically. Man, oh, man, the muscular Louie was strong, not just wide. It generally took me longer to open a real umbrella, when I'd had an umbrella. If I had had one, it'd be an umbrella that some kind person had left in the bar, just so I wouldn't get my Salvation Army Seersucker jacket wet, assuming I'd left my trash bag raincoat somewhere else. Anyway, the Christmas tree went up faster than my writing about it. But I could have written about it faster if I didn't digress so much. I hope you're not in a hurry. The snow was falling harder. The wind was blowing harder. The brandy in my glass was emptying faster. "Aheeeey!" cried little Vinnie as the wind turned a table he was carrying into a sail. He wasn't a bad snow surfer. For a while. D'Oliya tried to help him, but slipped in the wet snow. "We're not going to make it," she cried from a sitting position with her legs all catawampus. I couldn't help thinking she still looked hot even on her butt, with her ripped clothes covered in Rex blood and cold wet snow, The caf au lait skin on her thighs was so covered in bright red goose bumps, it gave me goose bumps. When the table was torn out of his hands and bashed against the side wall, Vinnie yelled, "It's no good." "We could go inside," I volunteered. "Isn't there anything I can do?" said the Chip and Dale voice that came out of Oh, shit! The big stupid looking horse with the stupid fake antlers talked! It talked. Unless there was a ventriloquist among the mob. Had I fallen into a Nick at Night Christmas episode of Mr. Ed Meets The Sopranos? That voice. It was the voice that sang the songs that helped us make the last transition. It wasn't out of the Caddy's sound system. It was Unreal! Clydie Deerest, you can help with the couch, but you did the most important job already, yelled DOliya, over the growing blizzard. "Saving us," shouted Louie. "We are not giving up," said Louie holding onto the center table to keep from being blown away. "Time to get tough," said Pachuco as the wind blew him across the patio, bashing into the caddy. "Damn right," said D'Oliya trying to get up, but slipping back into the snow. Vinnie whined, "We gotta make it. I'm all in on this caper. This is it for me. Give me Christmas or give me death." "For all of us," said Louie, who was crawling toward the Caddy to get another load. Molly took that moment to key her handheld. "Check out this app I picked up in the dimension where Florida was part of Mexico, and Al Gore was President," she chirped. She touched her a key on my computer. My computer! There was a sizzle above us. A blast of wind. Then no wind at all. None. I looked up. No way!

It was like there was a force field all around us, keeping the snow and wind from blowing in. It was like we were inside a snow globe, only the snow was all outside. Like totally awesome! Louie took it in stride and immediately picked up some big piece of equipment, "Did you know Clydie was a star in a Budweiser Christmas commercial?"

"Molly mentioned it, I think." I wasn't quite sure of anything right then. As I watched the Mob once again hustling like a Danica Patrick pit crew motivated by her verbal abuse and promises of lap dances if she finally won, I tried to image the cross-dressing Clydie in the Budweiser string. The Mobster construction crew was moving so fast, I thought I saw cartoon speed mark following them. I mean, literally. "We're behind," yelled Patch. "Move it, ladies!" Louie took the big-ass machine thingie to the porch by the back door in the raised area that overlooked the whole patio. It was where Molly was setting up her techie stuff on the picnic table. She and Louie had set up what looked like the tall thin fish tank with the machine. It was like a next generation X-Box 360 thingie, the kind you jumped around in front of and go Wii! It was a deluxe setup, like a one specially built for an all-pro wide receiver who didn't have anything else left to spend his millions on except coke, his club entourage, and Hip-Hop collector cards. Vinnie and Pachuco were assembling something made out of sheets of the bricky stuff. Shit-onthe-half-shell! It was a fireplace. A good sized one. Not like the ones in an NYC apartment which are about as wide as a toilet, and about as useful for making a fire. I thought I should help. I figured I didn't know what I was doing, and they sure did. I helped by staying out of way and offering helpful advice like, "That looks heavy. Be careful. You should grab that lower. My grandmother had a couch like that. She died on it, and we never got the stains out." Clydie seemed to be more interested in preening in front of the mirror than anything else, although she had helped haul the big couch. I looked over at Louie's tree which was already plugged in. The instant tree seemed to have a parabolic star on top that turned in circles like a radar dish. It looked like a real tree with lights, and ornaments. Some of the ornaments looked like Louie and the mob in Christmas outfits. Santa and Santa Helpers. And Pachuco as a Salvation Army Band member, if such a good-guy would carry a weed-wacker instead of a collection bucket. They even had presents under the tree. I wondered what they were. What did you get for a Toon who could steal anything?

It was as if the PartyMob were constructing a four walled homey-type room without a roof, covering most of the bar's patio area. Molly used my computer to turn on her electronic wall. Now her equipment looked like it could be an upgrade for a Pentagon War Room or a video geek's wet dream. The fireplace Pachuco created even had a chimney. D'Oliya hung striped stockings on the mantle of the fireplace, including one that says The Guy. Was that for me? In a back corner, there was like a clothes rack. You know, a long, long clothes rack full of clothes like you'd see in a models dressing room for a fashion show assuming you knew where to find a hole in the wall to peek. The other wall was just the regular patio bar wall with promotional beer posters on it. I liked the one with the Eskimo girl in a min-thong bikini snowboarding. She was jumping over a mogul while pouring a 64 ounce Mickey's Malt Liquor onto her chest. I always thought that would make a good Olympic event for the Winter Games. Us guys at the dive bar would sure watch it. There was so much going on so fast, I was spinning like a figure skater on speed. Maybe this was a Christmas set for a non-union music video. I kept hoping stuff like that, even in the face of what I knew to be true. My brain just works that way, if you want to call that working. Pachuco dropped a big log in the fireplace. Next to the fireplace, D'Oliya set up a small table with brandy and cookies. No milk and cookies? I guess they figured the jolly old elf had already drunk enough milk to make him think he think he'd sucked off a herd of Holsteins. "Don't forget the cocoa," said Vinnie. "You never know." Know what? I wondered. "No cocoa," said D'Oliya, who was more domestic than I gave her credit for. "We should mix him a nice brandy cocktail," said Louie. "It's cold up there." "And we need Molly's red bra for color," said Pachuco. Huh? "Good thinking," said Louie. He's sure to see the red. Molly blushed. She was the strangest young lady. Things that should have made her blush didn't bother her. And now she did. "And maybe some cute pink cotton undies with a nice Christmas message," said Vinnie with a leer. So he had seen them! "That's crass," said D'Oliya, who, I assume, was a woman who knew from crass. Then Molly did that thing I've hated since I first saw it in high school: the removal of a bra while still keeping on her torn coat. As she slipped it over her elbows, I wondered if Mom's taught their daughters that trick when they taught them where to get body art that could only be seen by guys who weren't me. Molly draped the bra on Santa's cookie table. I wondered if Santa would miss it if I borrowed a cookie.

"Don't even think about it, borachone," said Pachuco. People are so untrusting these days. "Break time," cried D'Oliya. "Yeah," cried Vinnie. "We're running out of time here," warned Molly "Good job," piped in the big horse with the little voice. Louie toasted, "To the new Yule." He downed his cognac. The others quickly followed suit. Vinnie started a song to tune of Hallelujah Chorus. The others joined in. Hallelujah! Have a Shooter! Hallelujah! Have a Shooter! Hallelujah! Molly looked around and yelled, "C'mon, you wankers. That's not all. We've got a lot to do yet." "Back to work!" yelled Pachuco, who seemed to be ramrodding the job for her. Hallelujah! Have a Shooter! Hallelujah! Have a Shooter! Hallelujah! They worked while they sang and drank. Vinnie told me they were going to record the long version of "Have A Shooter" with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir as soon as they were convinced to add drinking songs to their repertoire. King of Beers! Have a backup! Have a backup! The King of Beers!

Have A Shooter! Have A Shooter! I heard a whoosh and turned to see the Yule log burning like a super nova, and felt the heat blast off it like I was leaning over the top of it, even though I was ten feet away. And we will swill for ever and ever And we will swill for ever and ever. "Hustle it up," Sergeant Pachuco yelled in his DI voice, although it looked like they were already hustling up their hustling. Pachuco's fire was hot, hot, hot and pretty soon it started to get warm. Hell of an unreal fireplace, I thought. It had been freezing before the reverse snow globe force field thingie went up. But now I was getting warm. Everybody was getting warm and removing their coats, except for Molly who had nothing else on top but Molly. D'Oliya rearranged the brandy and cookies table more to her liking. "I really need a little maid uniform to do this right." Their work wasuh working. I could see now why Pachuco had called it Operation Rockwell. It was like a homey Norman Rockwell living room. Well, except that there were no real walls or ceiling, and Rockwell never drew a high tech video wall, or a Clydesdale, uh, Clydesdeer with fake antlers and a fake red nose that blinked who loved her own reflection in the mirror. I also doubt Norman drew a homey living room living inside a reverse snow globe. Still, I think NRock would have approved. Louie handed me a refilled brandy snifter. It was really warm in the faux room. If I keep saying "unreal" you'll probably get pissed off and go over to YouTube to catch the latest video of Japanese girls in pajamas playing with kittens who are jamming on the bongos. So I won't keep saying it. I'll go back to WTF. But it was, unreal, I mean. The fireplace was putting out heat like a well, really, really extremely hot fireplace. "Warm back here," I commented. "It sure is," said Molly checking her handheld thing. "It is approaching the time we should be getting changed into our battle gear." D'Oliya, reached back like she was unbuttoning her ripped dress. "Yeah, I definitely think we should get out of these wet, torn-up, filthy things. And into our Christmas outfits." Molly gave me smile and a nod. She started to take off her coat, but stopped when she became aware of me becoming aware that underneath it, she had nothing on top. Well, not exactly nothing. You know sometimes I wish that every second thought I had wasn't sophomorically perverted. But not this time. "Yeah," said Louie the Leader, looking at his iMust thing that he and Molly were always looking at. "You need to get ready. We all do. T-55. The two girls disappeared behind the coat rack. While my view was mostly blocked by the coats, it looked like Molly and D'Oliya were taking off their clothes.

I noticed that I wasn't the only one of us looking back there. Glimpses of pink and caf au lait made me pretty sure they were indeed cleaning each other up with handiwipes and changing clothes. I glanced at my three drinking buddies. They were as much low class peepers as me, because they couldn't take their eyes off what was going on behind the coat rack either. Pachuco was happily humming "Santa, Baby," the sexiest Christmas song ever. Even Clydie was peeping them. Maybe she was a cross-dressing inter-species lesbian. That wouldn't surprise me. Nothing would surprise me on this night. At least I thought so at the time. Louie asked, Did you know the Romans had a Christmas, even before Christ was born? At that moment, I didn't care because D'Oliya emerged from behind the coat rack wearing skimpy little Santa's Helper costume, one that looked like she must have bought in the Village Bondage Boutique. Yes, you could call what D'Oliya was dressed in a Santa's Little Helper outfit, assuming Santa needed help demonstrating his S&M toys for really bad little boys and girls. "I think I'm ready." she said, doing a little runway number. Boy, was she! I was, too as much as I can be without Viagral assistance. It was called a Saturnalia, right Louie? said DOliya, as she arranged her top to make sure her breasts weren't popping out. Or maybe she was arranging them so they would. Hard to tell. I thought it required a closer look. So I looked. From an appropriate distance that would not motivate Pachuco to reach for his weed-wacker. He was a jealous guy. Louie was too, but while Louie's persona scared me more, the zoot-suiter's weed-wacker put me in the category of danger of soiled pants. Thats right, Doll. Saturnalia was like a festival around the winter solstice where the Romans commemorated the dedication of the temple of the god Saturn. As the days got shorter, it was like, "Holy-dark-days, we gotta turn this around." "It was Celtic festival, too." said Molly, emerging from the 'dressing room' in a cute little Santa's Helper outfit, with emphasis on little. She looked as delicious as a big striped candy cane to a four-year old Patton Lee. "Saturn was the Roman god of the harvest, but Saturn needed help to make sure the summer would come again, so he had to get the Sun god to help. The Sun god liked to party" said Louie as he moved behind the coat rack. "So they had a really wild festival dedicated to the gods." "Like a Roman orgy." "It was a Roman orgy!" shouted Louie from behind the coat rack.

3.4 Santa-tized
"Then Pope Julius The Killjoy stole the idea and mixed it all up with the Solstice and Norse Yule, and the Greek god Mithras, and anything else a whole series of Popes could rip off, added Louie, emerging to reveal a red pinstriped suit like Santa would wear if he were a made guy. It looked like it should have a label inside that read Cosa Nostra Tailors. Sicily, Newark and Las Vegas. Like they ripped off the Druids and mistletoe, added Molly. My mom was a Druid and I did a paper on them as an undergrad. They were so cool! I think they knew all about string theory, even then. The Christians ripped off Saturnalia from our ancestors and renamed it, said little Vinnie. Then they religiousized it. "Ruined it," said Pachuco. "To the regular Joe Winedrinker in the street, Christmas was still the Party To Bring Back The Sun." The PartyMob started singing a song. As my childhood role model, Gomer Pile used to say Surprise, Surprise! Double surprise, surprise, they didn't rip off the Beatles, Here Comes The Sun. It was an original rap. Back in the day, yeah, back in the day, it was a natural holiday. Back in the day, yeah, back in the day, it started on the shortest day.

The sun was low, the night was long, and everyone partied strong To bring back the sun. To start a new year, Theyd feast with mead and beer. Were taking it back. Were making it back, For us and all of ya. Were shaking it back. Were baking it back. Into Bacchanalia "It was better than a week long bachelor party during Mardi Gras, finished Pachuco, who looked very military after having donned what looked like a Salvation Army uniform, assuming their style manual allowed zoot suits. Patch also carried a big brass tuba. Pachuco said, "Then the prudish, brutish British Parliament outlawed Christmas just because Londoners had a bit of fun." "Just cause it got a little sexy." "In the streets." "In the alleys." "Tied up in the church pews." "Up against the statues." "Doing the statues," smirked Vinnie, dreaming of garden gnomes, I supposed. BTW, somewhere along the way Vinnie had changed from his ragged bloody tux into a fresh tux that looked exactly like his other Frank Sinatra tux. D'Oliya chimed in, "Not at all kosher!" "They really outlawed Christmas?" I asked, wondering if I should believe what these wackjobs were telling me. Hi-Tone was indignant, "Absolutely, Cromwell's Parliament of 1646, they really outlawed Christmas!

I wondered if I could quickly look it up on Wikipedia without pissing them off. "Self-righteous Puritans!" muttered D'Oliya. "That Cromwell, he created the first Christmas outlaws outta normal folks following their religious upbringing," raged Louis. "Outlaws, like we are now," added Pachuco. "It came to me, like why should the English of 1645 have had all the fun?" Gun-Molly said, "Yeah!" So were gonna take it back. said Louie. "The sun?" I asked stupidly. "Everything," said Pachuco, "Weren't you listening, borachone?" DOliya added, "All of it. Every little piece." While they started to rap again, I went over to my laptop which was sitting in the middle of Molly's lightshow control board. I looked it up on Wikipedia. Damn if they weren't right. Back in the day, yeah, back in the day, it was a natural holiday. Back in the day, yeah, back in the day, it started on the shortest day. The Yule log burned to mirror the sun. And the mistletoe was hung. At Solstice time, you lost your mind, And everyone felt so fine. Were taking it back. Were making it back, for us and all of ya. Were shaking it back. Were backing it back, into Bacchanalia. Were going all out. Were tearing it loose, into a whole new mix. Were getting on track. Were bringing it back to 1646. Maybe this whole thing was legit. Maybe it was payback. If these Holiday Liberators really intended to take back Christmas for religious reasons and because it was stolen from their ancestors, maybe they had a point. Maybe it was righteous. Maybe it was at least as righteous as the wars the U.S. government kept getting us into. Maybe it was as righteous as tv Preachers who guilt-tripped poor people to send money to support God's work and maybe a couple of mansions with chapels. Maybe this taking it back thing was "I think that's something worth risking our lives for," said Louie, sounding to me like a guy who wanted a water boy to help him pass out the grape Kool-Aid. Excuse me, I gotta use the facilities, I said cleverly while subtly picking up my trashbag overcoat, seersucker jacket, and my old computer bag. I stopped at Molly's table before I went in. I was figuring Id better get the hell away from the PartyMob. I mean really get away. Like escape. Like say AMF, and bugout for the dugout. Hit the road, Jackoff. Make myself scarcer than, uh, something scarcelike my brain cells?

You need to take your computer to take a whizz? wondered the tall ex-Marine, fingering the lapels of his Salvation Army uniform. Picking up my Mac, I extemporized, I take it everywhere, so I dont lose it. Bad neighborhood. No offense. Nothing personal. You know there's low-lives around here who would steal your knees and try to sell them over at the Catholic Church, you know, to old folks who have trouble kneeling. I mean low-lives other than me." Molly gave me a look that warmed me to the cockles of my whatever cockles are attached to. Id like to keep using your computer, if I could. I programmed it for my Christmas light show. So that's what she was pretending all her equipment was for. Why were they still pretending? They knew I knew. But what did I know? I didn't know. Their leader, Louie stood between me and the door back into the bar. You dont want to use that mens room in there. Its disgusting. I cant argue with that. I didnt want to tell them that like all the Rudy's regulars, I use the ladies room which isnt half as gross. Okay, maybe half as gross. Well, I gotta go. Inside. Unless Pachuco carved a portapottie out of a snowdrift, and I didn't notice. I cant imagine how my current situation could inspire a Christmas song, but it seemed to.

3.5 Don't Whizz Into The Fountain

They broke into another parody, this time to tune of "Go Tell It On The Mountain" with a sound like a Salvation Army Band with Pachuco rocking on the tuba in his Salvation Army Band outfit. Molly stood over an upright piano like she was Jerry Lee Lewis, who probably died before he mother was born. I couldnt believe my eyes, but while Louie sang, that gorgeous Amazonian DOliya and that little twerp Vinnie were doing a Fred & Ginger in the middle of their prefab Christmas set. Sometimes when you party, Your bladder says its getting late, And theres line of goers, And its too long to wait. Dont whizz into the fountain. Go by the dumpster in the alley. Dont whizz into the fountain, When you just gotta go.

IMHO, ballroom dancing was about as inappropriate as you can get considering the lyrics of "Don't Whizz Into The Fountain." I guess it was preferable to actually demonstrating the lyrics, which I admit I was tempted to do. DOliya seemed to be doing all the lifting and Velvet Vinnie was swirling thru the air like a ballet dancing midget. I looked closer. Was I seeing correctly? Their dance number was looking more like the Masochism Tango with Vinnie in a red dog collar and D'Oliya yanking his leash. She lifted him with her hand between his legs. It made me shrivel up, but Vinnie seemed to like it. Everybody there was watchin Outta the window, whatta sight! They saw what you were doin, Under the old street light. It was amazing that she could throw him around, spin him, and twirl him all from the leash attached to his red Christmassy dog collar. Clydie commented, "They could qualify for Dancing With The Doms and Subs." "Huh" I commented brilliantly. The squeaky voice explained. "You know, the new show on MTV right after Snookie's DP Tour, and before Pimp my Mama. "What?" I said, still not believing I was taking to a cross-dressing horse. "Not on your string. It's the dimension where Dick Cheney is President and Waterboarding is America's National Sport." I really gotta go, I said again. Suddenly, I really did. I think it's the power of positive lying. You think you're bullshitting, and then you find out it's the truth. This happens to me a lot. They were still singing about not whizzing into the fountain. There wasn't a fountain, so I couldn't have whizzed into it, even if I wanted to. Vinnie was on his knees and D'Oliya was snapping her whip at him. I thought this Dom Dance Number was the first time I'd seen the negative little twerp smiling. Smiling in the ecstasy of pain.

The waitress laughed and giggled, When you took that big look round, Like no one else could see you, And no one could hear the sound. Dont whizz into the fountain. Go by the dumpster in the alley. Dont whizz into the fountain. When you just gotta go. When they finished the number, I repeated more loudly, "Gotta go!" They all glanced at the computer. Not at me. They seemed to know I didn't just want to go, I wanted to go, if you can see where I'm going. For some reason they wanted both me and my computer. I was The Guy... whatever that meant. I wasn't sure I wanted to find out. I wanted to get out of Dodge. Before I went back into the Hell's Kitchen dive bar to deal with my personal recycling program, I glanced back to see the PartyMob gang huddling up in their Christmas set. They were obviously planning something. What? The Clydesdeer lifted her be-antlered head and looked at me. It reminded me of a bunch of ten year olds playing street football. It also reminded me of the times the QB would tell me to go long, then all the other kids would sprint like crazy in the other direction. Ah, the joyful memories of childhood. I left them to their plotting of whatever they were plotting. Vinnie gave voice to what Pachuco and D'Oliya were both thinking. "Do we really need that clown? All he wants to do is drink and empty his bladder." "Having old Paddy at the transitions and takedown increases the improbability quotient, since he's such a wackjob, and we could do those parts without him," stated Molly, "but" Louie completed her thought. "If we want to complete the plan, I mean the complete plan, we need to become LENGENDARY in all the parallel universes, dimensions, strings, stores, and YouTubes." "He's a putz." said D'Oliya. "Borachone," said Pachuco. "He's The Guy who's going to make us famous." "None of you have read his blogs or seen his Public Access tv show about the underground arts and music in NYC?" asked Louie. Molly added "The lowlife art stars he writes about are the people we're needing to start the viral campaign." "And while Paddy can't spell, punctuate, or use a Thesaurus, he can write well enough for what we need." "He's exactly what we need. He's The Guy." agreed Molly.

"A voice crying out in the wilderness?" asked Pachuco, demonstrating his religious indoctrination as a juvenile delinquent. Louie smiled. "His lack of credibility means nobody will believe he's our tool. The legend will be developed through his underground connections. And they won't have any idea they are being manipulated and programmed to carry out our message." "Though art Peter, and upon this rock, I will build my church." "Damn, Patch, I'm going to be the new Claus, not their Lord and Savior. That would be sacrilegious." "And tougher to pull off?" "Damn straight."

3.6 Bathroom Break

Thank the beer gods, the backdoor into Rudy's dive bar was apparently the backdoor to my Rudy's dive bar. It seemed be normal inside. The Christmas lights were twinkling and crackling. The customers were making bar noises arguing about the how overpaid the Giant's quarterback was. Vickie was looking hot. All pretty normal, well, as normal as this bar normally is. And no psycho Lounge Lizards. The jukebox between me and the restroom was playing Prop Me Up Beside The Jukebox When I Die. I hoped this wasn't the psychic thing I have with the jukebox. I hoped it was pure coincidence, and not some higher power trying to tell me something. I was tempted to put some graffiti on the wall above the urinal. I considered writing, "Help! I'm being held prisoner by the South Park Sopranos in an Alternate Reality run by Mr. Ed's lesbian cross-dressing cousin." I didn't. My pen was in my computer bag with my extra trashbags/winter coats, my mismatched gloves, an emergency Viagra covered in lint, a ribbed prophylactic I'd been carrying for seven months, and my cowboy book. I realized right then I didn't have the right stuff to be a Louie L'Amour western hero. Not enough of the wrong stuff to the bad guy, either. The most prestigious literary part I could aspire to was to be one of the characters when L'Amour wrote, "The saloon was crowded." I considered just leaving my computer, computer bag, and my double trashbag winter coat in the backyard. Hitting the road, and not looking back. I couldn't. The computer was my only link with the reality outside Hell's Kitchen. It was my only nice thing, my status symbol. The thing without which I could not write my blogs and tweets. With it, I could claim to be a writer and producer using Rudy's as my office. It was the proof of my claim that I was not a total derelict loser who drank beer from morning until night. Without my Mac, I was just me. (Pretty pathetic, huh?) Truth be told, which it isn't often in Hell's Kitchen, I wanted to believe this whole thing was an opportunity for me. I wanted believe Louie was a good guy who wanted to believe in Santa Claus. I wanted to believe that the taking back of Christmas, and returning it to its origins was not a bad thing. It was a good thing! I wanted to believe that telling their story would make me like the hero in a Louis L'Amour book. A loser who became a winner. I walked toward the front window of the bar, passed the Westies and a few other Christmas Eve losers, just to see what I could see. On the Ninth Avenue side of the bar, I couldn't see across the sidewalk for all the falling, blowing snow. Hell, I couldn't even see the back of the pig's head which was nine inches from the window. No, I couldn't leave my Mac. Not when there was a chance to get it back and get a free drink while I made my plan. A Plan. That's what I needed. A Plan. A Good Plan. A Great Plan that would make a great movie starring George Clooney as me. It was a brilliant plan to make a Plan. Damn, now I had it made. All I needed to do was think of one. The first part of the Plan should be the objective. What the fuck did I want to do? That was a tough one. One I could not begin to answer. I hoped the other parts of the Plan would be easier. Okay, let's think it through. Maybe I was at a nexus of improbability, whatever that meant. What did that mean? I mean to my situation. Should I join the PartyMob? Should I help them? Would that help me or hurt me. Well, as Vinnie sang before, "Can only go up from here." I needed a drink. I had that look on my face that said so. Vickie saw it, and started to pull a Red for me, but I waved her off. She pretended to faint.

Hell, I had a drink, expensive brandy in a snifter. Out back. I hadn't remembered that because, uh, it wasn't pint containing that golden elixir, cheap beer. My mind was conditioned to think No Beer = No Drink=No Reason To Live. Strange, I'd had so much hard stuff, I should be needing the wall to hold me up. Maybe when I became a Toon, my metabolism had re-metabolized and I could drink hard stuff without brain damage or projectile vomiting. But while I felt high, I felt almost sober.

3.7 Gotta Get Warped

"Okay, guys, let's get psyched up. We're in the final stretch," said Louie calmly. "Are you all ready?" screamed Pachuco in the manner of what I imagine was his Drill Sergeant voice. The rest of the gang nodded. Pachuco taking charge was not what the wide-bodied Mob boss in his red pin-striped suit wanted, "Patch said, are you ready?" There were an assortment of Yes, Yeahs, and Molly's "Hell, yes!" They were starting to act like a mob. Getting into it. "Hell, yes!" they screamed back in unison, all revved up. Except for Vinnie who just shook his head sadly until D'Oliya gave it a clout. "I'm ready, too," I mumbled, "but for what?" "To take back Christmas," screamed D'Oliya lashing out with her whip. "Didn't you listen to our rap? We're taking it back." "We're going to take down Rudolph and Santa. Take them down tonight, after the Fatboy has delivered his last present," yelled Pachuco . "Remember we just can not kill them or anybody else, or it could break the string," Molly warned. "Damn," joked Pachuco, "not even innocent bystanders?" "No one. Not until it is done." Damn, the young blonde physicist criminal rapper looked fine in a teeny Santa's Helper outfit. "First we need to complete our last transitions," said Molly, looking at her hand-held thingie, and comparing it to something on her big screen. "And now is a good time for the Big Transition!" "Places," yelled Pachuco. They took their places on the raised part of the backyard patio. It was almost like a stage. They started singing their version of "Let It Snow". Or at least, I thought so. They all held up their diamonds in the air like torches, like Molly had done before. Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Well, the weather outside is frightful In our dome, it's so delightful So to take us where we want to go They suddenly changed the song, going all Rocky Horrorish on it.

Let's Do The Timewarp Again! Let's Do The Timewarp Again! Let's Do The Timewarp Again! I really was impressed with D'Oliya and Molly's pelvic thrusts. Actually, Clydie did have the best one. Really, I mean it. And not in any perverted way like you might expect from me, I mean not like if Clydie were a cute sheep. (That's a joke. I only did a sheep once. And it was on a bet. And I wore protection.) For what was supposed to be an important trans-dimensional transition, it was underwhelming. Maybe all the blue stones did their sparkly number. Big deal. Maybe bigger a bigger deal than I thought. Had I known that each ring held a black hole in stasis to power the transition, I might have been more impressed. I might have run back into the bar screaming. Molly and Louie both checked their not-an-iPod, but iPodish Multi-Dimension GPS iMust thingies. "Looks like we made it" sang Vinnie. I was really glad he stopped there, and didn't go singing a whole Barry Manilow parody. "I concur," replied Molly. Louie announced, "We're definitely here!" I wondered where here was. And why it looked so much the same as the here before here. The only change I noticed was that in the transition was that some rotten rat-bastard had drunk my drink. Ah, well, I'd probably had enough, but I sure didn't feel like I'd had enough. Of course, I rarely do. "We're back on schedule," Molly told me looking up from her iMust. Lights flickered outside the dome, and the thunder thundered. "Shit. Mutha Nature is fighting back, trying to snap back our rubber band." "But we're okay?" asked Vinnie. "Don't worry, Vin," said Louie, "Our Gun-Molly has MoNat's number."

Three lightning strikes in a row made me think that maybe she did have Mother Nature's number, but maybe it was a wrong number. "Don't worry about the lightning," Molly reassured. "The dome is a Faraday Cage." I actually think Molly thought we might know what that meant. I didn't. Maybe some of the others kept Faradays as kids, but my mom didn't allow pets. "All the electric charge goes to the outside, so we're safe inside." "Like being in a car hit by lightning," said Pachuco. "You're safe as long as you don't try to jump out of the car." I have no idea why everybody suddenly looked my way. I stuck up for myself with typical flawless logic. "I don't even have a car." "If you do break out of the Faraday cage," explained Louie, who seemed to understand Molly's tech better than the rest, was still staring at me, "you'll be a crispy critter. Maybe extra crispy, given the power we're looking at here like the power of the sun times a hundred." You like our plan? DOliya asked me, as she unconsciously rubbed up against Pachuco. She seemed like a very touchy-feely, licky-bitey, whippy-kicky kind of person.

3.8 Secret Weapon

We have a secret weapon. Louie said to me, while starring switchblades at his boyhood buddy and once-upon-a-time lady friend. Everybody turned to look at the Clydesdale in drag. The secret weapon? Clydie Deerest. I looked over at the huge horse wearing the stupid antlers. She preened. "You can put a fork in that Red-Nosed showboat," said Clydie in her gerbil voice. We even wrote a song about it. said Pachuco. "A song?" I said with what was almost a straight face, "What a surprise!" Rudolf got his ass kicked by a Clydesdeer, Schlepping Santas sleigh on Christmas Eve. You can say there ain't no freaking Clydesdeer, But me and Louie Claus, yeah, we believe. The falling snow was getting very heavy As Rudy led the reindeer team that night. Rudy was so freaked from doing speed-balls, That he forgot to turn his nose on bright. Clydie broke into a little soft shoe number as they all sang. The Clydesdeer, she appeared out of nowhere.

Pulling a sleigh of liquid cheer. And as every winter driver should know Right of way goes to the deer with beer. Im thinking of changing my name to Louie Claus, as it says in our song. "Or St. Louis Claus." suggested Vinnie, and then sang, "Jolly Old St. Louis Claus, bring me what I want." He fortunately ran out of lyrics before finding a rhyme for want. "I could be Lady Clydie," dreamed the two thousand pound cross-dressing prima donna. By Boxing Day, old St. Nick will be permanently boxed said Molly. Rudolph will have played in his last reindeer game, squeaked Clydie. Nobody will miss either of them for almost a year. Thatll give us time to organize. And finish production of our songs and music videos. D'Oliya seemed to look my way as she performed a twirl and she crooned, Ive got some really hot costumes for the music videos." I believed her. Mine are so tight, I cant wear underwear. DOliya whispered loudly in my direction. Loud enough to irritate Pachuco. Also Louie. Also Vinnie and Molly. Wow, I hadnt got this much female attention in an evening since auditions for my first and only Off-Off-Off Broadway musical, about subway maintenance men and homeless people who lived in the tunnels, who were actually great singers, musicians, comedians, and rat-trainers. Suffice it to say, it flopped, beginning my slide to where I am tonight. When did you start wearing underwear, Dolly?" inquired Molly sweetly. When receiving no answer, she directed the rest of her comment to me. "Her other Christmas outfits are nothing except red leather Dom harnesses like something Clydie should wear, only three sizes too small for either. My imagination boggled. Molly and D'Oliya got in each other's face. I may not have heard exactly what the ladies mumbled at each other, but I'm pretty sure they used the kind of words that you would use if you had a mad desire to get your mom to wash your mouth out with Lysol. Naturally, given my nature, I was hoping for a girl-fight with hair pulling and ripping off clothes, and a few lame karate moves with more ripping off clothes. No such luck. Not that there were that many clothes to rip off with both the young ladies wearing their Santa's Little Helpers outfits. We can be ready for next Christmas with a tv special. How the PartyMob Stole Christmas, said Vinnie. Thunder rocked the dome.

"We need somebody to write the script," Molly said looking straight at me. "For the special." Itll be an instant classic. Bigger than the Grinch, bragged Louie. Bugger the Grinch, said Pachuco. And his little dog, too, agreed Vinnie. Oh, no. Not Max. I love Max, said Louie, looking like a teary-eyed tank. Molly took me aside by offering me another drink, although I admit, I would have followed her anywhere. "We have like a Christmas gift for you my gift." "Uh," I articulated. "If you work it right you could be somebody." "Uh?" I wondered. "That's what you want, isn't it?" "Uh, well" "Not instantly course. Look how long it took to create the legend of Santa out of St. Nickolas, the patron saint of prostitutes." "He wasn't." "Google it, Paddy. Google it." I did. I found out he was. St. Nick, I mean. Patron saint of hookers. No wonder he was so jolly." "Now, isn't our Louie and improvement on some kind of a bloated, over-dressed pimp sneaking into people's homes?" I allowed that maybe he was. More thunder. More lightning. More shimmy and shakes. "Paddy, you could be famous like Ishmael, J.R.R. Tolkien, or maybe J.K. Rollins." "That's ridiculous," I said while hoping it might be true. "That's all fiction." "Fiction in some dimensions, maybe. Middle Earth really exists in a parallel universe. 5.9.7a, I think. Did you know that Tolkien was really a pseudonym for Bilbo Baggins who wrote it originally as There And Back Again. Same with J.K. Rowling. Who could invent a school called Hogwarts? What did she write before? Now she's one of the richest people in the six dimensions. Maybe the richest writer ever." "What do I have to do? Sell my soul?" I didn't mention I'd already sold it in high school. But hell, what could the downside possibly be for selling the same soul twice. "We just want you to blog our story." "You want me to blog your story?" Sharp, huh? "And feature us on your little tv show."

"My in-nyc Public Access tv show?" "That's all." "Nobody reads my blog or watches my show unless they're on it or in it." I didn't really mind because nobody reads anybody's blog. And who watches Public Access? "Louie will see that they do. And I'll find you a decent kip, around the corner from here." I admit, that was something I wanted to believe in. "A real apartment? Not an SRO? With a bathroom that's not down the hall that I have to share with druggies, hookers, and grade school teachers?" She nodded. "You'll be living the life of Reilly." "And a new computer?" That killed her smile. "No, I've done for your computer. It is a killer machine now." All this was too good to be true. And in Hell's Kitchen we know what that means. A double mega lightning bolt struck the dome and I looked up. Ah, I thought, foreshortening, or whatever they call that bad omen thing. I looked into her green eyes. They looked more of a good omen. She could see I had a bad case of St. Vacillator's dance. "If you agree, I have something for you," she said, "to seal the deal." The expression on my face could have been clearer. "No, not that," she giggled, making herself look even more jail-baity. The follow-up expression on my face could have been clearer, either. "This," she said softly. She held out a man's ring. A large sapphire. Above us the dome was taking more lightning hits than a swing band snare drum. "It's like the blue stones you all have?" She showed me hers the one on the forefinger of her right hand. It was the same. I took the ring. The fact that my first thought was not how much I could pawn it for, demonstrates how much I hoped what she was saying was true. Lightning struck again. This time there was a short blackout. I mean the lights in the dome, not me. The Mob didn't seem to have noticed. They hadn't stopped their roll. They were like Giants fans in the preseason. Were thinking of calling Christmas something else, Louie confided when Molly and I stepped back into the circle around the blazing fireplace. Were not sure what, added DOliya, but it should be something kinky. "I think it should be Clydiemas," prompted the Clydesdeer in her squeaky little voice, blinking

her big fake red nose. You still be able to say Happy Holidays, said Vinnie. "Or Happy Clydiemas," offered Clydie. Or have a Kinky Kwanza. put in DOliya. "Or Merry Clydiemas," offered Clydie. "Or Fckin Festivus For The Rest Of Us," said Vinnie. "Or have a Dear Clydiemas," offered Clydie. We aint messing with Chanukah, admitted Pachuco. Were gonna back up the holidays to start on the Solstice. And extend it after with the 12 days of Christmas like it used to be." Only it wont be Christmas any more. "It will be Clydiemas." "Maybe we'll just call it the Solstice." Santa wont be coming no more. Louis will. "Rudolph neither," added Clydie. Listening to this shit was pissing me off. I knew bar-talk when I heard it. "That's impossible," I blurted, "even your impossibly irrational universes, Santa is Santa. Getting people to accept Louie as the new Santa won't work. It's not like he was replacing a player on injured reserve. It won't happen." I did not add, 'even if Santa exists'. "But it will work," said Louie. "We've worked it all out." Before I could stop myself, I said, "I'm sorry, but you're fucking delusional." It was this kind of attitude made everybody want to punch me out, and why I sat alone at a dive bar where everybody talked to everybody. More thunder. More lightning hit the dome. We all looked up, but it didn't seem like a big deal. It wasn't like stabbing lightning. More like swirling lightning. With colors. "No, Paddy, we have a plan." said Molly. A Plan? A plan? I remembered that's what I needed. D'Oliya added, Were gonna swiftboat Santa Claus, but good. "More like Swift-Sleigh," snorted Clydie. It's our cover story of why Santa Claus Aint Coming This Year." said Louie. "It's a song based on a blog you are going to write for us. In fact, we want you to review it on your blog and feature us on your show, live from New York City." Were gonna record the it next summer and put it up on YouTube next October," said Vinnie, "Too late for anybody to file a slander lawsuit, or a cease and detest.

After that nobody will care whether Santa comes or not, said Louie. "I'll come as the new Claus and everybody will be singing, Fahoo fores dahoo dores. And I'll be the one who saved fucking Christmas!" I just shook my head. There goes my fame and fortune and a crib with a window and a bathroom. These dudes were wack. I looked up at the globe keeping the snow out. The lightning was coming in waves now. Even if everything they said was real, these guys were still as braindamaged as survivalists who believed the government was building concentration camps for patriots who chewed Red Man.

3.9 Santa Claus Ain't Coming This Year

They went into their performance look. I thought they were going to do the Grinch song Louie just mentioned, but they fooled me again. D'Oliya asked in an overacted sing-songy voice, "Who's been a bad little boy?" Vinnie answered in a beat-me whip-me voice, "Santa! He been a bad, bad little boy." They sang, mostly to the tune of "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" but with a new hook. No-no, no-no, no, no! Santa, Santa, Santa please say it ain't so. Youd better not hope, dont even try, Forget about gifts. Im telling you why, Santa Claus aint coming this year. Santa Claus got caught doing deer, so Santa Claus aint coming this year. Vinnie snickered, "at least not to town." He got on a list, he got on it twice. It tells Vice whos naughty or nice. Santa Claus aint coming this year. Santa Claus got caught doing deer, so Santa Claus aint coming this year. No-no, no-no, no, no!, Santa, Santa, Santa please say it ain't so. The thunder rolled behind them. He had it on with Blizten. And with Donner, too. He did Cupid up the rump

And he really liked it, too. (And the reindeer liked it, too.) Youd better not hope, dont even try, Forget about gifts. Im telling you why, Santa Claus aint coming this year. Santa Claus got caught doing deer, so Santa Claus aint coming this year. D'Oliya giggled, "At least not to town." No-no, no-no, no, no! Santa, Santa, Santa please say it ain't so. He used to watch them sleeping, 'til it made his antler ache, 'til He didnt know whats bad or good, So he was bad for deer ass sake. (Hes been bad for reindeers' sake) You shouldnt get pissed. Like GaGa would say He shouldnt, he knows, but He was born that way. Santa Claus aint coming this year. Louie shouted: Oh, no! Hes getting a nose job from Rudolph! Santa Claus aint coming this year. Vinnie added, "at least not to town." Santa Claus aint coming this year. No-no, no-no, no, no! Molly shouted, "Claus, you pervert! You leave that elf alone!" Santa Claus aint coming this year. No-no, no-no, no, no! The lightning, snow, thunder storm was so constant it sounded like applause. They bowed. Pretty slick, huh? said D'Oliya. Pretty sick. I replied, wondering whether it would work or not. How could I know? How could anybody know? More people believe in UFOs that do in evolution. George Bush was elected twice. I still believe the Cubs will never be world champs because of the curse of the Billy Goat. Maybe a whole lot of people would actually believe Santa was deer queer, if the story was picked up by cable news. Hell, Jesus started with less. With zero marketing budget.

There were no more big thunderous noises or sky tearing lightning strikes. They had settled down to a constant roar. But the shimmer was shimmering more shimmery. Vinnie checked out the psychedelic light show all around us. "We're okay, right?" "Brilliant," replied the young physicist in an unsure voice. Louie turned to D'Oliya. "All we have to do is wait." Vinnie looked profoundly dubious. He looked up at the top of the dome. I looked up where Vinnie was looking. Bright flashes. Brighter flashes. The swirling Aurora Borealis outside our snow globe had increased in speed. Molly looked worried. Louie said faux confidently, "If we can just hang on, Santa will come to us. We can't cut and run, now. We're too close. If we can just hang on" Vinnie said, "Just hang on, right? Like balancing a nickel easy if the table isn't moving." Suddenly, there was an earthquake, blackout, and all their sapphires and the one she'd given me did the swirley-sparkly thing. The light show above us was like a huge reflection. Like an Aurora Borealis being flushed. "Mutha!" cried Molly. "We've transitioned again." "But we didn't" started Louie. "MoNat did." snarled Molly. This was apparently a very bad, very unexpected thing. Vinnie was wailing like a banshee with hemorrhoids. Clydie was screaming for her hair dresser. Louie and Pachuco had suddenly started pushing each other like they were in a school yard. The dome started shaking like Jell-O. Multi-colored Aurora Borealis Jell-O. I could see flakes of snow coming through. The unreality of this whole situation had got me all turned upside left and down to north. Shiton-a-shortstop! I didn't know if my next drink was coming or Googling. Was I a man dreaming I was a butterfly? Or a butterfly dreaming that the cartoon PartyMob had come from another dimension to get me out of my SRO and into an apartment with a bathroom? The aurora effect was speeding up. A soft smattering of snow was falling. "We're losing containment," yelled Louie, letting Pachuco loose from the headlock he'd had him in. "Anything we can do?" wondered Pachuco. "I don't know," said Molly. "Think of something," ordered Louie. Pachuco added, "We've got to do something. We're in the wrong dimension, right?"

"Yeah, we're not where we should be and we're running out of time. I've got to figure out where we are, and then we have to make another transition. Back to where we were. Or at least to where we can get there from there." There was another snap, the blue stones glowed and we made another transition. "Won't MoNat bounce us back again?" "I don't know. Our transitions have been working perfectly. But maybe we've been too predictable. Maybe we've been thinking small." "We need to lick outside the envelope," said D'Oliya. Molly went back to her control center which had some kind of virtual holographic screen in front of her that was constructed inside the fish tank thingie. No more switches, keystrokes, or screen touches. It was now all Wii-ified. She started making moves to control it.

3.10 Molly Wii-Wiis

Another earthquake did another Jell-O job on the dome. The quake took out our lights. Molly's body gyrations were like an intense exercise dance video, while her hands did the kinda shit a weatherman does doing his virtual map thing. The lights came back up. And then some. Like the lights at a rock show. Cool. As she worked, Molly tried to explain to me what was going down. "We've had to stretch our rubber band to the end of its elasticity. MoNat is using this, changing our fray. Rather than trying to pull us back, the Mutha is extending it, making it more improbable with her attacks. Our improbability quotient is rising. That bitch wants to stretch our rubber band until it snaps." "Huh?" I said. "She's trying to kill us." "Oh," I said. I mean, what else could I say? Mother Nature was trying to kill us. Why the fuck not? Pachuco wanted to know what they could do. "Go against the flow. Be less improbable. Try to be normal. More normal." "They all looked at each other, then broke out laughing." "Yeah, like that's even possible," grinned Pachuco. "Okay. Right, we need countermeasures to stop her. Time to set up the lasers." "Let's move it guys, moonlight's burning!" yelled the ex-sergeant. Like roadies on speed, the PartyMob went to the Caddy, unloaded and quickly setup a damn

laser light show! Clydie, the flying Clydesdale cross-dresser, sure had delivered the goods. It is amazing what you can pile into a flying Cadillac. Eat your heart out, Santa. You are a 1G legend in a 5G world. Molly powered down my computer, and unhooked from her sci-fi Wii system. "But I definitely need it for the final transition," she said. "Whatever you do, don't lose your Mac or the ring!" I frowned at her, wondering what she meant. I didn't understand why they needed my Mac or why she was unhooking it. She just smiled and closed the cover, but kept it on her control table. I didn't understand a lot of things, but if I listed them here, this little bloggy-type-book would be longer a Congressional Budget bill. "If the mini-max theory holds, and we don't get a reality push-back, our next jump and what happens after that might be the last improbable things we need. Need to get us back in position to make the transition to do the deed." It sounded a little convoluted to me. Maybe Mutha (did they really mean Mother Nature?) maybe, she heard Molly talk about realitypush back. From her control panel, Molly did a move like the pelvic thrust with a kick, and suddenly there were so many lasers and lights that Madison Square Garden techies would have been jealous. The lasers were coming from everywhere, and projecting everywhere. It was like dueling light shows inside and outside the dome. The ring on my finger was vibrating like it was in tune with the power surges of the laser show. Clydie's nose was shinning like a red sun, and the lights on her tack were whirling like, uh, whirling like, uh, like they were really whirling. I think Mutha or MoNat or whoever it was, was winning. The Mob's inside light show was cool, but it couldn't compare to the Aurora Borealis electric Vandergraph-generator-thingie show hitting the outside of the dome. More snow was coming in as the dome did another shimmy and shake. I think I had to take another piss. It looked like the rest of the Mob shared the feeling. Molly held up her ring. The others followed her lead. So I did too. "Transition in three, two, one." Zzzzzzzap. It felt like when you hit a baseball and crack your bat and the pain runs up your arm to your elbow. "We." started Molly. Then a big bolt slammed the dome. Zzzap. We'd transitioned again. "Shit." yelled Louie. "Again," yelled Molly. "Three, two" Zzzap. The dome was still there, as was the Mutha of all light shows, but weren't where we were before. We were somewhere like I don't know. But the totem pole was back." My sapphire sparked and glowed. Then there was another zap. Another transition. And we hadn't gotten to where we were supposed to get.

This place was like the flying pig dimension. Maybe it was the flying pig dimension, because there were the flying pigs coming through the dome. MoNat was winning. "We can't go back," yelled Molly. We can't stop MoNat. She's too strong. We have to go with the flow. We have to make another ginormous transition to stay alive. And soon. The wrong way. Wrong foot her. We need to do a big dumb. We have to go farther away and come back, hopefully in time to catch Santa." "Further away?" yelled the panicked Louie "It's the wrong way, but any way is better than Mutha's way. Unless you want to die." Louie was not buying this. "We've got to stick with the plan. Get us back there." "Maybe it's time for Chuggalugga," suggested Molly. I was scared. Everyone was scared. Except Louie who looked like he was losing it. "It's not worth the risk, Louie. We could all die. Die dead. Mutha could put us into a particle accelerator if we stay. Even our atoms won't survive intact. We're getting close to being shoved into an electromagnetic black hole." Vinnie didn't have the energy to voice his complaints, he was just wailing softly and sucking his thumb. "We've got to get back to the Santa dimension," yelled Louie. "You stupid, arrogant shit," yelled Pachuco. "Your megalomania is what fucked us up back in Jersey. I'm not going to let it happen again!" The flying pigs had broken through the dome in two places. "It's time for Chuggalugga," insisted Molly. "No," screamed Louie. "We're going the only way we can to stay alive, you grandiose WOP," said Patch, while using his weed-wacker as a pig-wacker. Molly told them they had to transition immediately. They had to go now and come back at the last minute and get Santa before Mutha nature can react. Three rail bank shot. "Three, two..." Zzzap. The next transition took us to where Hell had frozen over. The good news was while the dome was gone, it wasn't blizzarding. MoNat's attack had ended. The set was still intact. No flying pigs. The fire in the fireplace still burned like a blast furnace. And the brandy bottle on Santa's table was still full. "Can we get back in time?" demanded Louie. "Improbable," responded Molly, "but improbability could be in our favor. My problem right now is that we're in a dimension I haven't mapped. I think it's time for Chuggalugga Christmas." I'd never seen them where they weren't happy and hopeful. They seem to have faded, like an old comic book. They just stood here on the ice in Hell Froze Over feeling sorry for themselves. I'd thought they were tougher than that. They looked like total losers. Yeah, okay, I'll say what you're thinking total losers, a lot like me. For the first time, I felt like part of the PartyMob.

Pachuco went into his gunny mode, "Damn, it, you pissant front-runners. Get off your butts! Now! Being disappointed is natural. But that's just what we can't do. You heard Walsh. It's time for 'Chuggalugga'. "Again?" whined he little whiner. "Get into your positions! I mean now!" Everybody set up their instruments in front of the Christmas tree. Except Molly who stayed at her board, and fixed herself up with a small wireless headset mic. Naturally, I stayed close to her. They reprised the number they did when we arrived in Flying Pigland.

3.11 Chuggalugging Again

Its Christmas, Chugga-lugga Christmas Its party time again, so

Zzzt. Zap. Transition. The Aurora had returned to outside the dome. Drink until the world gets hazy, Chugga-lugga-lug, glug glug glug. Zap. Zzzt. Transition. Down we toss a shot of whiskey Chuggalug, chuggalug glug glug glug Shouldnt mix, its very risky. Chugga-lugga-lug, glug glug glug Molly then went into the rap I'd heard just after I met her. They sang some more "Chugga-lugga-lug. Chugga-lugga-lug Chugga-lugga-lug-glug-glug-glugglugs." Zoink. Zzzt. Zap. Transition. To a place where there was a Roman orgy going on. The look on Louie's face told me he was almost ready to stop singing and start orgying. D'Oliya, too. She started forward toward a toga wearing fat guy who looked like he was whipping a half-dressed Nubian slave. Zzzoop. Zzzt. Zoink. Transition. No more orgy or orgyers. Back to a Rudy's type backyard patio place, but with T-Rex babes on the wall posters. It was then that D'Oliya had an equipment malfunction, which is no where near as much fun as a wardrobe malfunction, but in her case there was very little wardrobe to malfunct. Her mic went out. Both Patch and Louie grabbed their mic stands and rushed over to her to allow her to share a mic. It was a tie. While the mics and stands arrived simultaneously, Louie's head actually won the contest because he tripped on the mic chord, caromed off a mic stand, and his head slammed into

Pachuco's belly. Or maybe a little lower. I say this because Patch dropped his mic and had both hands between his legs. This would have been just a silly accident if Louie hadn't decided to give Pachuco a comic kick in the wallet pocket. More Buster Keaton than Jet Li. Still, it sent Pachuco back down. Zzzt. Zap Zahoodie. Transition. Pachuco, from the ground, grabbed Pachuco's foot and heel. As Pachuco rose, so did Louie. Patch hit his old buddy with a punch that stretched his head back about three feet. Louie recovered bull-rushed Patch, picked him up and tossed him over the head of Vinnie, who never missed a note. Zank. Zzzt. Zap. Transition. "Don't stop singing," yelled Molly. "We need to get through this song." Without missing a punch, kick, elbow or head-butt, Patch and Louie resumed singing. D'Oliya now had both their mics. She stuck the mics in between them to pick up their voices. When one would quite singing, she'd bop him in the head with the mic, which added to the backbeat. She had great timing. They did the "We Wish You A Beery Christmas." I think I told you before this was my kind of song. I could both sing-along and drink along. Zzzt. Zuper-Zap. Transition. The Aurora now added a bit of lighting and thunder making us under a thunder dome? Sorry. Its Christmas, Chugga-lugga Christmas Its party time again, Zzzt. Zap. Zeeek! Transition. Hell frozen over, again. Molly's grin as she checked out her control projections, it seemed we were bouncing back stringaphorically toward where she wanted us to be. I think this was the most entertaining choreography I'd seen since the WWE Christmas Eve Special, you know, the famous one featuring the mud cage match between the WWE Divas and the LGBT all-stars. You know, the one where Senator Linda McMahon jumped in the middle swinging a Mike Huckabee's guitar and kicked LGBT butt. Molly did a hands in the air thing and Zowie Kapowie. Another transition. The storm was gone. The dome was gone. As was the aurora. Hell had unfrozen over. We were no longer in an ice rink. Molly and I both looked back to the door behind us. It looked like the door to Rudy's. The Door To Rudy's! I figured this was my chance to bug out like the insect I am. In fact, this might be my only chance to escape. They were so into each other's harmonies, and forearm shivers, they didn't give me glance. Molly was still gyrating to her light show. She watched as I sneakily grabbed my computer and tried to look innocent. Not my most convincing look. I hesitated at the top of the patio porch, right in front of the door into what I hoped was still my favorite bar in my own personal real reality. I thought for just a nanosecond that maybe I should

stay. Would my exit screw up their plans? Was that a good thing? Or a bad thing? Was it worth me staying to be a success. Sometimes I'm not so good at decisions except to what beer to order, which is mostly the cheapest. I took a last look back as they were all now in the melee acting like it was a pillow fight, but not missing a note. The PartyMob. Well, they certainly know how to party. Partying is good, right? I mean that's what I do everyday, at least in my head. Have a few drinks. Listen to the music. Hit your best friend with a snare drum. What was wrong with that? Molly saw me leaving, of course. She didn't stop running her laser show or singing, but she definitely had me in her sights. She didn't try to stop me, or rat me out to her gang. She just mouthed two words at me, making me wish I was a lip-reader. I thought, maybe hoped, she mouthed "come back." Yeah, right. Well, maybe. Shit. I didn't know. I just knew I had to go. I quickly opened the back door into the bar. Then as I chanted "There's no place like Rudy's. There's no place like Rudy's." There was a big flash behind me as my ring went Zzzzt, and I was through the door quicker than a New York beer burp.

3.12 I'm Gonzo

I was back home again, feeling like Dorothy coming back to Kansas and getting literature's legendary four-way, the one with Auntie Em's farmhands that she'd always dreamed of. Okay, I didn't have multiple orgasms like Dorothy did in the classic Wixard of Ox, but I still felt really good. I looked down the bar and was glad to see it looked scuzzy enough to be my reality. The same bunch of barflies. The same red duct-tape decor. The same strings of Christmas lights that never came down. I rushed through the bar to the front door. I looked back. No pursuit. I took the time to quickly put my double trashbag winter coat over my seersucker splendiferousness. I stumbled out onto 9th Avenue to find myself in a raging snowstorm. Really raging, but I was not going back into that 'nexus of improbability'. I waved at the Door Pig. He didn't wave back. I guess he had no Christmas spirit. Of course, I wouldn't either if I had to stand outside in a freaking blizzard on Christmas Eve. It was starting to snow more and more and more and more and more heavily as I stumbled south on 9th, with the wind blowing directly in my face, howling like six hookers getting stiffed by the Vice Chairman of the Christian Coalition. It looked a lot like the real 9th, with no flying caddies, flying pigs, horses in drag, or mountains that weren't there yesterday. It was my good old reality. Although come to think of it, when I had stumbled out the door in a big, big hurry, the ceramic Pig out in front might have given me a dirty look. Naaaah. I couldn't possibly have been real drunk, because I only slipped and fell three times. I heroically overcame adversity, a headwind, and the blinding snow. I trudged the six blocks down to the skeevy Holland Bar feeling like a Jack London hero my escape being as momentous as that Gold Rusher dude who made such a big deal of lighting a fire. I think it was to eat his dog Buck, or something like that. I only read the Cliff Notes version, so whataya expect? I discovered as I flailed across 42nd Street that I couldnt walk straight and I couldn't think straight. I mean, even more not straight than usual, even when I wasn't straight, or did I mean when I was straight? Anyway, I couldn't think straight.

3.13 I Couldn't Think Straight

It did not feel like a one of my "Okay, I think I'm in a blackout, but I won't know it until tomorrow" can't think straight. More of a WTF can't think straight. Or the second stage which is mostly, "What was I thinking un-straight about, anyway?". At the Holland Bar, which is about as upscale as Rudy's, I intended to order a brandy with the emergency ten I kept in my shoe for like... uh emergencies. I was damn sure this situation qualified. I had no money until my social security check came in two weeks. But, it was Christmas Eve, wasn't it? After what went down tonight, I deserved a drink. I was proud of myself to be so good at rationalizing the purchase. It wasn't that big a deal. I mean, I hadn't used up my food stamps, yet. I might still be able to trade cans of Beefaroni for beers. The ten spot wasn't so easy to get out. It took a lot of concentration because my shoes and socks were like totally wet. The wet tenner got caught in one of the holes in my sock. I heroically concentrated through it, feeling quite proud of myself for some reason that I couldn't remember. Steve, the bartender, came down and wished me a Merry Christmas, looking at the bar top to see if I'd put some money there. He saw my wet ten-spot, and smiled sarcastically, if a person can smile sarcastically. He served a peach brandy in a mostly clean double shot glass. It was nowhere near as smooth as the VSOP Cognac Louie had been pouring so lavishly into giant snifters. Sitting in the middle of the Holland bar was a homeless man with his head on the bar, taking a nap. At the far end were a couple of seventy-two year old hookers, named Brittany and Lady CaCa. I'd often chat up to see if they'd spring for a drink. Tonight, as the clock approached midnight and Christmas Day, I just waved and yelled "Merry Christmas." These women were not in the same universe as Molly or DOliya. Not in the same reality. What reality? What was reality? I couldnt think straight. The Holland juke was playing "The Christmas Song". I wondered if it had been playing already,

or I had a psychic thing like I had with Rudy's jukebox. I listened to Nat King Cole singing the lyrics and wondered how Vinnie and the Partymob would have perverted it? Beer nuts roasting on an open fire? Jack Frost ripping off your pantyhose? Although, it's been said many times, many ways die, Santa, die. And your little red-nosed catamite, too. I couldnt think straight. Good thing I didn't need any more cash outta my ATM sock or I might have had overserved myself. Ha! Could I let the PartyMob take down Santa without trying to stop it? If they did the dirty deed tonight, did I want to miss it? Like missing the Twin Towers falling down because you refused to leave your beer in the bar? Was this the chance I always fantasized about, being a real bad guy? Be evil to the max? Helping take down the most beloved legend of all time. And if I could do the blog, and get them on my show, I could be as famous at the guy that wrote the Grinch, whose name everybody knows, but I forget. I could have my own apartment in Hell's Kitchen. Would I ever get another chance like this? No, this was it. My big chance. My big choice. Evil now. Or evil never. Hey, it was my Big Choice like what Molly said. One of my favorite retweets is when people who tweet out of Bartlett's Quotation: "It is never to late to be what you might have been". I retweet adding, "Musta bin young when she wrote that sht." Ha! What would Christmas be like with the PartyMob in charge? Could their management be any worse than a shopping season starting before Halloween? Or than Miley Cyrus cutting Christmas duets with 50cent, Johnny Mathis, Jeff Foxworthy, Tony Bennett, and Miley's Achy Breaky daddy? What would it be like if it were gonna be like they said a twelve day Pagan Bacchanalia? Would that be so bad? I mean, wasn't that my dream, right after getting paid to direct a Shakira video? What if I went back to Rudys? What if I got weed-wacked by Pachuco? Or got sent to the psycho ward because when I went back through the backdoor, I'd find a cold bleak empty patio? What if the Pig out in front wouldn't let me in? What if he thought he was a real doorman and wanted a Christmas tip like, well, a real doorman? Why should you tip a ceramic pig anyway? What would he do with the money? Only waste it on slop and babes with hog breath. Ha! What if DOliya decided to tie me up, and punish me for leaving, punish me with her velvet whip, making me lick brandy... ? What if Molly actually liked me? No, even in an alternate reality, that could not be reality. Or could it? What was impossible this morning might be possible on this particular Christmas Eve in some stringy theoretical reality dimension thingie somewhere. If it was possible, I was damn sure I wanted to be in that reality. But... I couldnt think straight. I wanted to look up Stringy Theory on Wikipedia. Damn, the Holland Bar didnt give WiFi. So I was stuck with more whys than fi-ers. Ha! Have you noticed that I get a lot more good one-liners inside my head when I'm alone? It's like when my tongue gets a hold of them, it totally fucks them up. Shit, I think I was digressing again, but I think this was because I couldn't think straight.

What was right? Yeah, what was right? Would make a difference if the Easter Bunny was the Easter gerbil? Especially when he didn't exist in my existence? That was the central question. Was it right? Was what right? Forget about right! Wouldn't it be nice to live in a world where an old dude like me could change his destiny? Like a Western hero. Make decisions that would alter reality? Where my decisions had an impact on the universe? Did I really need this blue ring to do any that? Couldn't I make my own space in the universe? Yes, I could. Yes, I had. That space was the back booth of a dive bar. I knew another peach brandy in a double shot glass at the Holland wouldn't help, even if I had enough to pay for it, which I didn't. Of course, if I wasn't in my reality, why should I tip the Steve who wasn't my Steve? I tipped him anyway. The rest of the tenner. Maybe that improbable act would put me on a new string in stringy theory and I'd walk out the door into the Virgin Islands, inhabited by young blonde virgins who looked like What did Molly mouth at me when she saw me sneaking out? Was it really "Come back?" Did she expect me back? Did she need me to? I had to know. I had to. All of it, not just the Molly thing, although that might have been the tipping point. I was sure it was the tipping point, because I almost fell off my stool. Well, I actually I did fall off the stool, however it was almost on my way to the door, so slipping onto the floor doesn't count if you get back up in like almost one continuous motion. Like it never happened. Righting myself, lurching in the doorwise direction, I decided it didn't matter if it was really real or not. It didn't matter if I was a good guy or a bad guy. I had to do something like I'd never done, which really only meant doing something instead of nothing. Besides I didn't have the money for a Christmas Eve nightcap and it was running up toward midnight. I looked up and the octogenarian hookers were making out and Lady CaCa's hand had disappeared down Brittany's.... I shuddered. I had to leave, and my brandy-soaked brain shrewdly calculated I could count on Louie to lay another snifter on me of the good stuff. As I exited the bar, the ring Molly gave me did its fairy dust thing. A big swirly, fairy-dust thing.

3.14 Once More Into The Breach

Shit! No gloves. Must have dropped them when the barstool tripped me. I stood outside the door for a moment. I should go back into the Holland. But I wasn't going back into the Holland. I knew if I went back in there that something would happen, like somebody offering me a free Christmas drink. I'd say yes, and I'd never make it back to the PartyMob. I trudged back up 9th Avenue through the blizzard blowing into my face. Damn, it was blowing in my face when I walked the other way. It was blowing so hard, after the fifth time I fell down, I almost turned back. I might have, if I'd had anywhere to go back to but the Holland or my lousy, lonely SRO. I finally made the six blocks. The Pig doorman-bouncer waved me in, only for me to find Rudys bar was full of Uppie scum, metrosexuals, and others of that ilky ilk. Merry Christmas. Ho-Ho-Ho! I swung my elbows and my computer bag and pushed my way through the wall-to-wall uppies. It was almost tougher than trudging through the snow. I think if I wasn't all wet, yelling "bathroom" and making loud dry heaving sounds like a wino who might be primed for projectile vomitation, none of them would have moved an inch to let me through. I opened the back door and looked out. And Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzt. I mean a big Zzzt in which the sparkly-thingie from the ring almost blinded me. And my arm and elbow felt that tingly way that happens when you hit your elbow on something and it gets all like electrically hurty. There it was A Norman Rockwell PartyMob Christmas protected from the blizzardish wind and snow by the reverse-snow globe that encased them. In the backyard unreality, the Partymob welcomed me like a hero with the disposable diapers at an incontinence convention, as Mom used to say. A standing ovation. My first ever! Molly even gave me a big hug, which for the moment, at least, made me think I'd made a good decision. Louie handed me a snifter of Courvoisier, reinforcing the wisdom of my choice. Molly said

youd be back. Everything she said would happen, has happened, said Pachuco. Unreal, I replied. Exactly, said D'Oliya. On the back wall, Molly had projected a holographic thingie of a faux rooftop. The shingled roof seemed to overlap the living room set, so the giant fireplace chimney went up through the roof. In front the new enlarged set, they had a number of what looked like some kind of sci-fi electron guns covering all the angles. I hoped they were video cameras, but I didn't think so. "Santa's landing strip," said D'Oliya pointing to the rooftop. In her S&M Santa's helper outfit with her little whip, she could make landing strip sound like something a lap dancer would do on you if you put an extra hundred in her... well, I'm not sure where you'd put it, never having a hundred to use that way. I mean, think about it. A hundred bucks would be like 30 pints of Rudy's Red, and that would include the tips! It was blowing even harder now outside the dome, a major storm de la storm a damn whiteout with lightning flashes shinning through in the distance. Maybe Mutha Nature didnt like it when somebody was messing with her reality. But inside the big-ass un-snow globe that encased the Christmas set, it was all warm and cozy. I almost wanted to sing that "Let It Snow" song. The PartyMob's MGM Musical reality must have been contagious. I turned to Molly. "I came back," I said with a big dumb grin on my big dumb face. She smiled at me. "I wasn't going to come back. But I did." "I know. I'm glad." "They said you expected it." "I did." "It was totally unexpected from my end. Not like me at all." "Totally out of character, I know. It had to be that way for us to be here and now. When you came through that door, we all made the last transition." "Please tell me what's going on?" What I really wanted to know was, "and why me?" "To manipulate the different paths in string reality, besides all the songs and unlikely stuff we did on purpose as part of the plan, we need a series of unintended consequences of polar opposites trying to coexist. Highest tech in the lowest dive. A smart ass who doesn't believe in anything to believe in us. We need that guy who does nothing but slump in a bar booth all day long, a guy who never joins anybody, we need him to join us. We need to have that selfish guy to make a sacrifice. We need a cowardly guy to be brave." "That's me?" "That's you. You're The Guy." Okay, Im a sucker who Molly sucked into this mess. Id still rather have been here with the cartoony PartyMob than sitting alone at my old reality of Rudy's, my SRO, or at the Holland Bar

sucking on an ice cube, and trying to chat up the old hookers so Lady CaCa would buy me another drink that I'd promise to pay her back for, but never would. Molly stood at her Wii control panel with the big screen. She made GPS and ETA announcements to the group. "As long as MoNat doesn't totally break our strung-out rubber-band string and destroy 1111 dimensions in a Big-Ass Bang, we'll be copasetic," enthused Louie. "Understand?" asked Molly. "Sure," like I understand the IRS tax code, which I could not have understood even if I paid taxes. Molly explained, If we do not destroy everything in all the universes that contain a Santa or a Santa legend, we will create a universal re-strung reality, where we rule Christmas. Destroy everything? "If it works and we've taken down Santa, and there is still a universe, we've got it made, said D'Oliya. OMG, I thought, if there is still a universe? "The PartyMob what owns Christmas," said Pachuco. They were talking about not only destroying this world, but the universe. 1111 universes. Did that mean destroying 1111 mes? "Mega-stars in every reality. Not only our universe, but all the universes with a Santa or a Santa legend!" Little Vinnie almost sounded hopeful instead of hopeless, although how hopeful can you look sitting up in a coffin? "Louis Claus!" Destroy the multiple universes? Hell's Kitchen wouldn't exist. "Clydie the red-nosed Clydesdeer!" I'd lose my food stamps. "Velvet Vinnie: Lord Of the Elves!" I'd lose my favorite booth. "The Nobel Prize for physics!" Oh, shit-on-a-string! No more beers! Hell, no more me! "All Dimension Christmas Queen and Dominatrix!" Well, would that be so bad? "Mnage trois with Jessica Rabbit and the Little Mermaid!" said the ex-sergeant. I mean, who'd really miss Santa? But I'd miss me, even if nobody else would. Something had to be done. The reward for them wasn't worth the risk to me. Come on reality! Come on Mutha Nature, fight back. The bar manager, Dandy, stuck his head out of Rudy's back door.

Molly did a gyration and yelled, "Releasing the dome." Suddenly, we were back in the fury of the wind and snow. Molly said, "He could screw us all up. We need seven more minutes." Good old Dandy. Maybe he could screw it all up. Dandy screamed over the sound of the wind and snow, You need to get out of this blizzard. So please come back in as long as you dont sing. Pachuco pulled out his Weed-wacker and... Louie knocked his arm down. Maybe Dandy would 86 us from the backyard and force us back into the original string! I mean, that would be good, wouldn't it. I mean, better than risking the destruction of 1111 universes? But even if I would still exist, I would still spend all day sitting in my back booth at the dive bar, drinking Rudy's Red, and Googling coed, wet t-shirt, spring break. Just a one more song and well be right in. shouted Louie. You really shouldnt...I cant allow Insurance doesn't cover customers freezing in the patio. We need to do it from here, Molly sotto-voiced to Louie. "We need to do it, now!" Louie shouted loudly, Vinnie, please go in and pick up another bottle or two of Courvoisier to keep our throats warm. Oh, tip the bartender another hundred. I almost mentioned that it wouldn't get him a landing strip, but my mouth was busy sipping brandy, and trying to think up how I could think up a plan to think up a plan. I had a plan to have a plan. But what was the plan? I remembered! It was Plan A. But what was Plan A? Dandy looked down at little Vinnie, holding out a stack of c-notes. "Don't do it," I prayed. I don't know who I prayed to, but I prayed. There must really be a Beer God for beeraholics in some dimension. "Don't agree, Dandy. Tell 'em to shove it." "Can't do it," he said. "Way to go, Dandy. Save us and I'll never run a tab and forget to pay it, again," I thought. I mean, if they ever let me run a tab again. "You'll never make it through the crowds. I'll get the drinks for you. But only one more song, a short one." Dandy took a handful of Benjamins went back in. "Ahhhhhhhhh!" I thought. Commerce and greed and human nature triumphs again. It makes me sad for the human race. And in particular, for myself. And for Santa, I guess. And for all the little kids who'll get liquor minis in their Christmas stockings instead iPods full of game apps. The psychotic PartyMob were actually going to do it. They were going to take down Santa, and steal Christmas, if they didn't create a new Big-Ass Bang that would cancel my food stamps, Medicaid, and Social Security permanently. I made my choice. I couldn't let it happen. I had do something drastic. I chugged the brandy like it was a cheap shot. Then, I mustered all my strength, dug deep into the well of my soul, began mentally chanting "I think I can. I think I can." Then I... well, that's all I did. I didn't do squat. Nada. Nothing. The one man party of "no." I felt so ashamed I refilled the snifter.

A lightning bolt hit explosively within ten yards of us. Another hit Pachuco's tuba. Like artillery strikes homing in closer and closer. "We're gonna die. I knew it," screamed Vinnie, cowering in his coffin. Molly said, Its all the Muthas and MoNats in all the other strings of reality trying to snap us back to the equilibrium point." "Mutha Nature is a bitch," Vinnie screamed over the roaring wind. "Yeah," yelled Pachuco, "but I'd do her." Another lightning bolt hit nearer to Pachuco . "I dont think the lady is interested," I mumbled. "Red Suit ETA two minutes!" yelled Molly. "Clydie, youre on. yelled Louie. "Guidance system on," yelled D'Oliya hitting a switch on the Clydesdeer's harness. Clydie Deerest went into a clumsy Clydesdale gallop and then took off into the air. The Legend Begins! she squeaked. Rudolf, here I come. That big clunky horse could really fly. Hell, in some other stringy reality universe dimension, she could probably use her hooves to play piano.

3.15 Plan A Launch The Clydesdeer Missile

Molly was guiding Clydie by waving her arms and legs and wiggling her other good stuff. Damn, she said when her top of her tiny red outfit made a slight slip. She reflexively pulled her top back up, proving to me that she'd never be a mega star, because mega-stars live for nip-slips. Anyway, her moves on the Wii controller must have had unintended consequences. Our physicist was in a panic. Clydie was off course. Molly started waving, and undulating madly and in what looked like positions of the Karma Sutra Twister, which I found very intriguing. Her eyes never the left the Clydie hologram. "Clydie is going the wrong way! Way the wrong way. She tried spinning around to get Clydie on the right track. It didn't work. She did the splits. She did the worm. She did the Frug. She did the Robocop. She had more moves than Joe Cocker and Mick Jagger Dancing With The Tweekers. Unfortunately, none of her gyrations seemed to work to get Clydie back on the right path. Yeaaaaa! I thought. My doing nothing was the right thing to do. I knew it. I had saved Santa and all the stringy universes by just being me. Man, was I great or what? Wed find out later that Clydie mistook a red light on a third floor whore house on 11th Avenue for Rudolphs nose. The Clydesdeer crashed right thru the window, catching former Mayor Rudy Giuliani getting it on with two hookers, a Shetland pony, Ann Coulter wearing a strap-on, and a cage full of randy gerbils which goes to show just how similar our different string-realities actually are. "We've lost her." yelled Molly. "Clydie is down! Clydie is down!" What would happen now that their plan hadn't worked? "We're gonna take it in the ass." Vinnie was not a believer, or else he liked it that way.

"Ive planned for Reality fighting back. Go to Contingency Plan B." "What's Contingency Plan B?" I wanted to know. "It's the Santa Trap!" yelled Molly. The Santa trap?

3.16 Plan B The Santa Trap

Gun-Molly did a break-dance head spin. Christmas lights on their faux roof came on spelling, "Welcome Santa! Free Drinks for Jolly Olde Elves". Then a warm-gelled pin-spot hit the brandy and cookie table next to fireplace. It was beautiful. Suddenly, I heard, what I swear to Godaddy were jingle bells ringing in the air. D'Oliya yelled," Here comes Red Suit homing in on my cookies. "And my best red bra," shouted Molly. "He's coming for my Brandy Santalexander" claimed Louie. "We didn't put out Molly's 'Merry Christmas' panties!" panicked Vinnie. "I'm wearing them," shouted Molly. "Pull them off," yelled Pachuco rushing up the stairs toward her. "He'll never stop. We're doooomed," cried Vinnie. "I'll help you get them off," volunteered Pachuco bravely, "like he was offering to diffuse a IED with his teeth." "Get away! He couldn't read my 'Merry Christmas' message anyway," countered Molly. "He's probably gay," shouted Vinnie. "We shoulda put out a pair of red leather chaps!" "Damn. I've got a pair in my bag, screamed D'Oliya. "Too late now," yelled Molly over the blizzard winds. I couldn't see much of anything in the storm. I could barely see Molly karate kick Pachuco in the head. Apparently Patch was not giving up on saving the day by pulling off Molly's Merry

Christmas panties and adding them to the Santa Trap. Santa must have had a cookie/brandy/red-bra homing device because even in the blinding snow, he couldn't have seen details of the Santa Trap on the little table next to the fireplace, even with the pin spot on it. Although I agreed with Pachuco that Molly's Merry Christmas panties would be a real eye catcher for the jolly olde elf. They had sure caught my attention. Just as Rudolf's bright red nose appeared, Molly's red bra was blown up by the wind. It swooped up right in front of the sleigh-puller like a red warning flag. Rudolf and the sleigh swooped back up and were lost in the snowstorm in a Hell's Kitchen second. Mutha Nature one. PartyMob squat! Molly said, Shit! Thats it. That was plan B. "What's plan C?" asked Pachuco . "That was plan C, too. Cookies, Courvoisier and c-cups." "What about Plan D?" asked Louis. "No plan D." Vinnie asked, Then were doomed? I wondered if Plan D should have been Dom D'Oliya and her D-cups. I also wondered if I could drink Santa's brandy since he didn't seem to want it. The cookies looked good, too. Louie said, "Yeah, we're doomed. I don't know. Probably. Naughty or nice, he never stops twice in the same place." "If we don't nail Santa in the next two minutes thirty, that's it," shouted Molly, more pissed off than whiney. "Just shove a Christmas tree up my ass and get it over with," yelled Vinnie, who had jumped out of his coffin, grabbed D'Oliya's whip and was scourging himself. "Now, I'll never have a hit record!" We all just stood there. Me and the Partymob. I looked them over. Whatever spark they had that made them so much fun was completely gone. They didnt even look real anymore. They were beginning to look like a bunch of old cartoon characters drawn in faded colors. I was happy they didn't get Santa. Yet, I was sad for them. And a bit sad for me. I wouldnt get Molly-coddled. I wouldn't be J.K.K. Tolkien, Jr.. On the other hand, Santa would be safe, if there was a Santa. I mean I sorta saw him through the snowstorm, but I'd had a lot of beer and brandy and maybe I had hallucinated the sleigh and the red-nosed reindeer that almost landed. I wanted to think that. But I told myself to quit doubting what I'd already decided was real. Even if it probably wouldn't be real in a Hell's Kitchen reality tomorrow when I woke up with a headache, it was real for me tonight. The GPS signal on my computer beeped like "You've Got Mail" but more jingle-bellyish. Wait! screamed Molly, checking her screens and her handheld. Red Suit has rerouted toward 9th Avenue. Why, I dont know. They started running toward the back door. Maybe he wants a nightcap, after a hard days

night, yelled D'Oliya. Lets move it, cried Pachuco, leading the others toward the bar's back door. I stayed in the backyard, taking a big hit of Santa's brandy. It was definitely the good stuff. It went well with the oatmeal raisin cookies. I took another sip. I finally made my Big Decision. I had to stop them. I rushed to the back door.

3.17 Silent Night Bar Fight

Inside the bar, the jukebox was playing "Silent Night". It lied. New York's most famous dive bar was wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, back-to-back, belly-tobelly, bone-to-bum with a mix of drunken Uppies, college students, metrosexuals, dealers, tvs, scions of the Saudi Royal Family, gay cowboys, Charlie Sheen with six maids a'milking, a former Miss Australia with her 'roo not to mention the Westies and the rest of Rudy's regulars who'd been there way back when we'd made our exit into the backyard alternate reality. The PartyMob was being held up by the Uppie mob, slumming after a night of drinking Mojitos and dirty cosmopolitans, and other chi-chi, sissy cocktails I'd never even heard of, let alone tried. "We'll never make it," cried Vinnie who had only advanced a few feet into the bar. For once, I hoped he was right. Dont give up and don't kill anybody, yelled Molly seeing the mass of bodies between the back door and the front door. Its just reality trying to readjust itself. Maybe can still do it. "Yeah, right, and maybe I can play in the NBA if I work on my half-court dunk." said Vinnie, who was getting on my nerves big-time. At first, the PartyMob tried pushing their way thru the Uppie mob. The arrogant Ups didn't move. When your Christmas bonus is more than 162 working-class people sweat for in a year, you don't move out of the way. Not for members of the other 99%.. I was kinda surprised the PartyMob didn't pull their guns and shoot their way out, even with Molly's warning. I had no idea if gunning down Uppie metrosexuals, gay cowboys, or Charlie Sheen was beneath their dignity or if they were afraid the shots would scare off Santa. Nonetheless, they heeded Molly's warning. It was a like being in a Brit soccer crowd after a loss to Germany. The gang punched and kicked and gouged their way inch by inch thru the crowded bar of Christmas Eve Uppie drunks who were hitting us with their designer iPad cases, crocodile skin umbrellas, and Gucci purses. Shooting us with pepper spray. And stomping our feet with their Italian fuck-me pumps. Nobody wanted to go near the Kangaroo, but Pachuco managed to goose Miss Down Under on his way past. I wondered if he wanted a mnage with her and the 'roo.

It was slow slogging. Like Fate was still fighting against us. And still winning. "We're not going to make it" yelled Vinnie. I used the scrum as cover to kick the little pessimist in the ass. Short people got no reason... and so on. The PartyMob wouldn't give up. They fought like Tasmanian devils on PCP to win their through to the front door. The crowd of New Yorkers fought back like fat women from Long Island looking for deals at Macy's on Black Friday. It was not a pretty sight. Molly used her Tae Kwon Do to put away six or seven of them. Vinnie was back on his feet and pissed. He smashed them in their crotches with the leg of a broken bar stool. The little fucker was tough. Dandy was screaming that everybody was 86'd. Louie was lifting people up like empty beer kegs and tossing them over the bar, trying not to hit Vickie who had out her Bowie knife and was defending the backbar to the death, the death of anybody who tried to take advantage of the situation to glom onto a bottle, which I had to admit had occurred to me. Pachuco finally turned on his Weed-wacker, which immediately cleared a space around him. They all formed up behind him and charged for the front door. Dandy was still screaming that everybody was 86'd. Finally, only the Sick Mick and the ex-Westies stood between the PartyMob and the door. These hard-asses were not drunken Uppie metrosexuals or Arab princes. These skull-pounders were raised in the toughest neighborhood in New York City. They wouldn't go down easy. I thought for sure that now the guns would come out, as da Mick and his buddies had their hands in their pocket and reaching behind them for whatever was stuck in their belt. I had thought the rest of the gang was tough until I saw D'Oliya with a bar stool, clearing the final path up to the old Westies. D'Oliya didn't back down from the Sick Mick. She lifted the stool high over her head and damn if her breasts didn't make a cameo appearance. To be accurate, it was a major guest starring role. This apparition seemed to stun the Westies. As we pushed past the slack jawed Irishmen, we encountered no resistance, but heavy beer breath. The door was locked, blocked, and some good word I can't think of now. Molly stepped forward and delivered a karate kick that shattered the door like my ego the year I tried to ask a high school cheerleader to the prom. As we stumbled out the front door, Molly pulled her gun out of her boot, and shot the giant ceramic Pig who was the last one trying to stop us. She got him six times in the legs, which looked like it kinda stumped him, and he went down like a reality starlet. Now, we could hear jingle bells above us over the sound of wind and snow. Ho Ho Ho!" "Shit-shit-shit," I thought in counterpoint. Well, I would have if I knew what counterpoint meant. The PartyMob had sustained only minor damage, a bent Weedwacker, and some ripped clothes, unless you count D'Oliya's new look. They took their positions on the sidewalk outside of Rudy's Bar And Nexus Of Improbability. The ambush was set. Where was their target? Where was Red Suit?

They searched the snowy skies for the Fatman and Red-Nose. "We missed him," commented the dimension's greatest pessimist. Both Louie and I couldn't stop myself volunteering, "He's probably looking for another bar that's more welcoming." Louie had an idea, If he is looking for a more welcoming place, lets sing him in. The whole PartyMob started singing, singing loudly to be heard over the snowstorm. Jolly Old St. Nicholas Wont you stop down here? Join us for a little drink, A cup of Christmas cheer. Christmas Eve is over now Now its Christmas Day. Louie, says he'll buy the drinks Santa, whatcha say? D'Oliya, she will tie you up Molly'll make your day Vinnie'll be your serving elf Top shelf all the way. Christmas Eve is such a bitch, You need a little play Stop in for a pick-me-up Maybe a bj. Kind of a weak-ass performance, I thought happily. That wouldn't pull in anybody except drunkies like me who'd totally go bonkers for the part about Louie buying the drinks. And the bj did sound even better than the drinks. The PartyMob realized their classic rendition wasn't working so they Jingle Bell Rock'd it, added choreography, and a Rap Break.

3.18 The Santa Seduction

I'd been scouring the skies for Santa and somehow I hadn't noticed that Molly had changed clothes, I have no idea. She was now wearing nothing but a huge red ribbon which would have been almost decent if she was standing still and there was no wind. She was dancing and there was wind. Santa didn't stand a chance. I guess she was performing a gift rap. Get it? Like gift wrap, only rap. Oh, never mind. D'Oliya, not to be upstaged by a damn physicist, jumped up on a car buried in snow in front of the Greek Bakery next door, and performed dance moves so lewd, especially with the whip, that her performance would have had to be cut from an x-rated rap video. (You can see a bit of it if you Google D'Oliya, snow dance, nip-slip, Santa, song.) IF I FORGOT TO MENTION IT, THIS IS NOT A TALE FOR KIDDIES! Up in the sky nothing seemed to be happening. The song, the dances, Vinnie mooning Santa, Pachuco in his Salvation Army outfit ringing a bell. Molly's gift-wrapping. None of it was working. I was so relieved I started back into Rudy's. Wait! Oh shit-on-a-sleigh-bell! Clydie had returned like the prodigal Clydesdeer. "Clydie," bring him down, ordered Louie. "Don't kill any reindeer," reminded Molly, "or you'll break the string." Clydie launched herself into the sky like I launch myself at a free beer. This was Clydie's moment. Her last chance to go head-to-head, antlers-to-antlers with Rudolph. The ultimate Smackdeerdown! Clydie vs. Rudolph for the Red-Nose, and all the perks, adulation, songs, and commercial endorsements that went with guiding the Official Sleigh Of Christmas. Clydie was bigger and stronger than all the 8 tiny reindeer combined. They were faster and they

had horn antlers and Clydie had cheapo plastic ones from Target. That meant she couldn't win in a head-to-head contest. (Of course, we couldn't see much of the battle at that moment. Later, we saw the video on YouTube.) Clydie finally gave up on fighting fair and flopped her two thousand pound Kristie Alley body down on Comet and Cupid and Dancer and the two gay ones, and they all went down. It looked like Rudolph was bravely trying to fight back when the PartyMob joined the fight by throwing snowballs at Santa and the reindeers. Pachuco still had a shortstop's good arm. He caught Santa in the eye with an iceball. Santa finally reacted. He yelled "I think you kiddies are naughty, not nice. I'm gonna come down and put coal in your stockings and shove them up your nasty asses." The fat old idiot was landing. Noooooo! Now was my moment, to see if I had the right wrong stuff. Or the wrong right stuff. As the sleigh powered through the 9th avenue snow. I screamed. Get the hell out of here! Or at least I meant to. He must have finally recognized the danger, because he put the sleigh into a 360 x 180 with a twist-ed torque that dumped off Clydie. The jolly old elf snapped the reins, and got as far as yelling, On Dancer! before the PartyMob swarmed over him. I stood there and watched as they pummeled Santa. Watched them hobble Rudolph with strings of Christmas tree lights. Watched as Clydie pulled the Caddy around. Watched as they threw Red Suit and the Schnozz into the back. Watched as they celebrated their victory. They'd made it. The PartyMob had gone on 'all in' and won big-time. Welcome back, Saturnalia. Goodbye, sappy Christmas carols. Hello, Chuggalugga Christmas. Sayonara, Santa. Hello, Louie Claus. Party. Party. Party. Happy-happy! Joy-joy! I'd won, too. I'd achieved my goal of being evil with a capital E. I was part of a team. I was going to be able to hang with two hotties with the morals and modesty of mistletoe. I'd blog the PartyMob's story. I'd put them on my little show. They'd fix it so Id become famous when they became legends. I'd have a winter coat that didn't say "Hefty" on it. I'd have socks without holes. An apartment with a bathroom of my own. A happy ending, right? Right? Come on, admit it. This is a god-damned, mutha-fcking, happy ending. Well, isn't it?

The End
(of Christmas as we've known it)

Errata
The authorities were forced to commit our proof-reader in the process of correcting this e-book. If you encountered any obvious errors, typos, or formatting issues in this text, we would appreciate you bringing them to our attention, so the next edition of "Most Wonderful Time For A Beer" won't be a pain in the anal-compulsive for future readers. Patton Lee Beaugus has requested that you don't bother telling us that he made up words, because we told him so, we offered him bribes of beer, then locked the door to the bathroom, but he is adamant that making up words is okay. With any other errors, please email johnpatgallagher@aol.com stating the name of the ebook, which is "Most Wonderful Time For A Beer" version 1.0, the type of device you are reading it on, and the details of the error. Please remember that adding profanity and smart-ass remarks to your helpful critique will help get our attention and make us want to friend you on Facebook.

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