"Wai're off!" says Goodness happily, hailing another cab. To prove how jaunty he's feeling, he doesn't even look at the company name on the door as he shuttles his companions into it, and shouts, "Sad Mary's, noble driver, an' doon't spare the horses!
Ingar gets into the front seat. He needs the leg room. The tall northerner turns to the driver and smiles genially.
"Yair gonna luv this place, Engar. Every vice an' foible spread oot before ye, every whim indulged. It'll be a lairnin' experience like ye can't believe. Hope ye brought yair nootbook, oor at least a camera."
"I always bring a notebook. However, I object somewhat to the term 'vice'. It is so judgemental. We need to understand that some people have special sensual and emotional needs, and as long as actions are performed by and upon concenting adults, they should be tolerated."
Goodness looks at Forn from the back seat and arches an eyebrow. "Have ye ever written a book, Mr. Foorn? Only, ye've got some fantastic ideas tha' I'd really luv t' read aboot in greater depth." He chuckles, looking out the window. "They've got lots o' consenting adults at Mary's. It should prove grist fer yer tolerance mill, friend o' mine." He turns to face Griffon. "An' ye, Slave. Ye've been awfully reticent these past few hours. Air ye all trembly-like t' finally get the chance t' strut yer stuff? I've got a picture o' Ben Franklin practically burnin' a hole in me pocket." And then to the driver: "Watch oot fer tha' chicken!"
"Yeah, I could use a nice stress reliever right about now." He makes a noise in his throat, perhaps he's clearing it, or perhaps he's saying something like "I got interupted the last time, you Irish bastard. 1" It's really rather hard to tell, though it sounds like he is a bit stuffed up.
The generic cab and its generic driver pull into a generic parking space in the not terribly generic Plaza of Flowers. Goodness pays with ubiquitous dollars. Ingar cheerfully utters a general statement reminding the nondescript driver that he is a unique and valuable individual, just like everybody else, and the generic cab and its generic driver pull back out into the undefined traffic and are lost from sight. The driver responds in a vague way before sinking back into obscure anonymity without even a mention being made on the Website of his/her/its existence.
The Plaza of Flowers is dominated at its center by a five-foot high raised platform, on which sits a modern sculpture of twisted, rusting metal. All around the platform (and on the sidewalk as well) various street performers ply their trades - comic monologues, singing, dancing, stripping, improvisational theater, freak show acts, and performance sex to name a few. It is now late enough in the day that the Plaza is beginning to fill up with artsy types and Al Amarjans looking to relax.
The building in front of the group is a large two-story stone structure, flanked on the right by what appears to be an abandoned flood control or waste water canal, now filled almost to bursting with some sort of open air market of bazar. On the building's left there is a small medical clinic called "The Good Doctors".
Above the double door entrance is a niche with a stone statue of Mary, visibly very pregnant and weeping into her hands. The sign on the door reads "Bar and Girl". The muffled *THUD THUD THUD* of loud music can be heard coming from within.
As soon as he catches sight of the statue in the center of the Plaza, Ingar stands entranced with it, oblivious to whatever the populace may attempt to show to the freak. A broad grin spreads on his face, his hands held close together high up on his chest, slowly clenching and unclenching. His entire body arches forward, and in general he brings to mind an allosaurus art lover in a three-piece suit.
"Here we air, boys," says Goodness. "I jest need t'make a stop oover at the doctor's, there, an' we kin finally get that drink. So let's... Engar? Engar. ENGAR!"
As Goodness finally shouts his mangeled conception of Dr. Forn's given (though definitely not Christian) name, one of his ears twists slightly towards the agent.
Goodness shrugs. "Slave, mind the statue." He jerks his thumb towards the enraptued Forn. "When he snaps oot of it, bring 'im oover t' the doc's. I've gotta get me face checked, thank ye verra much, an' the sooner I do tha', the sooner we kin get pissed." The agent jogs away from Forn and Kyle, thinking fondly of a cold beer and maybe a side bet or two.
Gradually processing the fact that somebody is calling upon his attention, Ingar gradually comes out of his reverie, and with a shame-faced grin more appropriate for somebody caught staring at performance sexuality, he looks down at spot where Goodness would have been if he was not jogging towards the Good Doctors, and intones "JA?". Slightly perplexed, he looks towards Goodness's dwindling figure, and then to the grumpy Slave. In a staccato tenor he then babbles, "Oh. The rapture of Ancient - Sorry - Modern art. The triump of the pri.. - sorry - human spirit. The durability of the construction contrasted by rust. Anyway, I found it enthralling. Hm. This island has left me a bit disjointed, I think. Probably the heat. Yes, the heat. I come from Norway, you see. Cold place, compared to Al-Amarja. Frostfire burning in the flesh during the long winter nights, when the North Star glares down upon... Nevermind! Nice country, though. Famed for its natural beauty, in fact. Perhaps I ought to see one of my fellow therapists. Anyway - How are you?" At the final utterance, he purses his lips and cocks his head slightly managing an almost normal facial expression, for once, signalling concern and empathic interest with Griffin's grievances.
Griffin eyes the man for a moment, it's hard to discern what it is he's thinking, if he's thinking anything. Finally he says, "Been better." He turns around, and starts walking after Goodness, saying "Come on."
Respecting the man's desire for emotional privacy, at least for the time being, Ingar follows Goodness, and thereby incidentally Griffin.
The clinic that Goodness (and a moment later Forn and Kyle) walk into is small, but well maintained, with potted plants and an aquarium in the lobby, and all done in soothing greens and blues. The only jarring part about the place are the two very large, very burly men dressed in leather near the entrance to the interior of the clinic. Both have blonde hair (one natural, one clearly bleached) and both sport the astrological symbol of the ram on their motorcycle jackets. They size up Goodness without much interest, Kyle with little more, but become instantly alert and somewhat uneasy when Forn enters the room. Forn attempts to smile endearingly. Which, of course, causes them to become MORE uneasy.
There are perhaps a dozen individuals seated around the room waiting their turn. They glance up the way people in waiting rooms do, but other than that pay those that enter little mind. They are a mixed bag of men and women, and about half of them make their living in the sex industry, judging by their clothing and makeup. They range in appearance from absolutely stunningly gorgeous to a couple who might actually consent to spending time with Ingar if he were interested.
Ingar, of course, would mainly be interested in how these women retain their pride and self-respect despite working in a rather, low status, profession, how they draw upon their inner strength to continue in a world which at times may seem rather harsh. As for his sexual-emotional needs, Ingar Forn needs a woman who is -truly- understanding and discreete. The Virgin Mary, perhaps.
Over on the right side of the room is a receptionists window, with the sign of the ram prominently displayed, along with the red dagger of Safe n' Sound. The receptionist, dressed in standard receptionist garb (with the exception that she is also wearing the standard noose necktie) looks up at Goodness and says politely "May I help you sir?"
Goodness wrenches his eyes away from the blonde in the blue patent-leather schoolgirl outfit and faces the receptionist. "Aye. See this?" He points to his broken nose. "I need the doc t' do a quick-set fer me nostriller region. No x-rays, no blood tests. Jest set the thing. The slave here is payin' cash. An' if ye got one, pairhaps someone could cap this jagged little pill?" He opens wide and points to his broken tooth, then looks to the blonde again. "An' when we're all good and doon, maybe ye and I could go next door an' share a malted?" He throws a quick glance to the Aryan Twins. "An' boys, do me a favor an' leave Mr. Foorn alone. He's just arrived, an' he's havin' a long day. If ye wanna pump somethin', jest ask the slave t' bend oover."
The two Aries Gang thugs glance at one another, then stare in a most menacing fashion at Goodness. "Be silent, thrall!" growls one, "or the physiker will not find sufficient pieces to repair."
"Golly," says Goodness. "Thor-wegians!"
Meanwhile the receptionist regards Goodness. "I'm afraid we don't do dental work here. You might try the D'Aubainne Hospital, Achmed's Kwik Klinik, or the School of Dentistry at D'Aubainne University. We can fix the nose right up, though. Can I get your name?"
"Last name Goodness, fairst name Buttery," replies the agent.
"Very well Mr. Goodness, please have a seat," says the receptionist.
After a wait of around thirty minutes, a nice Doctor sees Goodness and tapes up his nose for the modest price of $150. Goodness thanks the nice doctor, and instructs his nice slave to pay the nice receptionist. Then, with a hearty "Gentlemen, it's drinkin' time!" He hustles his compatriots to Sad Mary's.
Griffin follows along eagerly, while Ingar ambles after them, good-naturedly, musing on the positive and negative aspects of intoxicants.
As Goodness, Forn, and Kyle exit the Good Doctors and head north towards
the entrance to "Bar and Girl" they spot Barbeau, Ghishu, and another guy
coming around the corner on the other side of the building, apparently
also heading for the same building.
As he spot the very recognizable Dr. Forn, then Mr. Goodness, and the, uh, slave, Leo waves back and Ingar and elbows Ghishu, drawing a horrified look from the latter.
"It's that nice Dr. Forn," Leo explains cheerily, oblivious to silent warnings. He turns to Chris and adds: "Very nice guy, we just met him at Gun Metal. Let me introduce you."
Without further delay, he walks in long strides towards the other trio. "Hello, Dr. Forn!" he salutes with a smile. "Mr. Goodness, sir," he nods pleasantly towards Buttery and Griffin. "A pleasure to see you again so soon. Let me introduce Mr. Chris Wilson, and of course you've met Ghishu. Chris, this is Dr. Ingar Forn, Mr. Goodness, and hmm, his slave."
"Hello again, gents!" says Goodness, shaking hands all around.
"Good day to you, Leo! And to you, Ghishu." beams (or perhaps radiates) Doctor Forn. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilson!" he continues, extending a huge hand.
"Hope ye all foond what ye were seekin' in Gun Metal?" Goodness continues. "We're aboot t' head inta Mary's fer a pop oor two. Why not make a pairty oot of it?"
"Yes, a party would be nice," Ingar agrees.
Chris stops spinning his art pen and slips it back into it's protective case as he reaches out to shake hands with the trio. "Pleased to meet you all, I am up for a party as long as you guys don't mind if Leo and I discuss a little business."
Chris keeps his features pleasant even as he is dealing with near sensory overload, because of Forn and this "slave." He has spent a lot of his life working through distractions though, so he should be fine. The blonde man turns to Sctosman and asks "Your name is Buttery Goodness? I once worked with an... uh... dancer named Wholesome Goodness, I don't suppose there is any relation?"
Griffin remains silent. Perhaps he has finally learned what a slave's place is. Or maybe he's thinking about something, or someone.
"Neh," says Goodness. "Sure yer not thinkin' o' Buttery Nipple? Came through here once as I recall. Detoxin' oor somethin'. Got hooked up wi' a bunch called the Movers, if I recall, the silly git." Goodness notices Chris' look at Griffon and cracks a smile. "Ain't he a piece o' work? Killed 'is gairlfriend, he did, an' tried to go all macho on me. Hence," Goodness points at his nose. "The slave here is goin' t' work oot some of his repressed homosexuality at Mary's by gettin' all sweaty in the cage fights."
A rather large vein in Griffin's right temple stands out strongly against his skin. Besides that, and a slight twitch in one of his jaw muscles, he gives no noticeable reaction.
"Many men need to come to grips with their repressed homosexuality.
I think that might indeed be Griffin's problem." says Ingar. After
a small pause he adds: "It is kind of rude to mention it right in front
of him, though." And after another, even smaller pause, with greater
urgency, he continues: "Killed his girlfriend?! And what is a cage
fight? It sounds violent!"
Leo winces and groans. He trades looks with Ghishu.
"Say again?" asks Goodness to his newfound "friends". He sidles up to Ingar and says quietly, "Engar, I'm not foolin' wi' ye now. Hand oover me gun. Slowly, an' behind yer back."
Ingar timidly down at the scotsman and replies in a whisper: "Truly, friend, don't you think you are overreacting?"
The Scottsman shrugs, and say quietly, "No, actually. They pat ye doon fer weapons afore ye enter Sad Mary's, an' I thought ye could hand it back t' me during all this rigamarole. Plus, ye've got no license t'carry a concealed weapon, an' if the Peace Squad shows up, ye'll probably wind up goin' t' jail. An' finally, I've let me gun get once removed from me, I'll not let ye hand oover t'someone else. So I'm askin' ye t' please, please, pretty please with bleedin' sugar on top, hand me my gun."
Ingar's eyes glaze slightly and he whispers quietly in an abyssal voice "sweet blood." Vaguely reminicent of Homer Simpson, really.
"An', Engar, when I say 'bleedin' sugar, I doon't mean actual sugar wi' blood on it. 'Tis an...eh...aphorism. Oor somethin'. Figure of speech kind o' thing."
Ingar snaps back. "Yes. Just an aphorism. Of course."
Goodness looks up at Ingar. "Gimme m' gun."
Ingar casts a quick glance to either side and then unbuttons two of his shirt buttons and sticks his right hand inside it. He uses his left hand to pull his suit jacket over his stomach in a rather furtive gesture. There is a soft and very liquid sound, like a foot being pulled out of swampy ground, and then Ingar pulls out Goodness's gun and hands it over the the good Scotsman. He tries to do this with as little ado as possible. Goodness and whoever else is watching closely notice that the gun is very clean and shiny, and should probably be oiled at the earliest possible opportunity. "Just promise me you will be careful," says a worried-looking Forn.
The gun smells very much of Forn, now, and Goodness's hand contacts a transparent, slimy film coating it.
Then, to the Gothic Jesus, Goodness adds: "Hit the road, Slappy. Juan Valdez doosn't come around 'til Tuesday."
"Don't you take that tone with me you neanderthal!" replies Gothic Jesus, waving his coffee mug. "I'm an ARTIST!"
Griffin turns his head to the side slightly. Very casually he opens the box he carried out of Gun Metal. Removing the nun-chaku from the package he lets the box drop to the ground as he tests the weight of the weapon in his hand. He's still being very casual, seemingly not paying any attention at all to the Goth messiah.
Upon opening the box Kyle discovers that what he has are a pair of padded practice 'chuks made of a foam core with a vinyl cover.
Having noticed Griffin's mounting anger, Ingar is relieved to see that he does not have a dangerous instrument to vent it with. He resolves to have a private talk with Mr Kyle at the earliest possible opportunity. This man needs help.
"That's some loony from Breakneck Café," Leo explains to his companions in a low voice, waving his hand in the general direction of the café across the Plaza. "He thinks we killed the barista because we were sitting in the café earlier today when the guy behind the counter had a stroke or something and fell over dead." He grimaces, remembering the scene. "Dead as a doornail somehow, and some weird fluorescent green fluid spilling out of his head. And it got worse from there."
He glances at Gothic Jesus' little dance and continues: "Mr. Good-to-the-Last-Drop there started yelling that we had killed the barista, just like he's doing now and, frankly, my friends and I didn't feel like explaining the situation to the Peace Force, especially since we didn't have a clue. We split."
Gothic Jesus runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Look," he says, struggling to sound reasonable (and not succeeding particularly well). "I don't care why you killed him! I didn't report you! BUT I NEED MY COFFEE GODDAMN IT! They closed the fucking Breakneck," he gestures vaguely across the plaza with his coffee mug, then waves it at Leo again. "I mean, its the least you can do after inconveniencing me like this! I haven't been able to concentrate! How am I supposed to create without my coffee?"
Leo is getting all worked up again. The people on Al Amarja can be ruder than New Yorkers!
"Look, bozo," he growls, "why don't you create a vacuum? We didn't have anything to do with that guy biting the Big One, and I don't goddamn care if you drink cranberry juice for the rest of your life. Just walk over to..." He looks down the Plaza and spots another café, about a third of the way down counterclock-wise. He gestures towards it and squints at the sign. "...down there to the Pause, and have yourself as much caffeine as you can take."
"But... but," responds Gothic Jesus, rummaging in a pocket with a free hand and pulling out a battered card, "I get a mug FREE at the Breakneck! Besides, who are you to dictate where I can and can't have my coffee? Isn't anyone LISTENING? I SAID that I am an ARTIST! Fer God's sake, don't you realize what that means? MEANS THAT I PRODUCE ART! THAT WHICH DEFINES OUR VERYSOCIETY! THAT WHICH REPRESENTS, IN DISTILLED FORM, ALL THAT WE ARE WHILE YET EXPLORING THAT WHICH WE MAY BE! EVERYTHING YOU DO IN YOUR TAWDRY FUCKING EXISTENCE YOU DO ENTIRELY TO SUPPORT THE COMMUNITY OF ARTISTS WHO STAND AT THE PINNACLE OF SOCIETY, CREATING, SHAPING, AND MOLDING THE SOCIETY IN WHICH YOU EXIST! DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA HOW TOUGH THAT IS?"
Leo and Ghishu, having heard this before, begin to suspect that this might just be a canned speech.
Chris, due to circumstances entirely within his control has heard this exact type of speech before. Many times. Although he does not consider this man a threat, not with everybody standing around, he reaches into his pocket and grabs his lighter; making sure that it was set on high.
"Listen up Captain Java, artists get their reward based on how the market values their efforts. Nobody need support you beyond that." Chris gestures. "If you can't take being an artist stop being one." He looks at his companions. "Should we go inside?" He looks back at the jumpy Jesus. "Perhaps you should try to break your coffee habit, you could check into the famed coffee detox center, Maxwell House. They may have just the right program for you."
After speaking to the coffee commie Chris looks at Engar and tries to make sense of him. This fails. Chris looks away. He has seen a lot and has mingled with people at the extreme physical edge, like basketball and football players but no one has ever approached Engar like proportions or appearance. Plus they knew how to dress. They could be total morons in most areas of life but they could dress.
Ingar, on his part, has after some experimentation realized that his choice of colours makes no difference whatsoever in his daily interaction with people. Switching deodorant or after-shave never helps either. It is rather frustrating, really. At least he can indulge himself, as with his current caramel and chartreuse outfit.
Chris thinks, "I wonder what this guy eats? Babies probably."
"You see? YOU SEE?" screams Gothic Jesus. "This is just the sort of shit that I have to put up with every day! This ridiculous idea that art is market driven - I am SO fed up with it! What the hell do you think I produce - SOUP? I am NOT a merchant, I AM A FUCKING ARTIST YOU MORON! HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING? Art is a TREASURE! An EXPRESSION of SOCIETY'S PAST, PRESENT, and FUTURE all rolled into one! And you want to put a fucking PRICE tag on it? How much would you sell your heart for Mr. Capitalist, huh? How about your brain? Or your SOUL? How much are those things worth to you, huh? If the MARKET offered you enough would you SELL them for CASH? Huh? HUH? Oh GOD I need COFFEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
Goodness, spotting his slave's rather crestfallen expression with his new weapon, points at Java Jesus and says, "Right, that's it! GET 'IM, SLAVE!" He makes "air-chuk" movements with his arm.
At about the same time, Ingar hauls his considerable body mass over to the poor, long-suffering artist. He looks down at the man, flashing an understanding smile - not intended as a smile of understanding the exact nutritional value of the poet, but rather of understanding his plight. Most people may not notice the difference.
Gothic Jesus certainly doesn't, though in this particular case Ingar finds his reaction rather unique. The artist does not react to his presence at all - there is none of the usual shirking, flinching, repressed gagging, wide-eyed staring, goggling, hesitation, deeply profiund revival of religious upbringing, rolfing, or primal screaming that usually accompanies his close proximity. As far as the reaction of Gothic Jesus is concerned, Ingar might actually look... NORMAL!
Ingar quietly relishes the lack of reaction, and hopes naively that this means that there is a good basis for a therapeutic relationship of mutual trust. He speaks very rapidly, in a terribly perky voice, saying: "My good man. While I understand that you are in a situation of great strain, I would advice you to show some restraint. After all, all people, deep down, value the contribution of the artist, but have you given any thought to the idea that this infantile rage and your imperative style of relating and communicating might actually serve to alienate you from your audience? And kindly refrain from uttering such nonsense regarding the nice mister Leo. Of course he has not killed anybody! You should talk nicely of people. Slander is bad. I am assured that you will find within yourself the ability to interact in a more positive manner. Shouting a bit less might be a good start. Furthermore, you should not let your valuable creative powers languish in the web of a stimulant addiction. Your fine mind is much too valuable to be thrallbound to the coffee bean. Throw away the mug. Join a support group. Regain your dignity. Actually, I am thinking of setting up a psychotherapeutic office myself..."
"Oh yeah?" the artist snaps back. "Well all I know is that one minute the barista is there petting his cat and marking off box on my 'buy ten get one free' card, and the next time I go up for a refill I see these guys leaving in a hurry and the barista is dead as nails and spewing green slime from his mouth!"
Ingar replies, "Clearly it was just a coincidence. While death in our proximity will in most cases be a traumatic experience, I find your coping strategy of assigning blame to other people - who are clearly bystanders just like yourself - to somewhat dysfunctional, and a possible projection of your own subconscious and irrational feeling of guilt."
"Go, slave! Go!" shouts Goodness, pointing at the Coffee Christ. "Get 'im!"
"Really, Goodness! This confrontational behaviour is not helping anybody," says Ingar, who is getting to have second thoughts regarding Goodness's motives for wanting the gun back.
Goodness smiles. "Doon't get yer knickers in a twist, Engar. The slave's nunchaku air made o' foam. Like 'The Lethal Weapon' Steve Blackman's in th' Woorld Wrestlin' Federation. But the slave's frozen like a deer in headlights anyway. He's na' gonna hurt anyone."
Chris looks unconvinced by Gothic Jesus' point of view. "Artists, like everyone else are paid on how well the y please consumers. There is nothing special about you. Even your socialistic rap has been copied the world over."
Leo gives a sidelong glance to Chris, an expression of skepticism clearly painted over his features, but does not interrupt him.
"And what about the grooming," Chris continues, "is it a prerequisite that you have bad hygiene habits to be in your little 'Suffering Artiste' club? Why the hell should I do anything for you, pal?"
Chris then gets a good look at Ingar's back as the big doctor blocks Chris' view of the bum and a good portion of the sun. He thinks "Well, this angle isn't so bad."
Something suddenly comes to him, he turns to Leo. "Green goo? What do you mean green?" The events of the last few minutes are catching up to him. The slave, Ingar, green goo. "I must be suffering from cultural electro-shock" he thinks. The smellier-than-thou artist is himself not a problem as Chris is used to his kind and he is in fact acting as an anchor to reality.
Leo shrugs. "What do I mean, green goo? I mean the stuff was like snot except not quite the right colour, more like lime Jell-O. You know, the institutional kind, served in every school, hospital, or prison cafeteria in the U.S.-dominated parts of the world? I'll bet they have it here too, along with the American dollar." One might almost suspect Leo of egging Chris on...
"I have no idea what it was," he continues, "but it didn't look good. Maybe like his brain leaking out or something, except green. And with that loony bellowing, we decided in a hurry. I'll admit it, I was all for running."
He turns back to Gothic Jesus, who is still expostulating. "Look," he cuts in during a brief pause for breath, "you already said no other coffee is good enough for you, but Breakneck is closed. So what do you want me to do about it?" He doesn't wait for an answer to this rethorical question, but forges ahead: "Here's a nice shiny fiver that should buy you two cups of turkish coffee and a baklava, so you can be suitably wired. Take it to the coffee shop of your enlightened choice and leave us alone. By the way, it's a one-time offer only; if you bug us again, I'll be happy to mention to the Peace Force that you just admitted in front of several witnesses being the last one to see that barista alive."
He waves a five dollar bill that is actually pretty washed out rather than shiny, having probably made several trips through the washer and dryer from the bottom of Leo's pocket.
"Why are you helping him?" Chris complains. "It is the stray cat syndrome, let them know that they can get money or food for nothing and they never go away. He will tell his friends and soon you are constantly being pestered by bums."
"I am not a bum," replies Gothic Jesus with great dignity, taking the $5.00, "I. Am. An. ARTIST!" Turning his attention to Leo his demeanor softens and he appears almost - friendly. "Thanks man. If you ever need any art work done, look me up. I work mostly with common food items and scrap metal."
Doctor Forn declares, "Really, Chris, I do not think you should be so negative to Leo's kindness. Helping behaviour is the foundation of all society, and one of the most important factors in keeping it humane - a term which is not intended to bear offence to anybody not human, I hasten to add. Whether a society's economy is run by capitalist or socialist principles, charitable actions and helping behaviour remains fundamentally important and commendable."
"Since when are able bodied coffee fiends considered charity cases?" Chris asks.
Goodness slides up to the now-calm Mochaccino Messiah. "Really? I'm lookin' fer a custom piece t' be made. How much fer ye to create a picture o' th' Foor Hoorsmen o' the Apocolypse made entirely oot o' coffee beans?"
At this statement Gothic Jesus perks up (if you'll *AHEM* pardon the expression). "Well, what are we talking about here? A flat piece done with different roasts of coffee beans for shading, or a sculpture? How big? It sounds intriguing, and I'm certainly available for commission work right now, so long as it doesn't..."
Griffin's head SLOWLY swivels to regard Goodness for a moment, a neutral look on his face. After regarding him for a moment he again SLOWLY swivels his head back in line with the rest of his body. He takes several steps forward until he is in the Goth Jesus' personal space. Even though he has to look up to make eye contact, he still manages togive the man a look of pure menace. In a very quiet voice he says, "I suggest you leave, right now."
"...hey!" says Gothic Jesus, reacting to the menacing stare in much the same way he reacted to Ingar's appearance (which is to say not at all). He leans first one way, then the other, trying to get into a position where Kyle is not between him and Goodness. "I'm talking BUSINESS here, do you MIND?" he says to Kyle before turning back to Goodness. "Are we talking organic beans or will any beans do? Any particular country? What sort of background medium do you want?" He attempts to shuffle around Kyle, his hands sketching proposed coffee bean creations in the air as he does so, apparently oblivious to the tightly wound martial artist before him.
"Slave, really," says Goodness wearily. "The situation is well in hand, as ye kin see. Mr. Foorn took care of things while you was standin' aboot." He turns to the Holy Roaster again. "I'm thinkin' different beans fer color. I doon't know about background. What de ye think? Mebbe wood, oor...oh! Could ye do it on velvet?" Goodness claps his hand. "Ah, lord! Coffee beans on black velvet! OH!" He says suddenly. "An' listen, listen, instead o' War, Famine, Pestilence an'... eh... Blinky... Sleepy... the other guy... Pork? Anyway, instead o' them, kin you do the faces as Geraldo Rivera, Jerry Lewis, Posh Spice an' Groucho Marx?" Goodness is becoming very happy.
"Um," replies Gothic Jesus hesitantly, "well, I'm already working on a Spice Girls project, and I don't want to get in a rut creatively, so we'll have to see about Posh. Maybe I could do Geri - she isnt really a Spice Girl anymore. Or... or..." he appears deep in thought for a moment. "How about I do Michelle Stevenson, the Spice Girl who wasn't?"
"Neh. Hmmm... no Spice Girls, eh? Let's see..." Goodness suddenly brightens up even more. "Oooh! I've got it! Kate Moss! Pairfect! She'd be a greet Famine! Hey, famine! That's the one I foorgot! Gothic Jesus, yer brilliant!"
Griffin mutters something, then turns away, waiting to move on with things...
"ENUNCIATE!" shouts Goodness at the slave's back. "Ahem. Now then. Where were we?"
"Um," says Gothic Jesus. "Well, I could work up some concept sketches and show them to you. Where can I contact you?"
Goodness jots down a phone number on the back of his C&I card and hands it over along with a quarter. "That's me cell phone number. Gimme a call. I'll buy ye a cup o' coffee!" He strides happily back to his compatriots. "All right, gents! An' you too, slave! We're wastin' good drinkin' time!" And once again, the agent attempts to enter Sad Mary's.
Griffin follows, still unable to enunciate.
The bar is a large, chrome affair, almost hidden behind a press of bodies. Against the wall behind the bar - above the required bottles and mirror - are a row of five number displays, rather like those that one normally finds at Customs offices for notifying you when its your turn to see the bored clerk. These five, however, have names like Cristie, Porche, and Mimi under them.
The place is about two thirds of the way to being packed to capacity.
Griffin grins slightly, saying "Well, this looks like quite a bit of fun...."
Leo looks around until he spots an available table in a corner, and enough chairs that they can pull together. Granted, it's not the "best" spot in the house and it's not particularly close to the stage, which is why it's still unoccupied.
"How about over there?" Leo suggests to his companions. He has to shake Ghishu a bit to get any kind of response; the cultural shock has left the young man seechless.
Leo starts obtaining the needed chairs from neighbouring tables, making sure to ask firmly but politely first. In other words, he doesn't want to start an off-stage fight but he doesn't want to come across as a pushover either. He thinks back to Memphis, and to Breakneck Café. They need to get at least a couple of rounds down before they have to run, this time.
"THAT'LL BE FINE, THIS PLACE ROCKS!" Chris says doing a pretty good impression of one of the Butabi brothers.
From somewhere out of the masses, a rather young woman approaches the party, not really a beauty, but definitely good looking: blond, long, slightly wavy hair - long, attractively shaped legs - full red lips - firm, "handful" size breast. There are only two things that make her seem a little bit outlandish. First, she looks as if she has been up and awake for a month; and second the little stump of a cigar, that that she spits on the floor, as she reaches the group.
She gives them the "I don't care who you creeps are, just order a lot" look, sighs girlishly, then: "Right. If you take a seat I would love to take your orders, gentlemen."
"Sure, I'll have a Monkey Wrench to drink and to eat, a steak. A big steak with a lot of fat on the edge. Oh, if you have Tomato Bisque soup I'll start with that. Thanks. Oh, and rolls with a lot of butter. Real butter not that margerine crap." Chris leans back just beside himself waiting to hear what Ingar the Librarian orders.
After vainly trying to fight his inner urges for some agonized seconds, Ingar rasps: "Would you happen to serve tartar beef? If not, I would like a very lightly done steak."
"Raw meat, now there is a surprise," Chris thinks.
"Hi!" Leo salutes the waitress. "I'd like a Trappe and some fried calamari." He looks at the still shell-shocked Ghishu, who seems at a loss to guess what kind of food he can get here. "And, uh, a pot of black tea and a greek salad, please" he adds. He shrugs for Ghishu's benefit. "If you don't like it I can always help you with it," he comments to his friend.
Ingar belatedly adds: "And a mug of water, if you please..."
Goodness says, "Jamison's neat, and a light draft, lass." He gets up from his newfound seat and says, "Be right back, gents. Slave, get yerself somethin'. I'm goan t' try an' set ye up fer yer fight." He walks over to the bar.
"Your fight?" asks Ingar after Goodness has left.
"Bottled water, and a plate of steak fries, with cheese and lots bacon." Griffin takes off his outback hat, and crosses his arms over his ample chest. He turns his head to Ingar and grins slightly, his teeth showing. "Oh yes, I'm going to try and makes some money, and get rid of some very unhealthy emotions."
"Hmmm, hurting people for money?" Chris asks. "A bit mercenary isn't it?"
The young woman scribbles down all the orders. Whether she's really taking down what the group wanted or if she's making doodles is not to be found out. After the final order, she stands around for a few moments, looking at the men pretending that she would love to be laid by all of them, then - the horny expression vanishing astoundingly fast from her face - turns around walking towards the kitchen doors.
After three steps she stops and comes back: "I forgot. I should have told you this as well, when I welcomed you:" she takes a deep breath. "Hello, you handsome lads, I'm Sheena. Love to have you [pause] here. I'll be your personal [pause] waitress tonight," she sings in the loveliest of voices, batting her eyelids innocently. And after that she loses all her innocence once more to say: "Don't tell the manager that I forgot, okay?"
"Certainly not," responds Ingar from a slight daze. Then he realizes
what he just said and adds hastily: "Oops. Sorry. I mean -
you
can rest assured that we will not inform the manager."
Sheena's ability to pretend, albeit briefly, that she would love to be laid by him, has forced him to re-evaluate his schemata regarding human subterfuge. He pulls out his little black book and scribbles briefly, with a speed and fevour which would seem better fitted for ripping it apart than to make notes. Also, over the brief interval, he shifts his pen around repeatedly, occationally holding it at sharp angles to the paper as he writes.
"Do we look like the types to run complaining to the manager? As long as the food comes on time there will be no problems," Chris says.
Sheena trods off towards the kitchen.
After the waitress leaves Chris says, "I cannot understand why restaurants make their employees say those idiotic speeches. As a customer I just want to hear the specials, give my order and eat. The server has more important things to do than annoy me with some canned rap. In fact in my diner I will not make them do anything like that, I won't forbid them but I sure as hell won't make 'em do it."
Leo grins. "Well, then, I guess it's great that you get to check out your competition. "
Ingar grins uneasily back to Griffin, continuing their earlier exchange. His shrapnel-like teeth showing as well. Upon seeing this Chris closes his eyes and thinks to himself "Don'twatchhimeatdon'twatchhimeatdon'twatchhimeat!" He opens his eyes and puts a smile on his face.
"Well," says Ingar, "while I can understand that a fight might have some cleansing effect, easing your tension and so forth, you should bear in mind that aggressive response schema grow stronger every time they are rehearsed, and research has shown that indulging aggression only makes the emotion stronger."
Griffin turns, ignoring the 'mercenary' comment from Chris. He regards Ingar with some interest. "I suppose you could be right with that, but, if you don't find some sort of release for aggressive emotions such as that, don't they only become more violent, and uncontrollable?" He arches his eyebrow slightly. "I mean, wouldn't it be bad if I didn't find a healthy release for such emotions, and they stayed bottled up inside until I could no longer control them? At least with something like that it's among consenting adults, and I won't hurt the other guy, too bad."
Ingar looks intently at Griffon: "No. This steam engine metaphor, claiming that you have to let it out, or else you will blow up, is antiquated. As I said, venting aggression makes it stronger. You don't need to vent it, you need to lose it."
Leo listens in to the exchange between Ingar and the man who has only been introduced as Goodness's slave.
"You seem mostly angry at Mr. Goodness," he comments to 'the slave.' "My understanding was that on Al Amarja slavery was a voluntary agreement, a contract you take for a specified period." He glances at Ghishu for confirmation, since he's the expert so far. "So I was wondering why you took the contract. You sound like as much of a newcomer to the island as we are; did you get robbed? Is that how you're trying to pay for your plane ticket?"
"I don't think it's any of your business." He looks at him, his eyes boring into the man's own. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Ingar waves a hand to break up the attempted staredown. "Now, now, Griffin. You shouldn't be so defensive. Leo is just trying to show some friendly interest and concern - Aren't you, Leo? After all, we are sitting down eating as friends. If you would rather not disclose this information, then surely you can let him know in a more pleasant manner, don't you think?" he says.
Leo shrugs his patented Leo shrug.
To Be Continued...