CHAPTER NINE: THE MERITS OF ALCOHOL

(for Nick, as a reminder that no matter what the situation it could ALWAYS
be worse.)

--

Living in Bakersfield, a small community of hicks, martial artists,
cultists, Ojibwean refugees and other such people, has its difficulties.
For instance, in what we describe as a civilized world, when your washing
machine breaks down you call a repairman who will come in, take it apart,
tell you it's hopeless and then you go out and buy a new washing machine -
problem solved. In Bakersfield, however, you can't do this. If you live in
Bakersfield and your washing machine breaks down, the only thing to do is
to take it to the Gypsy Tinkerers.

The Gypsy Tinkerers lived in a circle of wagons on top of a large hill
overlooking Bakersfield. They spent their days repairing appliances, as
well as cleaning up the damage that gets inflicted on the hamlet of
Bakersfield during a normal day. They were very good at it. They had to
be, considering the stress that the various crazies who inhabited
Bakersfield could inflict on roads, parks, houses, and other municipal
property during a normal day.

After you gave your washing machine to the Gypsy Tinkerers and crossed
their palm with silver, the Gypsy Tinkerers would drag it on a sledge up
to the wagon belonging to their clan leader, the aged old crone known only
as the Whatsit Woman.

The Whatsit Women were legendary amongst handymen and repairpeople of all
sorts for their ability to foresee the future in the entrails of home
appliances. From the guts of a simple washing machine, the Whatsit Woman
could accurately predict your love life, financial status, travel plans,
career developments, and that you're going to have to go out and buy a new
washing machine.

Shortly after the events of the previous chapter, one of the two men who
ran the Ojibwe Military Surplus depot had a problem with his dishwasher.
Mr. Clerk, the clark who managed the finances (and who was certainly not
to be confused with Mr. Clark the clerk, who manned the till) delivered
his ailing appliance to the Gypsy Tinkerers by means of a slightly used
surplus army Jeep.

"It doesn't clean the dishes," he explained, "and some times it goes
glurgle-urgleGLORK."

"Oh ah," said the Gypsy Tinkerers resignedly, and they got out the sledge.

The Whatsit Woman was appraised of the situation. She got out her
screwdriver and wrench set, and stripped the machine down to its key
components in a matter of seconds. Then something puzzled her.

"It goes glurgle-urgleGLORK, you say?" she asked. Clerk nodded. The
Whatsit Woman frowned, and poked one of the hoses with a stick.

"What does it mean?" asked Clerk the clark. "Is it bad?"

"It means," intoned the Whatsit Woman somberly, "that Hieronymous Smith is
going to have one hell of a bad day."

--

It was 12:30 in the afternoon, and Hieronymous Smith was forced to admit
that his morning had not been a success. It was a week after Finkelstein
had returned, and the house and its inhabitants had somehow settled into a
routine again - except this time, it was strangely discomforting. On the
other hand, muttered Hieronymous under his breath, ascending a wobbly
staircase that led to the showers, days like today made you miss the
routine.

Things had gone wrong shortly after Wilf's breakfast fry-up, during
training with Mrs. Maple. The first sign that the day's training was not
necessarily going to be a success was when she was trying to teach
Hieronymous a form - a prearranged sequence of martial arts moves designed
to show how the various individual elements interact with each other, and
to build strength and precision. Contrary to what his teacher explained to
him, Hieronymous was quite sure that "humble-bumble-HYAH" was not a
traditional Chinese exclamation.

Things had really taken a turn for the worse when they proceeded to
applications - learning how to actually hit people and not get hit. Mrs.
Maple had suggested that they started with an exercise known as "arm
banging", where you and a partner (in this case Mrs. Maple herself)
rhythmically bash their arms together to toughen up the skin and deaden
the nerves.

After a lengthy explanation, Mrs. Maple had instructed Hieronymous to "hit
my arm with your arm as hard as you can." Hieronymous had done so, and was
greeted with the sound of flesh and bone making a number of nasty noises.
Upon further examination, it appeared that he'd dislocated the poor old
lady's shoulder and fractured one of her arms. Mrs. Maple had gritted her
teeth, muttered something about calcium supplements, and wandered off in
search of medical attention.

This left Hieronymous somewhat unsure about what he should do. He was
sorely tempted to go visit Louis the hippie in his greenhouse, but he soon
realised that any "visit" with Louis would end up turning into "smoking
vast quantities of pot and other interesting substances and listening to
Grateful Dead records." Last time he had "visited" Louis, his drink had
been spiked with LSD (again!) and he'd spent most of the afternoon
thinking that he was a lawnmower. That hadn't been a pleasant experience;
he'd spent the rest of the week resisting the urge to spend time in the
back garden on his hands and knees, making "brmm-brmm" noises and running
his face through the long, cool grass.

Mr. Finkelstein, on the other hand, would probably start expounding on
sexual technique again. Last time Hieronymous had visited the somewhat
eccentric secret agent, he'd ended up in an embarrassing position from the
Kama Sutra over a large, roughly humanoid shaped dummy made out of potato
sacks stuffed with straw, with Mr. Finkelstein yelling "Thrust Vigorously!
Harder!" in the background.

The Psychic Apostle would just smile at him, serenely.

As for Wilf... well, Wilf had been preoccupied lately. Hieronymous was
forced to acknowledge that a little preoccupation was perfectly
understandable - after all, he had just been presented with evidence of
the existance of an ancient evil from a man who couldn't actually remember
the evidence, save that there WAS evidence, and this sort of circular
thinking could drive a man to distraction. Amongst other things.

He had been unable to get a straight answer out of the old man, who
mumbled excuses. "I'll explain later," was a favourite of his, as was the
tired old stand by of "Oh, ah."

No, Hieronymous decided, if the day was to brighten up at all it would
have to be brightened up by a trip into town. He quickly threw on some
clean clothes and headed out of doors. After some digging around for
transportation, he located a salvageable bicycle out in the garage next to
the skeletal remains of what appeared to be a rickshaw, and headed into
town.

Upon his arrival, Hieronymous quickly headed for Jinendousosetsu's House
of Oriental Foodstuffs, only to discover that it wasn't there any more.
There was now a large lake where the building used to be, with a small
island in the middle. In the middle of the island was a small building
made out of granite blocks and asphalt shingles, sporting a large white
sign that read:

        CAPTAIN NEMO'S UNDERWATER CURRY ADVENTURE

        Hours - 12-9 Mon/Sat
        Closed Sundays

        Please Access Restaurant
        By Small Raft, Attached To Dock
                        -- Nemo

After a bit of searching, Hieronymous found the dock and raft. It wasn't
really a raft, actually; it was, instead, a large Venetian gondola on a
laundry line that ran between the dock and the restaurant. A large motor
moved the laundry line back and forth, dragging the gondola across the
water and allowing passengers to travel between the dock and the
restaurant in luxury and comfort.

There were really only two problems with this arrangement. The first was
that the gondola moved back and forth at fifty miles an hour, forcing
Hieronymous to jump on it as it shot past the dock. The second problem
manifested itself when he tried to land: the floor of the gondola was made
out of very thin balsa wood. Hieronymous's legs went right through the
floor of the boat like a knife through hot butter, and he suddenly found
himself up to his waist in muddy water.

After reaching the restaurant, Hieronymous extricated himself from the
remains of the gondola, wrung the water out of his trousers, and opened
the door. Inside the squallid little granite building was a very small
room, with a set of stairs that led down below the surface of the lake.

"Ho hum," said Hieronymous Smith, and headed downstairs. After a little
wandering, he soon reached the door of the restaurant proper and pulled it
open.

The restaurant itself was dark and largely deserted, and smelled of
strange and mysterious spices. A hidden stereo system was playing music
that consisted of a slightly mad drummer, accompanied by occasional twangs
on a sitar and a woman mumbling things in Punjabi.

Hieronymous took in the spectacle, and was approached by a dark-skinned
gentleman with a long, black beard that wound around his ankles and
trailed on the floor in violation of several health ordanances. The long
black dress coat, the turban, and the sunglasses only added to the effect.

"GoodeveningzirandwelcometoCaptainNemo'sUnderseaCurryAdventure," said the
mysterious gentleman, who did not bother with certain niceties of the
English language such as breathing between words. "I willbe yourserver
tonight. Call me Ishmael." He paused and waggled his eyebrows for effect.
What effect this was, Hieronymous couldn't tell you, but it was certainly
an effect.

"Umm... table for one please," replied Hieronymous and then blinked. "Hang
on a minute," he exclaimed, "you're Mr. Jinendousosetsu, aren't you?"

"Pardonmezir," said the bearded man, "butzurelyyouaremisztaken..."

"No I'm not," said Hieronymous. "Look, that's a fake beard. I can see the
elastic."

The restaurant owner looked at him for a minute, then sighed. "You got
me," he replied. "Drat."

"Any particular reason why you're dressed up as a mad Rajah?"

"Not really," replied the restaurant owner. "I just felt like a change,
that's all. I assure you, the food's still good. I'd offer you a window
seat, but this deep it's really rather pointless?" He grabbed a stack of
menus and escorted Hieronymous to a nearby table. Much to his surprise, he
saw Petunia the Goth sitting at one of the nearby tables. Not knowing what
else to do, he waved at her. She scowled back, and threw ice cubes from
her drink at him.

"What an odd girl," thought Hieronymous as Nemo returned with a pitcher of
water and a menu. He was unsure as to how to interpret this new
development in their relationship, but was forced to concede that no other
girl had ever thrown ice cubes at him before. Who knows, he mused, where
this could lead?

"There you go," said Nemo/Jinendousosetsu. "Any questions, just ask."

"Where's the Undersea Adventure part?" asked Hieronymous casually, as he
began glancing through a menu.

"YOU!" exclaimed a familiar voice from the back. The woman on the
soundtrack suddenly screamed at the top of her lungs. The Restaurant
Owner, startled, dropped a plate of poppadoms on the floor, where it broke
with a crash.

"Oh," said Hieronymous. "Here it comes now."

Bernard Petroff got up from his table in the back. "Yes, It Is I, Bernard
Petroff!" he exclaimed. "Hieronymous, Prepare To Die!"
	
"Hello, Bernie," said Petunia Petunia. "They changed your medication
again?"

"Silence, Woman," Petroff replied.

"Why are you talking like that?" asked Hieronymous.

"I Have Sworn An Oath," replied Bernard, "That Until I Defeat You I Shall
Preface All My Words With Capital Letters!"

"See?" said Petunia, who had somehow appeared at Hieronymous's table. "I
knew there had to be a perfectly logical reason."

"Furthermore," the martial artist continued, "I Have Also Sworn An Oath To
The Effect That, Until I Defeat You And Gain My Revenge, I Shall Only Eat
These" - he thrust a box at Hieronymous - "Little Rice Crackers, That Come
In Either Sesame And Onion Or Teriyaki Flavour..."

"Excuse me, ... " interrupted Hieronymous as Bernard continued his tirade.

"... And Furthermore, I Will Only Drink Spring Water, Occasionally
Flavoured with Pure Grain Alcohol, And Will Extract My Dental Fillings...
What? Don't Interrupt A Good Rant, Please; I Was On A Roll.."

"Can't we just get along?" said Hieronymous. "I don't really feel like
watching you destroy another restauraunt, and it isn't really my fault
that the Society didn't hire you, and you wouldn't BELIEVE the week I've
had, so working for them isn't really all it's cracked up to be..."

Bernard considered Hieronymous's words for a moment. "Fine," he said and
sat down with the other two. "I'll resume the oath, complete with the bit
about the capital letters and the rice crackers and the grain alcohol, at
some other date. In the mean time, a truce is acceptable." He opened his
box. "Rice cracker?"

While all of this had been going on, Hieronymous's brain had decided upon
a reasonable solution to his problems. It was not, as it turned out, a
good solution, and it should be noted that the events that are to come
will conclusively demonstrate the sheer, terrifying power of eight little
words. Here they are:

"Actually," said Hieronymous, "what I really want is a drink."

It should also be noted at this point that Hieronymous had very little
experience with alcohol. He was reasonably sure, however, that when a man
was presented with a day that involved... well, what he had encountered so
far, that alcohol was a reasonable solution.

"Well, that could be arranged," replied Bernard. "Unfortunately, there is
only one place in Bakersfield that is actually a bar per se..." Petunia
bashed her head against the table repeatedly. "And the circumstances
behind it are a little... erm... umm... oh, look, there's blood dripping
out of my nostrils."

"What Bernard means to say, and can't because he's an idiot," continued
Petunia, "is that the only bar in Bakersfield isn't really a bar. It's
more of a... erm, gentleman's club. For a very peculiar sort of gentleman.
Bernard, you're bleeding all over the tablecloth. However, if you two want
to make idiots of yourselves, and I will point out at this point that the
last time Bernard went out for a night on the town he ended up in the
local hoosegow, I will give you a lift."

"Okay," said Hieronymous.

--

After a somewhat uneventful lunch of curry, the trio headed out of the
restaurant and across the lake again in a rubber dinghy that Captain Nemo
found in one of his storerooms. Petunia's car, a sporty little red
convertible with fuzzy skulls hanging from the mirror, was parked behind
the Buns of Steel.

"I should warn you," said Bernard as they got in, "that Petunia tends..."

Hieronymous never found out what Petunia tends to, as Bernard was suddenly
cut off by Petunia clamping her foot down on the gas pedal. The car shot
off down the road at a hundred and twenty-nine miles per hour, as Bernard
and Hieronymous feared for their lives.

"ISN'T THIS GREAT?!" yelled Petunia, trying to make herself heard over the
noise of the car , Bernard's screams of "ohshitohshitwe'regoingtodie", and
Hieronymous's occasional dry retches.

"I GUESS," Hieronymous yelled back. "WHO TAUGHT YOU TO DRIVE ANYWAYS?"

"THIS OLD GUY NAMED WILF... YOU KNOW HIM?"

"YEP," replied Hieronymous as the car rocketed down another road. "THAT
EXPLAINS A FEW THINGS."

If anything, Hieronymous thought, Petunia might have been a slightly
better driver than Wilf. Unfortunately that didn't mean much, and
Petunia's car was capable of greater speeds than whatever monstrosity Wilf
was driving at any given time.

The car turned a corner suddenly, rocketing through traffic, and Bernard's
head smashed through the window.

"You alright?" Hieronymous asked.

"Fine," replied Bernard. "I'd forgotten about her turns, though."

"What about them?"

"She doesn't use turn signals."

"Why not?"

"It's her martial arts training," explained Bernard. "She feels that using
her turn signals telegraphs her next move to her opponent."

"Oh," said Hieronymous. "Who's her opponent?"

"Everybody," he replied morosely. Petunia, deciding to abandon convention
at this point, veered left sharply and started driving through a forest,
destroying old growth vegetation in her wake and sending small, cute
animals running for their lives. Hieronymous closed his eyes, and was
surprised when the car stopped, forty-five seconds later, in front of a
very large, decrepit-looking log cabin in the middle of nowhere.

"Where's this?" asked Hieronymous. Petunia pointed at the sign.

	Billy-Joe-Jim-Bob's

	Bar and Gentulmen
 		Getnelman
		Gentulmans' Club

	Featuring New Hot Ladies Nightly

	$5.00 COVER CHARGE

	Friday: Amataur Night

	Saturday: Naked Tractor Pulls

	Feed Sold Out Back

Oh great, thought Hieronymous, it's a redneck strip bar.

"Is this the only place to get a drink in town?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, yes," replied Petunia. "Now you boys have fun and I'll see
you later!" With that, the little sports car disappeared in a cloud of
dust and smoke, leaving the two boys staring at the log cabin. For awhile,
neither one of them spoke.

It was Hieronymous who broke the silence. "What day is it today?" he
asked.

"Thursday," replied Bernard. "That means bib overall night."

"Great," said Hieronymous. "Let's go in."

--

The inside of the strip club was dark and grungy; the floor was covered in
sawdust and haystacks. As for the patrons, Hieronymous had never seen so
many dubious people in one place in his life. None of them had all their
teeth, and most of them were sweaty and flea-infested. Some of them were
carrying livestock with them, including one scruffy looking redneck with a
large chicken held tightly around the neck by a giant sweaty ham-hock of a
fist.

"That man's choking his chicken," said Hieronymous as they collected their
drinks from a woman who was obviously a native of Arkansas. "Are you
allowed to do that in a strip club?"

"Umm," said Bernard. "Let's just sit down and get our drinks, okay?"

The two teenagers fought their way up to the bar, a process that required
a certain amount of shoving, pushing, and judicious application of the
Kung Fu Elbow. A large bearded man with a tattoo of a pig in lingerie on
his bicep poured them two large, disgusting pints of an amber liquid that
might be beer, then they thrashed their way to a table at one side of the
establishment. They sat down with their drinks, and watched the show out
of morbid curiousity. A large woman with three quarters of her teeth
intact was swaggering around precariously on a pair of eight inch high
heels.

Hieronymous tentatively took a sip of his beer. It could have been
anything, and probably was. The stripper on stage tentatively stomped
forward, undid the top button of her overalls, then stumbled and fell into
the Meat Pit at the front of the stage with a sickening cry of "AAAAGH!",
flattening a skinny man with a long gray beard who had spent most of the
evening excitedly waving a ten shilling book token in the air.

"At least it's cheaper than a lap dance," said Bernard philosophically.

The lights in the house dimmed again, and one of the most stunning women
Hieronymous had seen in his life walked slowly on stage, wearing a long
white dress. She was about five foot eleven, probably about Hieronymous's
age, and had long blond hair done up in a double pony tail. For one
moment, Hieronymous was sure that there must have been a dreadful mistake
- this place couldn't possibly employ beautiful women! Where were the
rednecks? Where were the one-toothed wonders with the triple caesarians?
Where were the forty-year old women hitting each other with pieces of
brisket?

"Well," he said, "this evening is certainly looking up. Right, Bernard?"
No response. "Bernard?" he asked again. Still no response. Hieronymous
turned and looked at his companion, who was staring at the stage with
large, glazed-over eyes. A small stream of blood trickled out of his left
nostril. Oh boy, thought Hieronymous. Not good.

"Excuse me?" he said quietly, trying to attract somebody's attention. A
thirty-year old woman holding a tray of shooters came up to his table.

"Whaddaya want?" she snapped. "We got moonshine, moonshine, moonshine,
moonshine, Jagermeister, moonshine..."

"It's not that - it's my friend. He's passed out!"

The waitress stared at Bernard for a moment, and her eyes widened. "Who
let HIM in?" she snarled.

"Why?" asked Hieronymous. "Is there a problem?"

"Get him out of here quick," she replied. "Your friend there has a ...
little problem around women."
	
"Oh?" asked Hieronymous, not sure that he wanted to know. "What's the
problem?"

"He... well, when he sees a pretty girl, he... channels somebody. We think
it's Emperor Hirohito."

"You're joking - he's unconscious. Right, Bernard?" Hieronymous turned
around, but his friend was gone.

"Shit," said the waitress, "it's started." She abandoned her tray of
shooters on the table and ran behind the bar. Hieronymous gazed around the
strip club, and suddenly noticed his companion standing in front of the
stage, waving a fistful of bills and screeching in Japanese.

"Shit is right," said Hieronymous grimly. He waded through the crowd and
grabbed Bernard by the shoulder, trying to pull him away from the stage
and out of the establishment, but only succeeded in dropping him in the
lap of a man who resembled nothing more than a denim-and-boot-wearing
Rasputin.

"Geroff, you big Nancy," growled the bearded man, and punched Bernard in
the face. The martial artist went flying into another man's lap, and was
promptly punched back into Rasputin's lap again.

The two bearded giants stood up and stared each other in the eye for a
moment, then decided that the only thing to do was to punch each other's
lights out. This was apparently the signal for the entire patronage of
Billy-Joe-Jim-Bob's to leap from their seats and to try and start killing
each other.

Bottles were smashed. Livestock was put down. And the fight began.

--

The rest of the evening passed by in a blur for Hieronymous Smith. When he
thought about it the next morning, he distinctly remembered being hit a
few times and hitting people a few times in return. He was quite sure that
he'd kicked Bernard in the shin at one point, and that he'd stepped on a
pig.

He was reasonably sure that he'd spotted a familiar looking face during
the fight. He had waved, and the grinning man had smiled back, revealing a
mouth chock full of tooth decay, before firing on him with a shotgun full
of rock salt.

He was somewhat less sure about what had happened to the double
pony-tailed stripper on the stage, the one whose beauty had started this
entire mess. He was reasonably sure that he'd heard her yell out loud "By
the power of the Zodiac Seamen, I will DESTROY YOU! TRANSFORM!", but he
wasn't sure about whether or not she'd actually taken off all her
clothing, glowed bright purple, and then reappeared wearing a girl's
school uniform and holding a giant kwan dao that shot lightining bolts. He
wasn't sure at all about what happened after that, although he vaguely
thought that he'd ended up drinking something, and going with Bernard, the
stripper and a bunch of other rednecks to go and smash things.

He was very sure, however, of two things.

The first was that he was in a prison cell, with Bernard passed out on the
floor and the stripper's legs draped over his chest.

The second was that he was badly in need of an aspirin.