Date: Fri, 4 Jul 1997 15:58:54 +0000 Comments: Authenticated sender is From: BT Murtagh Subject: INT: Omar's Humiliation >> "Aaaayyyeeeee!!!" yells Omar. "Aw shaddap, you big lug! You wanna be maimed phor life?" Someone in a dusky corner of the tavern snickers uncontrollably, taking in the scene and scribbling away. << "What are yer gigglin' abaht up there? Ah kin smell blood." The scribbler pauses. "Oh, come now, pusillanimous partner of mine... don't allow your aversion to violence to deafen you to the humorous qualities of the dialogue." "Yer better not be callin' me no pussy, green-an'-sticky. I just don't like ter get involved, 'specially not wiv this crowd when they's in a vilent mood." "Perhaps if you came out from under the table you might see one you might wish to be involved with." "If'n yer talkin' abaht the basset bitch, I hears an' I smells her jes' dandy, an' I ain' intrested in none o' thet neither. She's eiver a airhead or she's a sleeper, an' since she come in wiv thet CathyB I'se puttin' me biskits on ther ladder." "Latter. You'r putting your bisquits on the latter." The table bumps up, causing a shotglass to slide away from the shadowy scrivener into the flickering glow of a bar sign. "Thass whut I said, innit? Ow! *&%$*^&#((!!!!! My (&%^$&*^%* head!!!" A long cordlike object whips out and snags it just prior to disaster, then carries it back into the shadows. "Must you make quite so much commotion? I had intended to remain a quiet observer of of this unolding drama. Now we are the subject of a number of perusals." "%&*... there ain't no paper on eiver of us, an' it ain't illegal ter cuss. What are yew ON abaht?" The scribbler sighed and packed his instruments of transcription into a small satchel. "Perusals, Muttdawg. People are looking at us. We may as well join the party." "Nuts. You go on an' party. I'se stayin' rat chair. Thet Woofie is aht there, an' she's mad at me abaht summat. She din't never answer up ter me invitation." "I fear you are becoming paranoid, my friend... not that I blame you. Paranoids have enemies too... Still, I cannot abide to spend the rest of my days hiding in shadow. I shall venture the risk." So saying, Dr. Frog hops diffidently along the bar, projecting a quiet dignity. The effect is somewhat spoiled when he steps on a piece of glass, shrieks and hops off-balance into a pitcher of Budweiser. The pitcher presumably belongs to Omar the Tentmaker (forbidden by Allah the drink of the vine, but not that of the hops). The lip of the pitcher is pointed in his direction, in any case. Even through the distress of being stuck head-first in a pitcher of beer and the imminent possibility of drowning, the well-trained mind of Dr. Frog notes that Archimedes is once again validated. The jet of beer which erupts from the pitcher's lip (the only part not now blocked by his body) and splatters Omar from face to crotch is apparently exactly equal in volume to the upper half of a large frog's body. As he struggles to free himself from the pitcher, Alcmaeon wishes for once that he were not *quite* such a large frog. He is quite stuck fast. He manages to regain his feet, but he cannot get the pitcher offf his head. Through an amber curtain he sees shocked people milling around, an angrily sodden Omar, little black dots moving around like flies... refexively he shoots his tongue out, but it ricochets inside the pitcher. The black dots grow larger, take on an aspect more threatening even than the rapidly swelling head of Omar. Must breathe! Think! Yes! Jump, jump, smash the pitcher! Dizzily, without bothering to aim himself, Alcmaeon jumps as hard as he's ever jumped in his life (and he was high-jump champion in his college years. There is, in fact, no need to aim. Omar's enraged head is quite too close to miss, and quite too hard for the pitcher's glass to withstand. Alcmaeon's tongue absorbs much of the inside impact, but nevertheless the black spots join together with a smashing sound and then all is quiet and dark.