Tuesday, December 29, 2020

Hellhouse tales #6. Random is as Random does.

 So, you should know that were were not troublemakers.

Well, we were involved in trouble from time to time, but not in the sense that we ever set out to hurt anyone. Well, obviously other than ourselves. Well, and of course, willing accomplices. But we did enjoy from time to time making the lives of others just a little more surreal. Weather intentionally, or as an effect of our regular comings and goings. Sometimes people just happened into our path, and were swept up in the madness. I remember at one of our street sales, while we were trying to raise enough to pay the rent, Dave was trying to buy things from people passing by. 

"Hey! how much for your shoes?"

"Dave, we don't need thier shoes"

"But look at 'em, I could could turn those around for double what ever we pay for them"

"Dave, We need rent, we don't need thier shoes"

(to the passerby) "Common, how much for your shoes?"

Klutch chimes in:  "How about a dance? How much would you pay to cut a rug with this handsome gent?"

I suppose I should mention, as a part of full disclosure, that was usually after consuming a box of wine. "The silver bag" we called it

It was a sort of tradition during street sales that, although, as I said, we were trying to raise rent money, sometimes the first profits went to buying some drink. The preferred drink of the street sale was a box of wine. However, we would tear away the cardboard to reveal the mylar bag, which we would throw to each other like a drunken football. When the wine was gone, the bag could be inflated, forming an awesome pillow to pass out on.

Sometimes I wonder. Did someone buy that house, and if so, did they happen upon our old storage area...

"What the hell is all this crap? Whats with all these wine bags? ... Hey, bet I could get a couple bucks for those shoes..."

I can only hope. Those are the questions I must ponder. 

We left our mark, that is certain.

Another passtime was to go to golden gate park and try to get tourists to take pictures with us. Dave was very good at this. It would start with finding a group that was rotating the photographer. Dave would approach very casually and ask: "Hey, do you want me to take the picture so you can all be in it?"

Then after a few snaps, he would say, "Klutch, you get in there. oh, thats beautiful! click, click, click...pat, come on, get in!"

People would seem dubious, but would more often than not,  just let it happen. Then we would rotate Dave into the session. But, then came the coup de gras. Dave would get one of them to take pictures of just the three of us. 

Not just one, but as many different poses as we could get before they stopped clicking. 

There was once when we even got another random stranger to snap a few of us with the whole group.

And this was in the days of actual film cameras. They could not simple delete us, We were there for the duration. 

I wonder. Did any of those families put our pictures in thier photo albums?

"Who are these people?"

"I don't know. We met them in San Francisco, they were very persuasive"

Saturday, December 26, 2020

The ghost of drunkards past

 I moved to San Francisco in the winter of 1986. I loaded up my Datsun B-210 with all my worldly possessions, drove the 87 miles up highway one, carried the boxes up two flights of stairs, stuck them in my new room, then the next day got on a plane to New York. When I returned, I unpacked and settled in. I lived with my sister and her boyfriend, and their housemate Mark in a top floor Flat on Ashbury Street, just up the corner from Haight. The room I lived in faced out on Ashbury, and I spent many a coffee time leaning out the window of that room, watching the comings and goings of people down on the street, pondering who they were, and where they were going. My brother in-law got me a job as a bike messenger. My days were spent pedaling the city, my nights were spent at clubs and bars when I could afford it, but more often I was in my room. My room was pretty standard. As I said, the windows looked out on the street, there were French doors that separated it from the "living Room" and it had a small walk in closet. When I say small, it was probably only 4 foot by 4 foot. It was a strange little room in that it had a counter and a sink with a big mirror over it, and on the opposite side an area to hang clothes. I guess it was a sort of dressing room, I was never quite sure.  I decided it was my writing room, and put my old royal deluxe typewriter on the counter over the sink. The sink didn't work anyway, so I figured it was a good place to write.  I had wanted to be a writer for some time. I had written several short stories, but to be honest, my writing was atrocious. But I persevered because I had read that Stephen King once said, the best way to become a writer, is to write. So I did. Sometimes late at night, early in the morning, or whenever the mood struck, I would sit in that little room, smoke cigarettes, sip booze, or coffee, or whatever drink was available, and write. 

I wrote plays and dissertations, short stories and poems. Observations, critiques, and reviews. Paper moved from one side to the other, from blank to filled, as cigarette butts formed a pyramid in the ashtray. 

One piece that I considered my magnum opus was a play about a man who was steadily loosing touch with reality. A man who fears he is going insane, because he cannot reconcile the things that he is experiencing with his expectations of logic. He prays for some sort of a sign, and is sent a guardian angle, who looks to everyone else like a regular fellow, but to our protagonist he looks like a demon. Horns, fangs, bat wings, the works. I thought it was good. It was filled with existential questions, and angst. Fear and joy, and ultimately a spiritual awakening. When I thought it was finished, I made the mistake of showing someone. They  read it, literally laughed out loud,  and told me not to quit my day job. 

Shortly after, I took the typewriter out of the closet and stuck it in the basement storage area. Then I took all my writing out to the back yard, stuck it in a small metal waste paper basket, and burned it. 

I didn't shed a tear, I simply watched the words disappear the way you might watch Drano clear a clog, and when it was done, I went about my business. 

It would be six years before I started writing again. 

But I digress.

Lets rewind a bit...

Say, six years or so before that fiery judgement day...

Late one night, or early one morning, depending on how you look at it, I was working on the demon/guardian play. 

I was also drinking.

I suppose "working on it" is slightly incorrect. I had rolled in a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, returned the carriage, but that was as far as I had gotten. I was stuck. I didn't know where to go with the story. I stared at the typewriter keys, my fingers hovering over various letters, but nothing came. 

I took a drag on my cigarette, and my gaze followed the smoke up to the mirror.

I stared into my own eyes.

"You’re the problem,” I said to, well, myself. 

"you... are... the... problem" 

I shook my head, "how am I to get anything done with you staring at me?"

My reflection simply blinked, but didn’t answer. (Which I suppose, was good)

I decided to do something. 

I took the mirror off the wall and put it behind me, leaned against the wall, tucked behind the jackets and suits, where it could no longer judge me, then I sat back at my typewriter.

That was when I saw it. 

Hidden behind the mirror was a small door, about one and a half feet square.  It was outlined in one and a half inch trim that formed a sort of frame, and on the left hand side was a small knob, almost flush with the wall. 

 It was all but painted shut.

My mind raced. What could be in there? What if it were some sort of wall safe? Lost through the years, heaped with gold and jewels. 

Perhaps, but more likely it was some sort of forgotten medicine cabinet.

Sole occupants, a rotting band-aid, discarded razor blade, a degrading aspirin...

I reached up and pulled on the knob. It protested at first, and then popped open with a slight squeak, and a wisp of musty air. To my surprise, there was nothing there. Just a dark hole in the wall.  I climbed up on the counter, and held my Zippo lighter up to the opening. A slight breeze came in and caused the flame to flicker, but in the dim light I could see that the opening went into the air space between my house, and the house next door. The gap was maybe a foot or 16 inches at best. I went and found a flashlight, climbed back up on my makeshift desk and peered into the hole. Directly across the gap was another little one and a half foot framed in square, with a knob on the left hand side. I am not sure what was going through my mind at this point, but for what ever reason, I reached through and grasped the knob and gave it a push. To my great surprise, it gave, and opened into what appeared to be a similar closet/dressing room in the house next door. I could not make out what was in the little closet, but the door was ajar and I could see light, and hear voices.

Now this next part, I really have no explanation for. 

I took a deep breath, leaned through the hole, and then let out a blood-curdling scream into the house across the way.

Then I reached through and shut their little door, shut the door on my side, and although it probably didn't matter, shut off the light in my closet. 

I sat there in the dark. 

I could barely hear it, but there were muffled frantic voices, and the sound of doors opening and closing. 

I sat there for a while, pondering. Finally I turned my light back on, and looked at the blank page of my insanity/demon play in the typewriter. 

I lit another cigarette, and began to type:

"I had begun to hear voices. At least I thought I did. They didn't tell me things or give me directions, they were just strange sounds that I could not explain. Although I knew quite well that the mind can create any reality it deems necessary to keep the illusion of sanity, I also knew that the random screams I would sometimes hear, coming from say, the closet, had to have some sort of a logical explanation"


Wednesday, October 28, 2020

This Old Hiraeth

  I sat up on the roof with my feet dangling over the edge. I cracked a Mickeys big mouth, and took a long sip, lost in my thoughts. My dad used to sit up here some times. I was never supposed to be up on the roof as a kid, but sometimes I would sneak up here, and now and then I would find an empty Mickeys bottle tucked up under the eve. 

  I sat and sipped the beer, Looking out towards the road, but not really at anything.

I closed my eyes, but the scene was still there. I watched as a family of five drove slowly up what used to be a dirt road in a yellow 60s Dodge Dart Swinger.

I could almost still see what it looked like the first time I saw it.

My parents bought the house when I was 7. We moved in on Mothers day, 1971. It was brand new when we bought it, we were the first people to live there, but we had all lived somewhere else before.

I was the youngest of three kids.

My family lived there, I lived there, it was rented out for a short time, then my mom moved back in. After she died, my wife, my kid and I moved in.

But it was nobody’s first house.

No one was ever born there.

No one was carried over the threshold.

There were no first time buyers.

It was my father’s last house. 

He was killed in a motorcycle accident.

Drove away one morning and never came back.

One of the renters had that in common. A falling tree crushed her while she was driving home from work, about a mile down the road 

It was her last house.

My mother took her last breath in the living room.  She had lived many places, but that house was the last.

My family had always owned it. 

My family, my mother, and then me.

The surrounding land holds the bones of at least 5 dogs, some 8 or so cats, a couple of hamsters, a parakeet, and a rat

I always said that once I moved in, I would live there until I took my last breath.

That when I moved out, it would be in a pine box.

But I no longer live there, not for over two years now, and I breath on.

As I write this it is in the process of being sold.

A casualty of divorce.

50 years of memories. 50 years of plans.

50 years of birthdays and holidays, 

50 years of not knowing exactly where I was going, but certain of where I would be.

A 50 year long con.

My Father said it, then my mother, even my sisters.

“This house will be yours someday”

No one argued

Our lives are made of constants, things we believe to be true.

The fibers that make up the thread of our futures.

We may not be able to see the suit they will become, but we believe that the fibers are real. 

We have to believe, we have to have faith. We have to have constants, or the whole thing falls apart. 

Gravity, the speed of light, E=Mc2.  

Constants, knowns, faith.

That when you put the key in the door lock and turn it, the door will open. 

Until it doesn’t.

Until its not your lock, or your door, or your house.

“This house will be yours someday”

But, It was never mine; I was just allowed to pass through it.

I finished my beer, and tucked the bottle up under the eve.

Then I climbed down, got in my car and left.

It turns out there is one truth.

To miss-quote Flannery O’Conner:

Where I come from is gone,

And where I thought I was going to, 

Was never there.




Sunday, November 24, 2019

One Eyed King of the Court of Mysteries

My Friend Maggie came to visit one fine Tuesday afternoon.
Well, if were are going to be honest, she came to visit the Thursday before, we all left for the week-end on a gig, we came back Monday evening, and began the Visit on Tuesday.
We got up too early, as I misunderstood the instructions about what time my Kid had to be at school. So I made some strong Coffee, and we chatted about this and that until it was time to take the kid in.
One of those things was "so, what do you want to do or see?"
"it's your town" she said.
We decided to go to the abalone church. It wasn't a church anymore, it was semi abandoned, and now lay mostly in ruins.
It was originally built by a pair of brothers. Controversial contractors who were known for their eccentricities. Aside from the main house, there were out buildings and spires, grand arches and walls, all covered in abalone shells. They called it, "The court of mysteries". It was their house at first, and later, was bought by a local church who adorned all the spires with Coptic crosses. after they left, it sat abandoned.
When I was in my twenties, it was one of many drinking spots for the under age set, and unfortunately suffered from vandalism. I had not been there in many years, but it seemed like a good place to check out.
We pulled the car up in front and got out. Even in its sorry state, it was a thing of beauty.
We had intended on taking some publicity picture there, but as we walked up to the chain link fence across the entrance, there were a few problems. One, several no trespassing signs, which normally wouldn't be much of a deterrent, but then there was #2, a man sitting on the "porch" of the house, keeping his eye on us as we walked up.
We kept a polite distance, busying ourselves with taking pictures of the archway and some of the spires. Then the man got up and walked down the gravel path to the  entry arch.
I knew what was coming. the private property speech. So we took a few steps back towards the road and got ready to leave.
He walked up the the arch a few feet from us. "Hey" he said.
he was wearing a stained tee-shirt and shorts, and flip flops, even though it was winter. But there was something else...
"I know,  sorry," I stared "we'll go..."
He interrupted me. "if you godown to the end there,  to where the fence ends, just down by the corner of the property, you can come inside. Probably get some better pictures"
I did not expect that.
"Thanks" I said, and gave him a nod.
We went in and took some pictures.
He explained that he was the caretaker, and as long as we just wanted to take some pictures, it was OK with him.
There was something not quite right.
He looked a little odd.
Maybe got started on the Thunderbird early, I thought.
We went inside the grounds and took a lot of pictures. He acted as a sort of tour guide, giving us tidbits of trivia as we went from structure to structure.
Then as we were about finished, he asked "do you want to see something cool?"
"Sure" we said, almost in unison.
"Follow me" he said, and led us over to the main house.
That was when I heard the narrators voice: "They then followed the stranger into the abandoned building..."
my daydream was interrupted by a voice. "Look at this"the voice said.
it was the caretaker. "you notice anything?" he asked.
He was pointing at a star made of abalone on the wall near the front door.
I shrugged.
"Five pieces" he said, mater of factly.
He was right. The star was made of five pieces of abalone shell.
I shrugged again.
He went on. "Every other deliberate pattern here has seven pieces. all of them. but not this one..." He tapped the star with his finger. "Why?" he asked.
I shrugged again. It did't mean anything to me, but, for him it seemed to be a thing.
He answered his own question. "No one knows." he said, "but I'll tell you, these guys did nothing by accident. it means something..." He turned towards me, and locked me in his gaze.
That was when I saw it.
By god, he had only one eye.
The other socket was occupied by a murky off color orb that did not follow his gaze, but rather remained fixed on a point only it knew.
"It means something, and I am going to figure it out" he said.
He walked over to a big weathered overstuffed recliner that faced out on the property.
"I am the king of the court of mysteries!" he said. He then fell backwards into the chair, his arms stretched wide. "And this is my kingdom!"
His smile was that of a man whose contentment was a dream to most.
I gave him a slight bow.
"your majesty"

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Hellhouse Tales # 7. The Strange case of Rich Bill

Hellhouse Tales # 7. The Strange case of Rich Bill

I remember the first time I met Rich Bill.
We were, as usual, sitting around the kitchen table wishing we had beer. That was one of the two general states at the Hellhouse, drinking beer, or wishing we had beer. This particular afternoon was a transition state, as we were about to go to the liquor store, and were waiting for Dave to get dressed.
There was a voice in the Hall.
"Knock Knock! ... Yo!"  said the voice
"In here" Klutch said.
The voices' owner appeared, holding a six pack of Anchor Steam, our favorite beer.
"Hey," he said, "I brought my bike in to the hall, I just got it and kinda don't want to leave it outside."
"What kinda bike?" I asked.
I was a bike messenger, and a bike mechanic, so these things genuinely interested me.
"Come check it out." he said, setting the beer on the table.
We walked into the hall, and there leaning against the wall was one of the sleekest looking race bikes I had ever seen. I was struck by the thinness of the frame.
"Carbon fiber" he said, running a finger down the center tube, "the rims are aircraft aluminum, most of the hardware is titanium alloy. Pretty sweet!"
I agreed, "Pretty sweet."
We went back into the kitchen and grabbed a couple beers. Dave came in, and Bill handed him a beer, "Hey man" he said.
"Hey," Dave said, "Thanks"
That was, as far as I know, when I first met Rich Bill.
Bill settled into a chair. "So, party tonight?"
We were in fact, going to a party that evening, and assumed that, was the party in question.
It turned out he was going as well, and said he would come back after his ride and go with us.
His name wasn't really Rich Bill, That was just our nick-name for him because he seemed to be rich.
He would come around, usually bring beer, shoot the breeze, and show off some new super expensive gadget he had recently acquired. I say show off, but it was more sharing. He was a geniunely nice guy, and well, he always brought beer.
I started seeing him at all the parties. Usually with some exotic expensive booze, some cool gadget, and tales of adventure.  Once he showed up to play ultimate, and even had his own custom Frisbee. Seemed everybody was friends with rich bill.
 One afternoon, again he came by, brought beer, shot the breeze, and then left, promising to return to accompany us to another Party that evening.
Clutch, Dave and I sat at the kitchen table finishing the beer.
"So, " I asked Dave, "how do you know Rich Bill?"
Dave stared at me, "What do you mean?"
"I mean, originally, is he one of your Colorado buddies?"
Dave looked at me like I was crazy. "I met him through you, he's your friend.."
That made no sense. "He's not my friend. I never saw him before that day he showed up with his new bike. I assumed he was a friend of yours..."
We both looked at clutch, who just shook his head. "I thought you guys knew him..."
We started going through our interactions with him, trying to figure a common thread.
We couldn't find any.
Like I had said, I never saw him before he showed up on his bike. But, he was carrying our favorite beer, asking about a party we were going to. The assumption was that he must be friends with someone we knew, and we each assumed it was each other.
We started making phone calls, but everywhere, it was the same,
"I thought he was a friend of yours..."
Turned out nobody knew Rich Bill.
We began listing the things we knew about him.
It was a short list.
Once you eliminated all the things that we thought we knew, which turned out to be assumptions,
The only thing we could honestly say about Rich Bill was that he seemed to be able to afford, or at least aquire, expensive things., and that he seemed to know, maybe a bit too much about our comings and goings.
I remember I once asked him what he did for a living, and he started giving me a vague non-answer, only to then direct the conversation to something else.
That seems to be the case with the other guys as well.
The only thing we really knew was that we had some questions for him.
We waited for him to show up at the Hellhouse that evening to go with us to the party.
But he didn't show up.
We went to the party, assuming he would be there.
But, again, he never showed up.
In fact, we never saw him again, and to the best of my knowledge, neither did any of our friends.
He vanished as mysteriously as he arrived.
leaving behind only questions,
and empty beer bottles.

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

The Cat, A play in one Act.

The Cat, A play in one Act.
An image of a digital clock is projected in red on the black curtains. The clock reads 6:00 am. The curtains part, and there is darkness. Then we hear a mornfull sound…

“Hello? Hellooo? Hellooooo? Helloooooooooo? Helloooooooooooo?”
( The lights come on suddenly, and you see me getting out of bed) “Jezzus! What? What do you want?”
Cat: “Oh! Hi friend! I’m hungry!”(weaves in and out of my feet)” Hungry! Hungry! Hungry! Hungry! I love you! Hungry! Hungry!”
Me: “Damnit! Out of the way, Yes, I’ll feed you!”
Cat: (stopping every half foot to turn around, causing me to trip over him) “Are you coming? Over here? Hungry! I love you! Hungry! Hungry! I love you! Are you coming?”
(I pick up his bowl and put food into it) There you go!
Cat: "Oh thank you! So Hungry!" (chomp, crunch)
( I get a cup of coffee and just as I sit on the couch, the cat comes walking up)
Cat: "Oh! Hello friend! I’m so hungry! (weaves in and out of my feet) Hungry! so hungry! hungry! hungry! I love you! hungry! hungry!"
Me: “You could not have eaten that fast! “( I go into the kitchen,  and the dog has eaten all the cat food) “Why did you let the dog eat your food?”
Cat: “Well, I started to eat, but then I wandered over there and was licking my butt, and well…”
Me: “Fine!” (I give him more food) “There you go!”
Cat: “Oh thank you! thank you! So hungry!”(chomp, crunch)
 (just as I sit on the couch to drink my coffee, the cat comes walking up)
Cat: "Oh! Hi friend! I sure am hungry!" (again, the dog has eaten his food)
Me: "If you would just fricking eat, the dog would stop stealing your food!"
Cat: "I started to, but then there was my butt, and…"
Me: "Ok, This is the last time…. ( I fill his bowl, and stand there. He takes about three bites, and wanders off, so I put the bowl up where the dog can't get it. I get my coffee, and go to check my email. As soon as I sit down, I hear the cat…)
Cat: “Hello? Hellooo? Hellooooo? Helloooooooooo? Helloooooooooooo? Hellooooooooooooooooo?” ( Each vocalization is lower than the previous. It sounds like he is dying)
Me: “What? What do you want?”
Cat: “Oh! Hi friend! I’m really hungry!”(weaves in and out of my feet)” hungry! hungry! hungry! hungry! I love you! hungry! really hungry!”
( we go into the kitchen, I get down his bowl) “there you go!”
Cat: (he sniffs it) "It’s old! I want good fresh new food!"
( I pick up the bowl and shake it, then put it down again) “there you go!”
Cat: "Yes! Delicious fresh new food! Yum! (chomp, crunch)
( again he eats about two bites, and wanders off, so again I put the bowl up where the dog can't get it, and again go to check my email.
As soon as I sit down, I hear the cat…)
Cat: “Hello? Hellooo? Hellooooo? Helloooooooooo? Helloooooooooooo? Hellooooooooooooooooo?”
Me: “What? What? What do you want?”
Cat: “Oh! Hi friend! I’m hungry!”(weaves in and out of my feet)” Hungry! hungry! hungry! hungry! I love you! hungry! hungry!”
( again we go into the kitchen, again I get down his bowl) “there you go!”
Cat: (he sniffs it) “It’s old...”
Me: “Eat your goddamn food!”
(Again, As soon as I sit down, I hear the cat…)
Cat: “Hello? Hellooo? Hellooooo? Helloooooooooo? Helloooooooooooo? Hellooooooooooooooooo?”
I come into the living room, and just stare at him.
Cat: “Hungry...”
(Of course, the dog has eaten his food)
Me: “Why?”
Cat: “You didn’t shake it”
(Curtains close)

Thursday, April 21, 2016

Hellhouse tales #5, Too much for MTV

  "Summer of love?!? What utter hippy bullshit!"
Dave was on a rant. We had gone down to the liquor store, and it took what seemed like an eternity just to pick up a 12 pack of Anchor Steam. It was 1989, the anniversary the "Summer Of Love" and there was a party taking up a good portion of Golden Gate Park and much of the Haight. 
     And, since we lived literally on Ashbury Street. Just a few houses up from Haight, and a few down from the legendary "dead" house, it was a wall-to-wall clusterfuck of tripping hippy wanna-bees, frat bros, and assorted party tourists making Haight street into a sea of pot smoke and tie-dye.
Dave let us in and we went into the kitchen. I looked around for something to open a beer with. We had no bottle openers. It was a rule. You had to be able to open a beer with whatever was available.
Dave grabbed a spoon from the sink, and popped the cap off an anchor steam. Klutch and I followed suit.
"Goddamn hippies!" dave exclaimed, "We should have a huge fucking BBQ!  Fill this whole valley with the smell of roasting meat!! That would show them! Goddamn vegetarians…"
I hoisted my beer, "Meat loaf, not war!"
"Fuck peace and love" Klutch cheered, "Piece of meat!"
And thus, the Summer of Meat began.
We formulated a plan.
We got good and drunk.
We made tee shirts with psychedelic script that said "Summer of Meat"
We made buttons that said "USDA Choice", "Meat Loaf, Not war!" and one that was a peace sign, and under it, "of pork".
We filled a backpack with what was left of the beer, grabbed the Croquet mallets, and headed out into the crowed.
We chanted our Meat slogans, we waved the mallets, we drank beer.
That was pretty much it for the plan.
Then there was the camera crew.
There was a commotion to our left, some sort of reporters...
"These guys, these guys…" said a voice. Suddenly there was a big TV camera in our faces.
"Hey! I am from MTV, and we are here covering the outrageous party that is the summer of love!"
He was using a suave singsong hip announcers voice.
"You guys look like you're having a good time…"
Dave cut him off
"We're are here to raise meat awareness"
"More Meat!" I chanted, "More Meat, kill and eat! More Meat!
Klutch and Dave joined in chanting.
Our interviewer just looked confused, and then put on a resigned smile.
"So!... What drugs are you guys on?
Dave waved his mallet "Drugs are for Hippies! Pure protien and MSG Man! M….S….G!"
It became obvious that we were not what the interviewers were looking for, but they pushed on "So what’s with the Mallets? You guys expecting a problem?"
 Dave shook his mallet at him. "Hippies are the problem, more meat, more peace!
"Piece of Meat!" I shouted.
Our interviewer shook his head and motioned to the cameraman, who stopped filming.
Our interview had ended
Dave didn't care. "This is the problem!" he said, motioning to the crowd with his mallet. "These people! All these goddamn people!"
As they left, and were swallowed up the crowd, Dave shouted after them, "If it wasn't for vegetarians, there wouldn't be any WAR!
But they were gone.
I shrugged. "I guess we are too much for MTV"
Klutch nodded, "And we're out of Beer"
Dave held his mallet out like a lance "To the liquor store!"
And with that, we were gone.