tea bag tag titters
against the side of the cup
in the river breeze
words words words
the words of K.R. Law
waves
on the waves of the wind
piloted the dotted sails of
an early monarch hued from
the yawn of the morning
concurrently harbinger and
psychopomp of summer
slumber. too early, too early,
I tell her, the moon has not yet
rolled back the tide but
the waves of the wind cease no
more than waves of
dappled foaming green
and the monarch, though
new to these waters
knows well her job
Emptiness is Kind
He’s gone. Gone. Doesn’t exist anymore. He did, but now he doesn’t. He did only days ago. He was talking about drumming and his dad. Now he is as dead as his dad. Both gone. Death is so horrifying. The ultimate horror from which all other horrors are born. Seems so cliche, but it was the first and will be the last. Takes everything. Existence is all we have. It’s all we are. To take that away. Make us nothing. The ultimate robbery. No other theft matters. Because everything else is made up. No other real possessions. Life is it. Existence is it. All there is. How dare anyone take it away. Anything. The universe. There are so many flowers and birds and their songs that it’s easy to forget how indifferent the universe is. We forget it because we have to. If we thought about it. The reality. If we thought about it we would never do anything because ultimately. Who cares. It’s pointless. Everything is pointless. Unless you’re famous you’ll be forgotten in twenty years, and if you’re famous maybe a hundred or a couple hundred. Thousands if you’re lucky. But then. Think about the library of Alexandria. The depository of all of human history up until that point, just destroyed. How many memories permanently burned away to nothing? Like second death. So maybe existence isn’t quite all we have. We also have the memory of existence, for as long as that lasts. Longer than a human life. In some cases. But not many. And once that is gone. Once entropy takes over and the universe fades away into empty cold darkness, what will any of it matter? Everyone will be forgotten. There will be nobody to remember. Everything will be forgotten. And then what. And then. And then whatever it was like before everything. Just nothing maybe. Emptiness. But emptiness is kind. In its own way. Emptiness doesn’t kill. It doesn’t steal. Emptiness is real. And it grows. Death is about shrinking. Subtraction. But once you subtract everything you are left with emptiness, which then grows. A beautiful little paradox. Everything is even, once everything is dead and gone. Nobody is richer. Nobody is more beautiful. Nobody is more talented. The great equalizer.
Doctor Cures Housewives Headaches
DOCTOR REFUSES TO DIVULGE TECHNIQUE
WOMEN LOOK FORWARD TO FUTURE HEADACHES
MEN UNLIKELY TO FIND 'GRATIFICATION'
NEW BABBAGE, NB — A Coronet Gardens doctor who recently opened practice has been finding gargantuan success in the act of curing acute headaches suffered by many of the housewives of the city.
Dr S Thornley, originally of Coney Island NY, has discovered a method of relieving the pain frustration and anxiety that many of the fairer sex are commonly afflicted with in New Babbage.
Though he refuses to divulge the precise method by which these ailments are relieved — citing professional rivalry as the reason — he assures the Free Press that his tactics are both assured and beneficial. Mrs P Hyperboria, a chronic patient, agrees, 'Dr Thornley's treatments are both vigorous and soothing, I near almost look forward to my next migraine.'
Dr Thornley, who is known in several nearby cities for his patented miracle elixer, states that the headache treatment is not the same, though he claims it is 'just as sweet'. On the contrary, in fact, as Thornley continued, 'though my thoroughly fantastical elixer cures many ailments, it is admittedly more likely to cause a headache, than cure it. But, fear not, I fix that up in a jiffy!'
Though Dr Thornley's headache treatments have, thus far, been inflicted solely upon the women of the city, he says the men are also admissible. 'Their husbands are welcome to visit, of course, should they find themselves similarly afflicted. It's quite possible, though scarcely probable, that the treatment would be just as gratifying for them.' he stated this morning to a reporter from the Free Press.
The Curse
Roz smoked furiously staring through her window down at Duffy Square. A curious specimen had caught her eye: A pimp. A pimp huddled around the corner of the Howard Johnsons on the corner of 46th. Where Brillo works: dishwasher. The pimp had pointed alligator boots, like. Like. Mesh sleeveless shirt. Toothpick twirling in the corner of his mouth. He stood flat against the wall around the corner, and inched slowly to the corner and peeked around onto Broadway and the Hidebeater Block. Roz followed his eyes: Hojo; Kodak store; the Automat; Playland; the Forum—and B-I-N-G-O, Bingo was his name-o. Sandy-haired teen standing suspiciously under the marquee of the Forum. On the marquee: The Legend of Hill House. Pamela Franklin. Roddy McDowell: Planet of the Apes, Night Gallery, Cleopatra. The little shit is standing right up against the wall. Not even trying to be subtle. Fucking rube. No—not sandy. Red. Punk’s got carroty red hair. Whisp of a stache on his lip. Cocky eye. Tight jeans. Helluva bulge. Weird jaw—both square yet pointed. Older than he looks? No trace of a beard on the chin. Hole in the knee of his jeans and wearing chucks. In his hand? Switchblade. Oh yeah. She took a drag. Pimp was putting down roots beside the Hojo. The kid poked his head out, made the scene, and then zipped around into Playland. Netta workin today? Roz craned her neck around to look at the clocks, collared the right one and did the math. X o’clock. Who the fuck knows. She took another drag and returned to peering down at Playland. Dark inside. Always dark inside Playland for some reason, no matter which one. This one. On the Deuce. Just north of here. All dark as X. Where is the little fucker? Can just barely make out—FUCK. Cigarette burned too low and burned her fingers. She dropped it. Don’t want another fire for fuck sake. Sal will have my ass. She snatched up the butt, popped another cigarette—her last—from her case and lit it from the old one. She took a few drags, always the best ones, first couple drags, and blew them up at the blue sky through the glass. Now where is. So dark in. Oh. Oh there, in the Automat. She noticed his red hair through the window of the Automat, leaning his head against the glass and cocking his vision toward 46th Street. Tricky little fucker. She took a drag. The pimp too had disappeared. Where where where. She took another drag. Dollars to donuts he’s inside Howard. Fried clams. Yum. Chocolate Soda. Yes yes. Ha-cha. She licked her lips. Maybe he moved down 46th, can’t see from here. The little redhead cracked the door of the Automat and began to slink down Broadway. She laughed a short bark. Not even a little bit subtle. She watched as he slipped behind the newsstand outside the Kodak store. Moved behind it. Ooh there. There’s the pimp. She saw a flash of him through the glass of Hojo. He had made the little carrot top. This will be good.
Record ended.
Fuckers.
Roz flew over to the hifi and flipped the record: Free Jazz. Ornette Coleman. Hysterical horns blared out of the speakers. She cranked the volume knob up.
The little punk had moved all the way to the end of the newsstand and was peering around the corner, down 46th Street. He looked back behind himself, toward Duffy Square. What started this little drama?
Poppy Cooper, born in Fort Lee New Jersey, moved to The City in May of 1972. The trees of Washington Square Park were in full bloom, the air fragrant. Spraypainted on the Arch were the words: The Only Dope Worth Shooting Is Nixon. Her dad had been a trumpet player for Buddy Rich. Ditched her with mom as a babe. Ran away from home and hunting down daddy. She hit the park after exiting. No—no wait. Didn’t make it to. As she exited Port Authority she noticed a handsome man in violet pants and a pink blouse. His coat was red and so were his shoes. A strong musk exuded from every inch poured into his snakeskin boots. Pretends he’s never seen someone so beautiful. Who you repped by, darlin? Her face flushes and suddenly conscious of her bony knees. Me? Nobody. I never. Rubs his bottom lip and looks her up and down in disbelief, then looks up and down the avenue, as if he’s gotta snatch her up before some other manager sees her. You ever thoughta modeling at all? You got the figure for it. Not everyone does ya understan. Me? No I never. Poppy had never. Nobody even gave her a second glance back in Jersey. He nods. Oh yes. he says. Oh yes yes indeedy. We could definitely book you. Have you ever been to Paris? he asks. Me? No I never. Poppy had never. She’s never even been to The City until today. What about Rome? he asks. Of course he knows but this is all part of the seduction. You know the drill with Poppy: Poppy had never. The man nods. Oh yes, come with me, I have some calls to make. We got a roster and everythin. Where you stayin? And she thinks. Poppy thinks. I hadn’t, she says, and really she hadn’t. She had thought about so much else, but not that. Don’t you worry honey, we can accomodate. You hungry? Oh yes, she says. I’m famished. He nods. Today you famished, tomorrow you famous. He smiles and a diamond winks from his front tooth. You like steak? he asks. Well, she says, yes yes I do like steak. But isn’t that? He holds up a hand, each hand is decked out in elaborate rings colored gold and silver, stones glitter in the May sunlight. Don’t you worry about a thing, let’s go to Tad’s, you won’t believe your eyes. Poppy has a steak and baked potato. His name, she finds out, is French John. She’ll find out why. That night she smokes reefer for the first time and he takes a few snaps of her to show to the designers. When the reefer kicks in she feels like she’s watching him from behind a gauzy curtain, safe. Someone else is outside doing stuff. She’s safe back here behind the curtain. When he gently pulls down her blouse, already hanging off her shoulders, she barely notices. The next day he gives her a bump of coke to wake her up, explains everyone does it, and by that night she’s nodding off to a bump of junk. A week later and she’s working Eighth. She lives in a railroad flat on West 44th between Tenth and Eleventh with three other girls all owned by French John. By the fall she’s hooked on junk. Christmas Eve she works ten johns in one night, a new record: the last john is a young guy, light red hair, his first time. Paid for by his drunk uncle after a night of frosty pints at an Irish pub nearby. He’s shy at first but Poppy is an old pro by now and has his cock out and stiffening it before he can say Faith and Begorrah. His name is Danny O’Reaordan and he’s in love with Poppy before he blows his spunk across her uvula. He makes his way over the bridge into The City at least once a month after this, hunting Poppy down successfully almost every time, but she is a busy girl so on some occasions he has to angrily agree to another girl, though his encounters with these imposters are at best brusque and at worst lightly violent, as he likes to slap them across the face now and then for the crime of not being Poppy. As the blooms open up in Washington Square again he asks to see her in her off work hours, however few they may be, and takes her on walks through the park. Her eyes are dull and lifeless but he is in love with being in love and thinks love is something unique and holy to him alone thinks his love makes him better and stronger and more real and more good. The flowers in the trees confirm this. The breeze agrees. The blue sky is a present from the universe to him. He and His Girl walk the park and listen to people play saxophones or guitars or trumpets. She might have wondered at one time if the older man playing trumpet was her father, but not anymore. Nothing good happens. There is no good. So how could it be? Even if it was, it wasn’t. Danny flips a dime to the musician and snakes his arm around Poppy’s waist. Soon it will be too much to think about her with other guys. Until now he had been able to kid himself but the reality was sinking in now. Other pens were dipping into her inkwell. He had to save her. He needed to put an end to this. As the spring turns into summer he begins to question Poppy about her manager. Who is he, where does he live? Began to formulate his plan. He needed to off French John. Then she would be free. They could move into a little house together on Staten Island. He buys a switchblade on the Deuce and hunts the pimp down at Tad’s. French John, though, is no fuckin fool and can see the rangy look in the kid’s eye as he enters the steakhouse. French John makes for the john, but instead splits through the kitchen and exits onto 43rd Street. Turns east and circles around to Child’s on the corner of 42nd and Seventh to see if any of the other pimps can give him a hand, but sees Danny, the carrot-topped punk, rushing down the Deuce toward Seventh. Their cat and mouse went on for an hour, working its way steadily north, until here we are now.
Roz licked her lips again and watched Danny finally leave the relative safety of the newsstand and crossed 46th. On the southwest corner he stopped and looked around, then headed west down 46th. No. No I can’t see. Roz moved to the farthest corner of the room and laid her forehead against the glass. He was gone. Fuck. But then, just as all hope was lost, she noticed French John exit through the front door of Howard Johnson’s, onto Broadway. Something in his hand? Yes: also sporting a switchblade. He moved casually, rolling on his steps like a cowboy, and rounded the corner of 46th.
Shit.
She stood back and watched the corner. She took a drag: the last. Cigarette kaput. She crushed it out in the apple ashtray and looked back at the corner: nothing. Shit. Hope French John creams the little fucker. Shitty little rube. But then—French John’s shoes.
Fuck.
Fucker.
Push it down. Faded green paint cracked and peeling on the wooden trap door. Inside and down. Shove it down. Down.
She crossed to a trunk on the other side of the room and lifted it open. She rummaged through a collection of papers. Flyers. Hundreds maybe. She shuffled through the pages. Yes: here we go. Tulpa: playing the Oscar Wilde Room, Saturday February 10th. One Night Only. The night Buggy chipped his tooth and Davis was calling him Alfred E Neuman. She flipped the flyer over to the blank back and laid it out on her table and stared at the blankness of the page. When’s his birthday? When when when. Oh wai—same place. New Years at the Mercer, he kept mentioning it was his birthday. Modern Lovers first and then the Dolls headlined as dawn broke. Erik put his cigarette out on his tongue and then vomited. Oh lordy, yes. But the little shit kept blabbering about his birthday. So: January first. She smoothed out the flyer, then tore the right side of the page away from herself. She turned the page widdershins and tore the next edge of paper away from herself, then turned the page counter-clockwise again and repeated, and then one final time. The flyer now edgeless. She uncapped a magic marker and began to write his name: LEN WATSON: over and over on the left hand side of the page, and then followed with JANUARY 1 over and over on the right hand side of the page. When the page was filled she turned it widdershins again. She wrote on top of the previous writing: LEN YOU WILL FUCK OFF AND AWAY YOU WILL STOP YOU WILL FUCK OFF AND GO AWAY LEN WATSON YOU ARE SCUM AND WILL DISAPPEAR AND FUCK OFF GO AWAY GO THE FUCK AWAY in large letters until it filled the page. She turned the page counter-clockwise a last time and scribbled her autograph across the words on the page. She licked her lips as she cocked her head and looked at the page filled with black scribbles. She swallowed, then folded the page away from herself, then repeated the action five more times until it was too small to fold anymore. Roz picked the small envelope up and dropped it into a small white bowl. She flipped open her zippo and lit the corner. She watched as the folded paper lit slowly from one side to the other like a forest fire spreading across the woods. When it had burned down to ash, she took the bowl and walked it to her toilet. She lifted the lid, emptied the ashes into the water of the bowl—a cigarette butt already floating there—and then touched the flusher.
—Go the fuck away, she said as she flushed the toilet.
Green
I had moved to Hogtown with slightly less than a quarter ounce of weed, and it was steadily dwindling fast. This was before it was legal. Long before. Under usual circumstances I would have saved up to buy a considerable amount before moving to a new city, but a month before I moved, my connection Bicycle Andy had decided he was a dealer and didn't like that. Or, rather, his girlfriend Ivana had decided he was a dealer and she didn't like that. She didn't like me either. The two might be related.
Bicycle Andy and I didn't talk too much in the last month before I moved, and as a result didn't bring a considerable amount with me when I moved. I brought whatever I had left. Which wasn't much.
I kept my eye open at Taggs for a possible fellow pothead, but nobody seemed particularly hip. Byron in giftware seemed particularly square.
One day I was walking down Queen street, daydreaming, when some back part of my brain, a part built for business, rarely used, noticed someone I had just passed had whispered “Green” to me as she walked past.
Skidding to a halt, I turned. She was short, sporting a backpack, and looked vaguely homeless. She was also walking away. I could see her mumble to other people as she passed by; others she ignored completely. I must look like a pothead, I thought to myself with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.
I didn't want to walk up behind her to ask about it, so I watched her closely. As she reached Spadina Avenue she crossed the street and then began back my way. I jaywalked across Queen and stood casually on the sidewalk in front of Tiki.
She took longer on this side, since two people stopped and seemed to buy off her. That seemed like a good sign. When she finally walked toward me, it was impossible to tell if she recognized me from three minutes earlier. Her face was completely impassive. In fact, she barely looked at me as she mumbled: ‘Green. Hydro.’
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘Dime bag is twenty.’ she said, blandly. Her eyes scanned the street around us.
‘Dime means ten.’ I told her.
‘Thanks for the edification.’ she said. ‘But it's still twenty.’
As some wise asshole had once said: beggars can't be choosers.
‘Alright. Gimme one.’ I told her. For all I knew she was selling oregano. Or catnip. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that I wasn't going to get anything off whatever she was selling. But I had no other leads, so ... yeah.
She nodded her head toward a nearby parking lot. ‘Come over here.’ she said. My paranoia raised its ugly head. I had seen her sell to a couple of people just down the street, they hadn't had to wander off into a parking lot. Or had they even bought? I hadn't seen her pass anything over.
Blowing air out through my nose, my mind deliberated safety and financial security over getting high and listening to Mingus. Mingus won out.
I followed her into the parking lot, but I was wary and ready for anything. There was no way she was seeing money before I had anything in my hand. My paranoia, however, was unwarranted: she had four tiny plastic bags filled with green in her hand before I had even stopped walking. ‘Whichever you like, they're all the same price.’ Each bag had tiny green pot leaf symbols stamped all over it. The content inside looked exceedingly green. Like way too green. Almost fluorescent. I was used to a much browner and duller product. But, when weighing other options ...
I handed over a twenty to her, and took the baggie which looked like it was holding the most, though they likely all weighed the same. ‘Thanks.’ I said. ‘How can I get in touch with you if I like this stuff?’ I asked.
‘I'm usually around this area.’ she said, and wandered over toward the Silver Snail.
I looked down at the little bag. It was so ridiculously green. No way it could be real.
When I got back to my place I pulled the case containing my record player from beneath the bed, set it on the small table in front of the window, and unsnapped the latches. I placed a Mingus record on the turntable, Tijuana Moods, and set down the needle.
I pulled the bright green whatever-it-was from the plastic and split into three. If it was good, I wanted more than a single bowl out of it.
Stuffing some into my pipe, I lit it up. Mingus bopped on the vinyl. I exhaled out the window. It wasn't the best weed I'd ever smoked, but it wasn't catnip.
The Colossus of Helios
stood astride
the harbor of Rhodes
defiant and vigilant
forged from the forgotten
weapons of Demetrius
seventh wonder
of the world
for but fifty
four short years
glorious reflection
of the spinning sun
before snapping
at the knees amidst
a quake of the earth
then lay defeated
in the dust
for nearly a
millennia more
until dismantled
piece by piece
carted away
by 900 camel
while we continue
to dismantle the ghost
of the figure
partially submerged
in brine of time
year by year
piece by piece
come grab
your hammer
Dag Gadol
fluttering and shallow exhalations
of thinly hammered bronze drown
in the salt slush brine fading silver
until resaturated still pale yet
oxygenating aquamarine diamond
spray crystalized in spectrum and
cries on the wind soft sighs in the
sunset all of this pounded and
pulverized then repurposed broken
mosaic mirror snapped and rippled
rolling and rolled up swallowed whole
gloaming rolled deeper and unbreathable
phrases recycled rejected but presented
neatly to multiple rows of replacement
critics converter belted and freeze
dried hastily prepared a shaded corridor
cast vermillion in the lapping peals of the
alarm bell hidden and frozen creased
and crinkled in the salt breeze waving
crimped a coke sign faded to almost
offwhite cracked and discarded with
cries bobbing squeals rising salt and
sand down my collar abrasion tumbled
and forgotten again tumbled and
chuckled up with the lockjaw news
liminal corners shadowed and shaded
and taped violet light flailing flapping
in the salt waves erecting tents in the
belly of the beast neighborhooded yet
nailing down stakes and painting fences
submerged in ink the dark distilled into
printable form with gloved appendages
antiseptic molestation with consent and
slashing sabres at waves muffled with
laughter certain quarters indiginous crabs
nestled in eel grass beds waterbottomed
and well bred waving viciously in the
viscous waves crackbacked carapace
capacities for territorial greatness mocked
slandered and libelled the rolling courts
overruled by sodiumwet winds sharpened
and sliced and squeezed the delicate
flavor and slight sweet taste cracking and
mashing broken furniture bandaged
gauzed taped netted and perfumed until
displayed tree trimmed sea weeded
replanted with dank dark earth newsstand
waves which have rolled out with the tide
crescendo genuflects and judges appetites
tiptoed yet trampled beneath the extended
rows of shoulders braced for impact yet
jostled by laughter and easily offended
plunged beneath weighted down and
finally expanded in all directions confetti riptide
until belly up the victim acquiesces fatigue
victorious as always rolled out squeezed for
moisture dribbled pressed and bled out in bed
A Seat at the Bar
Dr. Puck continued down the boardwalk, drawn by the music which must certainly be emanating from a saloon.
He could now make out the tune of the piano, deafened though it was by the rowdy singing: Buffalo Gals. These players only ever know three songs. Perhaps some day he will retire as a saloon player and allow the crowd to marvel at the catalog of songs he could produce off the top of his head. The piano, loud and jarring as it was, was barely audible over the din of the inner saloon, shouts, screams, cat calls, fist fights, arguments, clinking glasses, smashing glasses, darts, boots, forks and knives, and the light scampering of feet of various vermin. On top of all that, several tables were filled with groups who insisted on singing their own songs, above the volume of the piano: drinking songs, fighting songs, tearjerker songs, maudlin songs. A singing crowd was likely to be loose with their money.
Dr. Puck was in his element.
He slipped amongst the unruly patrons to make his way to the bar at the back of the saloon. A dark smoky mirror loomed over the bar back, festooned with myriad bottles of various sizes, shades, and makes. He admired the glassware, then his gaze drifted to a nearby chalkboard which read:
PUNCH……………..…...penny
STAB…………………..….nickel
EYE GOUGE …....…… quarter
BIG JOB ………….…..….dollar
Hanging down both sides of the dusky mirror were dark dried items which Dr. Puck at first assumed to be dried mushroom caps, until he noticed a metal hoop stuck through one and realized they were, in fact, strings of human ears.
Oh dear, he mumbled to himself well below the general din of the establishment, and seemed not to have been overheard by the hard-looking barmaid with a face like an alabaster hatchet who leaned toward him with an intense stare in place of an introduction or order request.
And a splendid evening to you, my good woman, he began—only remembering halfway through that his mustache was in particularly bad shape, but tried not to allow it to throw off his patter. Might I trouble you for a sloe gin fizz in a tall glass?
Nope, she said.
You don’t have any sloe gin?
We got gin, but it ain’t slow or fast, just is. And we ain’t got nothin fizzy neither.
I see. But you do have gin.
Course. You particular on type? she asked.
I am particular on price.
Which way?
How’s that now? he asked.
She leaned back and gave Dr. Puck a once over. Well, she said, folk like yeself could go either way. Might want cheap, might want . . . not so cheap. So which way is it?
Cheap, he said.
She nodded once, her tongue stuck into her cheek. Thought’s much. We got Silver Star for a dime, and Horton’s and Juniper Juice is both a nickel a glass, or ye can take a pull on the barrel for a penny.
The barrel?
She nodded her head toward the area behind him. He turned to notice for the first time a large cask with ten hoses emerging from near the bottom. A group of disheveled revelers took turns swigging from the hoses before passing to someone else.
A penny a pull, she said. S’much’s ye can swallow in a single breath, and don’t try nothin funny, or ye’ll get a duke to the temple. Hear me?
A penny a pull, not bad. What is the drink itself then? Whisky? Gin? Ale?
Whatever’s left over from the night before, she answered blandly.
He licked his lips. I see, he said. I believe I will try my luck with a glass of the Horton’s. He fished through his coin purse for a nickel.
Suitcher self, she said and poured from a tall pale blue bottle with beveled corners into a greasy-looking glass. She pushed it toward him with a chapped finger, then pulled the nickel back toward herself, bit it, then chucked it into a tin cup. Dr. Puck was formulating a quip regarding the biting of the nickel but she had already turned and moved on to other customers.
The gin tasted like liquid tin with just a hint of a floral afternote. Possibly geranium. There were tiny bits of something floating around in the liquid. It burned his chest like it was molten lead as it made its way down. Not bad, he said to nobody in particular. He wiggled a few fingers before his eyes. His vision seemed mercifully unaffected. Really altogether not bad.
His feet were throbbing from his trek through the woods. Every stool at the bar was filled. One stool, however, was filled by a drunk passed out on the bar. Dr. Puck sidled in behind the sleeping beauty. The patrons on each side of the slumbering drunk were engaged in conversation with folk nearby. The sleeper seemed alone. Dr. Puck squinted up at another chalkboard listing the cuisine offered by the saloon kitchen that evening, meanwhile slipping one foot behind a leg of the stool and tugging ever so gently. The key was to look like you were otherwise engaged. The drunk as the stool slid out, bending in the middle like a swayback nag, yet still his chin remained on the lip of the bartop. Dr. Puck took another sip of his gin, shivering slightly, then pulled again with his foot, this time with enough moxie to clear the bar. More of a yank than a pull, if truth be told. The drunk collapsed to the floor like waterlogged scaffolding. As the drunk hit the floorboards the stool shot out into the crowd. A giant with a brick red beard and a pink union suit covered by denim overalls emerged from the rabble clutching the stool in a single meaty hand. He brushed the drunk to one side with his boot, then sat down at the bar.
Dr. Puck grimaced.
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