"...anyway, so, like God is all-fucking powerful! Which means like, you take a shit and he knows. Therefore when one shits, one must prostate one's self, 'cause it's the law and he cares," Phlegm said reverently as the crowd murmured their confusion. Phlegm continued, "He knows when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. He knows if you've been bad or good so... be good or... lose a 'nad! I mean, what are we? Loving Christians? Or Fags?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"I'm not being fuckin' rhetorical! Answer me!" Phlegm screamed.

The crowd quickly opted for the former.

"Well, alright then," Phlegm said, jumping off and looking at Clifford. "Put that in your pipe and smoke it... facist."

"Get these people out of here, Phlegm," Clifford stated plainly. "They have fleas."

"Goddamned Marxist, Facist, Stalinist dictating fag," he pouted. "OK, get the hell out, everybody. And be here next week, or I'll fucking come looking for you! And anyone who doesn't bring two converts breaks the chain, and I break theirs!"

The crowd bolted, prepared to stop at nothing to get their two converts, thus saving their collective left 'nad.

Clifford, eyes towards the collection of butter pats that had been flicked onto the ceiling by a bored congregation members, and said, "Father, this job is beginning to suck."

Hearing no discernible response, he walked behind the bar and started sweeping.

Two hours later, The Dirty Dwarf was hopping with the usual assortment of regulars. Professors Klaus and Jerund were sitting in a booth discussing the impending doom of the word "whom," as well as the night's winner of the "Fake the Big O" contest at the Off the Wall Disco/sailor hangout.

George Phoenix, as usual, sat in the darkest corner of the bar, scanning the crowd unblinkingly, as he waited for his prophecy to be fulfilled. Javelin MacLain absentmindly tossed darts at holes in the wall left by lesser-skilled patrons. Butch and Daphne were there as a couple for the first time, having a violent argument about the camouflage wallpaper Butch had hung in the living room. Daphne wanted Reverend Jeremiah signature wallpaper and refused to bend on the point.

Jerome-just-Jerome had re-appeared, recently released from the mental ward at the 33rd Street Jail after a psychiatrist determined that he wasn't intelligent enough to copy the Roman numeral seven, let alone the intricacies of a tie-dye pattern. Marilyn Janice Snow was desperately clinging to a dirty sock she had found in the alley, convinced that as long as she held onto it she would remain invisible. V.D. plunked three quarters into the machine and made her selections.

Seconds later, the sticky-sweet saccharin strains of Sandy Snookum's "Catch Up, My Little Love Tomato" turkey-trotted non-descriptly across the bar. Luci Damian yawned and blew up the jukebox.

Moonvibes, slowly and with much pain, minced his way into the bar. The distinct odor of penicillin permeated the Dirty Dwarf, causing everyone's nostrils to flare. "Give me a flaming shot of vodka, Clifford."

Cllifford poured the drink slowly and searched for a match. V.D. walked over and lit the shot with a passion-pink cigarette. "Cheers, Moonvibes. How'd your doctor's appointment go today?"

"You bitch," he sputtered. "I'm being written up in a medical journal because I contracted every known unpronouncable sexually transmitted disease from you last night, five that could be pronounced, and six that no one had ever heard of before."

"Sorry," she said. "I told you to use a condom."

"I did," Moonvibes spat. "I thought it had fallen off. The doctor told me it disintegrated."

V.D. shrugged, smiled sweetly and walked away.

"I've been submerged in penicillin for the last eight hours with nothing but a snorkel to keep me company, and my ass feels like a pin cushion," Moonvibes loudly confided to Clifford. "I'm souring on this whole free love concept. I've got fire dripping from my dick."

Luci Damian leapt up onto the stage, made sure her G-string was slightly sharp, and screamed into the microphone, "Abstinence makes the dick grow longer. This one's for all you morons that won't fuck until you're married! It's called, 'Save the Virgins!"

An endangered species is getting smaller
File the rust off your chastity belt
Cross your legs and hope to die
Pry the penis from your thighs

Save the Virgins
Save the Virgins
Save the Virgins?
Fuck you!

Save the cherry pie for later, girls
He doesn't love you, he just wants to fuck
But if you should die before it breaks
Your epitaph will read "Here lies the frigid bitch."

Save the Virgins
Save the Virgins
Save the Virgins
Fuck you!

At the end of the sparse smattering of applause, Jerome-just-Jerome, in a fit of pique, rushed the stage and grabbed the neck of Luci's guitar. "Jesus Christ, Luci! You really jam!" It was not the thing to say, as Luci was offended both by the touching of her guitar and the use of her name in the same context as all she opposed. Without so much as a by-your-leave, Luci head-butted Jerome-just-Jerome, causing him to fly across the bar, landing in a disheveled heap on the seat next to George Phoenix, who, unblinking, shoved his crusty ass onto the floor.

An angelic voice broke the apathy. Angela, who, from the look in her puffy eyes, had spent much time crying recently, slowly walked into the bar singing. And what a song it was! Before she had hit the first chorus, the heavens had burst open wtih a host of angels and a 1000 piece orchestra to accompany her. The song was about lost love, hope, and faith in God no matter what happened. And for ten minutes, nobody in the Greater Orlando Metropolitan area moved, glued to the hypnotic melody. By the time the song was over, a warm, fuzzy blanket of serenity covered The Dirty Dwarf, and, for one brief moment, all was well in the world.

Luci, furious about being upstaged in such a Disney-esque fashion, casually touched the potted rose bush which promptly withered and died, and stormed out of the bar. Adding salt to the wound was the fact that nobody noticed, nor would they have cared.

Jerome-just-Jerome, regaining consciousness and seeing the beatific smiles on everyone's faces, asked George Phoenix what was going on.

"The most beautiful song ever heard by mortals," George said, unblinking eyes rimmed with tears.

Jerome-just-Jerome limped up to the bar. "Every damn time, Clifford. Every damn time. Am I the biggest loser on the planet or what? I can't get anything right. Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. I guess I'll go eat worms."

"Might I recommend a drink instead?" Clifford asked sympathetically.

"How about a Jack Daniel's with a twist of parsely, sage, rosemary and thyme? Make it a double."

Clifford winced as he poured the drink. Jerome-just-Jerome quaffed the entire libation and promptly regurgitated the contents of the last three meals all over himself. He just sat there, staring forlornly into space until Clifford asked him, "Are you going to clean yourself up? The customers are getting nauseous."

Jerome-just-Jerome slinked into the bathroom, head hung low, reeking of vomit and very much alone. He washed himself off and took a long look in the mirror. Lacking the insight necessary to be introspective, he came to no realization other than the fact that his teeth were yellow and uneven, and his hair was dandruff-ridden, oily and in his eyes. If the truth were to be told, he looked more like a refugee from the methadone clinic than anything else. Life, in short, was not good.

Sniffling at his own personal woe, Jerome-just-Jerome skulked back into the bar and put his head down on a table where he could moan, wail and gnash his teeth in private.

A gravelly voice interrupted his self-pity party. "Hey, man. Are you Jerome?"

"Jerome who?" Jerome-just-Jerome whimpered, not looking up.

"Jerome-just-Jerome," the cigarette-roughened voice replied. Jerome-just-Jerome slowly raised his head and stared through swollen eyes at a man who looked remarkably like the pictures Jerome-just-Jerome had seen of Bobby Fern, only taller.

"Yeah, that's me. So what. Who are you?"

"I'm Bobby Fern from The Groovy Nasturtiums, dude."

Jerome-just-Jerome thought for a moment and said, "Oh, blow me. Like, I'm really in the mood for this shit right now." He put his head back down on the table.

"Hey, no shit. It's me. My friend Clifford said you could use these. Use 'em, smoke 'em, or trade 'em for sex," the man said, dropping something on the table next to Jerome-just-Jerome's head.

"I'm gone, Cliff," the man said, "That's one weird litle dude, man."

He then exited the bar to a rousing round of thunderous applause from one of the patrons. Jerome-just-Jerome looked up after the applause had died down and saw that, lying on the table in front of him were two front-row tickets and backstage passes to The Groovy Nasturtium's concert at Lou's Lounge in two days. His eyes lit up in disbelief at this bizarre stroke of fortune. He ran from patron to patron babbling incoherently about his god Bobby Fern, The Groovy Nasturtiums, and his life's mission being within inches of fulfillment after sixteen years of dedication. He then ran excitedly from the bar, vowing never to let go of the tickets until death did them part, unsubtely foreshadowing events of a mysterious future chapter.

"Slow night, Cliffy... No one's died," Luci remarked.

"It's still early yet," Clifford replied.

Javelin threw darts between the fingers of V.D. as she held her hand over the dart board trustingly while Butch Stilletto and Daphne stomped out of the bar with Daphne yelling something about butch looking at the breasts of a floozy.

Marilyn Janice Snow, took a final sip of her drink and sat back waiting for the show. She was not to be disappointed as she looked into her glass and saw Oprah Winfrey playing strip twister with Ricki Lake and Montel Williams with Jenny Jones in charge of the spinner and Sally Jessy Raphael collecting the clothes. Things were going well until Geraldo Rivera showed up and Phil Donahue punched him in the nose. It the resulting scuffle, the glass shook and they all fell down 37 times and had to strip naked and do obscene things with the microphones.

And she ran screaming from the bar... .