"No problemo, Cliff," Jerome-just-Jerome said. "I am at one with myself on the eve of my Mecca to The Groovy Nasturtiums. Nothing can go wrong now." He held up the tickets to the concert. "See these? I'm not letting go of them for the next 24 hours."

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Clifford said, moving on to the table where Luci Damian and Professors Klaus and Jerund were engrossed deeply in sordid conversation. "Good evening gentlemen... Luci," Clifford said as he wiped their table. "Can I get you anything here?"

Luci responded by running a hand up the back of Clifford's upper thigh and squeezed his left buttock. "You know what I want, you handsome hunk of divine flesh."

Clifford blushed deeply. "I meant to drink." "I'd like a drink from your fount of life," Luci purred, eyeing his crotch appreciatively. "On the rocks."

Professors Klaus and Jerund merely ordered another round of Desert Dry Martinis, distracted from the cosmically significant event unfolding before them by the sight of Luci's bountiful hooters.

Butch Stilletto first encountered bountiful hooters in the 'Nam when a portly nurse at the field hospital in Dag Gon was ordered to give him a sponge bath after he had spent three days lying wounded in monkey feces. In his delirious state, when she bent over to wash the back of his neck, he screamed, "Incoming!" and tried to breast feed. He awoke five days later in traction, his jaw wired shut. It was no time for heroes.

Butch was jolted out of this flashback when Daphne hit him upside the head with the Reverend Jeremiah Prison Edition of the Penultimate Testament for looking once again at a harlot's breasts. Butch unsheathed his money maker, and excused himself to the bathroom.

As he stood at-ease in front of the urinal, he became aware of Professors Klaus and Jerund, one standing on either side of him. "Keep it moving, homos," Butch snarled, unaware of the fact that they had been demonically programmed by Luci Damian to further her satanic agenda. Professor Klaus pulled out an M-16 and held it at the base of Butch's skull while Professor Jerund ordered him to turn around slowly and to leave his dangling participle right where it was. Butch complied, though Professor Jerund's trousers where somewhat worse for wear at the command.

With possessed looks in their eyes, Professors Klaus and Jerund flashed CIA badges, driver's licenses, and VIP cards to Bikini's Golden Rock Cafe. Butch wasn't yet convinced until they both revealed they were wearing camouflage T-shirts under their wool sweaters. Then they spoke the top-secret code word... "fish farts."

"Yes, sirs," Butch barked obediently. "What are my orders?"

They shoved a manila envelope into his hands. "Read it. Memorize it. Eat it. Shit it out. Then eat it again. Nothing can be left to chance." Then, as silently as they had entered, they left the bathroom.

Butch locked himself in a stall, booby-trapped the door, and sat down. As best as he understood with his limited literacy, a woman known to him was responsible for the United States pulling out of the 'Nam, the oil crisis, and untold casualties in Grenada. She was a subversive, commie infiltrator, sent by the Koreans, the Iranians and the Cubans to discourage motherhood, ban the use of apples in pies, and rig the World Series at some undisclosed date. The last page was a picture of Angela. Underneath the photo were the words, written in blood-red lipstick, "Kill Now." Butch broke into a cold sweat. Surely this was his chance to redeem himself in the eyes of his nation, bring honor to his unit, and pork some primo USO babes. Finally, the time for heroes had arrived.

An hour later, Phlegm sauntered into the bathroom brushing pigeon droppings off his Armani suit when he encountered Butch Stilletto eating shit out of the toilet. Going above the call of duty, Butch had redigested the folder three times and was looking a bit green about the gills.

Phlegm looked at him with disapprobation. "What are you trying to do? Eat shit and die?" "Just making the country safe for pusswads like you," Butch retched.

"Still looks like you're eating shit to me," Phlegm said, shaking his head and walking out as Butch stuck his finger down his throat to make sure there were no recognizable fragments before sneaking out the bathroom window.

The sticky-sweet saccharin strains of Paula Abercrombe singing "Baby, You Make Me Giddy" did the mazurka into the unshielded ears of The Dirty Dwarf patrons. Luci, having better things to do with her time, walked over and kicked the jukebox, causing it to play Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" instead.

Moonvibes sat in a quiet booth reading The Trial of The Chicago Eight. Luci Damian slipped into the booth beside him. "Good book?" she whispered into his ear.

"W-What?" he stuttered. Moonvibes had never been distracted by so many parts of the female anatomy at one time. "Yeah, it's pretty good," he finally managed.

"Which part do you like best?" Luci probed.

Moonvibes looked stunned and let the book fall into the guacamole from his nacho platter. He took a deep breath. "The undressed ones."

Luci stood up and said, "Follow me."

Clifford, who had been watching this exchange could only mutter, "I wish that line still worked for me."

Luci led Moonvibes into the parking lot and entered a Volkswagon Bus painted with big floppy flowers, peace signs and lava lamp love slogans. "Wow. Great van," Moonvibes said as he entered.

Moments later, he was tied on his back to a four-poster bed as Luci rode him like a wild stallion. He lie there watching Luci's lithe, undulating body. He found himself floating...

... He turned into a tiger, racing through the jungle after a gazelle, his long, lean muscles taut as he leaped through the air, pouncing on his prey, tearing open its throat with his razor sharp fangs, tasting the salty sweetness of the hot, red blood...

...His future unfolded before him...

...He saw lost souls helplessly wandering in a barren, intellectual desert, then he appeared before them with outstretched arms, and as he spoke, they gathered like sheep, clinging to his every word, and for the first time in nearly two decades, they were at peace...

...Then he was slowly spinning through space surrounded by total nothingness. He saw the myriad of stars shining in every conceivable direction. Then he watched as the cells of his body slowly broke away one by one, and then his mind exploded in an internal supernova, and soon the glowing cells of his body were indistinguishable from the stars, and he was at last able to comprehend infinity...

When he awoke, Luci was lying beside him smokng a cigarette. "Was it good for you?" she asked, laughing.

"Unbelievable," was the only word that came to Moonvibe's mind, besides the phrase, "Can we do it again?"

Luci smiled and tied down his wrist.

When Butch Stilletto sneaked into the bar with a standard military issue Road Killer Snowblower, he didn't know anything except that Angela was going to die in a slow and horribly painful manner and that he couldn't wait to look into her eyes as she did so. Falling into a serpentine running pattern, Butch began covertly scanning the bar for an outlet. Fate was kind. He found one near the booth Angela occupied, unaware of her impending date with destiny. Plugging in the snowblower with military precision, he headed towards his victim, chuckling evilly.

Javelin MacLain, walking to the bathroom and unaware of this dastardly plot, tripped over the power cord, pulling it from the wall. Butch groaned, tucked and rolled, and plugged it back in.

"What are you doing, Butch?" Clifford asked, annoyed at the ruckus.

Unable to think of a clever answer, he responded, "I'm trying to plug in my snowblower?"

"Oh. Try to keep it down," Clifford said as he took a few drinks over to Klaus and Jerund who were discussing semicolon cancer and its consequences in males, aged 45 to 60.

Butch once again prepared for another sortie, checked to make sure the power light was on, and made a mad dash towards Angela, only to discover that she had gone over to watch Javelin throw darts around corners and was a good five feet out of range. Cursing, Butch couldn't risk another attempt. Death or dishonor. With one swift motion he drew his Rambo Replica Survival Knife and cut into the cord, intending to use the snowblower as a vicious impaling tool/bludgeon. This plan was soon forgotten as 220 volts of unrelenting electricity surged through his body, rendering him spasmodic, incontinent, and without eyebrows. With a horrified shriek, Daphne rushed over to the supine Butch, screaming at Clifford to call an ambulance.

Minutes later, the nice men in their little white coats took Butch away, kicking and screaming to the hospital for testing while Daphne spouted out Bible verses like it was the Audio Daily Double.

Clifford was putting the snowblower away for the summer, when the Devil strode through the bar with a freshly-fucked smirk on her face. She jumped up onto the stage, made sure her G-string was slightly sharp, and screamed into the microphone "You can't judge a book by its cover, but pink sequins are a dead giveaway! This one's for both the fans of the Groovy Nasturtiums! It's called, 'Bobby is a B-cup!'"

Look at Greta Garbo prance across the floor
He used to be the quaterback at P.S. 91
Now he's wearing the cheerleader's dresses
And dancing with his old front line

Bobby is a B-cup
Bobby is a B-cup
Bobby is a B-cup
Fuck you!

Shaking his booty in size 15 heels
His legs shaved nice and close
He puts pancake over his 5 o'clock shadow
And sticks his tongue down Johnny's throat

Bobby is a B-cup
Bobby is a B-cup
Bobby is a B-cup
Fuck you!

Phlegm, who hated references to homosexuality in any form, was pissed. Now, with several misinterpreted bible versus under his belt, he charged the stage.

"Fags are the Devil's Butt-Bandits!" he screamed at Luci.

"What's the matter, Phlegm? Did the song get you all hot and bothered?" Luci teased. "I know about that dream you had last night. The one with you and the Pittsburgh Steelers in the Mexican jail."

"That's not true?" Phlegm whined way too loudly to prove his case. "I distinctly remember being in Arizona, and... oh, fuck it."

"Get off the stage... fag!" Luci taunted.

"You better watch that shit, dyke. I've got the power of God behind me now."

"Prove it... fudgepacker," Luci persisted.

Phlegm was livid. In a battle of wits, he was a quadrapalegic. "Anytime, anyplace, any way you want me too, you... you... double dyke!"

"Right here. Right now. Jump from the rafters and land on your hands."

Knowing he was backed into a corner, but confident in his new-found faith, Phlegm started climbing.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Phlegm," Clifford warned.

"Piss off, facist! What would you know about it?" Phlegm called down from the ceiling. Immediately a pool was taken up with 2-9 odds that the floor would prevail and even odds that his loins would somehow become exposed in the descent. With a final cry of "Gravity can bite my 'nads!" he lit a fart and fell face foward to the floor. Jerome-just-Jerome looked up just in time to see a zealot who was about two floats short of a parade traveling at sixteen feet per second per second smashing him through the table. Jerome-just-Jerome's last sensation was that of Phlegm's loins probing his sinus cavity. Phlegm's last thought before he blacked out was that he had his dick up another guy's nose. The ambulance drivers made their second pick-up of the day from The Dirty Dwarf. Everyone waved good-bye to Jerome-just-Jerome as he was wheeled away, the Groovy Nasturtiums tickets still clutched in his cold, dead hand.

Phlegm woke up, shook his head, and realizing that God had failed him in his moment of need, stomped off muttering about finding a goat to kill.

"Looks like I got another one, huh, Cliffy?" Luci gloated.

"Sorry, Jerome-just-Jerome was a very religious man. He never did anyone any harm and was alway willing to serve his fellow man."

"That fuck?" Luci said, aghast.

"Point to Angela," Clifford shrugged. "And we're pulling into the final leg of the contest."

"Now I'm really pissed," said Luci, stomping off.

Marilyn Janice Snow returned to her drink after all the excitement only to find John Lennon sitting naked and cross-legged on an ice cube in her drink, strumming a tenor banjo and singing that famous K.C. and the Sunshine Band hit, "Boogie Shoes", while over near the straw, the remaining living members of the Beatles took turns beating the Buddhist shit out of Yoko Ono and her cheesy son, Sean.

And she ran screaming from the bar...