As a rule, Clifford Godson didn't attend funerals, or even churches for that matter. And Luci only showed up now and then to confuse zealous Christians by exposing herself to the clergy and giving them crises of faith. Clifford was particularly uncomfortable, distracted by a life-size crucifix behind the altar with the high-tech Christ replica that, every thirty seconds, would roll its eyes towards the heavens and bleed from the forehead and palms.

"You were so cute back then," Luci giggled.

"They had to capture my bad side," Clifford muttered.

The priest had to come and ask Luci to leave at this point, because all of the altar boys were caught bouncing up and down in the confessional booths, growing hair on their palms and going blind. Luci just smiled, opened her blouse, and watched as the priest bent at the waist and went and searched for a vacant confessional of his own.

"That's a bit rude, don't you think?" Clifford was inclined to comment.

Luci just turned and put her head on his shoulder. "Does this count as our first date? Imagine the theological possibilities when the immovable object fucks the irresistable force. The orgasm might just be the event that starts a new religion."

Clifford didn't want to think about it, so he got up and left.

"It sure beats the hell out of finding a bunch of tablets in the forest!" she called after him. Sensing no response, she strolled back to have an orgy with some horny, teenaged, soon-to-be-lapsed, Catholic boys.

By the time Clifford returned to The Dirty Dwarf, a multitude of people, some of whom were regulars waiting to get in, but the majority of which were a rag-tag collection of people who were lured by the driving inexplicable forces that were the '60's personified in the one powerful voice that held them in thrall . . . Moonvibes Lawrence Windowpane.

He was dressed in bell-bottoms, John Lennon glasses, and a Kent State T-shirt. He was holding a sitar, wearing a dangling Peace sign around his neck, and hadn't bathed in quite some time. "Brothers and Sisters, I stand before you today to share with you my revelation. I am the first child of Woodstock. I know whereof I speak.

"Deep within each of our souls smolders a flame that, when kindled, will light the world on fire. We live in troubled times. No leaders have stepped forward to fight our causes for us. War and poverty are rampant. Mother Earth is being raped for profit and screaming for her children to help her. So where are the poets and prophets in these troubled times? Who among us will step forward and pierce the veil of apathy that threatens to suffocate our very soul?

"I call upon you to take action. Cast away your trappings of success. Free yourself from the shackles of an oppressive society. Shatter the icons of the Right-Wing agenda. Find that little child within yourself. Rally 'round the banner of peace. Return to the fundamental values of all flower children of every generation: Love, Peace, and Harmony.

"Take that first step towards effective social change. Be here tomorrow night for the first candlelight Love-In of the '90's. Together, we can change the world!"

The crowd cheered wildly and began spontaneously looking for joints to light-- a quest that, unfortunately for Clifford's bottom-line, took them to the bar of a competitor of doobious repute. Clifford just shrugged, scratched his head, and opened the bar.

Hours later, just as The Dirty Dwarf began hopping, Luci returned from a blissful gang-bang with that freshly fucked glow about her, only to be greeted by the sticky-sweet, saccharin strains of Donny Mazoli's "Let Me Kiss Your Hand" skeddaddled through the bar, out the door and into the road, where it was redundantly run over by a syrup truck. V.D., unaware of the poetically just demise of her selection, demanded her quarter back.

Luci, seizing the opportunity to spread a little more barbarity into the already precarious lives of The Dirty Dwarf's patrons, jumped up on stage, made sure her G-string was slightly sharp, and yelled into the microphone, "Stop the violence, increase the piece! This one's for all you couples out there, staring at each other like you really give a fucking shit about anything but getting laid! It's called, 'Grease Up and Wrestle!'"

Body slam me onto rubber sheets
Slippery body parts sliding around
Pop that glossy big one in my tasty hole
Cover me with your man-goo

Grease up and wrestle
Grease up and wrestle
Grease up and wrestle
Fuck you!

Time sure flies when it's slipping away
Let's put some oil on that old love pump
Playing those Greco-Roman games
Isn't kinky sex just slicker than snot?

Grease up and wrestle
Grease up and wrestle
Grease up and wrestle
Fuck you!

Daphne Bloodwash-Stilletto, picked this moment to get offended and rush the stage. "Desist, you vile whore!" she demanded, after which she was forced to duck from the flying torrent of common bar objects which were hurled at her.

"Fuck you," Luci said, yawning because Daphne bored her a whole fucking lot.

"You are the devil," Daphne announced.

"What's your point?" replied Luci.

"You will burn in Hell!"

"Says who?"

"Says the Holy Word of God!" Daphne squealed, waving the C.N.N. Headline Good News Bible about triumphantly.

Luci took the Bible, tore out a page, and wiped her butt with John 3:16. Daphne was momentarily speechless. Luci sat patiently waiting because she thought that it might be amusing to do so just to piss the frigid sow off.

Their pending conversation was abated when Phlegm Smear stomped up to the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary with real blood.

"Can't do it, Phlegm. Health regulations, you know," Clifford said absently.

"O.K., facist, then give me a tall glass of vodka and a celery stick," Phlegm snorted.

Clifford did so, as Phlegm pulled a rabbit out of his hat, held it by the ears and slit its throat, letting the still-beating little heart pump the hemoglobin into his glass.

"Savory," Clifford remarked.

"Piss off... Fag!" Phlegm sneered stomping over to Luci who was sitting with her legs spread wide, dripping ice water onto her nipples, watching them get hard.

"It's imperative that we have sex right now!" Phlegm hissed.

Luci poured her glass of ice water over Phlegm's loins.

"You bitch!" he screamed as his testicles receded ito his body. Luci slammed him onto the floor and spoke within inches of his face.

"Let's get one thing straight, you fucking poseur. If you want to play this game, you play by my rules or, I swear by the powers of Hell, I'll tear those precious loins from that rotting little body of yours and shove them up your ass!"

"You know you want me, you whore," he taunted.

Luci pulled him off the floor with one hand, wadded him up with the other, dribbled him out of the bar and slam-dunked him into a passing garbage truck.

Luci re-entered the bar as Professors Klaus and Jerund led the Dirty Dwarf in a rather sporadic version of The Wave which finally died out when V.D. accidentally poked George Phoenix in the eye when he stood up so that he could keep an unblinking eye on the door.

Phlegm burst back into the bar, dripping with disposable diapers, won ton soup, and a half-eaten quesadilla. "The hour of the Black Mass is upon us," he caterwauled, walking from table to table across the bar. "We're entering the Dawn of the Cloven Hoof. Kill your dogs! Kill your dogs! The Fallen Virgin dances naked in the moonlight of the forest!"

"Get off the stage, asshole!" Luci heckled.

"Unbeliever," he bleated. "Play your records backwards! Paint yourselves with goat's blood and copulate within pentagrams!"

"Go copulate yourself, dickbreath!" Luci jeered.

Phlegm pulled his recently-aquired, but heretofore unmentioned dagger and waved it over his head. "Do you dare toy with the infernal forces, you heretic?" Phlegm roared.

"I already have one of those at home," Luci giggled.

The entire bar broke into peals of laughter as Phlegm stood perplexed, until he realized that what he believed was a dagger had somehow turned into a sleek, ten-inch dildo with lifelike veins and a clitoral stimulator certain to provide hours of orgasmic pleasure. Phlegm skulked out of the bar, embarrassed to tears at this assault on his masculinity.

Butch Stilletto first encountered lifelike veins in the 'Nam when he was sent to look for land mines on the Gah Lee Trail without a flashlight. When the sun went down, he found himself in the middle of a mine field with no means of visibility. He gallantly attempted to complete his mission using only a crowbar and the brains God gave him. He awoke 37 days later in a military hospital.

But none of that mattered now, for Butch Stilletto was attempting to complete a mission of the highest order... a search-and-destroy maneuver to kill Angela, the godless Communist that had done very bad things. He was erect with anticipation.

The plan was simple. Hide in the rafters and blow her brains out with his American-made AK-47. He had been waiting for ten hours, covered with wood putty so he would be inconspicuous, ignoring the cramps, the fatigue, and the curious termites.

Angela sipped her drink and thought happy thoughts, safely shielded from the aim of Butch's instrument of death until she went to watch Javelin throw darts. Butch watched her slowly walk into his cross-hairs, waiting for her head to turn ever so slightly so the splatter effect would be more gruesome.

Soon, her head moved... ever so slightly. Butch held his breath, timed his heartbeat, and slowly pulled the trigger... Clifford noticed a slight motion in the rafters out of the corner of his eye. The rifle cracked. The bullet boogied, fast and true... straight into the potted rose plant which had miraculously flown off the bar and directly into the bullet's path, deflecting it into the men's bathroom, off the leaking urinal, into the air conditioning duct, through the vent, between Professors Klaus and Jerund, into the base of Luci's mike stand, cutting V.D.'s passion-pink cigarette as it ricocheted off the jukebox, into a dart which deflected it upward, and knocked the gun out of Butch Stilleto's hands.

Butch went to Plan B. He leapt from the rafters with every intention of pulling his knife, but found it was sealed to the sheath with wood putty. Plan B, having failed, gave way to the emergency plan, which, in it's simplest form, consisted of running like hell and not getting caught.

Sirens howled in the distance as Butch sprinted down the alleyway. Angela looked at the shattered rose pot, turned to Clifford with a smile and said, "So much for distanced objectivity."

Clifford blushed modestly, glanced at Luci Damian, and said, "God works in mysterious ways."

Shortly after the patrons had finished their complimentary Koresh Coladas, the police arrived to take statements from witnesses and informed them that Butch Stilletto had avoided capture until he was discovered in an experimental prototype Police Entrapment Dumpster munching on discarded, unthawed Tater Tots and was being charged with attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, assault with a deadly weapon, possession of illegal firearms, resisting arrest, destruction of police property, and loitering. He was currently in custody at the 33rd Street jail, in maximum security. And all was well at The Dirty Dwarf...

...except for Daphne Bloodwash-Stilletto, who sat staring in horror, not at the crime her husband had tried to committ, but at the miracle which had transpired to save Angela. She knew then it was true. Clifford Godson was the Messiah, and that understanding led her to another realization: Clifford blatantly ignored all the trappings Daphne's religion required of their deities which led to only one sinister conclusion...

The conflict between Daphne's delusions and the reality of Clifford could not co-exist.

Clifford, deciding everyone had had enough excitement for one evening, rang the shiny brass bell and gave last call.

Marilyn Janice Snow peeked into her drink just as Soul Asylum began devolving into Air Supply, who devolved into the Commodores, who devolved into the Osmonds, who devolved into Dion and the Belmonts who began singing Sex Pistol's cover tunes until they exploded and reformed as Wilson Phillips, scourge of the 90's, who announced that they were going to do a marathon medly of both their greatest hits until Ted Turner created a Save-the-Mighty-Buffalo cartoon series about them.

And she ran screaming from the bar... .