“Just Roll with It"

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"A glass of bourbon, a slim volume of Mallarmé, some classical music on the radio – and, last but far from least, a fine Husky Boy cigarette – all of this equals ecstasy in my world!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery, One Dame Too Many

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Suddenly Milford remembered that fat hand-rolled cigarette he had shared with Addison not so long ago, and this on top of the supposedly sacred mushrooms of the American Indians he had eaten earlier in the evening, and also the other reefers, and the hashish, and the wine and bourbon and beer, he must have been insane, or at the very least lacking in all self-control, to thus make himself more insane than he already was stone cold sober, and maybe this was why he heard a familiar voice in his head. "Hey, buddy, just roll with it." It was the voice of his alter ego, what was his name again? "Yeah, it's me. Stoney." Stoney, yes, the confident fellow inside the pathetic corporeal host Milford had been trapped in all his life. "Just roll with it, man." "Roll with it?" said Milford, silently. "Yes, my man, just go with the flow. It's like the Buddha said –" "The Buddha?" "Yeah. You remember that D.T. Suzuki book you read?" "Yes. And I concluded it was utter nonsense." "Well, you're an idiot, as you well know, so your opinion of Suzuki and Buddhism is therefore of no consequence whatever." "Maybe so, but since you are my own internal alter ego, doesn't that mean that you also are an idiot?" "Your logic is so flawed as to be laughable. So, as I was saying about what the Buddha said, he said –" "Milford, old man," said a voice. He turned to his left, and it was Addison speaking. "Yes?" said Milford. "The good fellow wants to know what you're drinking." Milford realized he was sitting at a table, a round small table. Once again he had missed out on a portion of his life, lost moments of existence never to be regained. "Give him a Rob Roy," said that bald bearded little fat man, who was sitting at the table across from him. "So that's four Rob Roys," said another voice, which belonged to another small man, but a thin man, who was standing there with a pad of paper and a pencil, with a tray under his arm, which had a white towel folded over it. "And bring us some menus, too, Pedro," said the other little fat guy, sitting to Milford's right, the one with a toupée made of ferret's fur. "Are you hungry, Mr. Stafford?" "Who, me?" said Milford. "Yes," said the man.  "My name isn't Stafford." "Then why did you say it was?" "I didn't." "There's no need to speak falsely, Mr. Stanford. You're among friends here." "My name is Milford," said Milford. "Oh, so it's Milburn now. Very well, Milthorne, again I ask, are you hungry?" "I don't know." "Look, Pedro," said the bald fat man to the little thin man, "just bring some menus, and maybe Mr. Milfoyle can decide then if he's hungry or not." "Four Rob Roys, and menus," said the small guy, writing something on his pad. "Comin' right up, chiefs." He went away somewhere, carried by his little legs, into the smoke and the dimness and through other tables filled with men who all looked boring, in the direction of a crowded bar. "So," said the bald bearded fat man, "now that we have all that settled, we ask both of you gentlemen to raise your right hands." "What?" said Milford. "Raise your right hand," said the other little fat guy, the one to Milford's right. "Why?" "So that we may formally induct you into the ranks of the Prancing Fool," said the bearded man. Milford looked at Addison, sitting there to his left. Addison had lighted a cigarette, and he transferred the cigarette from his right hand to his left, and raised his right hand. The bearded man was puffing on his pipe, and he took it out of his mouth. "Right hand," he said to Milford.  The other fat man had just finished lighting up an enormous cigar, and he tossed a match into an ashtray in front of him. Milford realized that there was an ashtray in front of each man at the table, including himself, and he instinctually reached into his peacoat pocket looking for cigarettes. "Look, kid," said the fat man with the cigar, "just raise your right hand and we'll get this dog-and-pony show on the road." "Can I at least light a cigarette first?" said Milford. "My dear boy," said the fat man with the pipe, "you're not about to face a firing squad here. We're just gonna swear you in, that's all." Milford had found his pack of Husky Boys, which still seemed to have a couple of cigarettes in it.  "But can't I just light up a cigarette first?" Milford repeated, annoying even himself. "Those things will kill you," said the fat man with the cigar. "I don't care," said Milford, and he managed to get a cigarette out of the package. "Give him a light, Bogman," said the fat man with the pipe. "Certainly, Bormanshire," said the one with the cigar. There was a box of Ohio Blue Tip matches on the table in front of him, he picked it up, opened it, took out a match and struck it as Milford put his cigarette into his thin lips, the only kind of lips he had. Milford accepted the cigar man's light, and sucked the smoke into his lungs. "There ya go, pal," said the inner voice, the voice of "Stoney", his interior confident confidant. "That's all you needed. A nice smoke solves all the world's problems." "What an absurd statement," said Milford, silently, but as he exhaled a great cloud of smoke he did have the feeling that all the world's problems and his own had been exhaled with the smoke, to merge into the smoke hovering and wavering over and around the table.  "So," said the bearded man, "now that we got that out of the way, I say again, raise your right hand, please." Milford glanced again at Addison, who still held his own right hand up, and Addison shrugged. "Go ahead," said the inner voice, Stoney. "What difference does it make?" Milford raised his right hand. "Kindly repeat after me," said the bald bearded fat man, "'I' – and here state your names." "I," said Addison, "but wait a minute, should I say my real name or the name that everyone calls me?" "I assure you that is a matter of complete indifference not only to me but to the universe," said the fat bearded man, what was his name, Bormanshire? "Okay," said Addison, "I guess I'll go with Addison then." "Better start over, Aniston," said the other fat guy, Bogman was it? "Right," said Addison. "I, Addison –" "Now you, Merford," said Mr. Bormanshire, the bearded bald fat man.  "Now me what," said Milford. "Say I, and then your name." "Oh. All right, I, Marion Milford –" "Wait, your Christian name is Marion?" "I don't know how Christian it is, but, yes, Marion is my given first name, which is why I prefer to be called by my surname." "Can't say I blame you," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Yeah, what a curse to saddle a kid with," said Mr. Bogman, the fat man with the toupée and big cigar. "Your childhood must have been a nightmare." "Okay, look," said Milford, "can we just move on?" "Testy," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Can you blame him?" said Mr. Bogman. "All right," said Mr. Bormanshire, "both of you gentlemen, please, start from the beginning. 'I' and then your names." "I, Marion Milford –" said Milford. The two fat men and Milford all looked at Addison, who seemed no longer to be paying attention. "Mr. Haldeman," said Mr. Bormanshire to Addison. "Please say 'I' and then your name, whatever name you choose to be known by." "Oh, sorry," said Addison, "went off into the ether there for a mo. Anyway, yes, I, 'Addison' –" "Do solemnly accept," said Mr. Bormanshire, "membership in the Society of the Prancing Fool, with all the privileges and duties such membership entails –" Both Addison and Milford repeated the words, speaking not quite in unison. "– from this moment forward," said Mr. Bormanshire, "until my last in this plane of existence, and even beyond, if there is a life beyond life." Again Addison and Milford managed to repeat the stated words. "Okay, great," said Mr. Bormanshire. "You can put your hands down now. You're both all sworn in." "Congratulations, fellas," said Mr. Bogman. "You're one of us now. Ah, the Rob Roys!" The little man was there, with his tray with four stemmed cocktail glasses on it, each filled with liquid of shimmering deep gold, and he circled the table, laying a small paper napkin in front of each man, and a glass on each napkin. Each drink had a thin twist of lemon peel floating in it. "Wait a second," said Milford. "I don't drink." "What?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "I'm pretty sure I told you, I'm an alcoholic." "Yes, you did, but you did not say you don't drink." "Well, I shouldn't drink, because I'm an alcoholic." "Look, Moleborg," said Mr. Bogman, "we told you, the first round is on the house, so drink up. Look at your buddy there, he's already almost finished his." "Heh heh," said Addison guiltily, setting down his glass with no more than a finger left in it. "Can I just have a ginger ale?" said Milford. "Sure you can," said Mr. Bormanshire. "I'm willing to pay, for it," said Milford.  "Don't worry about it," said Mr. Bormanshire. "If a ginger ale is what you want, by all means order a ginger ale." "It's not so much that I want a ginger ale," said Milford, trying not to whine, "it's just that if I drink a Rob Roy I might wind up dead in an alleyway, frozen stiff and covered with snow." "Isn't that a chance we all take?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Um," said Milford. "Look, sonny," said Mr. Bogman, "if you want a ginger ale, then go ahead and ask Pedro to bring you one. I'm sure he's got other tables to wait on." The little man who had brought them the drinks was still standing there, and Milford addressed him.  "May I have a ginger ale, please?" "Yeah," said the little man. "Sure. Oh, and here's your menus." He had some large glossy menus under his arm, and he now laid them down, going around the table. As he came behind Milford and put the menu down at his place, Milford thought he heard him say something, and he turned and looked at the man. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" "I didn't say nothing, sir." "Oh, I thought you did." "It weren't me. I'll go get your ginger ale now." "Thank you," said Milford. The little man turned away, muttering again the single word: "Poofter."

"The Secret of a Good Rob Roy"

Yet another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This very special sixth-anniversary episode made possible in part through the generous assistance of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company's Endowment for the Humanities

"This Thanksgiving will find me, as is my wont, at Ma's Diner (located so conveniently just across from my humble 'digs' on Bleecker Street), enjoying the delightful holiday table d'hôte with the rest of the bachelor gang, and, after polishing off seconds of Ma's legendary sweet potato pie, lighting up a rich and flavorful Husky Boy™ cigarette!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "moving"* new memoir, A Bowery Boyhood.

*Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal-Democrat

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"Look," said Milford, "I don't want to seem unappreciative, but can't we just wait by the door here for a little while until those douchebags have passed, and then we'll just leave?" "You want to 'leave'?" said Mr. Bogman. "Yes," said Milford, "I mean, when it's safe, you know –" "When it's 'safe'." "Yes," said Milford. "And do you, Mr. Addleton," said Mr. Bogman, addressing Addison, "do you also wish to 'leave'?" "Well, you see," said Addison, "the fact is, we were on our way to meet up with some ladies –" "What was that?" said Mr. Bormanshire. He had been puffing on his pipe, but now he drew it from his lips. "I said we were on our way to meet up with some ladies." "That's what I thought you said." "Yes, uh," said Addison. "Ladies." "Yes, um –" "As in real ladies? Not transvestites or powdered popinjays?" "Yes, I believe they're real ladies." "Ha," said Mr. Bogman. "Ha indeed," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Um, uh," said Addison. Mr. Bormanshire cast his eye upon Milford and repeated the word: "Ladies?" "Yes," said Milford. "I realize it might be hard to believe." "I suppose no harder to believe than that Christ arose from the dead after three days in his tomb," said Mr. Bormanshire, "and yet many people do believe in his literal revivification, and his subsequent ascension bodily into the heavens. But, nonetheless, yes, hard to believe, very, very hard to believe, if perhaps not entirely and incontrovertibly incredible. May I ask, are these purported ladies perhaps sisters of Lesbos?" "I'm sorry, what?" said Milford. "Are they ladies who like ladies?" "What do you mean?" "He's saying are these ladies of a 'Sapphic' bent," said Mr. Bogman. "'Dykes' in the common parlance, or even what is known as 'bull dykes', I believe. Tell me, do these alleged 'ladies' by any chance wear their hair cropped in military fashion, and do they affect masculine dress, replete with regimental rep neckties with crisp four-in-hand knots and three-piece suits of serge cut to hide whatever feminine lineaments of physical form they might possess?" "No," said Milford. "They wear dresses, just like normal women." "Listen, my boy," said Mr. Bormanshire, "if you're trying to tell us in some circumspect fashion that you and Mr. Appleton are of the homosexual persuasion and you've got a date with some 'fag hags', you needn't beat around the bush with us. We've got quite a few gentlemen of the lavender persuasion here in the ranks of the Prancing Fool. We're not prejudiced." "I am not homosexual," said Milford. "Are you quite sure of that?" said Mr. Bormanshire, taking what looked to be a thoughtful puff on his pipe. "Um," said Milford. "And you, Mr. Applebury?" said Mr. Bogman to Addison. "No judgment on my part, but you are quite blatantly a member of the friends of Dorothy, are you not?" "What?" "He means you're homosexual," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Um, no," said Addison, softly. "What?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "I said no, I'm not." "Are you quite sure?" said Mr. Bogman. "Um, yes," said Addison. "I mean, to the best of my knowledge –" "Oh, okay," said Mr. Bogman. "My mistake. It's just that you look a little, uh –" "Light in the loafers," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Precisely," said Mr. Bogman. "Do me a favor, hold out your hand." "Why?" said Addison. "He wants to see how limp your wrist is," said Mr. Bormanshire. "But I'm not homosexual," said Addison. "To your 'knowledge'," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Yes," said Addison. "So what you're saying, or alleging," said Mr. Bogman, "is that you and Mr. Billfold here," he gestured in the direction of Milford, "are not, in the argot of the back alleys, 'butt buddies'?" "What? No," said Addison. "So answer me this then," said Mr. Bogman, "why the lie about having to meet some 'ladies'?" "Look," said Milford, "as fantastic as it may sound, we are indeed trying to meet up with some ladies of our acquaintance." "And you're quite sure they're not – yes, I'll say it – lesbians?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Well," said Milford, "I suppose we're not absolutely sure –" "So you're not sure at all?" said Mr. Bogman. "How I wonder could they be absolutely sure?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Unless," said Mr. Bogman. "Yes, unless," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Unless?" said Addison. "Unless you've actually committed the act of darkness with them," said Mr. Bogman. "Or have you?" "Committed the, uh, what?" "Act of darkness," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Made the beast with two backs," said Mr. Bogman. "Oh," said Addison. "Have you?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Um, uh," said Addison. "What about you, young Mr. Milldorf?" said Mr. Bogman, to Milford. "What about me?" said Milford. "Have you, as the lads in the pool halls say, played 'hide the salami' with any or all of these supposed ladies?" "No," admitted Milford. "And, may I ask, have you ever played hide the salami with any lady, supposed or otherwise?" "I fail to see how that is any of your –" "So the answer is no," said Mr. Bogman. "And you, Mr. Paddington," he said, addressing Addison, "I shan't humiliate you further by asking if you have ever inserted your member of so-called masculinity into the sacred slot of an at least nominal member of the female gender. Or have you?" "Um, uh," said Addison. "Don't even ask," said Mr. Bormanshire. "If this chappie ever saw the sacred slot of a member of the distaff community, he'd put a Bandaid on it." "Ha ha," said Mr. Bogman. "Look, fellas, let's just cut the shit, shall we?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Like we said, you're home now. All these guys here," he waved expansively at the crowded smoky barroom before them, "they're all bad poets and novelists just like you, and also bad painters and sculptors, bad librettists and composers, bad artists of every possible description, every man jack of them. The hopelessly bad, the abominably bad, the monstrously bad, and the plain old common or garden variety boringly bad." "And you're welcome here," said Mr. Bogman. "Even if you are homosexual." "And, if I may say so," said Mr. Bormanshire, "even if you really aren't homosexual, hey, you might as well be. Because no woman wants anything to do with a bad poet or a bad novelist." "Maybe a homely woman, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman. "Yeah, maybe a really hopelessly homely woman," said Mr. Bormanshire. "A really homely and desperate woman." "But who wants a desperate homely woman?" said Mr. Bogman. "Nobody," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Not even a bad novelist, or a bad poet." "So come on and join our merry band," said Mr. Bogman. "Yeah, first round's on the house," said Mr. Bormanshire. "First round?" said Addison. "Sure," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Anything you want." "I must say at this point in the proceedings I could go for a nice bracing cocktail." "But of course," said Mr. Bormanshire. "How about you, Mr. Pilfoy?" "Me?" said Milford. "I'm sorry, but I am an alcoholic." "Splendid, then you've come to the right place. We have all the alcoholic beverages you could possibly want here." "Um," said Milford. "Might I suggest a round of nice Rob Roys?" said Mr. Bogman. "Our barman Marcel makes a delightful Rob Roy." "Gee," said Addison, "a Rob Roy sounds really good." "The secret of a good Rob Roy is good scotch," said Mr. Bogman. "Marcel uses Cutty Sark." "Oh, boy," said Addison, "I haven't had Cutty Sark in years." "You can't go wrong with Cutty Sark," said Mr. Bormanshire. Milford sighed, for the twelve-thousandth and thirty-fifth time since he had awakened the previous morning from a fitful sleep into an infinitely more fitful waking state. He felt himself getting sucked like Poe's nameless narrator down into the maelström, but not into the depths of the ocean but rather into a drunken binge that might quite possibly lead to his lying dead and frozen under a blanket of snow in a cobblestone alleyway. It would take all his willpower to insist on having a ginger ale, while everyone else enjoyed a nice Rob Roy, made with Cutty Sark scotch whisky.

“We Have Much to Learn from the Youth of Today"

Yet another tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co

"Oftentimes when I reach a seeming impasse in my literary endeavors, my simple solution is to climb out onto my fire escape, and, gazing down past the girders of the Third Avenue 'El' at the mingling streams of humanity on the sidewalks below, I light up a soothing and rich Husky Boy cigarette – and invariably I soon return to my typewriter ready to, as the young people say, boogie on down!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery, A Dame Without Shame 

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to begin series, click here

It was a tavern, a saloon, yet another one, dark and choked with smoke, packed with people sitting at tables and booths and at a long bar. There was no music to be heard, only a dull babble of voices. Addison and Milford turned and watched the little fat bald bearded man turning the button of a deadlock, thrusting home the bolt of a barrel lock and then securing a chain lock above it. He then turned to the two companions. "There," he said, taking his pipe from his mouth. "That should keep the douchebags out." "Thank you, sir," said Addison. "And the door itself is quite secure I think," said the little man. He rapped the wood of the door with his tiny chubby fist. "Go ahead, give it a knock." "Oh, I believe you," said Addison. "That's solid three-inch oak you're looking at there," said the man. "Yes," said Addison, "it does look quite stout." "You need stout wood for a door," said the man. "And perhaps you are concerned with the hinges?" "Um, uh," said Addison. "What about you, young man," he said, turning the thick lenses of his glasses on Milford. "Know anything about door hinges?" "Not really," said Milford. "Really?" "Yes," said Milford.  "You really know nothing at all about door hinges?" "I know that they attach a door to the wall." "It's called a jamb." "Yes, sorry, the jamb." "Well," said the little fat bald bearded man, "may I then direct your attention to these door hinges." He gestured vaguely with his little hand. "Solid stainless steel. With screws also of the finest quality alloy. Let those douchebags pound and kick to their hearts' content, they're not getting through this door!" "Well, that's very, uh –" "Comforting?" said the little man. "Uh," said Milford. "Yes, it's comforting," said Addison. "And you, young sir," said the man, looking at Milford. "Do you not feel comforted?" "Yes," said Milford. "Thanks." "I know what you're both thinking, by the way." "Um," said Addison. "Yes," said the little fat man, "I know very well what you're thinking." Again he turned those thick glasses in Milford's direction. "You can't hide it." "Uh," said Milford. "Especially you can't hide it," said the man. "Your friend is a little better at playing the game, and bully for him, but not you, you can't play the game, can you? Can't, or is it won't? But one thing is undeniable, and that is that you don't." "Pardon me?" said Milford. "You are pardoned," said the man. "For thinking so apparently that I am boring you with my talk of doors and locks and hinges. Do you deny it?" "No," said Milford. "Good fellow." He turned to Addison. "See, he admits he's bored. As are you." "Um," said Addison.  "We can learn from the young people, my friend. Because they have not yet learned how to 'play the game'. The 'game' that society would have us play." "Um, yes," said Addison, "I have always felt that we have much to learn from the youth of today." "Not that we cannot also learn from our elders." "Yes, of course," said Addison. "The elders have much to, uh, you know, impart to, um –" "And as well we can also learn from our coëvals," said the little fat man. "Or do you disagree?" "Um, uh, no, uh," said Addison. "What about you, young fellow?" the fat man said to Milford. "I'm sorry, what?" said Milford. "Do you also agree that we have much, potentially speaking, to learn from our coëvals?" "I neither agree nor disagree," said Milford. "You have no opinion?" "I have no opinion, nor interest, nor do I have any interest in having an opinion, nor even an interest in having an interest." The little fat man put the stem of his pipe into his lips and drew on it, as if pensively. The pipe had gone out, and it made a noise like a mouse's death rattle. He withdrew the pipe and addressed Milford again.  "I'm beginning to like you, my lad. You remind me of myself when I was your age, young and full of nihilism. But look at me now." "What do we have here, Bormanshire?" said a new voice. Addison and Milford turned to see another little fat man. "Oh, hello," said the first little fat man. "Mr. Bogman, meet my new friends whose names I have not yet been so privileged as to ascertain." "Bogman is the name," said the new little fat man, extending his fat little hand in Addison's direction. He was smaller than the first little fat man, yet proportionately fatter, and he wore a toupée the color and seeming texture of a ferret's fur.  Addison reluctantly but resignedly took the man's littler fat hand in his own larger but much thinner hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mister, uh, Bogman." "And your appellation, sir, if one may know it?" "Well, it seems my friends all call me Addison, but in point of fact my actual name –" "Well, if that's what your friends call you, then so also shall I, by George." The little man called Bogman continued to hold onto Addison's hand, but now he turned his round face toward Milford. "So you must be Steele then?" "What?" said Milford. "No, my name is –" "Ha ha," said the first fat man, apparently named Bormanshire. "I get it, Addison and Steele! Well-played, Bogman!" "But all jesting aside," said Mr. Bogman to Milford, still holding tight onto Addison's hand. "What's your moniker, young man?" "Milford," said Milford. At last the little man called Bogman slipped his hand out of Addison's with a squishing sound and now extended it to Milford. "Slide me five, Clive," he said.  Reluctantly Milford gave the man his hand, although it should be made clear to the reader that Milford never gave his hand to anyone willingly. "A weak hand," said Mr. Bogman, "and a weaker grip. Not that I pass a moral judgment, because I suspect that you are a poet. Do you deny it?" "Would it do any good if I did?" said Milford. "None at all, my dear Milfold, none at all, because everything about you screams not only 'poet', but 'bad poet'. And again, I make no moral judgment, merely an observation." "He's a bad poet," said Mr. Bormanshire. "And Addleton here is a bad novelist." "Splendid. You have done your usual yeoman service as gatekeeper, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman, and he allowed Milford to withdraw his hand from his own, the squishing sound repeating itself. "Shall we then proceed to the formal initiation of these young chaps into the ranks of the Society of the Prancing Fool?" "Forthwith," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Come with us, gentlemen," said Mr. Bogman. "Um," said Milford. "Uh," said Addison. "Don't be afraid," said Mr. Bogman. "Yes, fear not," said Mr. Bormanshire. "But, uh," said Milford. "Lookit," said Mr. Bormanshire, "you're a bad poet, aren't you?" "Yes, I suppose so," said Milford. "And you," said Mr. Bogman, pointing his fat little forefinger at Addison, "are a bad novelist, n'est-ce pas?" "Well," said Addison, "I think that remains to be –" "He's writing an epic novel about the Old West," said Mr. Bormanshire, "but it's actually by way of being an in-depth exploration of man's search for meaning in a meaningless world." "Right, so, bad novelist," said Mr. Bogman. "Swell, now come with us, gentleman." "But where are you taking us?" said Milford. "We're not taking you anywhere," said Mr. Bogman. "That's right," said Mr. Bormanshire. "We're not taking you anywhere, because you're already here." "Yes," said Mr. Bogman, waving to the barroom before them, the tables and booths and the long bar, all filled with people and smoke and the indecipherable rumbling of human or humanoid voices. "You're here, you see." "At long last," said Mr. Bormanshire. "You're home now, lads," said Mr. Bogman. "Home at last," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Home sweet home," said Mr. Bogman. "At long last," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Home," said Mr. Bogman, with what sounded like a tone of finality.