"Pathetic Self-Deluded Idiots"

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 good people of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"This Christmas give Dad the gift that keeps on giving, a carton of fine Husky Boy cigarettes, now available in Regular, King Size, and our Deluxe 'Cork' Filter Tip'!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Child's Christmas on the Bowery

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

"Oh, by the way, Pedro," called Mr. Bormanshire, to the thin man with the tray, who stopped and turned. "Yeah, Mr. Bormanshire?" "Better bring us another round of Rob Roys while you're at it." "Four more Rob Roys?" "Yes, please." "Comin' right up, Mr. Bormanshire." Milford said nothing. What was the use? Just because they were bringing him another Rob Roy didn't mean he had to drink it. The thin small fellow disappeared into the swirling clouds of smoke and the blathering of drunken men, carried away swiftly on his little legs. "And now," said Mr. Bormanshire, raising his glass, "I should like if I may to propose a toast." "Hear, hear," said Mr. Bogman, also raising his glass. "Mr. Bobbington," said Mr. Bormanshire to Addison, "if you will raise your glass, sir." Addison obediently raised his glass, which it must be said still held perhaps a half-inch of scotch finely blended with dry vermouth. "And Mr. Mufford," said Mr. Bormanshire to Milford, "if you too will raise your glass, young sir." Not wanting to argue, Milford raised his glass. "I propose a toast then," said Mr. Bormanshire, "to our two newest members of the sacred and noble Society of the Prancing Fool, the good Messrs. Babbington and Mufton. Long may they prance, and prance like the fools they are!" "Hear, hear!" said Mr. Bogman. "And now, my friends, drink up!" said Mr. Bormanshire. And all four drank, Addison finishing off what little was left  of his Rob Roy, and Milford against his will but instinctively taking a good gulp of his own Rob Roy. "Ah," said Mr. Bormanshire, putting down his now half-full glass. "So, gentlemen, in a sense, but a very real sense, you are indeed home now." "Home at last," said Mr. Bogman, who had also half-emptied his glass, and who now picked the lemon twist out of it, and dropped it into his ashtray. "Some call us failures," said Mr. Bormanshire. "They do indeed, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman. "That and worse. The term never-has-been comes to mind." "Untalented oafs they call us," said Mr. Bormanshire. He had a box of matches on the table in front of him, and he slid it open. "Pathetic self-deluded idiots they deem us," said Mr. Bogman. "Looked down upon even by the lowest uninspired hacks and so-called ham-and-eggers of the literary and artistic worlds." "Yea, verily, they call us fools," said Mr. Bormanshire. He struck a match on the side of the box, which Milford noticed bore the legend of the Hotel St. Crispian. "Hopeless fools," said Mr. Bogman. "In a phrase, prancing fools," said Mr. Bormanshire, relighting his pipe. "Yeah, you're home now, boys," said Mr. Bogman, taking a deep drag on his cigar. "You ain't got to compare yourselves to all those bigshot hotshots no more. The Algernon Blackwoods. The James Branch Cabells. The Marcel Schwobs and the John Kendrick Bangses. The Amy Lowells and the John Greenleaf Whittiers." "Never could abide Whittier," said Mr. Bormanshire, dropping his match into his ashtray "Yeah, he sucks," said Mr. Bogman. "But the point is, lads, you ain't got to worry about them guys –" "And gals," interjected Mr. Bormanshire. "Right," said Mr. Bogman, "you ain't got to worry about comparing yourselves to them high-and-mighty literary panjandrums nor them stuck-up hoity-toity bluestocking bitches no more." "Fuck 'em," said Mr. Bormanshire, puffing on his pipe. "Fuck 'em all." "Fuck them all," repeated Mr. Bogman. "With abandon." "Seven ways to Tuesday," said Mr. Bormanshire. "We don't give a flying fuck," said Mr. Bogman. "Not a whit," said Mr. Bormanshire. "We'll carry on proudly writing our endless bad novels," said Mr. Bogman. "Just as some of us will continue to write and rewrite the first pages of our bad novels, never even making it to page two," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Or outlining our epic novels, outlines continually revised and abandoned and started up again," said Mr. Bogman. "Epic poems, too," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Can't forget the epic poems." "Epic poems never to be published, nor ever to be read," said Mr. Bogman. "But most important," said Mr. Bormanshire, "we will continue to talk about the work." "Endlessly," said Mr. Bogman. "Sitting at tables like this," said Mr. Bormanshire, "Or at the bar," said Mr. Bogman. "Talking endlessly of the work, into the the endless night," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Every night," said Mr. Bogman. "Until we keel over," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Dead," said Mr. Bogman, and he emptied his Rob Roy into his mouth at a gulp. "Unknown to the greater world," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Not even forgotten, because how can someone be remembered who has never been known, save to his fellow prancing fools?" "Here's your Rob Roys," said a voice, the voice of the thin little man named Pedro, standing there with his tray. "And the gingy ale for the young gentleman." "Lay 'em down, dear Pedro," said Mr. Bormanshire, polishing off his own Rob Roy, "lay 'em down and thank you very much indeed." Pedro made his way around the table, putting down the fresh Rob Roys and collecting the empties. When he came to Milford he stood there looking down at him until Milford finished off his Rob Roy. Then the little fellow took the empty glass and laid down the last fresh Rob Roy and a glass with something pale yellow in it, presumably ginger ale. Milford preferred his ginger ale with ice, but he dared not request it. Who knew what the man would put in it besides ice? "Youse ready to order some food," said the man. "Go ahead, order some food, fellas," said Mr. Bormanshire. Addison had been tasting his new drink, but now he picked up his menu. "I must say the prices are quite reasonable," he said, "and I for one haven't eaten since breakfast." "What'd you have for breakfast?" said Mr. Bogman. "Two glazed doughnuts," said Addison, "and some several cups of chicory coffee." "That's no kind of breakfast for a grown man, boy," said Mr. Bogman. "Now order some real food." "How are the pork and beans?" asked Addison, having noticed that the dish was priced at only fifty cents. "Excellent," said Mr. Bogman. "Okay," said Addison, "I guess I'll take the pork and beans then." "Sure, Ace," said Pedro, and he scribbled something on his pad. "You can get a fresh-baked hot cross bun with that, or Uneeda crackers if you prefer." "I think I'll go with the Uneeda crackers," said Addison, suddenly suffused with childhood memories of being spoiled by his great-aunts with Uneeda crackers and Welch's grape jelly, washed down with bottles of Frank's cream soda. "How about you, Pomford?" said Mr. Bormanshire to Milford. "Eat something, put some meat on your bones." Milford wasn't sure if he was hungry, but then he thought maybe some food would sop up the Rob Roy he had stupidly drunk, and the fresh one sitting there before him waiting to be drunk. "Well," he said, "what's this special of the day?" "Today's dollar special," said Pedro, "is calf's brains scrambled with three fresh farmyard eggs, home fries and blood pudding on the side, and your choice of ketchup or A.1. Sauce." "Get it, Bumford," said Mr. Bormanshire. "The calf's brains here are absolutely to die for." "I don't know," said Milford. "I've never had calf's brains, or blood pudding." "Get him the calf's brains and scrambled, Pedro," said Mr. Bogman. "With the A.1." "But," said Milford. "And even though Mr. Bogman and I have already dined," said Mr. Bormanshire, "I'm feeling just a mite peckish, so bring me a large plate of liver and onions, extra onions, with a double portion of mashed potatoes and the red-eye gravy. What about you, Bogman?" "Well, like you say, Bormanshire, we've already dined, but I'll take some ham and eggs, better make it a double order, and you know the way I like 'em, Pedro, over easy, with hash browns and extra toast and butter." "Got it," said Pedro, scribbling. "Extra toast." "And another round of Rob Roys," said Mr. Bormanshire. "And a pitcher of Falstaff," said Mr. Bogman. "But," said Milford. "Four glasses with the pitcher," said Mr. Bormanshire. "But," said Milford. "Anything else?" said Pedro. "But," said Milford. "That's all for now, Pedro, thanks," said Mr. Bogman. "But," said Milford, again. Pedro turned away, and this time Milford was sure he heard the fellow say just one word: "Pissant." As the little man wandered away once again through the clouds of smoke and into that babble of boring voices, Milford felt something falling within his narrow chest, perhaps the last wispy remnants of his self-regard. Were his humiliations never to end in this life? Not at the rate you're going, said Stoney, his internal alter ego. Now stop your whining and have a drink like a man. In spite to himself, despite himself, and to spite himself, Milford raised his cocktail glass full of deep golden liquid.

“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

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

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

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

"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.