"The Right Way'

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème transcribed 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.

"Whenever I reach a seeming impasse in my writing, I simply go to my window, raise the sash, and, gazing out over the teeming street below, I light up a fine Husky Boy cigarette; invariably, before I have even halfway finished my smoke, I feel that unmistakeable surge of divine inspiration, and I return to my typewriter with renewed vigor!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Here's One You Might Not Have Heard: Lucubrations of a Loon, Vol. VII

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to begin series, click here

The enormous bearded burly fellow was still sitting on his high stool to the left of the doorway, and there was nothing for it but to go by him if they wanted to get out of this place, and they could see that he saw them coming. "Where the fuck you guys going?" "I'm sorry, but we have to leave," said Addison. "You just fucking got here. What's the matter, you don't like it here?" "Oh, we like it fine," said Addison, "it's just that, uh, heh heh –" "Just that what, 'heh heh'?" said the huge man, and he tapped his cigar ash to the floor, ignoring the Hotel St Crispian ashtray on the little table to his side. "We have to go somewhere," said Milford. "You 'have' to 'go' 'somewhere'." "Yes," said Milford. "Oh. Okay." "Well, so then –" said Addison. "May I ask youse a question?" said the big fellow. "Yes?" said Addison. "I mean if that's all right." "Certainly." The big man pointed his cigar at Milford. "It okay with you, too?" "Um, yes?" said Milford. "Good then," said the huge man, and he looked at his cigar, blowing on the lighted end. "Ask away," said Addison. "We are open books." "Open books?" said the big man. "Yes, uh," said Addison. "Like, uh –" "Okay. My question is this," said the large man, looking at Addison, and then at Milford, and then back to Addison, and thence again to Milford. "My question is, where could two losers like youse possibly have to go to that is so fucking important." "Look, sir," said Milford, "we've just been through all this with two gentlemen at the bar–" "I don't give a shit what you've allegedly been through with two random fuckwads at the bar," said the big guy. "This is here and this is now, and I am asking you where the fuck you think you are going." "We have to meet some ladies," said Addison. "What?" "There are some ladies we want to meet." "Ladies." "Yes," said Addison. "Nice ladies." "Oh. 'Nice' ladies." "Yes." The man looked at Milford. "Nice ladies?" "Yes," said Milford. "I mean, pretty nice." "Okay," said the big man. "Can I just say something?" "Of course," said Addison. The big man pointed his cigar at Milford. "It jake with you if I say something?" "Um, yes." "What I have to say is simply this," said the man. "Yes?" said Addison. "This and only this." "Okay," said Milford. "What I have to say is that youse two don't have to fucking lie," said the man. "Youse don't got to lie about meeting some ladies, 'nice' or otherwise. Because, A, nobody is gonna believe you, and, B, nobody really gives a shit if you are lying. Nobody cares. I don't care. You want to leave? Fine. Leave. But don't give me some blatant horseshit about meeting ladies, 'nice' or otherwise. Okay? Do not insult my intelligence."  "Sorry," said Addison. "Look around you," said the big man. "Go on, turn around and look at every motherfucker in this place." Addison and Milford obediently turned around and looked, or pretended to look, and then turned back to face the big man on his stool. "Good," said the man. "Now what did you see?" "A lot of fellows?" said Addison. "Doing what?" "Drinking?" "Yes," said the big man. "A lot of fellows, drinking. And did you see a single lady?" "Um, no," said Addison. "And do you know why you didn't see a single lady?" "No," said Addison. The big man looked at Milford.  "What about you, half-pint, you know why there ain't no ladies in here?" "Is it a 'gentlemen only' establishment?" "No, it is not a 'gentlemen only' establishment, schmuck. There ain't no ladies in here because there's only losers in here, and ladies don't like losers. And can you blame them?" "No," said Milford. The big fellow looked at Addison. "What about you, pal? You blame 'em?" "Um, no?" said Addison "Okay," said the big man. "All right." He took a drag on his big cigar, the sort of drag that the cheap novelists both Milford and Addison really preferred to the literary kind would call "a contemplative drag". "So we can go?" said Addison. "Did I say you couldn't go?" said the big man. "No," said Addison. "So –" "'So' what?" said the big guy. "So we can go?" "You already asked me that." "So, I guess we can go then?"  "Am I stopping you?" "No." "Okay, well, goodnight then," said Milford. "Hold on just a second, sonny," said the huge man. "Yes?" said Milford. "Let me just ask youse one more question." "Both of us?"  "Did I not employ the plural 'youse'?" "Uh, yes, you did," said Milford. "So my question as I say is for the two of youse." He paused. The cheap novelists would say "paused for effect". "Yes?" said Addison. "Are youse implying that youse two are not losers?" "What?" said Addison. "Do I have a speech impediment? Did I mumble or speak too softly?" "No," said Addison. "Then answer the mother fucking question, or maybe I don't let youse out of here after all." "No," said Addison. "No what?" "No, we do not imply that we are not losers," said Addison. "Far from it." "Good answer," said the big man. He cast a cold eye on Milford. "What about you, shorty?" "I was a loser the moment I was pulled, kicking and screaming, from my mother's womb," said Milford. "And I have not ceased to be a loser since then. And now may we leave?" The man paused again, taking another great drag on his cigar. "Very well," he said. "I take you both at your woids." "Our what?" said Milford. "You heard me," said the man. "Your woids." "Oh," said Milford. "Our 'words' you mean." "That's what I just said. Your 'woids'." "Um, okay," said Milford. "So," said Addison, "we bid you good night then, sir." "My name ain't sir. My name is Gargantua." "We bid you goodnight, uh, Gargantua," said Addison. "That's better," said Gargantua. "And your name is Pattinson, right?" "Uh, yes," said Addison, just wanting to escape. "And you're Pettiford," said Gargantua to Milford. "Right," said Milford. "Well, listen, Harkington and Pufford," said Gargantua, "before I let youse go, I just want youse to promise me one thing." "Yes?" said Addison. "Just one thing." "Okay," said Addison. "One thing," said Gargantua, looking at Milford. "Yes?" said Milford. "Promise me this," said the big man, "that wherever you go, and for the rest of your lives, that you will continue to carry the banner of loserdom, high and proud. Because being a loser ain't nothing to be ashamed of." He paused again for a moment, looking from Addison to Milford and then back to Addison and again to Milford. "Will youse promise me this?" "We promise," said Addison. "What about you, Guildford," he said to Milford. "I promise," said Milford. "High and proud," said the big man called Gargantua. "And you know why?" "Um," said Addison. "You know why?" said Gargantua, staring at Milford. "Uh," said Milford. "Because," said the man.  "Because?" said Addison. "Because," said Gargantua. He looked at Milford again. "Because." "Because?" said Milford. "Because we all fucking lose in the end," said the big man. "Oh," said Addison. "Um," said Milford. "Now get out of my sight," said the huge man. "The both of yez. And please enjoy the imaginary company of these imaginary 'nice' ladies. Oh, and one more thing." "Yes?" said Addison. The big bearded man fixed his eye on Milford. "Just one more little thing." "Um, yes?" said Milford. "Just this. When you are making the imaginary beast with two backs with these imaginary nice 'ladies', I want youse both –" again he looked from Addison to Milford, then back to Addison, then to Milford, and back to Addison, "I want youse both to think of me. Will yez do that?" "Yes," said Addison. "What about you, Potford? Will you do that for me? When you're committing the imaginary act of darkness with these imaginary 'nice' ladies, will you think of me, if only just for one brief flickering moment?" "Yes, sir," said Milford. "'Yes, Gargantua'." "Yes, Gargantua." "All right, now get out of here, both of yez. I don't know where yez think you're going, and, frankly, I don't give a shit, but get out of here anyways – and, please, enjoy your little 'imaginary' escapades. Something tells me you'll be back here soon enough. Where you belong. With all the rest of the losers. Now go. You disgust me, the pair of yez. Although in some weird way I admire yez, a lot, and I don't know why. Now go on, fuck off outa here before I change my mind." The two friends began to pass tentatively by the big man, when abruptly Addison stopped. "Oh, by the way, Gargantua is it?" "Yes." "I wonder if I may ask you a question." "Addison," said Milford, "let's just go." "No," said Gargantua. "It's all right. What's your question, Archerman?" "Do you happen to know this bar, it's a Negro bar, I think it's called the Hideyway?" "The Hideaway?" "Yes, that's it." "Sure I know it. Nice stopping place. What about it?" "Oh, thank God. Could you tell us how to find it?" "Certainly. Just go out the door, and then go left. Pretty soon you're gonna reach a corner, and make another left there. Actually you got to make a left there, because that's the only direction you can go in. Keep going and after a while you're gonna reach a sort of crossroads, where you can go straight ahead or to the right or left. Go right. Keep going and then you're gonna get to a dead end, but there will be another corridor going right and left. Go right, and keep going until you see the sign for the Hideaway. You can't miss it." "Okay, thanks," said Addison. "Tell 'em Gargantua sent you, and even though youse are white they should let you in." "Oh, they know us there." "No kidding. I am impressed. Maybe youse two ain't such losers after all." "Oh, no, we're still losers all right, ha ha." "Ha ha, now get the fuck out of here." "Okay, good night," said Addison. "And thank you." The big man turned away. "Addison," said Milford, in a low voice, "let's go." "Okay," said Addison, also in a low voice. They stepped to the door, Addison opened it, Milford went through, and Addison followed him, closing the door behind him. The sounds of the jukebox and of laughing and shouting drunken men, which they had barely been aware of, just as fish are presumably unaware of the water in which they live, these noises were now muffled, and the hallway in which they stood was silent, and dim. Addison's Chesterfield had burnt down to its last half-inch, and he dropped it to the floor. "Which way did he say?" "I wasn't really listening," said Milford. He could see that Addison's cigarette butt was still burning, and so he stepped on it with the sole of his sturdy workman's brogan. "Okay, whatever, let's go this way," said Addison, gesturing to the right. "It must lead somewhere." And they headed to the right, both of them realizing that there was an even chance they were headed in the wrong direction, but, on the other hand, it was an even chance that this was the right way.

"Let's Go"

Another true tale of the heroic age 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.

"Feeling the pinch of inflation and rampant unemployment? Why not do as I do and save precious pennies by purchasing your Husky Boy cigarettes by the carton?" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery, A Dame With No Name  

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to begin series, click here

"Right," said Addison. "I'm ready now." He climbed off his stool, not falling, and Milford climbed off his stool, also without falling. "Wait," said the fat man to Addison's left, "where are you chaps going?" "Yes," said the weaselly man to Milford's right, "please don't leave." "Sorry, gentlemen," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields, "but duty calls." "What duty?" said the fat man, Addison had already forgotten his name. "Indeed," said the weaselly man, Milford had forgotten his name, barely having taken note of it in the first place, "what possible duty could be more important than sitting at this bar?" "Um," said Milford. "Uh," said Addison, shaking the pack of cigarettes, and putting one in his thin lips, the only kind of lips he had. "Oh," said the fat man. "I get it." "You do?" said the weasel man. "Yes," said the fat man. "I know what it is, Quintillius." "Pray tell, Petronius," said the man presumably named Quintillius, "because unless our young friends are headed for the men's room to void their bladders, I can think of nothing warranting their leaving." "Cherchez la femme," said the fat man apparently named Petronius, "or, in this case, les femmes." "What?" said Quintillius. "Is this true?" he said to Milford. "You and your friend go in search of the females of the species?" "Um, uh," said Milford. "Yes, look at them, the fires of lust in their eyes," said Petronius. "Am I wrong, Radisson?" he said, addressing Addison. Addison had just finished lighting up his cigarette with one of his paper matches from Bob's Bowery Bar, and he waved the match out and tossed it towards the nearest ashtray on the bar, missing it by six inches. "You are not wrong, sir," he said. "We go in search of the divine female, or females, and, failing divinity, we shall accept gladly the merely human." "Well, I only hope you have some money then," said the fat man. "Because, speaking only from what I have read in the popular magazines, female company does not come cheap, sir." "I had female company once," said the weasel fellow. "I was very young, well, thirty-four to be exact, and sought to lose my virginity, just to find out for myself what all the fuss was about. It cost me two dollars, which back then was no small amount, I needn't tell you!" "I think they'll need more than two dollars nowadays," said the fat man Petronius. "What with inflation, I daresay the price now could be as high as five dollars." "Five dollars!" said Quintillius. "That's outrageous. Do you know how many imperial pints of lager one could purchase for five dollars?" "Maths have never been my forte," said Petronius, "but I'm going to guess that's approximately twenty imperial pints of this delicious house lager." "Preposterously overvalued," said the weasel guy. "Listen," he said, to Milford, touching his arm with a claw-like finger, the only sort of finger he had, "save your money, Pilford, it's not worth it. For more decades than I'd care to say I have regretted spending that two dollars, and for what? Just to shed my virginity? I should have kept my chastity and the two dollars and spent it on beer instead. I implore you, resume your seat and let us continue our conversation." "Sorry," said Milford. "Damn you for a young fool!" said Quintillius. "Hey, there," said Petronius, "no need for such harsh words, Quintillius." "I shall not take them back," said Quintillius. He addressed Milford again. "I apologize for the necessity of saying 'damn you', Mugford, but I feel very strongly in this matter, and so curse you I must if you persist in this folly. Do you not realize that this –" he waved his hand and his arm grandiosely, "this is the very essence and meaning and veritable quiddity of life, yea, of existence? To sit here, in this bar, losers among fellow losers, speaking nonsense endlessly and drinking untold imperial pints of lager, with perhaps the occasional shot of inexpensive bourbon to alleviate the monotony?" "Maybe you're right," said Milford, "but we're going anyway." "Petronius!" said Quintillius. "Talk to them. Don't let them waste their young lives." "He's right you know," said Petronius, addressing Addison and Milford together. "I myself have never spent one penny for a woman's favors, and I have not the slightest regret." "Well, look, Petronius is it?" said Addison. "Yes," said Petronius, "I am honored you remembered my prénom, Hoberman." "Yes, well, anyway," said Addison, "the ladies we go in search of are nice ladies, and so, not only will we possibly not have to pay for their favors, but it is also in the realm of faint possibility that they would refuse payment even were we to offer it." "Now, my friend," said Petronius, "you have entered the realm of the fantastic." "Perhaps I have, but if I have, nevertheless I am in possession of a ten dollar bill, just in case." "Ten dollars, you say?" said Petronius. "Yes," said Addison. "And I'm sure my friend has some of the ready on him as well." "How much, if I may ask?" said Petronius, to Milford. "I don't know," said Milford. "Is it more than ten?" "Yes, I think it's more than ten." "Is it more than twenty?" "Why do you want to know?" "It is more than twenty!" said the fat man. "Okay," said Milford, to Addison, "let's go, Addison." "Excuse me," said Petronius, "you're telling me that you have at least thirty dollars between the two of you, and yet still you are leaving? Do you have any idea of the number of imperial pints you could buy with that largesse?" "It was nice meeting you," said Milford. "What about me?" said Quintillius. "Was it not nice meeting me?" "Uh, yes," said Milford. "Nice meeting you, too." "And yet you persist in this folly." "Yes," said Milford. "Good night." "Mark my words," said Quintillius. "You will be back." "Come on, Addison," said Milford. "You still have time to change your minds," said Petronius. "Think of all the imperial pints! Not to mention the occasional shot of reasonably-price bourbon. Why, good heavens, you could even order some food! Just wait until you try the all-you-can eat spicy chicken wings, a bargain at only one U.S. dollar!" "Pretty good, hey?" said Addison, tapping the first inch of ash of his Chesterfield to the floor, littered as it was with sawdust, spittle, and the butts of innumerable cigarettes and cigars. "Not bad at all," said Petronius. "Go ahead, my lad, sit back down. The wings go really well with the house Loser Lager. The only thing is the bartender doesn't like it if you let other people share your wings, so maybe if you don't mind you could just go ahead and request four orders of the wings, that way we can all have some." "Can you get them not so spicy?" asked Addison. "Sure, just tell the bartender you want the mild spicy wings." "Do they come with French fries?" "Well, the French fries are à la carte actually, but for two bits you can get a very commodious basket." "Pretty good fries? Crispy? I loathe soggy French fries." "Addison," said Milford. "Yes?" said Addison. "Let's go." "Oh," said Addison. "Okay." "You're going to regret leaving," said Petronius. "I've rarely done anything I haven't regretted," said Addison. "But," said Petronius, "you haven't had the all-you-can-eat wings here, and that is something you will not regret, my friend. Good plump juicy chicken wings, their skin fried to just the perfect crackling consistency, slathered in either the spicy or mild proprietary sauce, and with heapings of eminently crispy browned French fries on the side, with your choice of either ketchup or house-made dipping aïoli." "I hope the aïoli isn't too garlicky," said Addison. "Not at all, my good fellow! Frankly I prefer good old Heinz ketchup myself, but the aïoli has only the most subtle lacing of fresh and fragrant garlic." "Well," said Addison, who hadn't eaten since his long ago noontide breakfast of two glazed doughnuts and chicory coffee at Ma's Diner, "that does sound appetizing –" "Addison," said Milford, and he touched Addison's arm, "look, you can stay if you want to, but I'm going." Addison seemed to hesitate for a moment, thinking of the happy prospect of lashings of golden lager washing down unlimited mild spicy chicken wings, crispy French fries on the side, with just the occasional filip of a shot of inexpensive bourbon, but then he remembered the ladies, especially that one lady, Emily, although that other one Harriet wasn't bad either… "Okay," he said. "Let's go." And the two friends turned away from the bar. "You'll be sorry!" called Petronius. "The both of you!" "You'll be back!" called Quintillius. "Tails betwixt your legs!" Addison and Milford kept walking, through the smoke and the noise of the jukebox and the shouting of drunken men, towards the exit.

"Dear Diary"

Another sad 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™ family of fine tobacco products

"As I wander this great land of liberty on my frequent speaking tours, many aspiring young scribes will ask me if I have a 'method' to my writing routine, to which I answer, yes, indeed I do, which is to make sure I always have a minimum of three unopened packs of Husky Boy cigarettes next to my typewriter when I begin my day!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the best-selling new collection of essays Give the People What They Need

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

This was the thing about sitting with an alleged friend at a crowded and noisy bar. Invariably some guy sitting next to your acquaintance would start talking to him, you could barely hear anything either of them said, and soon you were left alone with your beer and the noise and the jukebox music, and maybe it was just as well, since all barroom conversations were by their very nature tedious and meaningless.  But then some new stranger sitting on your other side started talking to you, and a new insanity began. "I beg your pardon," said a voice to Milford's right. Milford turned. It was never a beautiful girl. No, it was always a man, and usually a homely and unprepossessing one. "Yes?" said Milford, despite himself. "I couldn't help but notice you and your friend," said the man. What did the man look like? He looked like a weasel. Small, with beady eyes behind thick glasses, a sparse goatee, a broad-brimmed hat of the sort that people wore who wanted other people to know that they weren't like other people. He might have been fifty, or seventy, he might have been dead but just too stupid to fall over. "My name is Quintillius T. Jasper," said the man. "My friends call me Quintillius. I hope you don't think I am a homosexual trying to pick you up. I am merely a literary man who loves to meet other people, especially other literary men, and I overheard your friend saying you are a poet." "Um," said Milford. "Did he say your name was Milberd?" "What?"  "I heard your friend say your name, and I believe it was Milborne. Is that correct?" "No," said Milford. "Then why, if I may ask, did he say your name was Redburn?" "He said Milford," said Milford, with that familiar feeling of ennui that could only grow more unbearable. "Milford, you say?" said the man. "Yes," said Milford. "Not Milberd, or Milborne, or Redburn, but Milford." "Milford," said the man. "Yes," said Milford. "Do you remember my name?" "No," said Milford. "It's Quintillius T. Jasper. But please call me Quintillius. All my friends call me Quintillius." "Okay," said Milford, deliberately not saying the name.  "I am always glad to make acquaintance with an up and coming young literary man. I'll bet your poetry is quite exciting." "It's not," said Milford. "Please allow me to disagree," said the man. "It is only the poets who despise their own work who are capable of writing the really good stuff. Or don't you agree?" "I wouldn't know," said Milford. "The only kind of poetry I know how to write is the bad kind."  "Your very words are proof that your poetry is of the highest caliber." "A cursory glance at a page of it would prove you wrong," said Milford. "The more you protest, the more you convince me that your work will assure you pride of place in literary Valhalla." "Okay, fine," said Milford, and he turned his gaze to the beer in his imperial pint mug. On the one hand he didn't even want the beer, but on the other hand he wanted to lift it to his lips and down it in one go, and then request another, and a shot of cheap bourbon to go with it. "I myself do not write poetry," said the man, who was obviously not the sort to take a hint. Milford said nothing. Maybe if he continued to say nothing the man would give up.  "I wish I could write poetry," said the man. "You know who I'd like to be able to write poetry like?" Milford continued to say nothing. It was nearly always better to say nothing, especially when being accosted by a bore, and the vast majority of people were bores, especially the ones who accosted you in bars. "Carl Sandburg," said the man, relentlessly. "That's who I'd like to be able to write poetry like. Muscular poetry, y'know? I'd like to be able to write poetry about those guys who work building skyscrapers, or digging coal, or maybe those chaps who operate jackhammers in the streets or on the great highways. That's the kind of stuff I'd like to write. Not this effete, sensitive, limp-wristed crap. But, unfortunately, poetry is not where my talent lies." Milford stared into his beer. To his left he could hear Addison and that fat guy talking, about what he didn't know or care. "Guess where my talent lies," said the man on his right. Milford picked up the big mug and took a drink, only his second drink from it so far. It was beer, like any other beer, neither great nor horrible, but the thing was you had to drink it while it was cold, or else it really was horrible. "Okay, you give up," said the man, "so I'll tell you. You'll never guess, but I am a diarist." Milford put down the mug. He shouldn't be drinking at all. What he should do was tell Addison they should leave, and then try to find that other place where the ladies were. Maybe that girl Lou would still be there. Maybe she would relieve him of his virginity, if not tonight, then some other night, maybe. "My life's work," said the man, "is to keep a meticulous diary, and I have kept it up since I was fourteen years old. Every night before I go to bed I get out my diary and record in exhaustive detail the events of the day, no matter how seemingly mundane. I have now accumulated some forty-five thousand pages of 'material' in this fashion. And when I get home tonight I will get out my diary – I write in these enormous leather-bound ledgers by the way, using a quill pen – and I will recount this very conversation we are having now, verbatim. And so you see, all the life I have lived is contained in these ledgers, these diaries, and the diaries themselves are my life, my life feeding off the diaries and the diaries feeding off my life. It is all one. I have been shopping it around, intending to publish it in completely unexpurgated form in a uniform series of separate volumes, totaling in number at least fifty, but so far I haven't been able to find a publisher willing to meet my demands. I don't know why. I am sure there would be a market for it. Who else is writing a diary consisting of a man's life whose sole raison d'être is to write a diary recounting every moment of his life, and not just his waking moments, but his dreams, at least the ones he can remember. Who, I ask you, who?" "What?" said Milford, roused from his own reveries. "Who else is writing such a mammoth epic work?" "What mammoth epic work?" "The one I'm writing," said the man. "My diary in which I recount my entire life in exhaustive detail." "Oh," said Milford. "And do you know what I'm calling it?" "Calling what?" "Do you know what the title of my life's work is, my monumental undertaking, recounting my entire life since I was fourteen years old, nearly all of which has been spent sitting at this very bar?" "No, I don't," said Milford. "Guess." "The Diary of a Lunatic?" "No, that's good, but guess again." "The Diary of an Insufferable Bore?" "Pretty good again, but wrong. Try again." "The Journal of a Man Who Should Never Have Been Born?" "Wrong again. Do you give up?" "Yes," said Milford. "My book, my masterpiece," said the man, "is called – drumroll, please – The Diary of a Dickhead." "Oh," said Milford.  "Diary of a Dickhead." "Okay." "Because, yes, I know I'm a dickhead. I am not that deluded. But answer me this, is not a dickhead's life worthy of being recorded?" "Um." "Well, I'm here to say it is. And I'll fight the man who disagrees with me. And I will lose, but I don't care. The dickheads of this world need a voice, same as anyone else, and I intend to be that voice. Do you gainsay me?" "No," said Milford. "The Diary of a Dickhead, by Quintillius T. Jasper." "Right." "Kind of got a ring to it, don't you think?" "Uh," said Milford. "My marketing plan is that people can purchase it gradually in separate volumes, using S&H Green Stamps they will pick up at their local supermarkets. Collect so many stamps, get another volume, until eventually you have the whole fifty-volume set. Pretty smart, huh?" "Yes," said Milford.  "I figure to make a pretty penny from the project, keep me comfortable in my golden years, as I continue to churn out more volumes. Who knows, maybe eventually the thing will be a hundred volumes long." The man had one of those extra-large mugs in front of him, half-full, or half empty, depending on how you looked at it, and he now lifted it, took a sip, put the mug back down again. "Diary of a Dickhead," he said, "by Quintillius T. Jasper. Look for it on display at your local A&P." "I will," said Milford. "Not now, but after I get my publishing deal." "Okay." "And you'll be in it, Moffatt. It is Moffatt, isn't it?" "Yes," said Milford. "You'll be in the book, Mofford." "I will?" "Of course. Which means you'll be famous too." "Oh." The man turned away, to look down into the golden depths of the big beer mug that sat on the counter in front of him. Milford turned to Addison and touched his arm. Addison had been saying something to the fat man, but he allowed himself to be interrupted, not really minding because he had been boring himself actually. "Yes, Milford?" "Let's go," said Milford. "Now?" said Addison. "Yes." "But you've hardly even touched your beer." "I don't want it. Let's go." Addison's own large mug was empty. "Okay, buddy," he said. "But, waste not, want not." He picked up Milford's mug, raised it to his lips, and forty-five seconds later when he put it back down on the bar top it was empty.