"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.
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