“And then what happened?” Felicity asked, reaching for her chardonnay. The man next to her took a sip from his beer and stared at the bartender as he wiped an already-clean glass out with a rag that smelt strongly of polish. The bartender, looked up, surprised. Ever since he had become addicted to opium he had been having these odd blanks in his mind, which often occurred at random times of the day, followed by sudden outbursts of pointless rants.
Complications aside, he believed that Opium was brilliant, particularly when he had to go home to a daschund named Colin, 53 children, give or take a dozen, and a large ostrich farm run by his wife, his lover, and his mother.
The woman, Felicity, was on loan from the robotics firm over in Kyoto, Japan. She had been created to peel potatoes, but she had broken the three laws of robotics that had been developed by a fish that ate iced grapes. Felicity adored the daytime television-soaps, and had a large fake horn protruding from her forehead. She always dressed in skin tight Lycra. The man next to her, Seamus McTagget, was a leprechaun who lived with his boyfriend Sock, and the two of them lived in Dun Laogheire (Lee-hree). They were sitting in a pub in Ireland, enjoying dinner and wishing that they had brought their sheep, their pineapples, and were desperately craving ice cream.
“My dear Felicity, is it really of great importance I finish my tale?” a funny looking man named Marcus asked. “You know, you can not begin telling a story and then quit halfway through” Felicity declared, slamming her glass of chardonnay down onto the bar table. “Actually, I am only about a fourth-hundred of a quarter of a third of the way through my story, to be precise” Marcus corrected, followed by a chorus of “To be sure, to be sure” from Socks. “Well, you had best get on with it, as if you are only about a four-hundredth of a quarter of a third of the way through, it will be a light-year or nine before the tale is finished, and I must get home and feed my alpacas” Felicity said.
“Well yes, I suppose I shall” Marcus said, rolling his eyes. “But first- Waiter! I shall have three servings of your finest vanilla Ice Cream, with a topping of Cottee’s quick-drying chocolate sauce, and I would much prefer my ice cream on a china plate, thank you very much” Marcus called out, despite the fact that he easily could have walked out back to the kitchen himself.
“Now, on with the story…”
