Who Is Brian Quinn?

"Things Are Definitely Coming Unhinged..."

The man in the gray suit had hands like an octopus. His face was covered in a sparse kinky beard and he smelled of motor oil. His hands seemed to crawl like scaly lizards all over her legs and hips, pawing at her g-string and fiddling with the lengthy straps that kept her boots on.

"Knock it off," Madge pushed at his arms, trying to evade his wily groping. She sat partly on his knee partly on the worn wooden seat at the back of the club where she'd found him.

"What?" he whined. "What's your problem? This is my show here, little missy. My world." He reached for one of her nipples where it peeped through the knit of her sweater.

"Stop," she cried.

The place rang with the clink of glasses and the din of voices mingled with music. A girl wearing nothing but a large yellow snake and platforms wrapped herself around the metal pole running from stage to ceiling.

The man stopped pawing, raised his hands and scowled. "Something's not right." He frowned. "You're mine. I made you. You come from my subconscious. I created you." He paused. "The girl I fashioned you after was a little less developed up top. But my memory's poor." He glanced around. "I'm really not even sure what book this is." He looked at his watch.

"Book?" she said. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," he replied. "Nothing. Go away. I need to think, sit here and think. I'm not seeing this properly. Should've listened to Berry," he shook his head as though to dislodge a paper hat. "Anyway, I'm here now and I've got to get to the end. What did you say your name was?"

"Evie."

"Evie," he muttered. "You sure about that?"

Madge sighed, "No. Not really."

"Not really?" the man palmed his drink and scooted a cigarette out of a soft pack on the table and into his mouth where he lit it with his free hand. "You're not sure. Okay. So who are you, really?" he grinned nervously from behind his cigarette.

The girl eyed him suspiciously then leaned in closer. "Madge," she whispered.

"Madge?" he said sitting back.

"My name's Madge and I'm not from here. I'm from somewhere else. It was this gold ring. I put this ring on it had a ruby."

"Wait, wait," the man sat up. He flicked ash at the ashtray. "A ring, a gold ring like with some weird writing on it and a big ruby?"

"Yes," she sniffed.

"Okay, okay." He swatted at his face, then rubbed his eyes. "So tell me. Where are you from?"

"I live with my husband, Reggie, and our boy Bailey."

"Reggie?" the man whispered to himself. "Bailey. No, no. I don't think that's one of mine." Then to her, "And this ring, where'd you get it?"

"My husband Reggie found it. He put it in his shoe."

"His shoe?" He sat back taking a long drag off the cigarette. He sipped his drink. "It's not one of mine. Don't recognize the names at all. Not my book. Not my book at all." He looked at her, "So, what book are you from? Do you know?"

"What book? What book are you from? I don't know how I got here. I don't know where I am. I could be dreaming, I could be dead." Madge blinked and rubbed her legs with the palms of her hands. "This is crazy." She glanced around the room. "If it is your book," sarcastically, "You must not have written it yet."