"Jesus Christ!" hissed Max. "I've got to get a grip on myself. Ground-zero pizza won't hack it after that treatment. This looks like a job for Tim."
Tim, the bartender over at St. Nick's, was well known throughout the south side for a bloody mary with a particular flourish.
He aimlessly meandered through the decaying business district and seedy neighborhoods as would a poorly trained rat in a laboratory maze, Max piloted his vehicle in the general direction commonly known as north. Accelerating as briskly as the battered Falcon could manage, Max, with an increasing awareness of the severity of his current hangover and painful dental deficiencies, bumped and rattled onto Midtown Boulevard.
"Boulevard, my ass!" Max responded to his own internal conversation. "Skid Road is more like it." It summed up his opinion of the chuck-hole and frost-heave infested stretch of macadam leading up to the saloon.
As was not unusual, the place was empty. Max strode through the mud room entrance. Swinging doors waved lazily in recognition of his appearance as one of the day's first customers.
Thick, viscous atmosphere almost necessitated biting and chewing before drawing a deep breath. Max settled for his usual shallow wheezing to conserve energy. He was still wearing the dentist's bib. He had fragments of rubber glove jammed under his fingernails when he plopped heavily onto his bar stool. Entrapped air swooshed out of the shiny red cushion atop the stool when he settled into his standard drinking posture. One foot on the brass rail and one elbow on the bar served as a base for the forearm attached to his left hand. The hand formed a hammock in which his throbbing forehead could be cradled, shielding his eyes from the scrutiny of non-existent patrons.
Tim, without speaking or being spoken to, set a tub of blood, complete with celery and lime wedge, within the grabbing range of the unoccupied right hand.
"Do you want to see it now?"
"What?"
"Do you want to see it, or should I toss it all out?"
"Huh?"
"This stack of napkins. Another one of your crazy hallucinations. I swear I'm going to get a word processor installed at your stool. In the long run I think that the price of cocktail napkins alone would pay for it."
Downing his first Mary brought a flash of memory from out of the fog. Max, ranting and raving around midnight, had come in
babbling about something that must be recorded for posterity. Sorting out the stack of stained, wrinkled, and occasionally soggy cocktail
napkins revealed the following peculiar tale.
Ten seventeen p.m.. Light rain is silently falling, not quite freezing in the winter night. An occasional snowflake flits across widening headlight beams straining out along the center stripe. A rhythmic hum of snow tire tread against the wet asphalt is sharpened with an electric buzz from the studs. STUDS: Diamond hard bullets of tungsten alloy encrusting each rear tire tapping and grinding away their usefulness against the gritty roadway in their incessant search for traction.
AM 96 drones on with the standard fare of music and mindless commentary from a caffeine jacked D.J.. Static is crackling in choreographed synchronicity with lightning strikes up in the Blue Mountains, forty miles dead ahead.
Up on the left a car is stalled--parked--in the median. A cop! State Patrol. Check speed. 68, okay. Keep looking back, checking, looking, sweating. The tires spin over and over 100 more times, studs grinding shorter, sharper. The cruiser is still quiet.
Slowly the warm glow of his dome light fades into darkness.
Ahead, through drizzle and flakes, two red spots appear as if on cue from a static crackle on the radio. Cruising past the second patrol car with 55 frozen on the speedo just as he pulls away from the shoulder. Interior illumination of my car switches from dashboard dimness to strident arc-light brilliance.
A silhouette, accompanied by flashing blue and red, emerges from the cruiser's driver side door. Wet crunches of gravel under jackboots approach with the bobbing flashlight.
With a quick tug on the shift lever, the transmission snicks into low gear. Full throttle spins the rear tires - - grinding, screaming,. Studs liberated by merciless centrifugal forces streak out and sink deeply into the frozen cold heart of the silhouette.
Between tunes on AM 96 is a traveler's advisory warning of increasing icy conditions. Approved traction devices are strongly recommended.
"Stranger than usual, huh, Max?" Tim said as another bloody mary was produced. "I can't imagine where you dream up all of this baloney. Next time you have the urge to chronicle your hallucinations in here, at least bring your own notebook. I'm running low on napkins."
Pulling out of the parking lot and down the driveway into the street, Max's jalopy skidded sideways across an oily patch lurking in the shadows. Only by virtue of screaming into the windshield and violent contortions of body English was Max diverted from the path of an oncoming garbage truck chugging up the incline.
Now that his wheels were stationary, safely down the hill, and since it was Saturday, Max saw no reason why he shouldn't head it back to the bar for a nerve-calming cool-one. He waited for a lull in the traffic and then carefully stepped out onto the nearly non-existent shoulder. Ambling around to the rear, he could see that most of the studs were missing from his rear tires. There were also little bloody mary colored spots spattered all over the bumper and trunk lid.
He stood paralyzed, staring at what he knew must be dried flecks of trooper's blood adorning the Falcon. Fingering the crumpled pad of cocktail napkins in his pocket, he trembled with an involuntary shudder.
Back on the road, driving slowly toward home, Max was functioning on autopilot. A million thoughts were bouncing and spinning madly through his braincase.
"Dried flecks. Studs. Napkins. Headache. Blackout. Well, this time you've really done it, pal," he whispered softly to himself as his feverish eyes darted back and forth from the road, the rear-view mirror and the speedometer.
The spring night air was suddenly much too cold. Shoving the heater knob up to full blast couldn't stop his spasmodic shivering or evaporate the cold sweat from his forehead.
"In a situation like this, the only rational solution is more medicine."
Babbling to himself, Max jammed on the binders, stabbed the mirrors with a quick glance and spun around with one wheel squealing, studless tires straining for a bite in the slippery blacktop. Coming around the last curve to St. Nick's, he spied the familiar form of a particularly disreputable 1956 Buick Roadmaster. This particular specimen came equipped with a petrified Big Mac sandwich ground into the speaker grill on the dashboard. If one were to scrape away a bit of the dust (or peel off the burger for that matter) covering the dashboard, a brilliant robin's egg blue color would undoubtedly shine through. The color, along with the rest of the car, was special-ordered by a little old lady with pin-curled locks in a color to match. Upon passing on to her great reward, the Buick came into the possession of Mike, her grandson.
The big Buick was occupying two spaces in front of a somewhat seedy-looking drinking establishment, with the motor running (for the lack of a reliable starter) and Frank Zappa's 'Overnight Sensation' shrieking from a tape deck under the front seat. What was once a grandmother's pride and joy was now truly a sight to behold. A sight that would have dropped Granny right in her tracks.
Even Max's jaw dropped a bit out of line when he noticed the latest addition. A grinning visage of the Grim Reaper holding a rusty and nicked scythe had been crudely painted on the hood, along with the caption 'Death Angel'.
With Death Angel outside, the Mike brothers had to be inside. Not actually brothers in the biological sense, but sharing the same given name resulted in this unshakable mutual moniker. No one was even sure which Mike was the heir of the blue-haired Granny. Knowing full well that he was probably in for the usual 'third-degree' from these two, Max slowly and apprehensively approached the tavern. He parked out of sight behind a huge red billboard declaring to the world that 'This Bud's For You!' If, of course, 'You' happened to be a sweaty, muscular-looking cowboy-type with a beat-up Stetson, shit encrusted boots, perfect teeth and a tan to match.
Waves of snickering frivolity were wafting out from the front door of St. Nick's. Peering around the casement, both Mikes could be seen buckled over, gripping their bellies in savage fits of snorting laughter. Tim, the bartender, was madly gesticulating with both of his pudgy hands, one holding a well worn pair of vise-grips, the other wrapped around a bunch of nails, or rivets, or something.
Apprehension quickly being displaced by curiosity, Max stepped into the room. Tim made a valiant effort to stifle himself as the Mike brothers' watery gaze fixed upon Max. All three were fighting a losing battle with their levity and were sputtering through weakly held back grins like a pressure cooker about to blow.
"What's so funny?" coming from Max's pitiful countenance was too much of a strain. Tim, Mike and Mike exploded into a fit of hysterical knee-slapping, bar pounding, finger pointing and belly laughing.
The 'nails, or rivets, or something' that Tim was holding turned out to be studs. Tire studs. Tire studs wrenched from the rear end of the Falcon by the Mike brothers.
Last night's gruesome murder turned out as usual, to be another bizarre practical joke that was produced, directed and performed by Tim, Mike and Mike.
Max returned to his customary stool, cradled his aching cranium as Tim served up a shot of Jim Beam and a glass of beer.
"This one's on the house, Max. You deserve it, sport."
Max sighed deeply, knocked back the whisky, and slowly nursed the beer. "Tim, I really need a vacation."
"Yup."
Max buried his face in his shaky hands. The hangover still had a death grip on his soggy brain, He rubbed his face with both hands and ran fingers through his hair. Picking up his glass, he dribbled off of the bar stool and unsteadily made his way over to the Mike brother's table. He plopped into a chair, landing like a fifty-pound sack of potatoes. His legs splayed out under the table, his arms dangled loosely from slouching shoulders.
"Max, you really look like shit this morning," Mike goaded from across the small round table, its surface covered with sticky rings left behind from last night's glassware and ashtrays. "We figured after that line of BS you were giving us last night that it wouldn't take much to get your goat. Whassa matta-u, Max, a little too much firewater last night?"
"You do know what day it is, don't you?" Mike continued unmercilessly, "If not what day it is, could you tell us what month? How about your last name? And how about those snow tires? It's nearly summer if you haven't noticed. You know, if you don't take them off soon, all of your studs will be gone before you know it."
At Mike's last poke at Max, Mike nearly choked to death as he simultaneously inhaled, laughed, swallowed, and burped into a glass of red beer laced with Tabasco.
"Oh, God." Max groaned, "Man, you guys never give it a rest, do you?" He poured a little tomato juice into his glass and took a long pull. "Ahhh! That's a little better. Whew, I can hardly remember what was going on last night. I take it that you guys didn't entirely buy that line about the studded tires. Okay, I admit it. You got me. I swear I'm never gonna mix tequila and Jim Beam again."
"Yeah, right!" both Mikes chimed in unison.
"But," Max defended himself, "if I would have had fifteen minutes for the cure to take effect, you assholes never would have caught me off guard."
"Even Tim's bloody marys are not enough to cure what's ailing you, my friend. I haven't seen you knock back the sauce like that in a long time. For crying out loud, Max, Mike and me could barely keep up!"
Both Mikes bent their respective elbows and polished-off their drinks. A satisfying "AHHH" and a smack of their lips was punctuated by a snap of the fingers to attract the bartender's attention.
"Make mine gin and tonic this time," ordered Mike.
"Me too," echoed Mike, "but hold the tonic and add an olive."
Over the rim of his beer glass, Max could see his own reflection in the large plate-glass window that overlooked the parking lot. The clarity of the reflection was amazing, and, frankly, disgusting. Just as Mike had pronounced a few minutes earlier, Max did indeed look like warmed-over road kill. Beneath the light of a simulated Tiffany lamp, emblazoned with a Budweiser logo, Max's reversed image looked as if it had been pulled through a key hole. The skin of his face was slack and pallid. His eyes were deep in sunken, dark sockets. Frazzled hair topped his head, which was slowly bobbing like a palsied octogenarian. His drinking partners, however, looked rested and alert. They both were seeing through clear eyes and were virtually pouring alcohol into bodies covered with supple skin and were held erect in postures that veritably screamed of vitality. Max looked back and forth from the image in the glass to the real thing across the table. Fearing he was somehow part of yet another practical joke, he resisted the temptation to pinch himself back into reality. He settled for the rest of the beer in the glass.
"Tim, set me up with another one of these," Max ordered as he slowly rose from his chair, both knees crackling in protest. "Make it red this time."
"Ahh, Max," Tim said with a raised eyebrow and an examining stare, "you're hitting it pretty fast this morning."
"Okay. This is my last this morning," Max promised. "At least for now." Tim, is it just me? Am I hallucinating? Or did not those two lushes close-up with me last night?"
"Yup. What's your point?"
Well, look at 'em! Those two bozos are putting them away like it's going out of style. Not only do I feel like squat, but I look like it, too. Is it my imagination, or are those bros fresh as a daisy?"
"Hey, it's my job to make sure that I don't get closed down for serving the 'obviously inebriated'. Those two are not 'obviously inebriated'. I'm not countin' their drinks. I only want to make sure that if the liquor inspector comes in, he doesn't see me pouring it down a customer that's about ready to fall down. And, Max, the way you're going, you'll be taking a dive if you keep it up. That's your fourth drink in the past hour."
"I thought you didn't count drinks."
"Well, excuse me!"
"No, I mean it, look at them. Mike and Mike should be worse off than me. Have you ever seen those two looking better than half-dead this time on Saturday morning? Usually they're drinking buttermilk and bloody marys, not gin-tonics and martinis. Burrughhp." Max was beginning to pay the price of a to fast and to varied liquid diet.
Tim winced and waved at the invisible noxious fumes emanating from Max's digestive tract. "Jeez, Max, I hope you didn't get anything on ya."
"Oh, God, Tim. Sorry. You have anything back there to settle my stomach?"
"Yup. Try this." Tim produced a large plain bagel and a jar of Skippy peanut butter from the back bar. "The bagel will soak up all of that excess fluid sloshing around in your gut, and the peanut butter will slow down the alcohol metabolism. At least that way you won't pass out in the next thirty minutes. And for God's sake, Max, breathe in the other direction next time!"