The Beer Hall • Long Neck, NY

I took a big long pull off my pint of Slightly Smug Pale Ale and said to the Preacher, “Don’t you just wonder what this is all about?”

The Preacher spun his martini glass on the bar top. “Wonder what what is all about?”

“You know. Life,” I said. “Where did it all come from? What are we doing here? Where are we going?”

“You’ve been watching Run Lola Run again haven’t you?”

Technorati Tags: beer, fiction, long neck

For the first time since he walked into Callahan’s the Preacher turned his head in my direction. He gave me a good long look, like he was sizing me up.

“Something’s up, man,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You. Something’s different.”

“Maybe it’s my gorgeous tan?”

The Preacher lowered his sun glasses and looked at me. “No it’s not the tan,” he said, then added. “Although, you look marvelous.”

“That’s just so eighties, man,” I said.

He pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “No, you seem… like down or something.”

“It’s nuthin’” I said. “Just middle-age.”

“Tell me about it,” said the Preacher.

“Well, okay. It’s all started when—”

“Stop,” said the Preacher. “It’s a figure of speech.”

Pete went in the back to assemble the Preacher’s cheeseburger leaving the Preacher and me alone at the bar.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” said the Preacher.

“Yeah, been a bit busy. Went on a trip to Louisiana to do some fishing.”

The Preacher nodded and swallowed some vodka martini. “Did you catch anything?”

“Nothing that isn’t curable,” I said.

Technorati Tags: fiction, long neck

Pete and the Preacher continued their negotiations about the Preacher’s (as yet) potential cheese burger.

“When I bite into it I want to hear the animal scream,” said the Preacher.

“I thought you were vegan,” I said.

“I’ll eat anything,” said the Preacher, “including vegans.”

“He’s so charming,” said Pete.

“Just shut up and go make my cheese burger,” said the Preacher.

Pete set a vodka martini in front of the Preacher and said, “How do you want that burger?”

“On a plate,” said the Preacher.

“Everyone’s a comedian,” said Pete.

“Give it to me raw,” said the Preacher.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” said Pete.

“How did you get this job?” asked the Preacher.

“I own the place,” said Pete.

“That makes sense,” said the Preacher.

“What are you drinkin’?” the Preacher asked me.

“Slightly Smug Pale Ale,” I said.

“I tried to get him interested in the Insanely Devious Manipulator,” said Pete.

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s an Imperial Doppelbock,” I said.

“I should have guessed,” said the Preacher.

While Pete was mixing up the Preacher’s vodka martini, I said to the Preacher, “Aren’t your feet cold?” I looked down at his bare feet in the pink flip-flops. “There’s something like ten inches of snow on the ground.”

The Preacher shrugged. “The Pig’s working again,” he said.

“What was wrong with it?” I asked.

“What wasn’t wrong with it!” chimed in Pete. “The only way to fix that car is to buy a new one.”

“Is that martini done yet?” growled the Preacher.

The Preacher peered over his dark glasses and looked at Pete. Then without taking his eye off Pete reached into his bathrobe pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He pealed off a crisp fifty and laid it down on the bar.

“I wanna cheese burger and a vodka martini,” repeated the Preacher and I might have detected a hint of menace in his tone.

“Got a new laser printer?” asked Pete.

From inside his robe the Preacher took out a large rusty screwdriver and set it on the bar in front of him.

“What’s the screwdriver for?” asked Pete backing away.

“In case I get thirsty.”

The Preacher walked into Callahan’s wearing his gray terry-cloth bathrobe and pink flip-flops. He straddled the barstool next to me.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said Pete.

“I wanna cheese burger and a vodka martini,” said the Preacher.

“I’m sure you do,” said Pete. “And I’d like to have hot and cold running sex on tap.”

“Is that a beer?” asked the Preacher.

“I think it’s an Imperial Pilsner,” I said. “A little like the Golden Shower.”

Pete folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “Vampires? I thought you wrote science fiction, not horror.”

“Well, the main character’s a plasmavore of extra-terrestrial origin, but I found that the more economical descriptor is vampire. Plasmavores are not as well-known as vampires.”

“So the book’s going to be set in Louisiana?” asked Pete.

“Heaven’s no,” I said. “It’s set on the planet Xaxalor Six.”

“But you said you were down in Louisiana doing research,” said Pete.

“Yes, and?” I said.

“I just don’t see what fishing and drinking beer in Louisiana has to do with plasmavores from Xax-a-whatit Six.”

“Xaxalor Six,” I corrected. “I went down for the mosquitos.”

“The mosquitos?”

“Sure,” I said. “It makes sense. I am writing a book about blood suckers.”

Just then, the Preacher walked in and shouted, “Blood suckers! Are you talking about Sid Malguano again?”