Crazy Smeg Dancer was playing at Club Shite in the Tower District. We had a couple of hours to kill before the show, so Elf Dude and I decided to stop off at the Avalon for a couple of brews, which of course turned into several brews.

As soon as we drained our eighth or ninth beer, we headed towards the club. Elf was driving because he had more beer than I, and it was his car. I'm almost always the passenger, because Elf is just more comfortable in his own car with himself at the wheel. My problem is Elf relies more on an inner consciousness than actual sight for guidance. He doesn't like to look at the road too much, as he finds it distracting and hard on the eyes.

He threw the car into reverse and hit the accelerator. The car shot backwards until, at the very last second, he turned the wheel slightly, narrowly missing a black SUV behind us. I think I peed a little.

"What time is it?'� he asked.

I glanced at the clock on my cell phone. "7:15.'� We had been in the Avalon for only 15 minutes.

"Hell, it's way too early to head to the show", Elf realized. "Want to get a burger?"

It had been many beers and hours previously since I'd eaten, so I agreed. We decided on Squirmy Burger, a little joint across town. It doesn't seem to get as much business as the falafel stand next door, which is almost always crowded. It's called Veddighud Falafels.

Expertly driven, the car would make it to the burger place in minutes without an incident. As it was, Elf Dude left very few mangled pedestrians behind. I was very proud. It was mostly property damage.

When we got to the restaurant, we noticed a liquor right across the street. Elf took it as a sign (He believes in portents and signs'�all that crap, he even subscribes to Goth Upskirts Monthly).

I got the food while Elf fetched us some adult beverages. A double-decker, bacon bacon bacon, cheesy mushroom, bbq beef & bacon, 1/2 pound patty wrapped in bacon burger with a defibrillator on the side was halfway to my belly when I saw him out in the parking lot. He was using both hands to pull a keg across the asphalt, and it looked like he was having a little trouble. It was hot out that evening and being in an air conditioned restaurant, I allowed him to continue with his task whilst I copped his fries. Besides, I had been drinking most of the day and was very tired.

Looking through the window at my booth, I noticed an elderly couple getting into their car watching Elf struggle with the keg. They may have been old and unassuming, but I had them pegged as pagans from the get-go. I could just see them advancing on Elf stealthily, like old people do, and then striking without warning. They would use the sharpened edge of their Medicare cards and very small safety scissors to cut his carotid artery before opening his chest, removing his heart, and dancing naked before a bonfire in the name of their cloven-hooved god. I had to warn him quickly. I tried to scream through the window, but the glass was too thick, and he couldn't hear. I looked around frantically. The nearest door was like twelve feet away, so I broke the window with the old fashioned metal napkin holder thingy provided for customers.

"Hey," I called out between french fries, "Them old people are looking at you, dude." I pointed to the elderly couple. Elf Dude got that righteously indignant look on his face he gets whenever paganism rears its ugly head.

It was like a scene right out of a movie. Elf turned toward their car and ripped off his shirt Hulk-style. He stomped his feet in anger and ran full speed at them, bellowing his rage. I have never wanted a tub of popcorn more than I did right then.

The old man scrambled to get the key in the ignition. Elf arrived before the car could start. He flung open the door, reached in and pulled the driver to the pavement. Spitting curses and spit, he alternated between savage kicks and a stern lecture. Kinda just giving him the ol' what-for.

The Squirmy manager wandered over to where I was sitting and mumbled something about the broken window and legal action.

Without looking, I backhanded the man.

When Elf finished beating on the old man, he once again began to wrestle the keg over to our car.

'Talk about rude'� I chided the manager who was still prone.

He pointed at me red-faced. "I'm gonna have you arrested, you sonofabitch." He began to get up from his position on the ground.

The other customers in the restaurant began to back away, content to let the manager handle the situation. They continued to watch though, because fights are fun.

The manager regained his footing and did not look happy. As it happens, I was in one of my 'moods' and didn't care.

"You're going to have me arrested? I don't think so." I told him.

He was holding the side of his face where I had struck him. "Asshole. You broke my window and you assaulted me. You're damn right I'm gonna have you arrested. I'm calling the cops," he promised.

'Look here asshole'� I began. 'I did my best to minimize damage in here didn't I?'� I opened my jacket just enough to show the butts of two very large handguns in my waistband. 'I could have just opened up with both of these. What do you think about that junior? Think about it.'� I went ahead and pulled both guns out to use as pointers, because I forgot to bring my little laser pen. 'Blam, blam, blam. That could have been three Squirmy customers down right there, milkshakes and all. But I didn't shoot anybody'�and now you got me all het up. Look at me, I'm a wreck. I'm gonna have to take a pill.'�

He wasn't impressed with my ramblings at all. As a matter of fact, he reiterated, "I'm calling the cops."

Elf Dude had finished with the keg and walked over to the broken window to see why I wasn't with him drinking any of the beer. He saw my conflict with the manager and said "Hand him his ass."

Now, I've never formally studied martial arts, but I have seen a lot of movies over the years. I've managed to come up with Death Fu, a graceful yet powerful style of fighting.

At Elf's prompting, I dropped immediately into a rather frightening stance I like to call the 'squat'. I thrust both arms in front of my body, perpendicular to each other, palms facing inwards. Slowly, I began to bring my hands together in a clapping motion.

"Your shit is toast." Elf told the manager in an ominous tone.

The move is of my own invention called 'clappy hands'. It works like this: Basically, you bring your hands together over and over again on the sides of your opponent's head, with enough force to cause agonizing pain. (I know. It's brilliant. I really should patent it, as it usually causes instant submission. As a side note, I also have a method along the lines of your traditional hissy fit, and can be employed as time allows.)

Mr. Manager was whining and crying, but I wasn't done yet. The next move I put on him was another of my own invention. I originally came up with this one in grammar school and have massaged and tweaked it into an ubermove. I call it 'Kick-In-Nuts: Repeat'. And unless you are a fighting a eunuch, you don't even need any other moves.

Elf Dude ended up pulling me away. The Crazy Smeg Dancer show would start soon, and we hadn't even begun to get drunk.

The drive back to the Tower District and Club Shite wasn't without incident, but I don't have time to get into all the details. Suffice it to say, we left behind some very angry nuns.

By the time we got to the venue...the show was over. That's our rotten luck. We were late...Elf blamed me, and I blamed the nuns. There wasn't much to do at this point but wander about in a drunken manner.

Across the street from Club Shite sits a small comic book shop Elf and I used to browse through, looking for back issues. This was long before we glommed onto violence and mayhem as hobbies. It is owned and operated by one, Enormous George. The name Enormous George isn't one of those nicknames, like calling a bald guy Curly, or calling a tall guy Shorty. Enormous George is a veritable mountain of a man and not in a good way like Santa Claus or Grizzly Adams. He's like that old joke, 'Where does Enormous George sit?' Pause for effect. 'He sits everywhere. (Because he's fat')

During the day, he sits in a chair that over the years has succumbed to his ass. As a matter of fact, when he pushes against the force of gravity just to get out of his chair, there is an audible pop as he leaves the chair and air rushes into the spot his ass just occupied. The store itself is in complete disarray. Comics and magazines cover every inch of shelf and floor space alike. There is nothing in its place and a place for nothing. Haphazard seems to be his mantra. Enormous George does not own a cash register or a calculator. He does all his ciphering on an old wooden school desk at the front of the shop with a chewed up No. 2 pencil and the meager cognitive abilities at his command.

Around the chair in which he sits is another mountain. This one consists not of a thousand pounds of flesh but of empty styrofoam containers scraped clean of dinner residue except for that portion which festers, allowing bacteria to grow just enough to cause a truly offensive odor. And, from being in the same room with him on several occasions over the years, I have decided he considers hygiene on an annual basis.

This particular evening, the store was closed. Enormous George was not in residence. Elf Dude and I pressed our faces against the window in front, not so much to see inside but to hold our drunken asses up. We had finished the keg and were working on a rather large box of wine we received in exchange for sexual favors when the front door to the store flapped open violent and unexpected, causing me to once again pee a little. Some dude flew out of the store wildly swinging a big ol' stick at us. Elf Dude immediately threw himself on the wine keeping it safe from harm, while I looked for places to run. I would've run, too, but the pee was warm, and I was distracted.

"Hey, stop swinging that big ol' stick", I told the guy, and he did. He held the stick up as if to hit us again and stepped more into the light. Babe Ruth over here, was of average height and had one of those guts that precede him around corners. His t-shirt was three sizes too small and sported the slogan 'I Like Pie'. His head was huge and reminded me of a Michelin.

"Get out of here", he screamed at us. "Get out of here, or I'll hit you with this here stick.'�

'You bastard.'� Elf unwrapped himself from the wine box and stood up.

I stopped Elf from doing anything rash, because I wanted to play this one out. "What are you doing waving that stick around?" I asked him.

"I'm guarding the store. Someone has to protect it from evildoers and crack addicts."

"The store's closed. Why are you here anyway?'� Elf demanded.

'I don't understand the ways of your world. You see, I live in a world populated by superheroes and villains alike. I live in my comic books. I'm not comfortable in the real world with all those girls.'� He shook just a little. 'I'm afraid I prefer living in my own phony but safe world" He lowered the stick. "My parents kicked me out because all I do is read comics and eat donuts.'�

"What a sad piece of shit you are", I told him.

Elf asked again why he was here and now. He told us his name was Mitch. Enormous George agreed to let him stay in the store since his parents kicked him out and he was a sad piece of shit.

After a bit of talking, Mitch showed us his stick with pride. It was just an ordinary stick that he picked up somewhere. He was under the impression that he could carry the stick legally because it's just a stick and not a recognized weapon. According to his line of logic, the cops would take him to jail for holding a knife or gun, but a stick is just a stick. What a dick.

Elf Dude nudged me and whispered that he had an idea. He told Mitch he was misinformed. A stick is still illegal to carry, unless it is an official stick. I saw where Elf was going and asked Mitch if his stick was 'official'. An extremely stupid look came over his face as he processed the information. He looked at the stick in his hand suspiciously. "Official", he mulled. (Interestingly, Mitch had a mullet. He's a muller with a mullet. I think that's funny.)

"Yeah," I told him, "It has to be approved by the office of Homeland Security."

"Does it carry the official stamp?'� inquired Elf.

Mitch turned it over in his hand, examining it for a stamp. "I'm not sure."

Elf held out his hand. "Lemme see it." He gave it a cursory glance and tossed it to me. "What do you think?"
I made a show of checking it out. I held it up, looked down the shaft and handed it back to Mitch. "It doesn't look approved or official to me. You could get into a lot of trouble carrying an illegal stick like that around", I told him.

He looked sad, confused, and stupid. We told him we could fix it for him, because we happen to work for Homeland Security. Acting like drunken bastards was just our cover story.

I told him for the low price of $20 we could give the stick in question an official stamp. He let us come into the store while he got the money, because according to him, he would be damned before he would carry around an unofficial stick.

Once he ponyed up the cash, Elf Dude went out to his car to retrieve his handy dandy wood burning kit. In just a few minutes, we had the word 'official' burned onto the stick.

After it was done, Mitch held his stick reverently. "Thanks guys. I can't wait to walk right down the middle of the street with my stick held high."

Elf Dude shook his head slowly and frowned. I gave Mitch a look of surprise. "Oh, you actually want to carry it on your person?'� I asked. 'You're gonna need a license for that."

By the time we left the comic book store, Elf and I split a hundred and twenty bucks. We stuck Mitch for license fees, carry fees, concealed stick fees and sold him a holster for the damn thing that we made out of a couple of discarded Slim Jim wrappers and a condom I found in the alley.

Elf and I parted company about then, but not before we decided Mitch would have made a good hillbilly. Elf Dude headed out to find some lady dwarves he had recently been dating, and I went back for them nuns.

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