I was all for turning back as was Cassius Q, but the Valkyries, Olga and Ketanya who had consumed a great deal of wine (they learned how in Valhalla, they told us) ran on ahead and without a backward hiccough vanished into the rickety building which threatened at any moment to fall on their heads. With a shrug to the Gods of Chance Rubin, Cassius and myself proceeded to the Spirit Hostelry, or as you choose, Beer Parlor. The inside of the Drunken Cockroach was worse than the outside. It looked like a nightmare by Dali on a night when he had run out of brushes and had started using his feet. The bar, which ran across the back of the smoke-filled room, was of a seasick green color while the walls were a burnt umber tinged with beige. The floor was ornamented with a five-pointed star that showed several crawly type animals such as the kind that "... go bump in the night." They were of various hues and were, in all, quite sickening. The bartender was the worst. A small sign above the door related to the fact that he was Oliver Absinthe. He was not only repulsive, he was nauseating. A large bald head encased in folds of pink flesh was what surmounted the largest bay window in the country, outside of Rubin's. He was wearing an apron that showed the demise of many a martini. There were also spaghetti, dirt, milk, coffee, and gravy stains on the apron besides a group of green blotches that I couldn't quite place. It looked like the remains of last week's spinach. Have you ever heard a sick Hippo tell you about his operation? Well, if not try to imagine how it would sound, since that was what this fellow's voice sounded like. "What's ya pleasure," he said. "Nothing much," I answered, looking for a quick way to get out if it was needed. We seated ourselves in a booth next to the Valkyries who were fast at work guzzling beer. Rubin just stood with one foot on the brass rail, which at the application of his weight, bent. He ordered another double double scotch and in one gulp downed it. It was then that the elephant began screeching in an unelephantlike way and kicking himself in his more than ample posterior. We started shaking him by the trunk and asked him what the trouble was and he yelled that the last drink was one too many. He was seeing pink people.