After this outburst I returned to the booth to see that the Aardvark was gone. My attempts at locating him were halted suddenly by the screaming of another person. It seems as though that evening was open season on howling. The person yelling was Oliver Absinthe, the bartender, who was yelling at Cassius who was in turn yelling and alternately beating with his fists and a cuspidor, a slot machine that was not acting in the way Cassius expected it to. With a resounding howl the machine exploded showering colored lights, nickels, pieces of wire, and an Aardvark at me. The last was caught by Ketanya Schwartz in one hand while downing a beer with the other. Absinthe was jumping up and down behind his seasick green bar while the rather shady looking patrons were scrambling for the nickels. Absinthe, who had been systematically withdrawing each strand of hair from his chest (his head was bald), let loose a barrage of verbal abuse that even singed my ears. Besides that, he let loose a string of whiskey bottles that sailed across the room and felled, one at a time, the clientele on the opposite side. The bodies began piling up as Oliver the bartender became not only bald on his head, but upon his barrel chest also. I for one dove for safety under the table, and there was pleasantly surprised to find the half-pickled Olga Schwartz still swilling spirits. I raised my head in time to see the Aardvark swinging across the nearly-ruined room on the trunk of Rubin, who was sitting in the middle of the floor hitting himself and repeating, "Go away, go away." Giving out a sound like Tarzan with the gout, he flew through the murky smoke-filled air and with a sidearm that would do Bob Feller credit, hit the still-bellowing bartender a resounding clunk in the cranium. Absinthe fell like a poled ox. By this time there was much yelling and hollering by everyone within a radius of two blocks. In the distance we heard the mournful wail that signals the entrance of the blue coated gendarmes. With a significant look we aroused Rubin, whose moustache had begun to droop sadly, climbed upon his back, and amidst the clatter and crash of beer bottles, escaped the "Drunken Cockroach Nightclub." Like I said, what a night! CHAPTER 6 NONE SO BLIND AS LOVE These were the times. The good times that I still remember as I rock back and forth before my fire. Eh? Whassat? Oh, yeah, less ruminating and more expostulating. Heh, that's a good one, sonny, but don't be gettin' flip with me ... old Smirtz can still tan the hide off'n any young whipper snupper like you.