'I said you've got a bright future, James. This gig ever gets old, you can always run for Vice President.
The room was big, harshly lit in a few spots, but mostly dark. The floors were cement; the walls that I could see, painted brick. A network of conduits, wheels, gears, and pipes adhered to the ceiling, ragged in places, as if ripped apart in a frenzy.
Off to the left was the bar-wooden doors on sawhorses fronting a metal rack full of bottles. Next to the rack were half a dozen white bowls filled with ice.
Shiny porcelain bowls. Raised lids.
Toilets.
Two men worked nonstop to service a thirsty throng of minors, filling and squirting and scooping cubes from the commodes. No faucets; the soda and water came from bottles.
The rest of the space was a dance floor. No boundary separated the bar crowd from pressure-packed bodies writhing and jerking like beached grunion. Up close, the music was even more formless. But loud enough to keep the Richter scale over at Cal Tech busy.
The geniuses creating it stood at the back, on a makeshift stage.
Five hollow-cheeked, leotarded things who could have been junkies had they been healthier-looking. Marshall Stacks big as vacation cabins formed a black felt wall behind them. The bass drum bore the legend OFFAL.
High on the wall behind the amps was another BAKER FERTILIZER sign, partially blocked by a hand-lettered banner tacked diagonally.
WELCOME TO THE SHIT HOUSE.
The accompanying artwork was even more charming.
'Creative,' I said, loud enough to feel my palate vibrate, but inaudible.
Milo must have read my lips because he grinned and shook his head.
Then he lowered it and charged through the dancers, toward the bar.
I dived in after him.
We arrived, battered but intact, at the front of the drinkers.
Dishes of unshelled peanuts sat beside toilet paper squares improvising as napkins. The bartop needed wiping. The floor was carpeted with husks where it wasn't wet and slick.
Milo managed to bull his way behind the bar. Both of the barkeeps were thin, dark, and bearded, wearing sleeveless gray undershirts and baggy white pajama bottoms. The one closer to Milo was bald. The other was Rapunzel in drag.
Milo went over to Baldy. The bartender jabbed one hand defensively while pouring Jolt Cola into a glass quarter-filled with rum.
Milo's hand fit all the way around this wrist. He gave it a short, sharp twist-not enough to cause injury, but the bartender's eyes and mouth opened and he put the cola can down and tried to jerk away.
Milo held fast, doing the badge thing again, but discreetly.
Keeping the ID at an angle that hid it from the drinkers. A hand from the crowd reached out and snared the rum and cola. Several others began slapping the bartop. A few mouths opened in soundless shouts.
Baldy gave Milo a panicked look.
Milo talked in his ear.
Baldy said something back.
Milo kept talking.
Baldy pointed at the other mix-master. Milo released his grip.
Baldy went over to Rapunzel and the two of them conferred. Rapunzel nodded and Baldy returned to Milo,
