Dear diary,
So, reasoning within our hearts that it would be more fun to backslide into our old habit of battling shape-shifting robots, Tolstoy and Jesus and I decide to sell our fruit cart and use the proceeds to take over the neighborhood bar — the one directly across the street from our apartment. I’m not sure whether I told you, but we had to pawn our costumes: those mechanical uniforms that can be put on like a tuxedo yet appear to be made of metal, and which change at the press of an interior button from vaguely humanoid in form to the likeness of various giant household appliances. We agree that, until we can afford to buy back these android suits, we’ll all hang out at our new business, The Modern Saloon. Jesus will serve drinks as our handsome bartender, Count Leo Tolstoy will remain the sad drunk, and I myself will become an attractive female manager named Angela Willsher. (That’s one of the fake names that I formerly used on The Facebook, back when I had more than thirty accounts there — behold, is not the record of my online actions preserved in A Book about What?) [See also my diary entry from 5 May 2015, “Impromptu excuses about my Facebook journey”, which contains the full list of these personas.]
Now our sole female roommate Vanessa, who is sort of like the fourth person of our Friendship Trinity (and by far the holiest, tho not the pious but the seductive kind of holy) enters the bar & sees me & sez “He-e-ey, Angie! Lookin’ fine!” & she takes a drag on her cigarette.
“Thanks, Vee, but you can’t smoke in here,” I say; “they changed the laws about that recently.”
Vanessa exhales a long stream of smoke very relaxedly & sez: “That’s OK. I’ll do as I like, because I don’t live in the present.”
I stare at her for a moment and then say, “Fair enough.” (The audience laughs.)
“I’m empty,” Leo Tolstoy holds his mug aloft to prove this fact. “Please remedy my situation with either ale or maidservants.” (The audience laughs again.)
Jesus casually refills Tolstoy’s mug with beer. “This is the best I can do for ya,” Jesus sez, “since, along with public smoking, the state also outlawed the exchange of relapsed magdalenes.”
Tolstoy sips his brew and then looks up and remembers his line: “Can I just say the same thing she said, about that?” and he gestures toward Vanessa, who is exhaling another long, sexy smoke-stream.
“No,” sez Jesus. (The audience laughs loudly.)
Now the seven spirits of the Storm God enter the tavern in their collective, singular form as Bryan the Tyger, who leaves a trail of fiery cat-prints wherever he walks.
“Bry!” sez Jesus, “welcome, have a seat!”
The Burning Tyger consumes one of the bar stools. (The audience laughs.)
Now the U.S. Government enters the bar, in the form of a giant muscular male-ish bully with road-rage on steroids.
“Columbus, welcome. Sorry I haven’t had time to come visit your shores — I keep planning on doing that,” Jesus sez (and the audience laughs). “Shall I get you the usual?”
“Hurry up,” grunts the USG.
Jesus places a six-pack of light beer on the table before the USG. The USG rips a can away from its plastic ring-yoke, opens it by flipping the pull-tab, and begins to sip loudly.
Tolstoy visibly winces from his place at the bar. He turns around slowly and scowls: “Must you slurp?”
The U.S. Government’s eyes widen as it rises from its wooden chair. It sips even louder from the can, apparently intentionally increasing the noisiness of its consumption, until it finishes the beverage. Then it yanks a second beer from the plastic pack of rings and opens and drinks this can with redoubled rudeness, all the while staring at Count Tolstoy maniacally.
“Easy, Columbus,” Jesus sez, while using a white towel to dry the inside of a freshly washed mug.
The USG finishes the entire six-pack in this same fashion, never once taking its eyes off Count Leo Tolstoy. Then the USG approaches old Leo at the bar and points its thick finger at his face. It voices an unprintable insult about the Count’s long white beard; then makes a derogatory comment about “Mother Russia” which includes a clever use of the eff word. (The audience roars with laughter.) The U.S. Government then exits the bar by walking directly thru the brick wall, about an arm’s breadth from the doorway, leaving a muscle-man shaped void.
Tolstoy murmurs: “What a prima donna.”
The U.S. Government now reappears in the wall-hole that it just made: “What’s that you say!?”
With balled fist upraised, the USG paces determinedly over to Count Tolstoy and thwacks him hard. The USG then leaves the bar again; for good, this time.
“Oh my god,” sez Jesuz, “are you OK? What a jerk!” He pats Tolstoy’s white head with the white towel that he was using on the mug, and it becomes dark red with blood.
“He bopped you bad,” Vanessa remarks, not without compassion; then inhales from her cigarette while watching the blood drip from the towel and stain the floor of the bar.
“Sorry, I should have stopped whatever just happened,” the Burning Tyger wakes up to quip, “but I was just enjoying a cat nap.” (The audience roars with laughter yet again.)
“You bad beast!” I say, in my role as Angela the spunky bar manager, while I tap Bryan the Tyger on his snout with the rolled up papers of my quarterly earnings report. Then I nudge his haunch playfully with my nylon’d foot (I removed my stilettos mid-scene because they were making my feet sore) and say mock-angrily “Get outta here, you great big pussy. No pets allowed!” (There’s more audience laughter.)
“I’m nobody’s pet,” the Burning Tyger sez while leaving. He stops momentarily and glances at the hole in the wall, before skulking thru the proper exit. (The audience chuckles.)
Slightly bending the rules of the sitcom format, the camera leaves the main characters and follows Bryan the Tyger outside of the bar. There’s no studio audience here in the open air, so there’s no more mirth. By a nearby streetlamp, the Tyger spies the popular animated cartoon characters from 1940, Tom and Jerry, engaged in a heated argument. The Burning Tyger approaches and listens to the dispute for a while, turning his vast Tyger face from character to character, as each one makes his case against the other; then Bryan the Tyger decides to maul Tom the House-cat.
Patting Jerry on the head, carefully so as to avoid crushing him with his mighty Tyger paw, Bryan explains: “I always stand up for the underdog; that’s why I saved you, Minnie.”
Then the Tyger turns his head and notices that there are several small, blue, humanoid creatures who live in mushroom-shaped houses nearby. Their names are Jokey Smurf, Lazy Smurf, Grouchy Smurf, Brainy Smurf, and Smurfette. They are trying to sell a magic flute and some smurfberries to the Hindu god Krishna. Bryan the Tyger returns to the forest of the night without sticking around to see whether Krishna bites the bait.
Please note that that last scene with the Smurfs and the deity should be envisioned as an “ice capade” (an entertainment whose theatrical performances are accomplished by figure skaters), even tho the characters are technically just standing still and haggling on the street corner. The trick to making your novel seem exciting, even when it’s dull, is to pack dazzling movement into every possible instant of the episode. Even the stillest setups can feel adventurous, if you add enough pageantry. Tell your actors to luxuriate in choreography — each line of dialogue can be accompanied by a dancelike motion. (Believe me, if you follow this advice, your work of art will NOT come off as annoying.)
So it turned out, after all, that the three of us — Jesus, Tolstoy, and I Bryan the author in a double role as Angela Willsher and a mutant Burning Tyger — fulfilled our life’s dream, along with our best friend Vanessa, and we reached our fundraising goal: After our first morning of operating our bar, we made enough money that we were able to redeem from our pawnbroker those shape-shifting mechanical carapaces that we so fervently desired in the beginning of this essay. Then we engaged in a universal battle against the simpler robots who owned smaller guns and could only transmogrify into less vogue products.
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