by Dave Barsby
In a huff, she turns away from me, surveys the scene in front of her and slowly, unsurely walks away. I turn and enter the bar.
It is a dark affair with wall-to-wall mock wood and a thick musty aroma. The poor lighting in the ceiling is hampered further by choking coils of acrid tobacco-flavoured vaporiser smoke. I briefly check the patrons to ensure none of them are undercover law officers about to bust everyone for nicotine possession. It seems safe. There are very few patrons in here. Three girls at the bar, a pair of gruff, long-haired fellows in a booth with a rather bland-looking Hexagonal Patriarch, and two or more Kileans (it is always so hard to tell how many of them there are because of the way they mass together, oozing over each other).
I tug at my T-shirt then walk calmly over to the bar. My trainers squeak with every step. The Hexagonal Patriarch immediately buries itself in a piece of paper, then rumbles over as I reach the bar and hands it to me.
I quickly scan the paper with curiosity. A lot of it is legal jargon, but the parts I can understand tell me that the Hexagonal Patriarch wants to take legal action against me over an unnecessary violation of its aural senses – in other words, it is suing me because my trainers squeak. I look blankly at it, decide it is either a joke or some strange form of initiation and pocket the paper for careful study later. I try to catch the bartender’s attention, who is currently talking to the trio of girls at the end of the bar.
“Hi, erm, can I have-?” I am cut short when the bartender grabs a sheet of A4 from a large pile and places it in front of me. I have infringed on his personal rights, specifically with respect to his right to talk to whomever he wants. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I apologise.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“Erm…” I begin. I am still a little confused by the two legal documents I have received. “Let me see,” I continue, puffing out my cheeks. The bartender plucks another piece of paper from a second large pile for me. Wasting the time of a public-serving business. For some reason it has taken me this long to connect the dots – a bar called SoSueMe where I keep getting sued over minor infractions. That bartender has a lot of piles of paper. I decide to be extra careful and give this bar one more chance.
“A FUBAR,” I say.
He hands me another sheet – unnecessary promotion of a brand name in a public area. “We’ve stopped serving,” he tells me.
“These bars are open 24/7,” I inform him suspiciously. I decide to take the initiative and play the bartender at his own game. “You are infringing on my inalienable right to be served, and I will sue you.”
“I have the right to refuse service to any I deem unfit to imbibe alcohol,” he tells me.
“Sir, I take that as a grievous character assassination that I expect will cause me great distress and anxiety for a minimum of two years.”
He serves me the drink. I have won. The feeling of elation is short-lived, however, because I suddenly realise that all I have won is the ability to be served in a bar. I still have three writs from the bartender to deal with, and one from the Hexagonal Patriarch.
Feeling a little glum, I trot over to the three girls at the end of the bar, hoping for some form of pleasant social interaction from somewhere.
“What is it with this place?” I ask one of them.
“You are infringing on my personal space-” she starts. I hold up my hands and back away. This is more than I can take. I’m just not cut out for the malicious and totally pointless world of personal injury law, be it physical or mental. I wonder how much I would be sued for if I punch the bartender in the mouth. He probably has a stack of papers already drawn up for that too.
I down my drink in one, leave the empty glass on the bar top and quickly walk out of the place, ignoring the bartender’s calls – he probably wants to sue me for not cleaning the glass myself, thus forcing him into a brief form of slavery.
I realise I’m getting a lot better at this drinking malarkey when the effects of the FUBAR don’t hit me until I am halfway down the metal steps. I comfortably slide the rest of the way down and get to my feet. It hasn’t pickled my brain anywhere near as much this time – I suspect it is the endless hours of drinking Drift’s home-made brew aboard the Diablo III that has stiffened my resolve. Apart from the brief horizontal journey down the steps of SoSueMe, I feel fine. I decide to try the next bar. Warily.
Fortunately the second bar on the row is a calmer, more sensible affair. It is busier, friendlier and easier to get served. I settle down at the bar, and am sipping my second FUBAR when someone unnecessarily dusts down the stool next to me and sits on it.
“Considering the current situation, I believe it is time I started making some compromises,” Larisa says quietly.
“You don’t say,” I reply testily.
“I went into the other bar to find you. I had taken four steps when three young women handed me a piece of paper. It said I had forced them to reflect on the imperfections of their own cosmetic properties, which had resulted in an abject loss of confidence. What do they mean?”
“They’re suing you for being pretty,” I explain.
“Dressed like this?” she asks with surprise.
“Apparently some people go for it.”
She places her arms on the bar top, leans in close and whispers. “I was once the Princess of Almudena,” she complains. “Now I am the Queen of Tarts!”
“You certainly have a way with words,” I tell her.
“I know,” she answers with surety. She looks down at the bar top with distaste. “What have I just put my elbows in?”
“Beer,” I say, checking the small puddle. “It’s something us commoners occasionally drink.”
“Thank you, I am aware of that. What are you drinking now?”
“FUBAR.”
“How did it get that name?”
“It stands for ‘Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition’ or ‘Repair’ or something like that. It’s very strong.”
A bartender appears, having only just noticed a potential new customer. He waits patiently and silently for Larisa to speak. She seems momentarily confused.
“Oh, right,” she says after a lengthy pause. “Erm, I would like a mineral water, preferably from the Bulvic Sector if you have any, and my friend would like another, umm, FUBAR, please barkeep.”
Unimpressed, the bartender heads off for the drinks. Larisa is silent while she waits. I can’t quite understand her, but worse still I can’t quite understand how I feel about her. She is struggling through this whole challenging situation with a certain maturity and confidence, and for that she should be applauded. I also know that for the most part it is a mask, covering a very vulnerable and frightened young woman. Yet on occasion, she can show a petty disregard for others bordering on the malicious. She isn’t the kind of person to be intentionally sadistic, but her very nature distances her from everyone else. Sometimes, such as now, she can seem almost normal – able to talk on the same level as your average ‘commoner’ in an easy, confident manner. But occasionally her haughty side shines through, and it is in those moments that she proves the old adage about beauty only being skin deep. It is time she started making compromises, and I only hope they enable her to be the better person she surely can become.
The bartender returns with the drinks. He lays them out in front of us. “One FUBAR,” he says. “And one tap water. Eight tabs.”
“Sorry?” Larisa asks, the mention of tap water having confused her.
“Eight tabs,” the bartender repeats wearily.
Larisa looks at me. “Oh…” she says in surprise, having never physically paid for anything in her life. I roll my eyes and bring my datacard out of my pocket. I pause for a brief moment, then return it to my pocket and use the card Rogdo gave me instead – I’ve hardly scratched the balance yet, and it is largely his fault I’ve been driven to drink.
I pay for the drinks and put the card back in my pocket.
“Shall we sit in a quieter spot?” Larisa asks.
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br /> I sigh. “Okay,” is all I say. I had chosen to sit at the bar because that seemed like the best place for a lonely person to drown their sorrows. Now I am lumbered with a sidekick of sorts, the bar top has lost its appeal.
We slide off the barstools and head through the throng to a small table nestled at the rear. Larisa looks a little nervous as I follow her, and keeps glancing to either side.
“Something is very wrong,” she tells me quietly after we have sat. She leans across the table to whisper conspiratorially, and I’m impressed and heartened to see she completely ignores the fact that she’s just put her elbow in another puddle of lukewarm beer. “I can sense it.”
“Sense what?” I ask, whispering in a jovial manner.
“That something is very wrong.”
“Such as?”
“I believe I may have been recognised. I believe some agents of my unknown nemesis may be in this bar at this very minute.”
“Why do you think that?” I ask, feeling sudden pangs of fear bubble in my stomach. Could we be murdered any second now? I dare not turn round and look, it may only speed up their attack.
“A lot of people were staring at me as we walked over to this table,” she whispers in fear.
I relax, both mentally and physically, and sit back in my creaking wooden chair. “We’re they by any chance all men?” I ask.
“Well, mostly,” she says, then motions for me to return to the conspiratorial huddle. “Do you think-?” she begins.
“I think,” I say clearly, “that you are very attractive and dressed, for want of a better word, slutty.”
Larisa straightens up a little. “You mean-?”
“Trollop. Harlot. Strumpet. Whore. Floozy. There we are, I knew there were better words.”
“You mean they all want to…?” she nods her head in a you-know-what-I-mean way.
“The Royal Appointed Teacher did mention the birds and the bees, didn’t he?”
“Well!” She straightens in her seat, proud and regal once more. It doesn’t even come close to working in that outfit. “I think that is disgusting!” She notices one of the bar patrons staring at her with a leer (or, as he is a Goth, he is brooding in an overtly sexual manner), so she huffily turns her head to one side.
“Not really used to the dating scene, are you,” I say.
“How dare you!” she insists. “You do not know me! I have dated.”
“And what is your average royal date like?”
“Well, just like any other date I would expect. Once an appropriate suitor has been selected, we will attend a state function, dine then dance. Small talk is allowed when the evening draws to a close. If all goes well, we will meet at further state functions. I ask you, is there anything so strange about that?”
“You’ve been born twelve hundred years too late, Princess,” I tell her. “The 19th Century would have suited you perfectly.”
“Well, thank you,” she says slowly and unsurely. “I believe people were a lot more respectable back then.”
“I think ‘sexually repressed’ is the usual term.”
Larisa lets her guard down with this comment. She is unable to retain her composure as she initially readies to burst with anger, before reluctantly realising the truth of my comment, after which comes a saddening moment of inner reflection. It is one of those moments that need to be seen to be believed, a trio of emotions crossing a person’s face in a single second, all of them perfectly identifiable. Frustrated, she lowers her gaze to the table.
She’s done it again. She’s made me feel sorry for her. I don’t know if it is genuine or a manipulation she has been taught from birth, but it works on me. I reach out one hand and pat her arm affectionately.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “It’s your breeding.” I immediately regret this statement and log it in my memory implant as one of those phrases nobody should ever say. It joins the likes of “Maybe you’ve put on a bit of weight”, “You are really sweet”, “I bet I can do that” and “Your brother / sister is hot”.
She looks up at me and smiles a little. I still haven’t seen her smile fully since we first met, or laugh or relax, but this slight smile is an improvement on the usual “I’ve been kidnapped” grumpiness.
“Do you…like me?” she asks. It should go without saying that her enquiry is not of a sexual nature, but of platonic friendship.
If truth were my main motivation for answering, I would need to think the question over for some time, weigh up the pros and cons, draw a Venn diagram or perhaps even design a complex but ultimately rewarding graph to determine the answer. But I know when it is best to use truth, and when to comfort someone (the two naturally being complete opposites of the scale).
“Yes,” I tell her. “Yes, I do.”
She smiles then, a proper, broad, happy smile. If her beauty was stratospheric before, now she has left the atmosphere far behind and is confidently charging to the next star system. It is a revelation, one that brings new meaning to the term ‘heart-stopping’ – a literal one, as behind me the leering / brooding man collapses over a table. As his friends turn him over and lie him on the floor, Larisa gives a short, sharp gasp. I look back to her to determine what the matter is, but she already knows and is fiddling with the communicator button on her gauntlet. As though saying “You’re less worthy, wait in line” my communicator goes off a good five seconds after Larisa’s. However, I manage to solve the problem of turning it on a lot quicker than her.
“Hello?” I ask, feeling a bit silly having to speak into my wrist.
“Where are you?” Rogdo asks back, and I feel even sillier having to put my wrist up to my ear. Surely there are better-designed communicators than these.
“In a bar. What’s up?”
“Is the Princess with you?”
“Yes.”
“In a bar?!?”
“Yes! What is it?”
“Oh, erm, well, start heading back now. I want us all outside the Diablo in ten minutes.”
“Okay, on our way.”
I turn off the communicator. “We have to get back,” I tell Larisa, who has successfully snapped off the communicator button and is staring guiltily at it.
“Right,” she says and carefully places the button on the table before standing. We skirt the crowd of onlookers watching CPR being performed and become hopelessly lost on the way back. Thanks to the locator in Larisa’s left gauntlet, Rogdo tracks us down after just fifteen minutes and angrily escorts us the rest of the way.
10. EXPENSIVE ANSWERS
Rogdo is already in a bad mood by the time he leads the Princess and myself back to the Diablo III. It is about to get a lot worse.
“We all here now?” he asks in a huff. He scans the crew and visibly slumps. One is missing. “Where’s Gronk?”
“Ah, yes, about that,” Dirk begins. He shuffles nervously. Quite a bit of shuffling can be done when you’re standing on twelve limbs.
“Go ahead,” Rogdo prompts. Dirk seems a tad reluctant to speak.
“He’s…erm…well, you see, we were heading north, as you instructed, and it was a fine, sunny day, and he was in a good mood…yes, a very good mood…and-”
“Enough! Dirk, tell me, what happened to Gronk?”
“He met someone, Sir.”
Rogdo takes a few moments to process this thought. “He…met someone?”
“Ah, yes, Sir. A sprightly young thing, too. Quite pretty. A boy band fanatic on a day trip to Gothland. Likes muscles. The bigger the better.”
“So when you say ‘met someone’ you mean…what, exactly?”
“Gronk has a girlfriend, Sir.”
Everyone is stunned by this revelation, and a couple of surprised whistles blossom forth from the crew.
“Or,” continues Dirk, on a roll, “as he would put it: “Gronk got woman…Sir.”
“Well,” Rogdo begins, somewhat confused. “Good for him. But why isn’t he here? I ordered everyone to return here.”
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�He…well, they were…you know…chatting, and…he wanted to stay.”
“Stay. Right. Why didn’t you drag him back?”
“He’s ten feet tall, Sir, and rather strong. Why don’t you try?”
“No need for that,” Tima calls. “Here he comes.”
She is right. The great lumbering hulk is heading our way with a grin on his face. There is something next to him, and it takes a few seconds to register it is actually a very petite girl – when I say petite, I’m trying to be politically correct as she is less than 5-ft tall. They are holding hands as best they can.
Rogdo slaps his forehead in consternation. “Jesus!” he mutters.
“Hi, I’m Britney!” the girl squeals happily when they halt in front of the group. She waves madly to the astonished crowd.
“Gronk!” Rogdo demands. “What the hell are you doing with that?” He looks with distaste at Britney.
She huffily brushes some hair from her face. “Haven’t you heard that size doesn’t matter?”
“Sweetheart, it does when it’s this extreme,” is the one sentence Rogdo says to Britney the entire conversation. “Gronk, what’s going on?”
“Gronk leave,” the man-mountain answers.
“Leave? What do you mean ‘leave’? The ship, the crew?”
Gronk nods. “Leave,” he repeats. I notice out the corner of my eye that Larisa is backing away from the group. I turn to see. She stops a few yards away, her back to us and her head lowered.
“We are in a crisis situation here,” Rogdo continues. “You have a price on your head. In that kind of scenario, you can’t just abandon everything to shack up with the first floozy you come across.”
I decide to ignore the conversation and see what the matter is with Larisa. When I approach her, she isn’t crying as I thought, but giggling. However, it doesn’t take me long to realise it is one of those giggles that borders on crying.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
She looks at me, grinning. Her eyes glisten a little – yep, tears are not far off.