This Really is not Normal, in fact it's Damned Abnormal

[think of it as a humorous Short Story, from ~me~ Sha’Tara]

This really is not normal, I thought as I stared at the reflections on the ceiling. In fact, I thought as I thought further, it’s damned abnormal.

Someone, a very large someone, was holding a piano to his ear as he played the keys on an old-fashioned portable phone with large hairy brown fingers. (Sorry, the large hairy brown fingers belonged to the large man, not to the old-fashioned portable phone: I think it’s important to make a note when misplaced modifiers get out of line. I mean, who do they think they are anyway?) Auld Lang Syne levitated slowly from the raised platform through the dank air to dutifully and thankfully ooze out the slightly ajar French windows into an unforgiving night made up of very dark shadows slightly dispelled by vapour lamps – and no wonder, everybody knows vapour lamps can’t spell at the best of times and this was neither the best of times nor the worst of times. Sorry Charles, didn’t mean to plagiarize but that’s such a great line, don’t you agree?

Well, perhaps it was another song, those reflections were incredibly noisy.

The man holding the piano was talking loudly into it, sometimes laughing, sometimes saying things that must have been quite crude: you should have seen the face of the woman holding the case from which protruded a cello trying desperately to ease itself out and play itself. It was using its bow to try and push the lid open. I’d never seen a cello actually sweat before. More reflections, of both kinds.

Then the pig-mies came in and the place got boisterous again.

The pig-mies, there were a half-dozen of them, sidled up to the bar, jumped in choreographed unison upon the rotating stools, spinned, cheered and ordered drinks. The bartender – the badger – looked at them and said, not terribly politely, “I don’t serve pigs in here.”

“We’re not pigs, we’re pig-mies.” This from second from the right pig-my, mr. talkative.

“A moot point, said the badger. I can’t serve you.”

“Why not?” and the pig-mies giggled like little girls walking past the boys restroom.

“There’s a law, that’s why not.”

“A law, oh my, did you hear that fellahs? They have a law, and that law says mr. badger here can’t serve pig-mies at his bar.

What do you say to that, Antoine?”

“It’s bullshit,” says third from the left pig-my, without lifting his bald head from a newspaper article he was holding upside down.

“You see, bar tending badger, the deal is, Antoine here, he’s a lawyer, Queen’s bench. He says your law is bullshit.”

“All laws are bullshit.” The authoritative sounding muscled black bull sitting at a corner table wagged his ears as he looked at the pig-mies and the badger, adding, “Me and my folks, we make the laws around here and we know what they are. Obey them, or eat them. That’s what we say.”

“Is there a bullshit law against serving pig-mies at a bar, then, mr bull?” squeaked talkative.

Bull snorts, waggling his ears some more as if swatting at very large, black and annoying flies, slips his tongue deftly in turn into each nostril to wipe the froth that’d gotten up there from his brew. “Depends on how you spell that. How do you spell that?”

“Pig-mies. That’s with an “i” of course.”

Now bulls can be quite suspicious and hate being fooled. “An Eye-of-course? You sure? Not piglets? Piglets are automatically disqualified from entering bars in this state, being underage.”

“Yah, we’re sure, very sure. We have ID. We can prove who we are and we didn’t come in here just to put a snout in the trough either or so to speak.”

“Commendable, I’m sure,” replied bull, and to badger, “I rest my case. Now I want to finish my drink. Serve the little buggers, badger, ain’t nuttin’ you can do about it. It is bullshit.”

Badgers are stubborn; they don’t give in so easily. “I can appeal.” he says, not moving to pour any drinks.

“A peel?” squeaked the pig-mies, “or a peal?” “Got an orange? Got a bell? and in unison, “gimme five, bro!” followed by high pitched and truly

annoying peals of pig-my laughter.

Anyone else would have thought that the pig-mies’ comment on the appeal a great joke. Badger wasn’t laughing though. He bared his teeth to express his thorough displeasure but immediately fifth from the right pig-my jumped up on the bar and began to examine badger’s mouth.

“He’s our dentist,” explains talkative, “and a very good one too. He’ll give you a complete exam for drinks for the rest of us. Introductory offer, take or leave.”

“I don’t want my teeth examined” says badger but third from the left pig-my (the lawyer) raised his head and said, “Sorry, you’re too late. You opened your mouth and bared you teeth to our dentist. That’s a contract. He’s got to finish the exam, and we’ll take those drinks now, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah oo mine, ah oo mine” mumbled badger with his mouth full of dentist fingers tasting of yard mud and beer stained floor wax. “Shop… shlop, shtop o ah bide your fee-ers!” mumbled the now very upset and very angry badger.

A crashing noise from the corner of the bar and a table flipped over. Bull stood up switching his tail and with a very deep male moo-cow moo, said, “I want some music and I want this wrangling to end, capiche? Finish the exam, take your drinks and shut up, just shut the hell up everyone of you!” Bull is really angry and he’s moseyed on up to the bar to face an even angrier badger. “I want peace and I want quiet in here.” He stomps his hoof on the hard wood floor leaving a deep indentation.

“I’ll be Peace,” says first from right pig-my with a smirk. “And I’ll be Quiet,” says fourth from left pig-my with a sneer and a leer now holding a beer. (I’m sorry, the pigmy was holding the beer, not the leer and a deer also had a beer which he shared with a steer but that’s in another reflection.)

The break must have been over. A dark-complexioned dark man in a black riding suit, black cowboy hat and shiny black cowboy boots wearing black kid gloves (sorry again, it’s the dark-complexioned dark man who’s wearing the black kid gloves, not the black cowboy boots) strode unto the stage, picked up the piano, stuck it under his chin and began to stroke the keys with his black bow tie. A light-brown gazelle rose from a near-by table and daintily stepped up on the deck. Gingerly lifting the brim of his broad black cowboy hat (it was in fact all of nine and a half Imperial gallons in size) she kissed the black stranger on the neck. Then with the dainty tip of her raspy little grey tongue she slowly took stock of his inner ear, hinting at good times later. Satisfied with the results of her probe, she raised her head and began to sing in falsetto “Home, home on the range” at which point I was joltingly reminded that I had left a kettle of water with three eggs in it boiling on the range. (Of course this range not to be confused with that range.) I switched off the dining room light putting an end to my reflections. It’s going to be just salad again tonight.