-SALOON AT THE EDGE OF EVERYWHERE-

Chapter Thirteen

The alien dressed as a pirate, or more precisely the alien dressed in a bad Halloween costume of a pirate, drew his sword. The incongruity of it all got to Jimmy, who we must remember had been drinking beer not long before.

“That’s not even the right kind of sword for a pirate, Matey,” he said sarcastically. Then he started to laugh, and in his best pirate voice he said, “Arrrrh, you be wantin’ a cutlass, you bilge-rat.”

Mof did not see the humor in this. “Shut up, Jimmy, don’t make them angry.”

VarnTa started to giggle as well.

“Do you ask for quarter?” the not quite as scary as he felt he ought to be pirate asked in a voice that was meant to be deadly serious, but fell decidedly short when it cracked into a high pitched whine in the middle of the word ‘quarter’.

“If you give me a quarter, I’ll show you my booty!” yelled Jimmy, and fell on the floor laughing.

The less piratey of the two pirates fired his gun into the air. There was more clicking and fluttering and raining pieces of ceiling. Jimmy stopped laughing and stood back up. The Qualm began to howl mournfully.

“Drop the knives,” said the less fashion conscious of the two pirates in an un-piratical but nonetheless very serious voice. Then his eyes suddenly went very wide. He was looking behind the captives and at the window.

Recon 2 slowly turned, almost synchronized in their movement. Outside the window glared a huge eye.

VarnTa had a flash of inspiration. He turned back to the armed intruders and said, “I see you haven’t met my pet.” He grinned malevolently at the two hostage takers. VarnTa thought it was a brilliant bluff, and it was poker night after all. The pirates looked uncertainly at each other. “Now maybe you should just drop your weapons, before I tell him to come in here and use you as chew-toys.” VarnTa sounded dreadfully convincing.

The pirate with the whimsical sense of style began to back up towards the rear door. His minimalist partner looked ready to call the bluff, but his gaudily ornamented friend said, “They haven’t got any money, and we don’t need them anyway. We have all the hostages we need already.”

That was all it took, and the two uncomplimentary pirates backed out through the kitchen door, covering Recon 2 with their weapons as they went.

“I can’t believe that worked,” said VarnTa.

“Hostages, eh?” said Mof quietly, “Very interesting.”

Ned was still waiting for a phone call like a stood-up prom date. He heard a voice behind him and he shifted to look. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Perkins,” said the little old lady, “but I need to use the powder room.”

Ned sighed and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mendelbaum. You’ll have to find a bucket or a secluded corner. Maybe one of the other women might give you some assistance, but I need to stay here.”

Mrs. Mendelbaum was an eccentric old New Yorker and a widow. Instead of retiring to Florida, she had decided to spend her sunset years on the Hub where there were no sunsets. She was a regular in the saloon, and after a second snifter of brandy she would regale any being who would listen with stories of New York in the good old days. Her first name was Alice, and Ned smiled as he recalled Rufus’s nickname for the sweet old woman. Rufus called her Aurora Boring Alice, though never to her face.

Mrs. Mendelbaum squinted at Ned, and gave a small sniff. Then she turned and stalked off, determination evident in the set of her shoulders.

Good luck, Mrs. Mendelbaum, thought Ned.

Rufus, Candybar and the Qualm had a quick, quiet planning session. Rufus would be the bad cop. Candybar would play the role of the good cop. And the Qualm was going to be perhaps the first living lie-detector ever to be used during a make-believe police interview.

They went and stood in front of their captive, and Rufus spoke first, as the plan dictated. “Listen, you little punk,” he said through gritted teeth in his best Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry voice. “I don’t know what you and your gang of juvenile delinquents are trying to do here, but you have crossed the line. This isn’t like boosting some CDs off a store shelf, or even taking an uninvited joyride in someone else’s car. You can’t just hijack a star liner, take hostages, and shoot guns all over the place. Mommy and Daddy can’t just spread some money around and have a judge give you a slap on the wrist. This is where they send in the Swat Team, and some highly-skilled sniper starts lining you and your friends up in his scope for a bullet to the brainstem. This is not going to end well.”

Rufus was hoping that these kids had watched some episodes of ‘Cops’, and not just a bunch of movies featuring Errol Flynn and Johnny Depp at their swashbuckling best.

“So far,” Candybar broke in, “nobody has been hurt, have they? I mean, you haven’t shot anyone, have you?”

The captive seemed uncertain. He reluctantly said, “No, we don’t want to hurt anybody, we just…,” He let the sentence trail off, a look of defiance returning to his eyes.

“Great,” Rufus sneered, “then maybe you will all get the chance to experience our prison system. Maybe in 30 or 40 years you will have grown up enough to realize how stupid you are. ‘Use a gun, go to prison’, that’s our catchy little phrase for situations like this.”

“I never shot at anybody,” said the rebel without a clue, trying to sound tough but not quite doing it.

“The law does not care.” Rufus bellowed. “Hell, we send creeps to prison for using a plastic water gun in the commission of a robbery.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” mumbled the Wasp Whip, looking more like a confused teen and less like a pirate each time he spoke. ‘Bingo’, thought Rufus to himself. The kid obviously knew a little about the legal system under which he might end up being tried. That would give Rufus’s bluff a little more weight.

“Your parents are not going to be very pleased with you when we tell them what you have been up to,” said Candybar reasonably.

“Like they even care,” the now miserable space pirate spat out dejectedly. Rufus had the sudden insight that these wild teens hadn’t ever wanted to be set loose upon the universe at all. The once gun-totting delinquent now sounded more like an abandoned puppy.

All this talking about the gun reminded Rufus of something. It was still lying on the floor under a table. “Professor” he said over his shoulder, “check out that gun. Figure out how it works, and then bring it to me.” He turned back to the kid with delusions of piracy. “Where did you get the gun, Kid?” he asked him.

“We stole four of them from some planet we visited last year. I can’t remember what the planet was called, but…” Again the youth let his confession die unfinished.

“Ah ha,” cried Rufus, “so that’s two strikes already. And I bet there are more, if we dig into your past a little.” The alien looked even more distraught than ever. “Now talk to us, Jack Sparrow, before you end up swinging from the yardarm. And don’t bother trying to lie, because my friend here,” Rufus indicated the Qualm standing, or rather floating at his side, “can read minds.”

“I told you, Rufus,…” began the Qualm.

“Shut up, Qualm,” Rufus hissed.

The young offender, still gripped by the powerful Xxo, now looked about as worried as his face was likely to allow.