:: The saloon-keeper's harsh justice ::

Thursday, January 29, 2004

The sun was well above the horizon by the time Herman had finished closing up. The cheaply-thatched shutters over the windows of Dhaka's most profitable ex-pat bar did little to shield the tobacco-haze of the main room from the early morning sun, and he felt the heat already. It was, predictably enough, going to be another scorcher.

Herman Logan had been the proprietor of the most profitable, most popular, and only ex-pat bar in Bangladesh's largest city for upwards of a decade now. Having disavowed any semblance of a diurnal lifestyle long before that, the job's hours had never posed a problem, but the climate was another matter. Plump and pasty, the past dozen years had resulted in little or no progress as he struggled to acclimatize. No matter, he waxed philosophic, this was still an improvement over his previous occupation, harvesting human organs for Time magazine.

A knock on the front door reverberated amongst the up-ended bar stools and, more critically, between Herman's cauliflowered ears.

His attempt to respond verbally precipitated a bout of coughing. The Dhakan soot permanently entrenched in his lungs ensured that Herman's coughs were usually guttural, baritone, and frequent. This occasion was no exception, and the exertion caused fresh saline droplets to form on the very brow he had wiped not two minutes earlier. His sweat had the scent of gin.

The coughing fit eventually subsided and Herman, now flushed and bellicose, grunted a curt "Closed!"

Another knock came, more forceful than the last.

Logan grimaced and began an exhausted walk to the door. Halfway to his destination, the flimsy door burst open, causing splinters of wood to spray across the tabletops nearby. Blinding sunlight consumed Herman's vision and a wave of calescence struck his front. The odor of gin grew stronger.

As his eyes adjusted to the blaze, Herman could make out the form of a single man holding a string tethered to what appeared to be a balloon. The man had paused to let his dramatic entrance sink in, and was now entering the bar, slowly approaching Herman. As the figure entered the shade, Herman immediately identified him: reputable columnist George F. Will.

Will's trademark bow-tie and conservative suit were immaculate, exhibiting what could only be described as an immunity to the oppressive Bangladeshi humidity. He held in his right hand a gossamer thread connecting it with a bright yellow helium balloon. The balloon had big, googly eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth drawn on it in black marker. It was sentient.

Will approached Herman with eyes wide and twitching, and lips parted just enough to accommodate the rabid panting of rapacious mania. "Pinball!" he shrieked, "Your vintage 1979 KISS pinball machine! I have two silk pockets full of takas which say I can beat your high score!" [editor's note: the taka is the official unit of currency in Bangladesh, trading at approximately 49 to the dollar. While unlikely that an American pinball machine from 1979 would have been converted to accept it, we felt this bit of detail helped to further immerse the reader in the conflicted and lurid world of modern-day Dhaka.] The balloon simply blinked its googly eyes.

It was true: this charming watering hole had once held the only KISS pinball machine in all the central lowlands. But Herman had been delinquent with some of the bribes to the local magistrate that kept the liquor flowing, and it had been confiscated along with his golf clubs, and wife.

"It's.." he stammered, on the verge of another coughing fit, "it's gone. Hasn't been here for years."

The expression of the balloon became noticeably more menacing. It started to hiss. In contrast, Will stood silently resolute, his bow tie fluttering almost imperceptibly in the thick hot currents of the Dhakan dawn flowing through the now permanently open doorway.

The balloon spoke first, in a voice reminiscent of Fozzie Bear: "You should not have let it go." Was it Herman's imagination, or was the balloon drooling?

Trembling, the weathered bartender began to slowly creep backward. If he could round the corner of the bar, he could retrieve and wield the elephant gun bequeathed to him by a former regular, one Col. Braithehume, with devastating results.

Just then, George Will broke character, and a sly smile crept across his face. "I'm sorry - I just can't keep this up. Herman my friend, will you take a look over there," Will pointed to the decrepit shanty across the alley, where Herman noticed a young peasant boy squatting with a DV camera, "and over there," Will moved his arm to indicate a small hole in the wall by a rusty light fixture, glinting with light reflecting off a lens, "and finally over here," his head cocked to the side as the bar's jukebox opened to reveal a mussy-haired PA in a trucker hat, holding a camcorder and a parabolic microphone.

"You see," George had a way of making even this very pedestrian explanation seem didactic, "we've been playing a little trick on you here: your buddy Doogan wrote in to MTV to say that he thought it would be just uproarious if we barged in here and demanded to play that silly pinball game when you didn't even have it, so I came right down here with my balloon Myxtar, who I've imbued with the life-force of an ancient and powerful demon, and this film crew to capture it all for the viewing audience. Let me tell you, by the look on your face, I think your pal was on to something!"

Will let his words settle for a moment before adding, "You've been punk'd!"

At that moment, everyone present guffawed with belly-shaking laughter, except for the balloon who, having no belly, simply jerked around spastically as balloons tend to do when yanked by a string or when bubbling over with the boisterous laughter of an ancient and powerful demon.

As Herman's laughter slowly turned to yet more coughing, he wiped his handkerchief across his forehead and rounded the corner of the bar, using his free hand to grope for the elephant gun and spare silver crucifix. It was going to take a lot of time, and even more ammunition, to kill all these men. He didn't even know if it would be possible to do away with the demon balloon but, he vowed as the insufferable sun continued its ascent, he would sure as hell try.

Herman Logan would not be made a fool of in his own bar, the most profitable ex-pat bar in all of Dhaka.

Posted by morland @ 10:40 PM

:: Comments ::

too much

Posted by: ordubata on January 30, 2004 10:54 PM

I know. Brevity is the soul of wit and I'm not a very witty guy.

Posted by: morland on January 31, 2004 02:38 PM

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