Still Act Two

But what of our Hero? Some may ask, let’s join the three who left us sharp, now in a house on the outskirts of the fog bound town. Preparations for war are underway, and as Lysander to his few at Thos, Fatmammycat spurs them on…

“Right, SB, is the room ready? You look perfect.”
“I don’t know, do I look right in this white tunic? I don’t look like a fucking chiropodist or something?”

Fatmammycat pauses.

“SB, no matter what, you could never look like a chiropodist. You’ve even got me as damp as my basement. Happy now? Now quick, he’ll be here soon. I’ll take Barney into the kitchen and sort him out.”

“I don’t understand why I have to strip.” Says he, “The mot would kill me.”

“We’ve been through this, you can’t put it on over your clothes, now get them off.”

And so he stands, a David in the firelight now revealed, his many scars no slip of the Sculptor’s hand, but badges proud of the Long Campaign, and in his form we see the Sculptor’s hand was true, (no artisan but Artist, great is He). From the cording of his neck, through coursing forearm veins, o’er the rippling landscape of his torso, past satisfying lunchbox, to his manly thigh. Fatmammycat the expert, runs her expert eye.

“Interesting.”

A loud knock at the door, stops her in her shameful tracks.

“Places everyone, let’s do it!”

Before O’Shea can knock a second time, Sexy Beauty opens the door.



Now they have come in from the night, we can look them over at our leisure. They too, bring a sudden lull with them, into the long night’s business with John Barleycorn, for American lady tourists are as common as one eyed unicyclists in Ryan’s. And especially such interesting specimens of the type. The younger, young enough still, to absorb Life’s great joys by simple osmosis, carries with her an old fashioned book-strap, a half dozen of the Irish Greats in its buckled grip. Her meat and drink on such a trip as this. The other, who even now displays a look-you-in-the-eye feistiness (which all true men value above gold in a woman) has planted herself, back to the counter, and like an adamant lighthouse slowly scans the storm-tossed sea of faces.

“Take a picture why dontcha? It’ll last longer.”

Good natured laughter her reward, she turns and buys the beers. Suddenly they need to sit. For in truth, here in Ryan’s boozy fug, the day’s trudge has caught them up.

“What about over there? There’s some seats free.”
“You’re joking, please tell me you are.”
“I cant stand much longer, I’ll go first, you give em the big smile.”

Charts litter the surface now and we find our three in earnest thought.

“Hi boys, I’m Andraste this is Lindy.”
“Please, you were expected.”
“What?
“Two women from the west, will come bearing…”
“No Ayres, not yet!”
“But we’re from the east”
“It’s the west to us”
“Allow me, I am Gorilla Bananas..”
“You don’t say”
“This is El Barbudo…”
“What does the “L” stand for?”
“The”, not L but EL”
“I get it ! Spanish?
“No, Belgian”
“Why doesn’t he talk?”
“He has, well the most inconsequential of speech problems. He‘s shy.”
“What about him?”
“That’s Ayres, the philosopher, our crypto-analyst, holder of the Fortran seat of alchemy at the University of Cobol.”
“Airs! That’s what your givin’ me! The vapors! Listen what are you guys on?”
“A Quest !”

Andraste calls their bluff.

“OK tell us.”
“Look at this. It’s a brass rubbing from the tomb of Arthur”
“King Arthur?”
“You could say that. Arthur Guinness the brewer….”

As the explanation continues, Lindy feels her heart fill to bursting…