By Spider Robinson
The discreet little bar that Jake Stonebender validated a couple of blocks under Duval road used to be named easily where. There, speedy Eddie Costigan discovered to curse again at parrots as he performed the home piano; the Reverend Tom Hauptman discovered to have a tendency bar bare-chested (without blushing), Long-Drink McGonnigle came across the margarita and several other se?oritas, and all of the different regulars settled into cozy subtropical niches in their personal. no one even spotted them keep the universe.Over time, the twice-transplanted consumers of Callahan’s position attracted a set of neighborhood zanies so quintessentially Key West pixilated that they made the hot York originals look, good, nearly general. The elfin little Key deer, for instance—with a stevedore’s mouth; or the merman with eczema; or Robert Heinlein’s teleporting cat.For ten sluggish, merry years, existence was once solid. The solar shone, the espresso dripped, the breeze blew simply strongly adequate to expend the scent of the puns, and little supergenius Erin grew to the verge of youth. Then catastrophe struck. during the gate one sunny day got here a malevolent, moronic, mastodon of a Mafioso named Tony Donuts Jr., or Little Nuts (don’t ask). He’d made up our minds to resurrect the vintage safety racket in Key West—and wager which tavern he picked to hit first? Then, because of very terrible accessorizing (she selected the inaccurate belt—and no, we’re unlikely to give an explanation for that one), Jake’s spouse, Zoey, unexpectedly came across herself in a spot without mild, no warmth, and no air. And no means domestic. The pressing query used to be where—precisely where—but that grew to become out to be an issue so advanced that even the whole gang, built with teleportation, time commute, and telepathic syntony (you can glance it up) may not be in a position to crack it in time.And whereas all this used to be occurring, dying himself walked into where. yet this time he wouldn't depart on my own. . . .
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Additional resources for Callahan's Con
Or would you like to swing on your dates Carry on at ruinous rates And be better off than Bill Gates Or would you rather be a jerk A jerk is an animal whose brain tends to fail And by definition he is male… . Maureen and her husband both started pelting each other with peanuts at that point, so Fast Eddie went instrumental while they regained control and thought up some more lyrics. From over on the other side of the bar, Long-Drink McGonnigle’s buzz-saw voice cut through the Gordian knot of conversation.
No accounting for distaste. Willard grinned at both of them. ” I was suddenly too agitated for repartee. “You’ve found the problem,” I prompted Erin. She nodded and offered me some printout. I glanced at it, but one glance was enough. ” “You can say that again,” she said, “bearing in mind that if you actually do, I’ll bite you. And don’t call me Shirley. ” “Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. ” Behind the bar, Long-Drink waved acknowledgment and turned to The Machine. If I had to be exposed to Gummint Regulations, I wanted fortification.
A whipped-cream-capped mug was already emerging from the right side of The Machine, the air above it shimmering slightly; he picked it up and handed it to me. The first sip told me that he’d gotten my prescription right: Tanzanian Peaberry coffee, the Black Bush, two sugars and 18 percent cream. ” “My pleasure,” he said, dialing a different prescription. His own empty mug was just disappearing into the left side of The Machine. The barely audible sound of the conveyor belt stopped and was replaced by the gurgle-bubble sound of magic taking place inside.
Callahan's Con by Spider Robinson