Page 42 - WTP Vol. V #2

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‘Oh Pine tree, dripping with motor oil brew,
with thick, metal spikes sticking out all over it. On the back was a primitive rendering of a 1980s hair band.
Fill our fenders with sap for some super strong glue,
Janice and the Oracle sat down next to the Harpy. The Sea Witch waved down the bartender while he was frantically mixing another batch of mar- tinis. “Young man, I’d like a Diet Coke and my friend will have a seltzer with lemon. Thanks very much.”
We’ll tread down your sinewy trunk where it grew,
And arrive at your bottom feeling good as new.’
The Harpy and her cohorts, matted with pine needles and sap, landed quite plainly in an open meadow. The engine wouldn’t turn over so they left the car behind, but didn’t bother to take Oracle’s wheelchair because no one wanted
“What are you supposed to be?” The question came from the hollow-faced man who was now standing behind them. The bartender left his post and slowly walked toward the back exit.
the trouble of unfolding it. The only way to transport the Oracle was for her to ride on the Harpy’s back and even though she was as light as a feather, the Harpy was still put out by the inconvenience.
A smattering of intoxicated locals scuttled un- derneath tables. The Harpy looked up from her drinks. “The Andrew Sisters.”
They found themselves in front of a local water- ing hole.
He made a sound like a chainsaw starting up that could have been interpreted as a laugh.
“Guess what? You two peons may join me for a celebratory drink in honor of being in my pres- ence. This evening has been nothing short of a complete and utter waste of time. My outfit has been destroyed. I will never get the sap out of this fabric. Ruined. I just want to get inside, no questions asked! Move it!”
“Maybe seventy years ago. Now I’m looking at the local mutant barfly, some wrinkled up prude, and an ancient strip of beef jerky wearing dia- pers.” He smelled like cigarettes and hard liquor.
They walked into the bar and the Sea Witch escorted the Oracle to the restroom in the back. The Harpy made herself at home by perching on her favorite stool and glanced around to see if she recognized any of the regulars. She spotted the bartender hiding behind the beer taps.
The two old souls pulled away from the bar and retired to the back with their carbon- ated beverages. Bertrudence, the name she’d been known as for the last few hundred years, slowly turned to face the stranger behind her. She dramatically flexed her talons, arched her back and fanned out her wings.
“Barkeep! I’ll have a triple quadruple, on the double! Make it snappy, hayseed!” She frequent- ed the bar so often that the poor man knew the drill. He lined the glasses up in front of her and proceeded to pour five dirty martinis with fist- fuls of olives in each.
“I’m not supposed to be anything. You’re prob- ably supposed to be employed, sober, and relevant, but you aren’t.” She sucked down her fourth martini and whistled through her teeth. “Life sure is funny.”
As the Oracle and the Sea Witch were shuffling back from the restroom, a thin man with a hol- low face rose up from a table in the back of the bar. He was wearing a black leather jacket
The interior of the bar was illuminated with the sickly glow of neon beer advertisements. The Harpy couldn’t tell if the man was actually beginning to swell in height and girth, and his skin, originally a blotchy ochre, was darkening to a moldy green. He pulled back as if to throw a punch and swung, caught her throat and
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