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03-25-03, for Wiseguy
Ping Wiseguy. Ping, ping.
The Birthday Satyr sat in the darkest corner of La Taverna, alone. Muttering. Cursing quietly but intensely, if anyone ventured near enough to discern meaning from the growled oaths. Nobody had, lately - even a near miss from a hoof to the shins hurts.
The waitresses have taken to leaving his mead on the far side of the table, and his name and number have been scratched from the Ladies' Room walls.
One person alone braved the atmosphere of anger and despair in that recessed niche, heself a magical being, just one of several who occasionally make an appearance in the bar. A Muse, she was, and woe betide the Satyr who kicked a Muse's shins.
The B.S.'s mutterings grew both quieter and darker. “What was that?” she asked. “It sounded like, 'damn nymph had to ruin it for the rest of us,' but it might have been 'damp niche in a room for a restaurant.' Uncomfortable dining is a bother, isn't it? Perhaps you should move to the bar.”
B.S. just glared and muttered something else under his breath. “Could you speak up? That sounded like, 'Noisy falcon beach canned minor omnibus.' That makes no sense at all. Why would a beach fire an omnibus, minor or major? And falcons don't generally hang about beaches - perhaps you meant seagulls?”
B.S. just clamped his lips shut and glared at the Muse. Glare, glare.
She returned the glare with a calm regard. “You might as well spit it out. You know it's eating you up inside.”
Glare, glare.
She brought up her hand, fingers poised to snap. B.S.'s eyes grew round and he hastily held up a hand. “Wait! I'll talk.”
The Muse lowered her hand, but kept her thumb cocked on the middle finger. “Let's have it,” she said softly.
He looked around, to make sure noone could overhear what he had to say. He practically hissed, “It's that expletive deleted Birthday Nymph! You know she was retired, right? Out of the business. History. But she couldn't leave well enough alone.” He closed his eyes as he growled, “Not only did she come out of retirement for one birthday, but did you see what she did with her farewell performance? Did You?
“NOBODY can meet those standards! She raised the bar for all the birthday fairies everywhere, and we've been resigning in droves! The Birthday PTB gave me two weeks to come up with something special for Wiseguy's Birthday, and I failed.”
The Muse nodded comfortingly. B.S. continued, “I don't normally do guy's birthdays anyway, except maybe to play a flute and lure some babes to him. Ain't no way I'm dousing myself with chocolate for some dude!” Realizing he'd become... vehement, he looked around and lowered his voice again. “Gives me hives, if for no other reason.”
“No doubt it would be difficult to remove from your fur as well,” Muse said, nodding. “Perhaps you should just do what everyone else does, and forget trying one-upsmanship.”
“What does everyone else do?” he inquired, puzzled.
“They say something simple, like 'Happy Birthday, Wiseguy'.”
“'Happy Birthday, Wiseguy?'”
She nodded. Then she finally snapped those cocked fingers, and a hush invaded the room from that dismal corner outwards (see? hushes don't always 'descend.') All eyes turned towards him as the Birthday Satyr cleared his throat.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WISEGUY!!!”
The (former) Birthday Satyr
