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08-07-03, for Nick Scipio
Are all these people here for a Group Thing?
Hail, hail, the gang's all here! And the gang's gang, and their gantg, and…well, there are lots of folks around today. The Patrons are standing-yes, standing-shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, breast to … never mind. Leave it at, “it's crowded.” Unfortunately, there's no obvious reason. No party decorations, no big announcement, no one outside wearing a sandwich board, no naked waitresses (actually, that's not entirely true, there is almost always a naked waitress or two around, but they're in the back or behind the bar, and it really depends on which Patron is currently buying drinks for the “house.” It's a clever euphemism, no?). But, despite the lack of obvious cause to create the effect, the bar is doing a booming business and we'd be concerned about the fire marshal issuing code violation tickets if he weren't the one currently buying drinks for the House.
It's never been quite like this. La Taverna is more of a neighborhood place. A place where you can find a quiet corner and a complicit partner and wile away the evening hours over drinks and double entendre. A place for writers and readers and editors and groupies to hang out, exchange phone numbers and e-mail addresses, argue, debate, issue dicta and ultimatums, storm off in a huff, and return with kisses and chocolate. It's a place where you can let your hair down. A place where, after a long day, you can come and have a better-than-even chance of having a Hard Night (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). La Taverna is a place where people may not be all the same, but it's a place where everybody knows your nym.
And then, above the commotion and general crowd noise, a female voice is heard from outside.
“I will NOT wait out here. Who are you?”
It's not clear from inside exactly to whom she is talking, but there's an answer. “Murmur, murmur, murmur.” Fortunately, the frustrated woman can apparently speak Murmur.
“Impossible! I've been coming here for year. Since when has this place had a bouncer?”
“Murmur, murmur, murmur.”
“What do you mean, I'll have to wait in line? Where did this rope come from?”
“Murmur, murmur, murmur.”
“Of COURSE I'm of age, what kind of moron are you?”
“Murmur, murmur, murmur.”
There's a silence. The bar has gone silent. Yes, the Patrons are used to arguments, but usually not ones from outside the door.
“Oh. I see. You're the kind of moron who can keep me out of the bar tonight. Well. I'm not so sure about that.”
There's a scuffle, or, at least, the sounds of a scuffle, and then a <pop> and a small explosion just before the heavy wooden door of La Taverna falls in.
<ahem> It wasn't necessary, of course. Every eye in the place was focused on the winged figure coming through the clearing smoke. A few hands were doing their own thing, but all eyes were on her.
“Thank you. Now, as some of you may have noticed, it's a bit crowded in here tonight. Apparently word has gotten out. Yes, there's obviously a birthday today, and the birthday boy's fans seem to have all come out to celebrate.
“So, for those of you who haven't heard, our own Nick Scipio is celebrating a birthday Friday. I'm darn glad I headed over here early, because apparently the joint's going to be rocking in celebration. I'd love to stay and do a bigger presentation, but it doesn't look like it's needed.”
“Happy Birthday, Scipio!”
