Title: Alphabezzis
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse
Pairing:  Jay/Bob; to a limited extent, Dante/Randal; no other
pairings implied, though Brodie, TJ, Banky and Holden *are* present
through part of the tale.
Rating: R, because sex doesn't actually happen.  *Hints* of NC-17, but
not really more, just for the mention of body parts in same-sex
hands...or teeth.
Status: New; finished on February 24, 2003.  Whee!
Archive:  The traditional places.  If you don't know what the
traditional places are, you might want to write and ask.  And here's how:
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels:  This is actually going to be a two-fer; the second
part being the tale of Shot Monopoly.  Considering I started working
on the second story two years ago, how'ver, I have no idea when the
sequel will be finished.
Disclaimers:  Kevin Smith, View Askew Productions, Jason Mewes, Scott
Mosier, and Miramax have creative control and ownership of Jay and
Silent Bob.  I am just an insignificant slasher who wants the boys to
have fun now that they've retired.  I'm not even charging them.
Notes: Written for the Boozeff Challenge (located here:
http://boozefest.netfirms.com). Minor definition for those not in the
know:  Rules of an alphabetic drunk are that the drink must already
exist with that name, so one can drink legally, for example, both
'Pernod' and 'Panty-dropper' for 'P'.  Inventing drink names just so
one can elude questionable letters earns shot penalties that increase
as the night--and the coherency--wears on.  In this, alphabetic drunks
are quite similar to games of Shot Monopoly.
Summary:  Jay and Bob decide to have an alphabetic drunk, at Randal's
suggestion.

"Alphabezzis"
by Kelandris


"Bobby...hey...Hey, Bob..."

Silent Bob looked up, vaguely irritated.  He was further irked when he
realized the slurred voice he hadn't quite recognized was that of his
roommate, Jay.  Well, fuck.  He *must* be too drunk for this shit.

He raised an eyebrow, inviting the question.  Jay responded in kind.

"Wha...wha le'erweon?"

**Brain, translate,** he thought to it sternly.  **What. 
Le'er...Letter.  'erwe...Are we on.  Good, got it, go back to what you
were doing...**

Then he had to pause.  What letter *were* they on?  Damn.  He blinked
expressively, rotating his head like an owl.  Jay giggled, a
high-pitched cackle and leaned over, poking Bob in the shoulder.

"C'mon, man, yer s'pozza keep tracka this shhhhhh..."  Jay blinked,
swaying in place on the bench, then sliding off onto the floor. 
"Hit," he finished, nodding his head decisively.  He looked around,
vaguely confused.

"Fuck!" he screamed.  "I'm shrinkin', man!"  Quickly, he pulled open
the waistband on his shorts, peering down in consternation.  Bob
averted his eyes, counting under his breath.

"Oh...*fuck*, man, that was *too* fuckin' close..." Jay breathed, and
leaned back against the bench.

Bob grinned weakly.  He looked down.  He counted glasses, one thick
finger moving slowly over the table.  He counted bars.  They'd started
off at the Sports Barn, of course, fuckin' yellow-carpeted nightmare
sports bar *that* was, but hell, that'd been Brodie's idea.  Fuckin'
Brodie.  Brodie, of course, had been poured into a cab about four bars
back.

**Cheapskate *and* a cheap date,** his brain giggled.  Now he *knew*
he was too drunk.

*Plus*, of course, the Barn'd been out of their normal territory by a
few miles, so it wasn't a bar they knew well.  Still.  It'd gotten the
night going.

Man, who had come *up* with this idea, anyway?  He vaguely remembered
Randal, actually, who was still with them.  Barely.  Hit some bars,
and have an alphabetic drunk.  Go home when they're too drunk to
stand.  Last man standing gets the pot, a dollar for every drink from
everyone.  He still remembered the pole-axed look on Jay's face when
he'd asked for an explanation.

"What the fuck's that, dude?"  Jay with his face screwed up, trying to
understand, was a sight to see.  It wasn't that the boy was stupid,
Bob thought; it was just that somewhere in that brain there was a
short, some little sparking connection that didn't spark all the time,
and Jay got bored waiting for his brain to process things.

"Alphabetic drunk," Randal had said with typical relish.  "A great
invention, my man.  Take the alphabet.  Separate it out into drink
names or alcohol types.  Drink one of the most-liked type for each
letter."

Jay had peered at him.  "Riiight," he'd said slowly.

"Man does not live by beer alone," Randal said solemnly.  Jay was in
from that moment on.

It'd taken about a week to pull everything together, but they'd
finally ended up with a core group of eight:  Banky, Jay, Bob, Brodie,
TJ, Dante, Randal and Holden.  Holden, Brodie and Bank'd dropped out
on 'F', with the round of Flaming Dr. Peppers.  Those had been...odd.

At the first bar, Randal had picked the first drink.  "The Atom Bomb,"
Randal had intoned in his best sepulchral voice.

"What?" asked Dante.

"The Atom Bomb," Randal repeated.  "Sambuca and beer.  Not a bad way
to start off the night."

"What the hell's Sambuca?"  Jay had asked.  

"Try it and find out," Randal said, waggling his eyebrows.  

"Fuck you," Jay muttered.  

"Hey, now--" Dante had said, raising his hands to placate the group.  

"All right, all right, what, you want to be *plebian* and start with
*ale*?"  

"That'd work," Jay said.  Everyone else shrugged.  Randal pouted.

"Fine, assholes, see if I give *you* a fun idea next time." He
motioned the waitress over.

But it'd turned out to be a round of Atom Bombs after all, because no
one had been listening to Randal when he'd ordered.  Sambuca was a
licorice-based drink, or something, black anyway, and it contrasted
weirdly--but in a good way--with the beer, some draft on tap they
didn't recognize.

In fact, the Bull Shots had been Randal's fucking idea, too.  Still,
it wasn't too bad once the weirdness of the first sip was over with. 
It was the bouillon that threw off Bob, but still.  Some protein in
their system...wouldn't be the worst thing, right?  About that time
he'd quietly ordered some wings and fries, and made a vow to continue
ordering food every time he remembered.  If they were gonna be this
stupid, he had to make sure none of them *died* or anything.

After the Bull Shots, though, they were tired of the vaguely fuzzy
d�cor of the Sports Barn, and had moved on down the street to
Mackey's, at their server's suggestion.  'C' had been made there, and
it was some weird thing called a Cranium Meltdown Dante had tossed in.
 But it was a weird tasty thing--coconut rum and raspberry Chambord
and pineapple juice, like a dessert in a shot glass.  Sweet, and Bob's
eyes had crossed with the effort of not watching Jay's tongue when it
snaked out to lick his lips.

'D' had been the drink that had gotten them kicked out of Mackey's:
the Duck Fart.  It wasn't the drink, so much, as it was Jay and Randal
afterwards making loud, long fart noises with their hands in their
armpits.  Which was above and beyond the argument over the drink
itself, which had raged a good ten minutes.

"What the hell now?" Jay had started out, after Randal had named the
next drink.

"Duck Farts," Randal said with relish.

"You gotta be kidding," TJ said, his eyes wide.

"No, it's good."

Jay sneered.  "Fuck you, Randal."

"You keep *sayin'* that, do you not trust me or something?"

*Tap.  Tap tap.  Tap tap.*

Bob blinked, brought back to the here and now by Jay's expectant look,
and by him tapping those long, flexible fingers on his kneecap.  Oh. 
Right.

"S," he said finally.  That was the letter they were on, 'S'.  He
looked around again.  The Sports Barn had dropped off early in the
game, when they realized how limited the selection was.  Then it had
been Mackey's.  From there they'd gone to Backstadt's, a local dive in
Middleton, and Holden'd called a cab after the next two drinks, Randal
jeering at him every step of the way.  They'd started with another
shooter, this one called Eight Seconds.

"Why they call it Eight Seconds?" Jay'd asked.

"'Cause in eight seconds, you'll be out,' Randal said, leering.

Jay screwed up his face again, leaning forward.  "Gimme, motherfucker,
we'll show you who's fuckin' out."

The next one had been Randal's idea, too.  What, had he come on the
expedition with a drink list?  Bob remembered turning towards Dante,
looking his confusion at the dark-haired man, and Dante had only
shrugged.  Randal had stared them both down, shaking his head.

"Ah, like you motherfuckers know how to live," he rasped.

Jay flipped him off.  Randal just smiled.

"Flaming Dr. Pepper," Randal said with satisfaction, and Jay vibrated
in the booth, checking out the shooter menu.  

"No, *fuck* that, dude, they got somethin' here called Freddy Krueger.
 I want that."  

"What's in it?"  Randal peered at the drink menu and shook his head so
hard his blond hair actually moved.

"More Jagermeister.  No fucking way."

TJ had agreed.  "Nope, no more Jager, Jay, I'm feelin' it."  

"Yeah," Randal added.  "Cannot do, my man, cannot--"

"Fuck you pussies, I'm gonna--"  Jay had snarled, starting out of the
booth.  Bob's hand had landed gently but firmly on his shoulder,
pulling him back.  Bob had shaken his head.  Jay collapsed against the
back of the booth, pouting.

"Fuck.  Fine.  Whatever the fuck you want."

"Flaming Dr. Peppers it is," Randal crowed, and went off to the bar to
order them.

From there things got a little blurry.  He knew after that, they'd
ended up in Claddagh's, and at least once they'd gotten in an argument
with the bartender over the proper temperature to serve...something or
other, Bob couldn't remember.  They'd made better time, though.  'G'
had been shots of Glenfiddich, warm all through him, and 'H' had
been...Bob thought, squinting, and nearly fell off the bench himself
with the effort.  Hard Eights, he now remembered.  Those had gone down
pretty smooth.  And then 'I', and Jay'd seen 'Incredible Hulk' as a
drink title, and that'd been that.  Randal had agreed with him right
off, and hadn't that been weird to see?

But then Randal had found something called Jack the Ripper, and Jay
had given his version of a maniacal laugh, which stopped when the
drinks arrived.

"This is a chick drink," he'd complained.  It came in a brandy
snifter, and he'd sat there, holding the snifter like it was going to
turn and infect him with the urge to wear pink.  

"Try it, asshole," muttered Randal.  "Jesus Christ."

Jay'd curled his lips back, but gingerly took a sip.  Bob remembered
watching him, watching his eyes cross.  

"Ooh.  Buttery."

And again, Bob'd been seized with an urge to lean in and lick Jay's
lips.  Damn it.  He was *not* having sex with his roommate tonight. 
Or what was the whole fucking point of that 'heterosexual roommate'
shit, huh?  They *weren't* sleeping together.  Okay, sometimes they
jacked off together, to whatever Randal'd talked Jay into for the
porn-of-the-week, but guys did that, right?  Guys got naked and
stroked their meat in the semi-dark, watching Jay beat off...

Bob shook himself.  Bad thought.  Bad idea.  Bad, bad, bad--uh-oh.  He
felt himself slipping to the side, and in righting himself he scooted
forward.  At the same time he realized that when Jay had fallen off
the bench, he'd moved between Bob's legs to hold himself upright.  Bob
swallowed, eyes wide.  So far the blond bomb hadn't noticed, and he--

Jay tilted his head back, the soft brush of hair on bare knees a
paralyzing sensation for Bob.

"Heyyy," Jay said softly.  "So...whazz next?"

"Skip'n Go Naked," murmured Randal.  Dante looked up blearily.

"Go naked and do what?" he asked.  His voice was plaintive.  Randal
pushed him, and he fell off the bench, too.  Jay peered around, and
now his lips were brushing Bob's inner thigh.

**Breathe, fucker.  Just...keep...breathing...he's *drunk*, it means
nothing, just...fucking...*breathe*...**

"Skippin' what?" Jay asked.  Randal shook his head.

"Naked.  N-a-k...um...Issa drink, dumbass.  Iss got..."  He stopped
for a moment, rolling his head, trying to remain conscious.

Bob shrugged.  He didn't know either.  Jay leaned forward out of the
booth, almost overbalancing as he tried to flag down the bar girl,
moving adroitly from table to table.

She strolled over to them, looking at each of them in turn.  Slowly
she shook her head.

"Hey, guys, technically you should be packed up and poured in a cab,
right?"  She stared at Jay again, then turned to Bob.

"You know that, right?  Right?" she repeated.

Bob nodded sagely.  Jay looked up, leering at her chest.  She sighed,
shaking her head.

"Some kinda record...what're you on?"

"O," Bob intoned.  Yeah.  That was right.  They were on 'O', not 'S'.
 He glared at Randal, who comically shrugged, nearly falling over into
Dante's lap when he did.  Dante sighed gustily and pillowed his head
on his arms on the table.

The waitress shook her head, looking at them.  "Huh.  What were you on
when you got here?  For alcohol, I mean."

"M," piped in Jay, clambering back up and plopping down on the booth
seat next to Bob.  Dante looked at him, tried to maneuver a little
away to give him more room, and fell over into Randal's lap.  Jay
giggled and turned, trying to put his feet over the back of the booth.
 He nearly had it too, but he was having a problem looping his knees
over the back without arching his pelvis forward.  That, and his head
was falling under the table.  Bob and the waitress realized they were
staring at him about the same time, and both looked away quickly,
clearing their throats.

"Man...some kinda record.  Lemme go talk to the bartender."  And she
was off in a flounce of tired satin.

Bob sat and thought, feeling pleasantly unsteady.  After 'J' at
Claddagh's, they'd hit 'K', and that'd been another mini-argument.

"A what now?" Jay asked suspiciously.

"A Kiltlifter," said TJ patiently.  "They serve 'em here.  They sound
fun."

"Kiltlifter."  Jay's expression was still dubious.  TJ looked at him,
and then turned to Bob.

"C'mon," he said softly.  "I'm leaving after this one, Randal's been
picking most of the drinks all night, you and I haven't picked out
*one* yet.  This is my last one.  I want to pick it."

"Can't argue with that," said Randal.  Bob shrugged and nodded.

"You're freaks," Jay muttered.

"Maybe, but we're your freaks, Jay-boy," Randal had said.  He'd
grinned widely and motioned the waitress over, the one with the wispy
blouse and the wispy voice.  Made her sound like Meg Tilly with a
dampener.  Weird.  

Meanwhile, Dante's eyebrows had risen so high they could barely be
seen on his forehead, while he stared at Randal in shock.

"Five Kiltlifters," Randal said, ignoring him.

"Five--you're insane."

"One for each of us."

She shrugged.  "Still stands."  But she walked to the bar and placed
the order.

On 'L' they had another moment of controversy.  They'd still been in
Claddagh's at that point, just before they got kicked out.

"Liquid Cocaine," Jay said with relish.  

"What the hell?" asked Dante.  

Jay had waved the menu impatiently.  

"Schnapps an' Jager, sounds good.  C'mon..."

"No more Jager!" four voices chorused, including Bob's.  Jay pouted.

"One more?  Last one?  C'mon, it's got Goldsh...goldsh...that cinnamon
shit with the gold flakes.  C'mon..."

Eventually, they'd given in to Jay's wheedling, and doubtfully picked
up their Liquid Cocaine shooters.

"One," Randal said.

"Two," Dante added mournfully.

"Three," TJ whispered.

"GO!" yelled Jay, and they shot the drinks, slamming down the empty
shot glasses.

"Whoo!" Randal cried out.  "Fuckin' *A*, that *burns*!"

"Oh, but in that fuckin' good way..."

"Shit.  SHIT!" screamed Dante, shaking his head.  And the manager had
come over to their table and asked them to leave.  And TJ had called a
cab in the bar, and they'd stood for a bit, weaving in place,
bullshitting with each other and teasing TJ about the bet he was
losing, and TJ'd gotten all defensive, and decided to stay in for the
full run.  Then they'd gotten in the cab, Jay wedged in on top of Bob,
who barely breathed on the trip over.  Lap full of warm blond and very
nearly drunk enough to take advantage--

**Damn, boy, clamp those hormones DOWN--**

And then they'd poured out of the cab at the fifth bar, TJ waving
drunkenly to the cab as the driver pulled back into traffic.

Bob remembered that, but couldn't quite remember the name of the place
they were in now.  He looked around.  Dark wood paneling, golf game in
the corner, jukebox in the corner with everything from Travis Tritt
and Garth Brooks to Guns n' Roses, Alice Cooper and Marilyn Manson. 
Wild mix.  Lots of old-school party songs, including a Dylan classic
Jay must've played five times already, "Everybody Must Get Stoned". 
Nobody else seemed to mind.  But what was the name of the place?

"It's the Bootlegger," the waitress whispered as she set a tray down
full of glasses.  Bob's eyebrows shot up, looking at her.  Psychic
waitress.  Holy fuck.

She shook her head.  "Nah, I just been here for ten years.  You learn
to read facial expressions after a while.  Yours said, 'Now, what the
hell bar are we in now?' pretty damn clearly."

**Oh,** he thought.  Well, then.  She just nodded, setting drinks out.

"Bartender says, the next one's on the house.  But after that,
*you're* booted.  Got that?"

TJ nodded.

"Figures," he said.  "I should be going home anyway.  I am so gonna
feel this tomorrow...Brandy's gonna kill me."

Randal nodded sympathetically, and TJ rolled his eyes.  The waitress
cocked a hand high on one hip.

"Lemme see if I get this.  Your wife's named Brandy, and she's gonna
get upset if you drink?"

"No, she just wanted me to go up to see her dad tomorrow, and I don't
think I'm going to be up to the drive."

"Ah.  Emotional sabotage.  You don't want to go see the father, so you
agreed to a night out with the boys, knowing they'd screw you over."

"What're you, a psych student?" asked Randal.

She smiled wryly.  "How'd you guess?"  Turning, she left again,
walking back to the bar.  Bob nearly laughed, but went back to
thinking.  After L...what had been after L?

They'd moved to this bar, he knew that.  And they'd gotten...Right. 
Mindfucks all around.  How could he have forgotten?  Jay had started
giggling insanely, poking Bob's arm.  He'd looked down, irritated,
raising his eyebrows, his universal declaration of "What the fuck now?"

Jay waved the menu again, which he'd taken under the table with him. 
Bob couldn't remember how he'd gotten under the table again.

"They got a drink here called a Mindfuck.  We gotta have it."

Bob blinked.  Then, slowly, he began to grin.

"Okay," said Dante.  "What's the deal?"

From beneath the table came a rusty tenor.  "*It's something you'll
get used to/A mental mind-fuck can be nice...*"

"If he's going to sing, I'm going to leave," said Dante.

"Just fuckin' order it already," said Jay, the words muffled by the
table.  "Or I'll bite your knees."

Dante snorted, and then screamed piercingly.   His eyes crossed and he
jumped a good foot, banging body parts against the table.

"That was *not* my fucking *knee*, Jay!  Order the damn drink!  Fuck!"

Randal raised his eyebrows, and peered under the table, hearing Jay's
high-pitched giggle again.

"What, exactly, did you bite, boy?"

"Wouldn't you like to know..."

Randal raised his head to the tune of additional snickers and a
wounded look from Dante.

"I would, actually," he said.  He looked thoughtful.  And that was the
first time Bob remembered Randal talking to the waitress.

She had almost-red hair, that shade that said it had been red in the
past, and could, with the owner's inclination, be red again.  She was
wearing a dark gold satin shirt, the edges a little ragged on the
sleeve ends, and a black skirt with black fishnets.  Bob almost
expected her to pass out poker chips with their drinks.  Instead, they
just got sarcasm with the alcohol, which was nearly as good.

He still didn't know her name.  But before he could ask, they'd chosen
the next drink on the list, the one the bartender was buying, and sent
in the order.

"What is *this* shit?" Jay asked, when the four drinks came to the table.

"Nuclear Waste," Randal said, shrugging.  "I didn't think it'd look
like this."

"That shit is *nasty*," Jay said.  "Fuck that."

"Really?" Randal asked, grinning.  "So you forfeit?"

"I what?"

"Well, if you don't want to drink what we ordered...?"

"You motherfucker," Jay hissed.  He flipped his hair back, picking up
the swirling blue drink.  He downed half of it, staring at Randal the
whole time.  Then he stared at the glass.

"Huh.  That ain't too bad."

"Damn," Dante said.  "You mean we have to drink it, too?"

"Quit yer bitchin' and drink, you pussy," Randal said.  Dante glared,
but picked up his glass.

And then that was it.  One more call, two cabs to the bar--one to
ferry TJ away, looking very sad, and one to ferry the other four back
to Dante's place, where they'd sat on the couch, staring at each
other.  Finally Randal had gotten up and gone into the kitchen.

"Dante!" he called out.  "Boot up the comp, find that site where you
can punch in what ingredients you have, and they'll give you drinks
for 'em."

"Huh," Dante said, but did it.  Bob and Jay clustered around the comp
as Randal read off ingredients.  One recipe came up top of the list,
using everything, and Randal nodded when Dante read him the name.

"Yeah.  I can do that."  They heard clinking sounds from the kitchen.

Bob looked doubtfully at the screen.  'Off Your Ass in a Glass', the
screen said.  Shit.  That sounded...dangerous, actually.  Huh.  Maybe
one last drink wasn't the best idea in the--

Randal walked out with four jelly glasses full of strange,
greenish-amber liquid, and handed them around.  Everyone stared at the
glasses, Dante in something like horror.  Then they all looked at Randal.

"Bottoms up, boys," Randal said.  "We all fail the bet."

And they drank.

***

Birdsong woke Bob, birdsong and weird clear light, and he blearily
peered at the clock on the wall.  It was one of those
different-bird-every-hour things that Dante'd picked up somewhere. 
That named the place--he wasn't at home, not if he was hearing birds
chirp from a wall clock.  He tried to turn over, and two things hit
him at once:  first, how bad his head hurt, and second, his hand was
trapped down Jay's pants.

He stopped breathing.

"Mrr," Jay said, turning over and trapping his hand further.  He
rubbed against the hand, growing hard.

**Oh shit.  Oh, shit, oh shit, ohshitohshitoh--**

"Yeah, baby," Jay murmured, and wriggled, an all-over body movement
that turned Bob's bones to liquid, watching it.

"Unngh," Bob heard from the bedroom.  In one motion, he pulled his
hand free and sat up, and immediately wished he'd stayed on the floor.
 His head started pounding in time to the sluggish beat of his heart.
 He felt mangled.  His eyes hurt.  His neck hurt.  

Bob staggered to the bathroom, peering blearily in the mirror while he
relieved some bladder pressure.  That was no good, though, because his
eyes bugged out and that hurt worse.  He whimpered, seeing the hickey
on the side of his neck, bright red and precisely diamond-shaped.

**Oh *SHIT*, oh shit, ohshitohshitohshit--**

"AHHHH!" came the scream from the living room.  Bob staggered back
out, passing the open door to the bedroom on his way, and stopped
dead.  Randal's head poked out of a large pile of clothes on the floor
of Dante's bedroom.  That hadn't been what stopped Bob.  What had
stopped Bob was seeing Dante's head cuddling against Randal's
stretched-out legs.

Bob shook his head, gingerly, dislodging the image, and tracked down
the source of the whimpers in the living room.  His boy was awake. 
Okay.  We can deal with this, he thought, blinking.

Fuck.  Even *blinking* hurt.

Walking slowly into the kitchen, he filled the coffee pot with water,
tracked down some coffee and a filter, and set the works to making
while he hunted down two clean glasses.  Filling them with water, he
brought them out to the blond, setting one on the floor and the other
into Jay's hands.

"What the fuck I'm s'posed'ta do with--"

But he was gone again, rummaging through the bathroom for aspirin.  He
brought the bottle out to the kitchen, pouring eight into his hand,
checked the progress of the coffee, and walked back to the living
room.  He handed four tablets to Jay, swallowing four himself, and
picked up the water, draining the glass.  Then he staggered to the
couch and thought for a moment.

Nope.  No recollection.  Hazy drifting progression of events through
five bars and fifteen drinks, and then...mindwipe.  Nothing but even
hazier darkness, until waking up with his roommate's cock in his hand
and--

**NOT thinking about that, Robert.  Not, not, not--**

--making coffee while he waited for everyone to get up.

"Coffee," came this slurred, hazy voice from the bedroom.  Bob
blinked, counting it down.

**Five.  Four.  Three.  Two.  O--**

"AAAIIIGH!"

That'd be Dante, realizing who was in the clothespile with him.

"MOTHERFUCK!"

That'd be Randal.  Randal always was louder.  Shit.  Bob rubbed his
temples, waiting for the aspirin to kick in.

Dante rushed out, naked but for a pair of Spiderman boxer shorts,
cocked off one hip alarmingly.

"OhGodohGodohGodohGod--" he said as he rushed by.

Randal ambled out in his own time, rubbing his eyes.  He wore a pair
of sweatpants that Bob could've sworn were Dante's, no shirt, and a
pair of white underwear on his head.

"Whazza...wherza...wha?" he asked blurrily.

**Got me,** Bob thought, and cocked a finger at him, walking into the
kitchen.  He poured a cup of coffee as Randal meandered in, looking at
random objects like they were about to sprout wings and fly off
counters and chairs.  He held the cup out to Randal, and Randal stared
for a moment before reaching out, hands trembling, to take it.

He looked at Bob, wonder and not a little fear painted broadly on his
face.

"Well...fuck," he said, his eyes huge and dark.

Bob shrugged.

"Welcome to the new world," he said softly, and poured himself some
coffee.

END
(Song quoted is from the Rocky Horror Picture Show: "Planet Shmanet,
Janet")
***************
Kelandris the Mad
any day but Sunday and any time but now

*Additional notes:*
Okay, the five bars I picked in North Jersey actually exist, though I
don't know precisely what they are.  They were:  the Sports Barn, 304
Main Street in Keansburg; Mackey's Pub, 200 Main Street in Keansburg;
Backstadt's Tavern, 8 Bray Avenue, North Middleton; Claddagh, at 297
Bay Avenue in Highlands; and the Highland Bootlegger, at 23 Bay Avenue
in Highlands.  I don't know any of these bars personally, so details
*will* be wrong.

A: Atom Bomb: Fill a regular shot glass with an ounce of Sambuca. 
Drop shot into a mug half full of draft beer and drink immediately.

B: Bull Shot:  Fill a highball glass with ice and add 1 1/2 ounces
vodka, 1 tsp. lemon juice, 3 drops of Worcestershire sauce (or one
good shake), a dash of Tabasco, and stir.  Fill with five ounces of
beef bouillon.  Serve.

C: Cranium Meltdown: 1/4 ounce each of Malibu Coconut Rum, Bacardi 151
Rum, Chambord and Pineapple juice.

D: Duck Fart: 1/3 ounce Kahlua, 1/3 ounce Bailey's and 1/3 ounce Crown
Royal layered in order in a large shot glass.

E: Eight Seconds:  1/4 ounce of each:  Jagermeister, Goldschlager, Hot
Damn and Rumpleminze.  Shake over ice and strain into a large shot glass. 

F: Flaming Dr. Pepper:  Pour 1 ounce Amaretto in a shot glass and pour
a float of dark rum over it.  Light the shot and drop it carefully
into a mug of beer.  Drink immediately.

G: Glenfiddich straight shots.  Glenfiddich is a very good whisky that
comes in a very triangular bottle.

H: Hard Eight:  Add 1 1/2 ounces Haitian dark rum, the juice of 1/2 a
ripe lime, and two dashes of bitters to an ice-filled Collins glass. 
Top off with ginger beer.

I: Incredible Hulk:  Pour 2 ounces of Midori and an ounce of vodka
into an ice-filled shaker.  Shake and strain into an ice-filled
old-fashioned glass.  Top with 2 ounces of Mountain Dew.

J: Jack the Ripper: Level ice to the top of a shaker.  Pour 2 1/2
ounces of Crown Royal and 3/4 ounce of Buttershots (butterscotch
schnapps) into the shaker.  Shake and strain into brandy snifter.

K: Kiltlifter:  Pour 1 1/2 ounces of single-malt Scotch and 1 ounce of
Drambuie, Glayva or Lochanora whiskey into a shaker along with 2 1/2
ounces of lime juice (Rose's is preferred).  Shake gently and serve in
an old-fashioned glass.

L: Liquid Cocaine: 1/2 ounce Jagermeister, 1/2 ounce Goldschlager;
shake with ice, strain into a shot glass and serve.  Alternate recipe
popular in Montreal.

M: Mindfuck:  Mix 2 ounces of Jack Daniels and 2 ounces Cactus Juice
liqueur in a glass filled with ice.  Fill to the top with Coca-Cola,
stir with a straw and serve.

N: Nuclear Waste:  Blend 1 ounce vodka, 1 ounce blue Cura�ao and 1
ounce Bailey's Irish cream in a shaker.  Pour into old-fashioned glass
and top off with Coca-Cola.

O: Off Your Ass in a Glass:  Mix together 1 ounce vodka, 1/2 ounce
gin, 2 ounces Gatorade, 4 ounces Crown Royal, 1 tsp. salt, 1 tsp lemon
juice, and half a can of beer.  Stir until the salt dissolves and
drink straight.  Then go lie down somewhere, because baby, you aren't
getting up any time soon.

And, not that they got to it, but...

S: Skip And Go Naked: Pour 1/2 a glass of beer into a chilled mug. 
Add lemonade nearly to top.  Float 1 1/2 ounces of Southern Comfort on
top.  (Alternate recipe.)

The Webtender, where most of these recipes came from, can be found
here: ( http://www.webtender.com/ )
And iDrink is here: ( http://www.idrink.com/indexnew.htm )