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Part 2

Harlan did not speak. He thought about turning and running, but realized that the man, even hampered by the tight cut of the impeccably tailored dress, would quickly overtake him.

"Kid, are you deaf or just stupid?" the man growled impatiently. "When am I?" There was a brief silence in which you could hear a pimple pop.

Harlan took a deep breath, coughed up the fly which was sucked into his throat, and spoke. "Don't you mean where am I?" The man shook his head and rose, unsteadily, to his feet. He staggered for a moment, and then stepped towards Harlan. "If he tries to show me a tatoo I'll scream," Harlan promised himself.

The man did nothing of the sort. He did move close enough so that Harlan could smell, and wrinkle his nose at, the combined odors of Roentgen's relieved bladder and ... "Scraplom." the man blurted out. "It's the most potent liquor on Earth. Made from fermented fly vomit, or something like that. And if I ever see another bottle of it I'll..."

There was another "Pop" in the air above Harlan. This time he heard it, and saw an object appear in mid-air and drop to the ground. The man heard also. He turned and gave out a deafening shout of joy! In a moment he was knealing over the object which looked to Harlan like a breadbox with a cubist food processor welded on top. Or on the side. Or somewhere.

Part 3

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