“Not while I was down in Louisiana, but when I got back, Ray and I made a batch of Flemish Red.”

“Flemish Red, hunh?” said the Preacher. “What’s that?”

“You know, like Rodenbach.”

“No I don’t know,” said the Preacher.

“Pete’s got a few bottles in the back I think. I’ll order one, if you want to try it.”

“What do they taste like?”

“Rich, thick, fruity, slightly sour,” I said.

“Sounds like the liquid version of Pete.”

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“Your glass is broken, man,” said the Preacher. “It’s not doing what God intended it to do.”

“No beer in the glass, alas,” I said spinning the offending shaker pint on the wood-topped bar.

“Hey Pete!” bellowed the Preacher so loudly that I almost fell off my stool. “A man’s dry out here!”

A mighty crash came from the kitchen. It sounded like a whole shelf of plates hit the concrete floor. The inevitable stream of expletives started immediately.

“I think you’re going to have to get that beer yourself,” said the Preacher.

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The Preacher spun his martini glass on the bar top. “Wonder what what is all about?”

“You know. Life,” I said. “Where did it all come from? What are we doing here? Where are we going?”

“You’ve been watching Run Lola Run again haven’t you?”

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“Something’s up, man,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You. Something’s different.”

“Maybe it’s my gorgeous tan?”

The Preacher lowered his sun glasses and looked at me. “No it’s not the tan,” he said, then added. “Although, you look marvelous.”

“That’s just so eighties, man,” I said.

He pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. “No, you seem… like down or something.”

“It’s nuthin’” I said. “Just middle-age.”

“Tell me about it,” said the Preacher.

“Well, okay. It’s all started when—”

“Stop,” said the Preacher. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” said the Preacher.

“Yeah, been a bit busy. Went on a trip to Louisiana to do some fishing.”

The Preacher nodded and swallowed some vodka martini. “Did you catch anything?”

“Nothing that isn’t curable,” I said.

Technorati Tags: fiction, long neck

“When I bite into it I want to hear the animal scream,” said the Preacher.

“I thought you were vegan,” I said.

“I’ll eat anything,” said the Preacher, “including vegans.”

“He’s so charming,” said Pete.

“Just shut up and go make my cheese burger,” said the Preacher.

“On a plate,” said the Preacher.

“Everyone’s a comedian,” said Pete.

“Give it to me raw,” said the Preacher.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” said Pete.

“How did you get this job?” asked the Preacher.

“I own the place,” said Pete.

“That makes sense,” said the Preacher.

“Slightly Smug Pale Ale,” I said.

“I tried to get him interested in the Insanely Devious Manipulator,” said Pete.

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s an Imperial Doppelbock,” I said.

“I should have guessed,” said the Preacher.

The Preacher shrugged. “The Pig’s working again,” he said.

“What was wrong with it?” I asked.

“What wasn’t wrong with it!” chimed in Pete. “The only way to fix that car is to buy a new one.”

“Is that martini done yet?” growled the Preacher.

“I wanna cheese burger and a vodka martini,” repeated the Preacher and I might have detected a hint of menace in his tone.

“Got a new laser printer?” asked Pete.

From inside his robe the Preacher took out a large rusty screwdriver and set it on the bar in front of him.

“What’s the screwdriver for?” asked Pete backing away.

“In case I get thirsty.”