Normally packed, the club's crowd was light tonight because of the recent death threats by followers of the Chosen One. The manager, Nick, who was one of the club's three owners, seated us at a table in front near the right side of the stage area just before the main act began.
The small size of the audience didn't seem to bother the comic, George MacGregor. If anything, it inspired him to his finest efforts to poke fun at the insanity of the world, with special attention to the Chosen One and those who followed him. His insights into the movement surrounding the Chosen one were deep, accurate and profoundly funny. Equating me with those who claimed to be my followers was inaccurate and unfair, but he made me laugh both about what he had right and what he had wrong.
When the act finished, almost everybody but those at our table left immediately. Nick waved George down to join us, then had the waitresses bring in a set of clean, clear, straight-sided, chilled glasses and a tub full of the beers I had brought, iced and ready to serve, on a wheeled cart. When George arrived, Nick introduced him to our party, "George, this is Susan, a reporter, Carol, a student who is considering becoming a comic, and Andy, who has a very interesting beer he would like us to try."
"Susan, I'm pleased to meet you. Carol, didn't you have an act at The Brick Wall a couple of weeks ago?"
"Yes. It was supposed to be three twenty minute fillers, Friday and twice on Saturday, but somebody got their signals crossed before the Saturday matinee and I wound up on stage, improvising, for over an hour. That led to several good offers."
"Now, Andy, what's so special about your beer?"
I pulled a bottle out of the ice and turned it so he could see the label. "Chaos Cat is two beers sitting one on top of the other in the same bottle. You see the label has the eye of a cat in the middle and the chaotic whorls and blobs you associate with that indeterminate boundary area between what can be calculated and what cannot. Stare at it for a moment and the figure of a cat should pop out at you."
"Well! That is pretty neat."
"Now tilt your glass and very gently pour the beer into it. First you'll get the pale beer, almost colorless. Then, if you're patient and careful, the dark brown beer will flow down under it without mixing too much, and you'll wind up with something that looks rather like a lava lamp, with swirls, fingers and blobs of dark beer thrusting up into the light beer. The two beers have different tastes, the many mixtures that result also have different tastes, so every sip is a new taste adventure."
"Damn! That is very neat! And it tastes good. What's your deal?"
"Chaos Cat is very delicate. It won't stand ordinary shipping. The two beers can be shipped separately in kegs and dispensed together in glasses and mugs, or it can be bottled in a small back room. No pitchers, no cases. It gets sold in the club to be consumed in the club. I will provide the necessary equipment. You can sell either the pale or the brown by itself, but only the mix will be called Chaos Cat. As long as George continues his Chosen One comedy, you get an exclusive on Chaos Cat. Nick, you've seen my prices."
George, who had worked his way down to the brown beer, said, "I take it you're not a fan of the Chosen One?"
Susan, who had been taking a sip of beer, choked, spraying the table. When she could control herself, she said, "Sorry."
I said, "As Susan understands, I appreciate the Chosen One as much as anybody. I also appreciate good humor, and I've enjoyed your performance tremendously. I don't mind if you exaggerate a bit or sometimes miss the mark. Let me suggest a scenerio for you. Suppose you were at a party and got to talking to somebody. You decided he was friendly, intelligent, well-informed and likeable. Then later you learned that he was the Chosen One but he was totally different from what you had expected. Would that hurt your comedy?"
There was a disturbance at the club's entrance. With a scream, one of the hostesses was pushed backwards into the club, to fall under a table. Five men entered, two with shotguns and three with rifles, herding the hostesses and waitresses towards us. One with a shotgun picked up the fallen hostess and pushed her on with the others.
"MacGregor! You were warned what would happen if you continued your lying attacks against the Chosen One."
I said, "Go away. You're bothering me. Mr. MacGregor has every right to say whatever he wants to say about a public figure like the Chosen One and especially about the fools who so blindly worship him."
One of the riflemen pointed his weapon at me and said, "You're as bad as he is and you're going to suffer the same fate."
Clouds of orange mites enveloped the five figures. Five blackened piles of ashes remained where they had been. I turned to George and said, "I hope you appreciate the irony."
I turned to Susan. "Susan, you've kept your bargain. You destroyed the story you wrote about me and you kept your mouth shut all evening. Now you have a new story you can write. Was it worth it?"
"Oh, yes, Andrew. The new story is worth at least ten times what the old one would have been worth. I'm glad I trusted you. Thank you for giving me this opportunity. George ... May I call you George? George, you have no idea how hard it was for me not to tell you who you were talking to, especially after that remark about not being a fan of the Chosen One. Somebody, please pass me another of those wonderful beers."
"Then you are the Chosen One? Nick, did you know?"
"No, George, I had no idea." He helped himself to another Chaos Cat, his hand shaking as he tried to pour it slowly into the glass.
"Andrew Walter Jamison. I must admit that I admire what you pulled off here this evening. I like your style. Hell, I even like you, now that I know you, not that I'll ever admit that to my audience. Or maybe I will. I'll have to think about it. Were you serious about the beer?"
"The club gets exclusive use of Chaos Cat as long as you continue your comedy. Yes, I was perfectly serious."
"Okay, I'll sign a contract. Nick, what about you, and do you think Angela will sign?"
"I'll sign. Angela's already inked it. She's the one who sent Andrew here to us."
"Andrew, do you want us to say anything about you making the beer?"
"No. The label on the bottle says 'AWJ Brewery, Reno'. The word will get out, if only because Susan is here. If anybody asks, answer honestly but don't elaborate. Susan has earned the right to elaborate. Just let her know. Oh, by the way, Nick, your people should call the cops and tell them what happened. Let them look at the piles of ashes before cleaning up. The Brightly Shining usually leave enough for the remains to be identified and the cops get upset when we forget to tell them that I've had to defend myself against my supporters or something like that."
© Copyright 1999 - 2001, James E. Henderson (WordJames) and the authors listed. All rights reserved.