Well, I got four positive answers and no negatives as to whether I
should post the previous TFBT stories, so I suppose the ayes have it.
Just to be on the safe side, I'm only gonna post the first one. If people
seem to like it, I'll put up the rest, over time.
Technically speaking, this isn't the first story, but the real first
wasn't the best piece I've ever done, and I wanted the intro post to be
at least half-decent. You don't miss much, anyway; Mahon and Hosoi both
appear for the first time in the following story.
As always, C&C is good, and will probably be the deciding factor as to
whether or not I post any more of these things.
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The Teufel, The Rats, and the Regulars are Copyrighted 1994 by Mad
Wombat Enterprises and Michael Loader. The Pogues "Boat Train" is
copyrighted by them and Stiff Music.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
(========================)
( INSTITUT RATS )
( )
( by Michael Loader )
(========================)
I'm not much of a musician. Actually, to be truthful, I can hardly
play a note. So naturally I was startled when Seamus approached me
one night and asked if I would play the pipes for them.
"'Us?' Who's 'us'?" I asked.
"Me an' Mahon Davies. Oh, an' that English rat turd Giles. 'Ow bout
it?"
We were strolling down the Kelgasse at the time, which was
probably where Seamus had got the phrase 'rat turd' from. There
looked to be enough of them around. It wasn't one of his more
imaginative prefixes to Giles' name, evidence that he was excited.
"Giles, I can barely play a recorder or a flute. I've never tried
a...what is it exactly?"
He looked embarrassed. "Well....itsa pipe, see...."
"What kind of pipe, though?"
"We...we ain't quite sure."
"Seamus, I suck with the two woodwinds I can play. You don't want
me playing the.."
"Pipe."
"...the pipe, thank you, for....what do you want me to play for,
anyway?"
"We're puttin' together a band, a good pub-crawlin' group 'o
wailers. Gonna call ourselves the 'Institut Rats'. An we'ra gonna
clean up, sure, big time! Otto's givin' us a real good pay deal."
"What's he paying you?"
A beautific grin lit up his face. "Beer. We play fer beer."
"Come again?"
"Otto's gonna give us free rounds if he's liking the music. Well,
actually, if he likes how the customers are liking the music." He
paused, and added offhandedly,"Oh, or free food, yer choice."
I mulled this over as we walked. My money was not lasting as well
as I had hoped, and Otto's doner kebab was the best food I knew of. A
free banquet, every night! I began salivating involuntarily.
Seamus leaned closer. "Mike...ya know what the Teufel's lot are
like when it's an hour past openin'. They'll be pissed out of their
skulls on the booze! They aren't gonna know ya from Mozart in that
state. Ya don't have ta play 'em well, just play. Me an the rest, us lot
can play damn good. We'll cover, but we need a pipe. 'sain't music
with no pipe."
Why not, I wondered. Seamus was right, the Blau Teufel was no
concert hall, and it's clientele would be too far gone to know if the
music was good or not. And free food! Maybe just once....couldn't hurt
to try.
"I don't have to play more than one night, if things don't go well?"
"'O course not! Itsa trial deal!"
"Okay," I told him, "I'll do it. When do we practice?"
"Now," he said, and walked into the weatherworn Ratskellar that
had materialized out of the evening fog. I followed him in.
* * * * *
The Blau Teufel Ratskellar was a unruly place at best, and a war
zone at worst. As the student hangout for the nearby Goethe-Institut
language school, it sported as many as 20 different nationalities at
once. Picture a cross between the UN and a bar fight; that was the
Teufel. Of course, there was seldom any actual violence, at least not
more than once a week.
Otto, the hulking bartender, was behind the bar as usual. The
Italians were seated at their normal spot in the center of the room,
shouting and gesturing. One of them was trying to dance on the table,
and failing. A number of Mexicans were using their common language
to flirt with a trio of Spanish girls. A group of Japanese drank sake
and vodka in a corner booth. All in all, a normal mix. Otto was the
only native present, but that was normal too. Germans spoke of the
Teufel with the same enthusiasm priests use when speaking of Hell.
In fact, the only thing out of the ordinary was the loud wave of
silence emanating from Otto's radio. Normally it was on full blast....
A horrible suspicion overcame me.
"Seamus," I said, "we aren't playing here tonight, are we?"
"'O course," he said cheerfully, "an why not? There's beer to be
had tonight."
"But what about practice?"
"Bugger practice! 'Sides, Giles and Mahon have already started
drinking, an when yer not playin', they'll have to pay fer it! An
they've downed several pints already."
As if summoned, Mahon and Giles, Welsh and English respectively,
emerged from beneath a table. I noted with relief that they could
still stand, and, judging from the baroque insults Giles was
exchanging with Seamus, seemed to have most of their wits about
them. Hopefully, they would drown me out. Maybe I would get through
this night after all!
".....You croppie, bombhappy, Irish vermin! May wot passes for yer
prick be infested by maggots, if it isn't olready!"
Yes, they were in fine form tonight. The insults were to satisfy the
honor of their respective nationalities, and gave them common
ground (well, in addition to the worship of alcohol) on which to build
their friendship. I always found it rather touching, and saved a few
of the more ingenious ones to hurl at those I disliked.
"....you dogkissing, landstealing, sheepraping piece of English toilet
mold! Well, come on, ya slugs, let's be playin'!" With this, Seamus
strode towards the small stage in the rear of the Teufel normally
used for piling unconscious customers on. Mahon followed silently,
as always. I had never known him to say more that five words at a
time, and less if he could help it. Conversations, in Mahon's view,
were things that happened to other people.
Giles ducked under the table again, and began to wrestle out a drum
set. Well, part of one, anyway.
"You're gonna play the drums, Giles?" I asked. He grunted an
affirmative as he tried to untangle the set from a chair. Chair and
drum seemed to be romantically involved, however, and it took him a
few minutes to disengage the two.
"Right! that done it!" he said. "Yeah, oi'm gonna be beatin' these
things oll night." He glared at the chair. "And now oi got me
motivation."
"What does Mahon play?"
"Play? He don't play a thing wot oi know of. He's our singer."
Something akin to panic moved in me. I resigned myself for feeling
it the rest of the evening. "Giles," I said in a slow, steady voice,
"Mahon speaks as though words were made of gold."
"Right you are! Oi didn't know you had heard him sing!"
"Giles, how the hell are we gonna come up with ten-word songs all
evening?"
He looked puzzled. "Naw, they're longer than that. Most of them, oi
think, are a coiple dozen stanzas."
I whimpered silently under my breath.
By the time we had finished hauling the drum set up to the stage,
Seamus and Mahon had finished their own preparations. A microphone
had been rigged in the middle of the platform, and Seamus had
plugged in a stringed instrument of some sort into an amp. Giles
started to set up his set, and I saw Mahon mumbling under his breath.
Lord, I thought, I hope that isn't his singing voice!
"Seamus," I said, "what is that thing?"
He gave me a blank stare. "What?...O, this darlin'." He cradled the
instrument lovingly, and gave it an affectionate pat. "'Tis me
electric mandolin. Ain't she a beauty, though! Finest in the land, I'd
wager."
Only one in the land is more like it, I thought. "Er, how...," I
stumbled over the question, trying to find a polite way of saying it.
"How good are, um, you with that?"
"Pretty damn good. An I ain't just sayin' that fer me own ego."
A clatter drew our gaze over to where Giles was locked in mortal
combat with his drum set. Seamus and I stood, impressed by his
skillful use of the less-used bits of the English language.
"Damn," I finally breathed, impressed. "He wouldn't even talk to
you like that!"
"Yeah," Seamus replied mournfully.
The sounds of creaking floorboards signaled Otto's approach.
Saying that he was a large man was like saying the World Trade
Center was a good-sized building. He had no neck. Today, in a vain
effort towards decorum, he was wearing a tuxedo that would have
fit three normal men. It looked tight on him. Scowl #52, (Dis is good
idea, but probably get screwed up), was plastered across his face.
"Musik stuff sofort ready, ja?" he bellowed.
The normally unflappable Seamus turned pale. "Right! We, uh...,"
another spate of crashing and swearing came from the drum set, "me
friend is, er tunin' his instrument. Always fussin' over it, he is."
Otto's face shifted to scowl #24 (Ja, right, du have bridge to
sell?), and he started emitting a low rumbling noise.
Mahon, amazingly, interjected. "Five minutes."
The rumbling stopped, and Otto's face laboriously shifted over
into scowl #49, (I wait und denn see.). "Ja, well, five minuten. But
nicht longer, I paying you salary. Verstehen Sie?"
Behind us, Giles tossed off a phrase involving a cheesegrater and a
beagle's reproductive organs. I took the relative mildness of the
comment to mean he was almost done. "We understand," I said. "Five
minutes or less."
Otto grunted, and lumbered back towards the bar. Seamus gave a
low whistle of relief. "I hope Giles gets done soon."
"By the way," I said, "Where is this, uh...."
"Pipe?"
"...yeah, pipe. I kinda wanted to see it, you know, get the hang of oh
my god..."
Seamus had produced what looked like a wooden statue of an eel
training to be a contortionist. "Do ya like it?" he said proudly.
"What. Is. That."
"'sa pipe. I told ya. 'ere, try her out." With that, he tossed me the
instrument, and headed off to help Giles. I resisted the urge not to
catch it.
It had a brass inlay, and curved in upon itself twice. There were
six holes scattered about the tube, and what appeared to be a slide
meant to worked by one finger. It took me about three minutes just
to figure out a way to hold the damn thing.
I tenantivly brought the mouthpiece ("Lord," I thought, "I hope it is
the mouthpiece.") to my lips, and gently blew.
Hmm. Not bad. Kind of a cross between a flute and a cello.
I tried a few other fingering positions, and gradually began to get
the hang of it. By that, I mean that the notes were broken,
discordant, and off, but were actually notes.
"Mike, ya ready ta play?" yelled Seamus cheerfully. I glanced over,
and realized that Giles' stream of profanity had ceased, and the
drums were in position. I walked over to the others, and gave a
glance at the oblivious crowd of drinkers. "What do we play?" i
whispered.
"Well," Seamus replied, "d'ya know 'Boat Train'?"
"I've heard it, but I don't precisely..."
"Good, we'll be playin' that then. Mahon, after the openin'. An a one,
two.."
Giles opened up with a irregular drumbeat, bringing to mind a
lurching, drunken step. Seamus accompanied him with a almost
discordant riff that seemed to blend in perfectly. I began to play; and
while the notes weren't in tune, the song seemed to bear it.
People began to look up from their respective drinks, tables, and,
in the case of the Mexicans, bosoms.
Damn, I thought, they really can play.
Then, suddenly, as the music blared and leveled off, a steady, loud
voice rose up and began singing.
"I met with Napper Tandy and I shook him by the hand
He said 'Hold me up for Chrissake, for I can hardly stand
The most disgraceful journey on which I've ever been
The last time that I travel on the Boat Train"
I cut short a note and turned to stare at Mahon in amazement. He
was speaking! More, he was singing! No, even more, it was good
singing! I resumed playing feeling a bit shaken; one of my
Fundamental Truths having been shattered.
"I had a couple of drinks in town, a few more at the port
I puked up on the gangway but some kind folks helped me board
They helped me to a table, poured whiskey down my throat
They sat me at a table and I lost my watch and coat
"First we drank some whiskey, then we drank some gin
Then we drank tequila, I think that's what did me in
Then we had some brandy and the women had a dance
The steward then announced that we could play a game of chance"
I noticed some foot tapping in the audience. A couple of people
were entusiastically slamming mugs on their tables in time to the
music, and the Itatians were yelping an accompaniment. The
Mexicans seemed oblivious to the tune, but that was understandable
under the circumstances.
"We crowded round the table with our money in our hands
I ended up on the other side without a penny in my pants
I woke up in the toilet when we got to Holyhead
The doors were all a-banging and I wished that I was dead"
The Japanese were shrieking loud cries of glee, and I saw one of
them waving at me. I realized with a start that I knew him, it was
my friend Hosoi. He had the room across from me; a pleasant,
sociable guy. We played chess every other day. I suppose I should
have spotted him when I came in, but the lampshade he was currently
wearing hid his face. I waved back in between notes. He responded by
spilling his whiskey on the head of the man next to him. When this
elicited no response, he went back to yelling.
The song went on, the verses detailing the disastrous journey.
Those who could understand the lyrics laughed, and those who didn't
were enjoying the tune anyway. It was a lively, energetic air, and the
theme was one the whole taproom was in a state of mind to enjoy.
Otto was still scowling from behind the bar, but I could hear the
hammerlike thump of his foot tapping.
Mahon drew to a long, almost trilling close, with the rest of us
coming to a crashing halt behind him. The audience cheered, and
threw bottles at us in a friendly fashion. We bowed, more to dodge
bottles that to show thanks.
After brushing the bits of glass off my coat, I ordered a Doner
Kebab. It arrived with unusual speed, and I wolfed it down. Pipe
playing is hungry work.
We played "Sally MacLennane", and "Streams of Whiskey", and
"Voyage of the Sannae", and a couple of others. Giles wanted to play
"Bottle of Smoke", but I cut him off. I still get the shivers
remembering the last time that song was heard in the Teufel.
As we drew to the end of "The Booted Whore", a song played
especially for the Italians, I ducked down behind the drum set to
avoid the bottles they were gifting us with. Seamus joined me after
a second, sliding to safety a instant ahead of two bottles.
"'ere, 'ere, now...," he swayed a bit, then steadied himself, "I told
ya we'd clean up!"
I looked at the fragment-covered stage, stained by now with
seventeen sorts of alcohol. "I sure hope not."
Seamus's hand shot out suddenly, and snatched one of the
projectiles out of the air. "Jack Daniels!", he exclaimed happily. "An
they didn't finish it, the more fool they!" He downed the half-full
bottle in nine pulls.
As the flood of projectiles slowed, Giles leaned over. "Oi gotta
request here from the audience. They translated it ta English for us.
And they showed me oll the riffs for it, simple stuff." He
demonstrated some chords to Seamus, and launched into a discussion
on how to play it. Mahon came over, and listened in silence for a
while. Then he straightened, and pointed at me.
"You sing," he stated flatly.
Seamus nodded agreement. "I can't see as how the pipe'd fit, an
t'would really sound better as a duet."
I started to object, then shrugged. "Sure. Show me the words."
Mahon held up a stained napkin. I stood up and surveyed the crowd.
The Mexicans, arms around the Spanish girls, were gazing at the
stage with anticipation.
I took the napkin and began reading it.
"You can't be serious," I finally choked.
A chorus of responses came back. "Why not? 'sall in fun." "Oi like
it." "Sing."
The song opened with a galloping beat. Mahon and I opened in
midway.
"In the year of 1916
President Wilson sent his Yankees
Into the state of Chihuahua
To punish our brave Pancho Villa.
Brave, brave Pancho Villa!
Let me ride with you.
I am young,
But I can shoot the Norteamericanos."
It went on for some verses like that.
* * * * *
We played some other requests, and then launched back into our
own selection. We had just started the "Turkish Song of the Damned"
when a group of that selfsame nationality walked in. This apparently
wasn't their first stop; they were swaying more than some of the
original patrons. They ordered beer and ouzo, and took a table by the
back wall.
About halfway into the song I began to get a strange feeling. I
looked up, and saw that one of the Turks was giving me a angry stare.
Not the whole band, just me. His hand was starting to move towards
a big bastard of a knife at his belt. I started to slowly move towards
the rear of the stage, trying frantically to think what I could have
done to offend him. Was my playing THAT bad?
With a roar, the Turk stood up, pushing his chair away. A rasping
sound cut over the music as the knife was drawn. The bar suddenly
went very still.
He pointed a unsteady finger at me, and spat, "Thief! You my
coljanki have stolen!"
What the hell's a coljanki, I thought.
Oh my...
I grabbed Seamus by the collar. "JESUS H. CHRIST AND HIS
PERFORMING DOG SKIPPY! YOU STOLE HIS..."
"Pipe," Seamus supplied helpfully.
"....PIPE? ARE YOU MENTAL?!?"
"Tisn't stolen! I bought it fair and square!"
"I make you in pain!" roared the ex-owner.
"Course," Seamus amended, "he had been drinkin' quite a bit that
night..."
The irate Turk began to advance on the stage. We began reaching
for long, heavy objects. The best I could manage was the colja...er,
pipe. Gritting my teeth, I hefted the instrument, hoping it wouldn't
break too quickly.
"IKASU! SUE!"
With a wild shout, Hosoi, sans lampshade, leapt in front of the
approaching menace. He brought himself into a kung-fuesque stance,
and began to emit a low wail.
The Turk stopped dead in his tracks, and looked anxiously at the
keening Hosoi. He lowered the knife.
Emboldened, Seamus stepped forward. "Look 'ere, Ujurlu, I bought
it off ya last night. Why, check yer bleedin' wallet!"
Still keeping a wary eye on Hosoi, Ujurlu brought out a billfold and
thumbed through it. A sheepish expression slowly spread across his
broad face. "Hokay," he muttered, "maybe you did buy."
Giles pulled out a couple of marks and gave them to him. Ujurlu
took them, shrugged, and resheathed the knife. A vast sigh of relief
filled the Teufel. Hosoi moved his hands through the air in a
menacing fashion, then relaxed and bowed to Ujurlu, who seemed
visibly relieved. "Damn good music," he shouted. "Play coljanki..."
"Pipe," muttered Seamus.
"..better than me anyway. Play more!"
And so we did.
* * * * *
We must have trotted out a couple dozen tunes that night. Ujurlu
taught us some Turkish ballads, and sang along with Mahon. Finally,
at about 3 AM, we stopped for the night. Seamus and Giles grabbed a
quart bottle of bourbon apiece, and vanished under a table. Mahon left
in the company of one of the Spanish girls. For my part, I went over
to Hosoi to thank him.
"No problem," he said in a slurred voice. I saw that I should
probably help him back to the Institut. "Come on, man," I said,
helping him to his feet. "Walkies, back home." I guided him over the
forms that littered the floor, snoring. Otto would be around in a bit
to toss them in the back alley.
"By the way," I said, "what form of martial arts was that?"
He gave a drunken giggle. "I do not know any martial arts. But it is
a useful stereotype, that all Japanese are masters of karate, or
something." He started to laugh again. After a while, so did I.
----------------------------------------------finis-------------------
Again, C&C will determine whether I'll post any more, so let me know
what ya thought of it. Thanks.