“Scott” collapsed on the floor, “William” kicked him, grumbling, “That’s for the bungie jumping accident, motherfucker,” before Dirk, finishing a haiku progression on Scott’s totemic longing for Jean’s bar, nudged “Dirk,” who was doing some kind of Ginsbergian chanting as Scott and William complimented each other’s pinballing in a passive agressive tongue-in-cheek kind of way.
”Dirk” looked over at Dirk, at first snarling at the mere mortal’s audacity, before warming, realizing the depth of humanity, the warmth of the friendship present in this mere poet who had become a great hypertext novelist by undoing the undoing of “Dirk” the concrete poetry messiah, and who had in fact been the inspiration for the term “I is We togetherness” that “Dirk’”’s followers had adopted as a mantra and “Dirk” saw that the suited simulacrum of “Scott” was in somewhat tenuous position, breathing shallowly into his drool. “Dirk” relented and waved his hand.
”Scott” came to.
Scott bought “Scott,” “William” and William Jameson’s on the rocks.
”Dirk” insisted that he be brought Jameson’s, an Absolut gimlet, a glass of mango nectar, coconut milk, a strawberry milkshake and a pint of buttermilk, while Dirk settled for a Booker’s on the rocks, an orange julius, and an ice water.
Scott borrowed “Scott”’s credit card to cover the expense. “Scott” nudged Scott and asked “Did you bring your cellphone?”
Scott reached into his pocket and pulled a Samsung dual band Sprint PCS phone, fiddled with it, and said, “uh, it’s out of juice.” “Scott” looked at Scott incredulously.
”What?” asked Scott, “Did you forget yours?”
”Not fucking likely. Just checking up on you.”
”Scott” pulled a phone from his pocket and hit a single key. Without putting the phone to his ear, he began speaking to someone miles away.
”He most have one of them microphone things,” Scott said to William.
”Ohhhhhhhhh,” said William.
”Like a transporder from Star Trek,” said Dirk.
“Teleportation,” said “Dirk.”
“No,” “Scott” interrupted his phonecall to interject, “Like a cellphone with a microphone and an earpiece, you friggin morons.”
”Dirk” raised his hand as if to smite “Scott.” Dirk intercepted him, saying, “In spite of it all, he’s still a friend.”
“Dirk” assented. “William” looked somewhat disappointed, in a withdrawn way.
”Scott” said, “Oh, you’ll thank me. Marla just sent the limo. Kilgore will with be with us momentarily.”
”Kilgore?” Scott asked.
”Was here.” Dirk said.
”Trout.” “Scott” answered.
”Ohhhhhhhh.” said William. “Not that bastard William Trout, is it?” asked “William.”
Nobody answered him.
Moments later, Kilgore Trout and Bobby Knight walked through the door. Bobby Knight ordered a Budweiser and threw a barstool through the window.
”Couldya turn the heat down? Is that too much to ask?” He asked the bartender.
”Sorry, Mr. Knight,” apologized the bartender shamefacedly. “Can I get your autograph?”