I didn't say it was a good nemesis. We eyed the crowded room for somewhere to sit. We spotted Bucholz sitting alone as usual, an entire table to himself, but when we started to head towards him he got up and clocked a guy with a chair. "ON THE FIRST DAY YOU EITHER KILL A DUDE, OR BECOME SOMEBODY'S b***h!" he screamed at nobody in particular. I'm pretty sure he's been here for years now, and also that he was confusing lunch-time with prison, but I wasn't sure enough to risk the embarrassment of asking, so we moved on. We settled for standing around the garbage can, hunched over our respective plates and shoveling "food" into our mouths as quickly as possible before retching it into the receptacle. "Sounds like a good weekend, what happened?" he asked me, wiping the slurry of disintegrating Jell-O brick and watery chicken sandwich sludge from the front of his shirt. *** I cracked my knuckles, releasing all the pent-up literary genius that had congealed in my fingers while I wrote (if you don't vent that stuff it gets infected, and you end up writing like Tom Clancy), and I got up to check on my beer.
Pictured: author Tom Clancy suffering from an acute case of "s**t-fingers." I dropped to my belly and army-crawled out of my office and down the hallway. When the coast was clear, I somersaulted into the open elevator, choked out the delivery-man who'd been the only witness and pressed the button for the basement, where I'd been secretly brewing my own beer for the better part of two hours now. They say properly brewed beer can take months to ferment into alcohol, but I had an idea: What if, instead of water, you just used alcohol to start with? Then it was simply a matter of stirring the beer flavoring into the base liquor, right? Also, what better beer flavoring than beer itself? I guess if you want to get technical about it, I had really just mixed two gallons of Everclear with six cases of Pabst, and left it to age for a few hours in an empty fuel barrel that I'd found. As I sauntered down the hall to check on my artisanal craft, I noticed a door I'd never seen before. I kicked it open dramatically (just in case there were any bad guys inside) and prepared to run in slow motion from an explosion, if necessary. And that's when I saw the time machine. *** "Wait," DOB interjected, as we moved to Bucholz's now mysteriously empty table, "there's a time machine in the basement?" "Yeah dude, it's right there in the open. Red door, big white letters that say 'Time Machine' on it." I sopped up the remaining Vicodin sauce and whiskey with a napkin and then ate it. "It says 'Time Machine' on the door?" DOB was skeptical; I could tell by the jerking off motion he made with his hand. If there wasn't a penis in it, it meant he was skeptical. If there was a penis in it, he was either very excited to meet you or under arrest. It depended on the situation.