At the end of a normal work week, almost everyone scurried to hit the subways, trains, taxis and ferries and leave the city behind, heading for suburbia; all but a hardy few who weren’t in a hurry to leave the city on Fridays. They found their way to Mickey’s, a watering hole on the corner of 42nd Street and 9th Avenue.
In a booth in the back sat four familiar faces; four friends who had made a point of meeting every Friday for a drink since their college days at the University of Rochester. Yes, the four Red Dragon graduates met every week to rehash their lives … as if something would ever change.
“Jesus Christ, what an awful week,” started Mike Manticore, the Methodist minister. “Whine, whine, whine ”“ that’s all I heard.”
Chris Chimera chimed in (with one of his heads), “Oh, you want whining? Try representing the 7th ward. There’s not a soul that knows what I go through for them.” The other two heads nodded in agreement.
“Oh, blow it out all three mouths, Chris,” Fred Firedrake said, obviously feeling the effects of his fifth beer since leaving court less than an hour ago. “Try representing a guilty client, and then tell me about whiners.”
“How can you be so faced, Fred? I’ve had three times the beer you’ve had.” The politician snickered out of all three mouths, since he was drinking with them all.
“You may drink more than me, but you’ve got three times the bad breath, Chris.” Fred slurred every word, mainly because each syllable brought another bit of flame from his nostrils.
“Hey, I wish you guys would just shut up and drink.” Andy Amphiptere was unusually upbeat, considering that the used car business was in a steep decline. “I came in here to enjoy myself, not listen to you guys complain.” Andy was the only one drinking a mixed drink; but since he had no arms, he couldn’t pick up a mug. The straw from his screwdriver was all he needed.
Chris went on. “Listen, they’re trying to pass that legislation outlawing open flames from 8 am until 6 pm through the week, and …”
Fred interrupted him; “You’re kidding me! No flames?!!? How the hell am I supposed to function then? What will court be like without the occasional lick of flames over a client?”
“Exactly,” Chris said. “It makes no sense at all.”
One of Chris’ heads was turned all the way around, staring at the posterior of Sally Skywing, the waitress. “What I wouldn’t give to see her drop an egg on my …”
“Shut up, you idiot.” The other two heads twisted him around to keep them all from facing the fire and brimstone of an insulted Hydra.
“For God’s sake, Chris; keep a handle on that. Hell hath no fury, eh?” The minister was obviously the most inebriated of the six heads at the table; apparently he’d been into the sacramental wine most of the day.
“No flames?” Fred was still ranting, flame spewing here and there.
“If you’re gonna toast the place, Fred, you may as well heat up these appetizers,” and Mike held up the plate of toasted dragonflies that had obviously gotten cold.
“Ha, ha, very funny, mister comedian,” Fred said, as the dragonflies were quickly set ablaze.
“No, seriously, why do you guys have to complain so much?” Andy had two straws in his mouth now, one each from a separate glass. “We came in here to forget about the crap we go through out there. It’s a jungle.”
“Forget? Forget??? How can we forget?” Mike was screaming holy hell now. “I sit in that confessional half the day, listening to the petty problems of these peons, and they have no idea how well they have it. Jesus H. Tap Dancin’ …” His voice faded as he raised his wing in the air, signifying to Sally that they were all ready for another round.
“You have no idea what ”˜tough’ really is, Mike. Look at what congress is doing now with health care legislation. It’s getting to the point that you can’t even hatch an egg without some politician sticking his nose into your business.” Chris tried to pour beer in one mouth, and spilled it into another.
“Look at the pot calling the kettle black. Isn’t it you that tried to pass the anti-flying legislation on Sundays?” Now Andy was into the conversation, his wings beating a mile a minute as he talked.
“Hey, you can’t blame me for that. My constituents wanted it, and I work for them.”
“Oh, sure they did; tell me you didn’t support it just to get re-elected.”
“Guys, come on for Heaven’s sake,” said Mike. “Here, a toast … a toast to us, and to the Red Dragons.”
Three of the four raised their glasses in the air; Andy merely nosed another glass close and had three straws in his mouth.
“To the Dragons!” Glasses clanged together, and the school fight song rang out once again at Mickey’s.
Midnight came, and the four of them were royally soused. Even the flames from Fred’s snout were dying down, as the spirits tempered their spirits.
Sally came by and said, “One more for the road, gents. It’s quitting time.” And she laid their bill down on the table.
Andy tried to pick up the tab with his wings and then snickered, knowing that someone else would have to pay.
Fred was tempted to roast it, just to see Sally’s heads come back with another bill.
Mike had his head back, tongue hanging halfway down his chest, trying to make a deal with the Dragon Upstairs, in an attempt to make the room stop spinning.
Chris finally said, “Oh, fine, give me the bill. I’ll pay it.” “Like hell I will.” “Oh, yes, I will, and I can’t stop me.” “Just watch.” “Me and what army?” “Shut up!”
Once again, two of Chris’ three heads were arguing; ”˜twas a politician’s lot. The third head, as usual, was too inebriated to speak.
“I hope that’s not the head that’s driving,” Fred whispered to Mike, as flames shot out his nose.
Andy reached again with his wing, but this time it was to slide the last glass underneath his chin; and then spent two minutes fighting a straw that wouldn’t cooperate.
Sally merely stood at the bar, taking it all in, as she had every Friday for the past five years. “Well, at least they tip well.”
She turned away, walked behind the bar and said, to no one in particular …
“I just wish they’d start dragon their butts outta here.”