"I'm goin' to bed now ... when I wake up..." Cheri dumbly nodded her head and closed the door, locking it with a terminal click. The outside of the door looked like the hood of a car after a minor head-on—a riot of scratches, dents and craters from the bat barrage. Chubby and Stony stared at each other. Chubby nodded at the door and wordlessly urged Stony to stay with her. Stony dismissed the idea with a shrug, propping the wax applicator beside the door.

"I was pretty fuckin' good tonight, hey?" Chubby draped an arm around Stony's shoulder as they headed for the elevator. Stony wanted to ask Chubby if he knew he was singing like a crazy man during the fight but the memory of the sound weirded him out.

"You were a fuckin' lifesaver, Chubs."

"What's the story?"

"Huh?"

"What was happenin' here?"

"Ah, nothin'." Stony gingerly touched the back of his head.

"Oh, nothin', yeah, O.K." Chubby smirked.

"Ah, I had a fight with Mott over Cheri, busted up his face a little an' he came back with those two lames."

"Hey." Chubby grinned. "Howdja like that thing I did with the foot-stompin' number, hah?"

"That guy almost jumped back in my lap," Stony snorted. The elevator opened with a groan. "Hey, Chubs, you really kill somebody in the service?"

Chubby screwed up his face with a "whatta-you-kiddin'?" expression. "Nah, I got shell-shocked though."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I ate too many peanuts." Chubby guffawed and held his gut until he started wheezing, motioning for Stony to slap him on the back as he leaned over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.

***

Chubby ushered Stony into a bar, Buddy Love's, replete with huge shamrocks pasted on either end of a long mirror, crossed I.R.A. and American flags and an all-Irish juke box. They sat in a dark back booth lit by a red-tinted, wax-filled squat glass sheathed in plastic fishnet.

Stony rested his forehead on the corner of the table as if he were looking for something on the floor.

Chubby sat with his arms crossed, elbows on the table. Smirking, he surveyed the bar. "Hey, Stony, you know what they call a faggot Irishman?"

Stony weakly shook his head from side to side.

"A Gay Lick," Chubby cackled.

"Hah," from under the table.

"I hate Irish bars," Chubby muttered. "I'd rather be in a fight in a nigger bar. The Irish got no sense of humor."

"Who does?"

"You know, that's the first sign a somebody goin' crazy. They lose their sense a humor."

Stony raised his head and rubbed his eyes. He looked like he was sleeping.

"I used to know this guy once, about ten years back. We used to call him Joe Sick." Chubby leaned into the aisle to catch the waitress' eye. "He was a steamfitter. This guy was a beast the likes a which I never seen since. He used to be a wrestler. We'd go to a bar and he'd open beer bottles with his teeth." Chubby pantomimed snarling as he ripped the cap off an imaginary bottle. "This fuckin' guy could piss a Dixie cup off a fire hydrant at twenny feet. He went to jail for two years for throwing his foreman through a plate-glass window. Broke his back."