From: ratner@owlnet.rice.edu (Logan Joshua Ratner)
Subject: Ira's back p.2
Organization: Rice University
Date: Wed, 14 Oct 1992 22:03:32 GMT

	"Hello, Ira, it been a long time.  You still get stoned with
the old fashioned stuff?"  Ratz greets the stranger who was appearantly
not completely unrecognized after all.  But then, Ratz is almost a part
of the furniture and in a way doesn't count.

	"Yeah, whiskey. Double straight.  And don't call me Ira."
	"Jake always called you Ira."
	"Jake isn't here."
	"What, you want to use that same old handle?  You know it doesn't
suit you much any more.  Besides, isn't he retired."

	Normally, Ratz doesn't argue with handles. Identities are fluid
on the street and usually this bartender calls people what they want.
However, some names carry old baggage; bad connotations. So this time
Ratz complains. That makes this little arguement a bit unusual in the Chat,
and once again Ira has the attention of some of the patrons.

	"That name will do.  Given my history it suits me pretty well.
And I am retired.  Now, can I get my drink?"
	"Ok, Vipor it is," Ratz says shaking his head. "Or you sure about
your drink order?"
	"Yes." It's almost a whisper from Ira/Vipor's mouth.

	Ratz stumps down to the far end of the bar.  Pausing at the end
he calls back over his one real shoulder. "I've got some new phamecuticals.
Totally non-addictive."
	"No," Vipor answers.

	Ratz prides himself on his selection.  House rules; nothing 
experimental.  Nothing addictive.  Easy these days.  He still has 
alcohol, which technically breaks rule two, but some things are traditional.
Tradition keeps him serving booze, but he's got to have something to complain
about. This time the gripe is normal and the rest of the bar ignores it.

	He poors the drink into a shot glass and uses his well maintained, old
prostetic arm to slide it down the bar.  Vipor's hand intersects the shot-glass
in a well timed motion, and he raises it to his lips.  Ratz gives what passes
for a smile in response.  Under his breath he mumbles something about old
training dying hard and gets back to work.  Vipor drinks in silence.

	Most of the bar drinks in silence, for that matter.  The loudest sound
is a lecture Malachi, a street-samuri, is giving to Nance.
	"First, you need to pick your fights better.  No one that age just
happens to be on these streets after dark."
	"But..." starts Nance, but Malachi cuts her off.
	"And second, learn to fall better.  Those stitches could have been a
broken skull.  With practice they wouldn't have even happened.  Not that you
would have won anyway.  Something tells me this Ira is Somebody."

	Eventually, Vipor gestures for a second drink.  As Ratz serves, bringing
it over this time, Vipor starts to speak up again. 
	"Was that really necessary?" he asks, gesturing towards the door that
Nance has just exited.
	"You know the rules 'bout newcomers," is Ratz's reply.
	"But I'm not a newcomer.  Hell, I remember when you opened this place.
I remember when you were working in that other location, until our crowd
starting taking up all the room, and the asked you to find a separate address. 
I am not a newcomer.  If anything I'm a returning oldtimer."
	"Ah, oldtimer, but no one ever RETURNS to the Chatsubo.  These people,"
has says gesturing to the room in general, "couldn't know if you had what it
takes.  And besides, I wanted to see if you still had it myself."

	"Well, I guess I still have it. But I'm getting too old for such
bullshit."

	"Oh, by the way," say Ratz, more nervously than is his want, "If you
are still Vipor, then I'm holding a letter for you."
 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ira, aka Vipor, is mine and no relation to the Ira that answers to
IRAC@yang.earlham.edu.  They do share a cool name (even if Vipor
doesn't always like it.)

Implicitly, copyright Logan Ratner, 1992.  If you want to use my characters,
ask.  Other stuff (setting, atmosphere, etc.) is more hazy. In general,
feel free.

ratner