From: jpalmer@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (John D Palmer)
Subject: Re: Friends ... forever ...
Organization: The Ohio State University
Date: Wed, 30 Sep 1992 17:31:29 GMT


     John walks in after periodic absences; he looks around and walks up to 
Mike, to ask him what's going on.

     Mike speaks the answer softly; John looks pained and then walks out around
the back.  A single scream is heard, and teh sound of something breaking.  A 
few patrons run out back; they see some broken chairs are now more broken, and 
John is wakling away from teh scene.

     One of them calls outin concern; he looks around, saying nothing, then 
walks on.

     The next day he's in early, and people hear the clicking of keys.  The see
John in front of a keyboard, typing away. . . and they see a small creature 
sitting opposite him.

    As you ease closer, you can hear the conversation:

     "Whatcha doin, John boy?"

     "Writing.  What else?"  The answer is polite, but you can see that John
and this creature seem to have some pretty heavy nastiness from way back
between them.
     "What?  Not trying to say some more sentimentalist claptrap that will 
somehow make everyone feel better?"
     "You know better, Stranger.  I gave up trying to save the world years 
ago."

     "Oh, I get it!  Working on your book.  Arty don't mean nothing to you any 
more.  Good attitude; he's dead, nothing more to worry about."

     John looks up from his screen, and a glare of hatred passes between him
and this 'Stranger'.  "Listen, you son of a bitch; I couldn't do JACK for Arty;
go on, rub it in.  But don't think that discourages me; I'm gonna BEAT you, you
stinking. . . ."  John's voice trails off.  He starts typing again.

     "Now, now, John, you have me all wrong.  Please. . . I just want to help.
I've won a battle, no need for you to be a poor loser.  Barkeep!  A case of 
Samuel Adams for my friend!"  calls the creature, pulliing 24 singles from his
pocket.  "Go on, John.  Have one. . . or two.  Whole case there; really good
beer.  Maybe some nachos or chili to go with; maybe som chips.  Go ahead."

     John picks up a bottle, thinking of his family; thinks of all the times 
he's wanted to DO something. . . and seen that there was nothing he coudl do 
for them.  Setting the bottle down, he paces before the table.

     "Come on, John. . . you don't think some stupid book is gonna do
something, do you?  You don't think the world will be a better place just
because you made some stupid story about beating up on me?  Come on. . . drink
up."  John turns, opens the bottle.

     "To Arty!  This one's for you, pal!"  he calls, and drains the bottle.  An
instant later, it crashes in the fireplace.  Opening another, he scowls at the
stranger.  "And to life."  he drains the bottle, and hefting it, he smiles.

    In a lightning quick motion, he beams it straight at the creature, knocking
him off his chair.

     "I loved him; I still do.  Nothing else matters, Stranger.  Don't think
losing him is going to do anything but make me MORE determined to destroy you."
 He then prints off the work he's been doing.

     It reads "Arty,

     I hardly knew you; I never met you.  And I can't think of anything to say 
but I wish I could have helped.  You must have been hurting awful bad to do 
that; I can relate to that.

      Right now you've made me sad; someday, you may  have me mad.  And you're 
always going to make me hurt.

     But you were, and are, a friend, and I love you.  Now, and forever.

     Dunno if it means much to you; dunno if anything means much  to you.  But 
now it means something to me. . .  and I guess that's gotta be enough.

     Goodbye, my friend.

                                       John"

    He walks up to the fire, and lays the letter in the center.  He then pulls 
out the printout of Didi's repring of his post for Danger Mouse.  It's the only
words he has saved that came from Arty.  He re-reads them again, and, thinking 
of the man who made such words, he smiles.

     Those who look closely notice that a few tears still escape his eyes.  
Finally he turns and goes back to the bar, to hand out hugs and the 22 
remaining bottls of beer.

     And then he goes back to his notes, and keeps working on his novel.  It's 
the only life affirming thing he can think to do right now.



                                        John/The Crazyman
-- 
"Love is cool; I mean, like, really cool.  Like, the coolest thing in
the universe, where, like, people open up inside and show the world how
they feel, and they ain't afraid someone's gonna laugh because they, like,
love themselves already!"  --Personality 42, a generic 60's philosopher 
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