And De Fun Don't Done by Robert G. Barrett Page A

your backyard. Besides, isn’t this what freedom and democracy and allthose guns I saw earlier are all about? He took a mouthful of water and spat it up in the air as the rain still pelted down. I wonder what Captain Rats is doing right now? Probably inside playing with his guns — and his dick. Norton spat another gobful of water up in the air and let it splatter back down on his face.
    An hour or so later Norton had towelled off and was lying on his bed thinking and plotting and scheming about what he was going to do regarding his present accommodation and Captain Rats. The rainstorm had eventually blown over, stars began to appear and the only noise now was the sound of water gently dripping from the trees in the darkness outside. It was a tricky one, mainly because Norton, as well as not really having a clue where he was, didn’t know a soul either. Only rabbit brain in the other house, and he was about as much use as a jackhammer in a lifeboat. Still, you never know, he thought. Tonight he might meet someone he could communicate with. So there were more important things to think of for the time being: like what was going to be his evening ensemble. Or what did Les have that wasn’t too crushed to wear out? You could bet wherever Hank took him they’d probably have dress regulations: no jeans, T- shirts, joggers, etc. Which was about all Les had that was wearable. But you can’t keep an old country boy down. Les found an iron in the laundry and about ten o’clock he was dressed in a pair of black cotton trousers, a grey Western Suburbs T-shirt with a Magpie on it, a black cotton shirt open at the front and black moon boots. That ought to have it covered, he figured. Collar and shoes to get in and if another storm came up he had a T-shirt on underneath. Well, I forgot to throw a Spencer in, thought Les, as he checked himself out in the bathroom mirror and daubed on a little Tabac. Earlier he tried to get the ghetto blaster to work that Hank had kindly left in the room for him, but it was about stuffed, and when he did get it to work you could barely hear it. So he sat in one of the chairs, reading P. J. O’Rourke till Hank arrived. Just before ten, Captain Rats appeared in the doorway; hewas wearing an unironed, blue floral shirt, dirty jeans, no socks and an old pair of sandshoes half done up because each one only had half a lace. Norton had seen blokes dressed better working in wrecking yards. Looks like we’re going to the Taxi Club mused Norton, closing his book. I didn’t know they had one in Siestasota.
    â€˜You ready?’ asked Hank.
    â€˜Yeah,’ answered Norton, giving Hank another once up and down. ‘Listen, I got a spare pair of shoes if you want. They’d probably fit you.’
    â€˜These are alright. They’re comfortable.’
    Norton was going to suggest there was some string in the kitchen and he’d found an iron, but before he knew it they were in the pick-up and on their way.
    â€˜So where are we going?’
    â€˜I got a couple of places in mind.’
    You have a mind? mused Norton, as they turned onto the main road. ‘Listen, Hank. To save a lot of mucking around, here’s fifty bucks. Take that for petrol and get a few drinks.’
    Hank looked at the money for a second then put it in his pocket. He didn’t bother to say thanks, just smoked his cigarette and kept driving.
    They didn’t say a great deal after that and Norton didn’t feel like asking Einstein any questions on quantum physics. It might have been night, but Les was certain they drove over the same bridge back towards the Keys. He saw a glimpse of ocean then they cut back somewhere, finally turning into the parking lot of some roadhouse. Les glimpsed a sign out the front saying ‘Sandbar’. They left the car out the back and walked across to some kind of enclosed beer garden. There were people around and music coming from inside. At the gate