“Squeak!” Ziggy blurted as he stumbled into the daiquiri shop. “Squeak, squeak!” The walls were lined with horizontal canisters of spinning colors. Ziggy grabbed the bar to keep from falling over. It didn’t work. He pulled himself up from the floor. The bar was empty, with the exception of two girls behind the counter. In most bars in America, Ziggy’s condition called for either a bouncer or the police, but this was New Orleans.
“What you having?” the pretty redhead behind the bar asked.
“Squeak!” Ziggy replied as he rubbed his balled-up fists quickly against his nose and flashed his teeth before ducking underneath the counter.
“Huh?”
A voice came from below the counter. “Squeak! Squeak!”
“J.J., this guy is crazy,” the redhead said to the tall blonde wearing low-slung jeans and a tight-fitting top, wiping off the spigots of the daiquiri machines behind her.
“Oh, don’t worry, I speak ferret,” J.J. said as she looked over the bar at the twitching man on the floor. “No biggie, it’s just a thing with me and my sister. Long story.”
“Squeak!” Ziggy scratched at his eyes.
“Squeak, squeak…squeak, squeak,” J.J. replied.
“Squeak!”
“He wants an extra-large pina colada.” J.J. grabbed an enormous sixty-four-ounce plastic cup and filled it with frozen white liquid from the spinning tap before handing it to Ziggy, who had pulled himself to his feet.
“Squeak!”
“Seven dollars,” J.J. replied.
“Squeak…squeak.” Ziggy pulled the street money from his pockets and dumped it on the counter. J.J. sorted out seven dollars in bills and coins, and pushed the rest back to Ziggy.
“Squeak, squeak,” Ziggy said as he pushed two dollars back to J.J. before hunching over and scampering out the door. The two girls behind the bar looked at each other, shook their heads, and laughed. It wasn’t easy to surprise a bartender on Bourbon Street.
Ziggy scurried down the street with his frozen tub clutched tightly to his chest with both arms in a bear hug, furiously sucking away at the freezing, suntan lotion–smelling concoction. Brain freeze set in immediately. His skinny body seized up like an engine with no oil. The upper half of his torso was immediately immobilized, but his legs kicked like live wires as he sat on the sidewalk. Huffing frantically, he tried to breathe the warm, humid Louisiana air deep into his lungs. Funny thing, it actually worked. In a minute, he felt fine. Of course, he was still tripping like a madman, but feeling pretty good, all things considered. A staccato thumping noise from the end of the block drew his attention.
“Squeak!” he said as he hunched over and stumbled toward the intoxicating rhythm. Working his way through the crowd, he approached a group of young boys banging away at large plastic cans with drumsticks. A group of tourists surrounded the boys and tossed tips to the youngsters as they played. There were few things in life Ziggy enjoyed more than a good drum circle, although he was a little disappointed they didn’t have a nice fire going. It really helped the trip. Even in his feral state, Ziggy was able to press his way up to the front row. Taking a seat in lotus position on the sidewalk, Ziggy began to sway and bob with the pounding of the drums. Musical notes erupted from the buckets and slowly floated away into the ether. He could see the music drift away in the night. It was beautiful.
“Squeakkkkk…squeakkkkk.” Ziggy’s screeching slowed as he moved his arms and body back and forth in perfect rhythm with the music.
“Keep it down, man,” a tourist said.
“Squeak!” Ziggy chirped as he rubbed his hands quickly around his nose before taking a big slug from his daiquiri. For the next fifteen minutes the boys blasted away at their improvised drums before halting their performance and prepared to move to another location. Ziggy slurped down the last of his now-liquid beverage.
“Urrp… Squeak.” Ziggy belched before getting up to follow the group. Scuttling along close to the windows of establishments lining the street for protection, he trailed them for several blocks, picking up a few more random strands of brightly colored beads for good measure. Turning off Bourbon, the street musicians made their way south. A short way down the block, Ziggy spotted a house of voodoo. Swinging his head back and forth between the retreating boys and the voodoo palace, he knew had to make a decision. Ziggy banged his way up the steps of the mysterious shop. Suddenly, a familiar face came into view.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Ziggy,” Mae Mae said with a gleaming smile. “You look a little out of sorts, skinny fella.”
“Squeak, squeak.”
“I see. You know that stuff isn’t good for you. Twists your mind up like a pretzel.”
“Squeak,” Ziggy replied bashfully. “Squeak, squeak.”
“Oh, let’s just call it professional courtesy. But the truth is I like to check in on the competition from time to time to see how business is doing. What brings you down here?” Ziggy shrugged his narrow shoulders in reply before rubbing his ears with balled-up fists. “You and your obnoxious partner still chasing after those nasty chupacabras?” Ziggy nodded. “Well, you’re looking in the wrong place. Now, you might run into a vampire or a zombie here in New Orleans, but to find those demon dogs, Mexico is your best bet.”
“Squeak.”
“Honey, you should be getting on home. In your condition, you need some good old-fashioned shuteye. Here, take this,” she said as she pulled out a small purple bag made of cloth and closed with a gold string at the top. “Take this and put it under your pillow. It’ll help you rest.” Ziggy snatched the bag and licked it before shoving it into one of his cargo pockets. “Take these also,” Mae Mae instructed as she handed him a set of tarot cards. “They can come in pretty handy when you don’t know what to do. Now, you know how to get back to your hotel, right?” Ziggy shook his head. “Let me see your hand.” Mae Mae took Ziggy’s hand and traced an intricate design on his palm with the nail of her pinky finger. “That should do the trick. Now get going, and stay out of trouble. Nobody likes a naughty ferret.”
“Squeak, squeak,” Ziggy replied as he half crawled to the door.
“And quit wasting time on your adventure. The signs still point to a spawning,” Mae Mae said as she waved goodbye to the freaky little man.
• • •
Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Avery continued his correspondence.
To: Speaker of the House
Texas House of Representatives
Dear Speaker Kimbalclass="underline"
I’m writing you today to express my outrage at the recent suggestion by the “so-called” mayor of Austin, Texas — let’s just refer to her from now on as “Ms. Evil,” as the sound of her name makes me want to drink lighter fluid, swallow a match, and put my head in a BLAST FURNACE! She makes me want to…God that hurts! I think I just broke my hand. Bastard! Wait a minute…I can still type. Well, maybe it’s just a sprain…
Anyway…I’m better now…calm blue ocean…calm blue ocean…my therapist suggests this helps…calm blue ocean…my therapist is insane...he doesn’t know it…calm blue ocean…he’s in denial…
What time is it? Sorry, back to business. Her suggestion that sales of soda products in excess of sixteen ounces should be prohibited has me just the slightest bit concerned. How concerned, you might ask? WHERE DO I F***ING START? ARE YOU COMPLETELY DAFT? GOOD GOD, MAN! FREEDOM IS AT STAKE! Sorry…sorry, I’m really sorry. I don’t feel well. Not well at all. I’m going to take a minute…I think I need a Mountain Dew…or two…
Okay, I’m back now. Jesus, that was close. Where was I? Oh, yes, the bitch. I mean, “Ms. Evil,” as she will be known until a house falls out of the sky and lands on her, at which time she will be known as “Flat Ms. Evil.” Soft drink bans, seriously? We’re not talking about clubbing baby seals to death here. We’re talking about soda pop. Mister Speaker, may I ask you a question? Thank you. What bans have worked in the past? Prohibition? I think not. Are we really prepared for an overwhelming wave of mafia hoodlums running thirty-two-ounce soda speakeasies out of church basements? You want shark fins? I can get them. Foie gras? I got a guy in California, which makes it twice as naughty. How about monkey paws? A store right here in Austin sells them. Of course, the owner is a useful compatriot, so I won’t compromise him. However, he does sell smoking paraphernalia in his shop, close to the university, I might add, but God forbid he offers a sixty-four-ounce cup of soda! In one trip to the market, I can buy five cartons of cigarettes, ten cases of vodka, and twenty pounds of bacon, but only one cup of pop. This isn’t just fascist, it’s criminal. Buying in bulk is a cornerstone of this country. Warehouse stores are located in warehouses for a reason. People want discounts for buying in bulk. That’s what you get in plastic cups that take two hands to carry. A bulk discount! Not to mention a wicked buzz. Is “Miss Evil” attempting to artificially drive up the price of soda? Does her family have major holdings in the soft drink industry? Do you? Maybe she has ties to the bottled water cartels. This conspiracy might run deeper than I thought. I’m going to need to do some more research. Please do not take this matter lightly, as I have a serious medical condition for which my team of personal physicians has prescribed a specific mix of caffeine and sugar. It can only be found in large-format bottles of soda. Just like with fine wine, the larger the container, the better preserved the beverage is. It’s a simple matter of less air in the bottle per volume of liquid. If I could buy Mountain Dew by the Nebuchadnezzar, I would. We’re talking about my medicine. This is a matter of public health. If this ban is imposed, I promise I will make the creation of large-format medical soda dispensaries front-page news. The concept seems to be working quite effectively for marijuana users. In the meantime, if you see “Miss Evil,” kick her in the stomach for me.