Aaran Inn in Cork, Drunk folk and their encounter with an Irish Traveler

"The Inn may be haunted," we were told as we stepped through the stain-glassed doors. We were early, and our host apologized for his mental state, having slept little these past nights due to wearying studies and the like. The "party" had yet to begin and was comprised simply of a bottle of ale and the mutterings and banter of a few locals.

We, of course, raided the kitchen. As we stuffed our faces with the plundered stocked goods of toast and butter, we thought it best to practice our music for a spell, and, by the time we had fenagled our way through a number of tunes (and I had repaired one accordion strap with naught but a toothpick and a swath of fabric) a slough of guests had arrived.

The student dormitory had been abandoned by its regular inhabitants for fear of ghosts, so the like of every sundry party-go-er in Cork was apt to show their faces here. And we were the band!

Well, we didst play for them, dear Reader, and their drunken meanderings were a wall of chatter to play over, but we garnered a spare few who enjoyed our music. I believe they were cousins to the now famous Jules Verne of which, dear Reader, I presume you to be familiar. One purchased three of our gramophone recordings at a striking rate. Perhaps we are yet to starve!

Again we raided the kitchen. Our host entered and said: "Don't fret, dear Friends, but it may be necessary for you to give a hand in a moment. A most unsavory character has entered our dig of shin and we are strategizing a means by which to eject him. Please, stand in the vicinity and offer your assistance if need be." Well, now the night was becoming interesting.

The man's shape was somewhere between Iggy Pop and Mick Jagger, emaciated, a long thin and sun-dried crease of wicked smile. He wore riding boots and a black hat, a black jacket. His stare was a piercing thing and he demanded to know why he and his people couldn't come in and have a go at this party as well. He kissed one of his adversaries on the side of the head in the midst of a passionate hug as a diplomatic solution was reached: he would be allowed entry but his people perchance would not.

Again, we raided the kitchen. A young rapper joined us there and we held a session of banter as he searched for stray alcohol. We were content with toast and butter with but a dollop of jam.

We returned to the party but felt as outsiders engaging in bits of conversations, taking dips of wine, but simply waiting that we might have an opportunity to play again for a more docile audience...one we might tell a story or two. It seemed this would not be the evening, and so again we retired to the kitchen, but with our instruments, to play by ourselves and while away the morning. We were stuck, as it were, as the carriages had ceased functioning at the 23rd hour. This inn would be our prison.

As it would turn, we engaged a somewhat willing audience of drunkards and mildly entertained them as my voice turned to gravel in the pipemoke and humidity of the room. Apparently a number of others had set aside their morals for a fair late-night pillaging as well, and our steam-driven songs encaptured and encapsulated their deepest longings and desires. Still, at the end, as we played a final song "remember not more than we do..." our crowd departed rather suddenly and we were made ware of the reason (not for lack of quality) by anecdote:

"Oh, he always does this at soirees," she said in a moment of half-slovenly collapse. "A brick through a window, a good chase, a street brawl. It's downright normal!"

Normal indeed, dear Reader. The party had run from the house and we were left there with but the stragglers and our dearest host. The uninvited guest of the Irish Traveller had finally been expelled and in a moment of aggression had lofted a brick through a sheet of precious glass. A few chased him and beat him, and, upon their return, gave news that a group of Travellers (they referred to them with the abominable term Pikeys) would be returning to set the house ablaze and that we should make haste to leave.

We walked into the night, leaving but a single passed-out soul upon a couch, sacrfice, I would think, for the gang of Travellers that would be looking for revenge. Kayne and I stayed back from our three compatriats, nay, guides, nay... The word escapes me. Two of them were talking of their glorious little battle, the third cursing "the Pikeys" and we, nearly three cubits behind them ready at a moment's notice to deny association.

Our host asked if we should join them at another gathering of the drunk. We politely declined and he led us to his humble abode that he shared with some other students of his particular school. "You must remain absolutely quiet, and if you meet any of them in the morning when you leave, tell them we are the best of friends, indeed say we travelled the world together in a hot air balloon. Perhaps you should simply leave as early as you are able." He bolted out, as he said "My girlfriend is completely angry at me so I must go to her and amend, nay grovel, nay..." The word escaped him.

Performing for a mostly uninterested crowd of ruffians, vastly endangering a food supply with our ravenous appetites, narrowly escaping the severest of shankings (shank you very much), sleeping where we are surely not welcome...truly we are The Calliope of the Future.

And So Dear Friends, I Must Confide

As veils of sleep draped over my eyes, I overheard a snippet of conversation in the Dublin Centre for Community Seomra Spraoi. I was rather perturbed by an errant sentiment from a Local:

"I say my good fellow," he articulated at an ensnared aural recipient "if you book someone for the book fair, make sure they are of high calibre and not one of these American bands bumming about Europe playing one or two shows a week."

Mayhaps he knew not that I was enthralled in my book just cubits away. Mayhaps he realized my proximity and was meaning a nudge, a bit of a poke, as it were, into the ideals and hearts of we steam-driven storytellers.

So I say, good sir, whoever you may be who made this quaint remark: Go Fuck Yourself. If you want a continent with no Calliope of the Future, move to Antarctica, but beware, we have a scheduled gig with the emporer penguin and their army will slowly and rubberily trample you into oblivion.

Baltimore

We arrived in Baltimore the Weekend ere the Inauguration of the new American Chieftain, Barack of the House Obama. We hitched a Ride from a Man called Paulmer Setting- Whose Name hath been altered for the Purposes of this Recountance- all the Way from Cincinnati. He was travelling to Washington, in the District of Colombia, with the express Intent to sell Packs of novelty Obama Trading Cards. This was interesting because he had a McCain/Palin Sticker on the Ass of his Mule, and his Politics were evidently of the Libertarian Incline. It must be noted as well that Mr. Setting, Whom shall we refer to ath Paulmer, attempted throughout our Eight Hour Journey to persuade Andrew and I of the Truth of Creationism, however Subtly.

We stayed at the Abode of an Acquaintance of Ours, whom we shall call Ilana. Also known as 8** Powers Street (Censored for Purposes of Security), Edelweiss Pirate Ship didn't have Heat. Or, more Accurately, the Occupants of this Particular Unit chose to not Use their Heat, due to an Already Sizeable Bill. Consequently, One could see One's Breath at All Hours of the Day, and when in the House One was Compelled to hang out in One's Sleeping Cocoon.

Nevertheless, our Time in Baltimore was quite Enjoyable. Whilst my Travelling Companion Tovio spent most of his Time indoors, I chose to explore the Citadel. The velocipede I was Lent was quite Preferable, despite the Rigour required to go up the Copious Hills, for it wath a Fixed Gear. It also Hath no Brakes.

Baltimore is home to Many Attractive Sites, but for the Traveller on a Budget the Two Best Places to visit are Red Emma's Bookstore and Coffeehouse, where Radicals, Loveable Tramps, Children and the Elderly alike come to get their Fix and browse the Voluminous Tomes available for Purchase. The Other most Preferable Place to drop in is MICA, the Liberal Arts College, where it is quite easy to get a free Meal, or rather, many free Meals.

Settlers of Catan

Onward to the Village of Louis

The ragged Hound, neither Grey nor any other discernible colour, rode us (not the converse) south. The scent of urine and cologne-to-cover body odour was somewhat overpowering, but we found solace in fits of sleep in the unreclineable seats made of human skin. They weren't really human skin.

A half-day later, when we finally reached Louis Village we didst hike a great ways down the not-so-winding streets to find dearest Melissa's home. She lives with Arnold Schwarzenegger, in dog form.

Melissa served us a great dinner of fowl strangled, skinned and slaughtered by her very hand. She was gracious enough to let me chew upon the beak, by far the tastiest morsel. In our next days we explored, somewhat, the city, visiting the Louis Village Game Shop where the proprietor didst don us with fine shirts crafted by his very hand.

Our show with The King of Vessa, Peter of Fosco and the most-esteemed Kentucky Prophet! went off with not a hitch, aside from a full mug of beer flung back and forth between the Prophet and our Caretaker Melissa. Oh the vagaries alcohol will take one too, but after the undying strings of explicatives, etc, a stagnant sort of peace took hold and we departed into the night...Melissa to her chalet, We, the Prophet, our dear friend Matteo and company to an all-night pizza establishment.

Thank you all characters and subjects of King Louis, for what you have done for us. We owe you not only our lives, but a fair deal of money that we "borrowed" while you were not paying much attention.

I didst have a brief romantic entanglement as well with a gentleman cursed with a most odd ailment. At precisely four every day, he would turn to bronze. Depending on his mood at that moment of transition, however, one should be prepared for a long night of solid loving.

Detroit Part II

And so Saturday's eve quickly faded into Sunday's morn and we set forth to a small inn dubbed simply "2 Dollar Breakfast." This Hut manufactured almost entirely of petrified Steak featured a lively jig-reeling festivity as we drank our watery coffee and ate our 2 dollar breakfasts that in actuality cost 2.69.

A Greek named Gus fried our eggs over an open skillet and asked us from whence we came. We told him of our harrowing escape from Denver by steam train, how the smell of cannon fodder and hound saliva trailed behind. Yes, of course we embellished slightly, but this was Detroit, where the blood of the slain stain the street rusty orange, where they import trash to burn it within the city limits so that the residents may attain higher levels of impenetrability. Gus was not impressed. He had narrowly escaped a few too many deaths for we posh Coloradanians to compete with.

We arrived that eve at Cliff Bell's, a hidden speakeasy with Ceilings of Mahogany cupping wafts of gray paisley cigar fumes. They asked us not for our documents but told us to lay our rail guns or other weaponry at the door. We admitted to having no such armaments aside from my novelty juggling knives. They chuckled, as if to type "rofl" at a "newbie" on the AetherWeb entering for the first time into a debate about the very Nature of Existence.

We were on edge. Would this sophisticated tank of ruffians, in their tophats and bowties succumb to our frilly stories of the apocalypse? Were they not already living the Apocalypse themselves?

"Such Socratic Method will get us nowhere, my dear Kayne," I said as I stuffed an apple, an onion and a carrot into my underwear. I took to the stage and began with a slight bit of banter before breakdancing with my eyebrows over hip hop beats provided by the same jazz drummer from the night before. I then erotically pulled the fruits and vegetables from my trousers, smelled them for good measure, then began to eat and juggle them simultaneously. I realized after a moment that I was near choking to death on a peice of onion. I was crying and I stopped, apologized to the audience, though they were rather delighted by my suffering. I had struck the right chord for this city of Sadists, perhaps. Then, for my awkward coup'd'grace I juggled knives above a young woman who seemed neither afraid of death nor of killing. The crowd exploded in Accolations and I left the stage amidst a shower of rose petals and fecal matter.

We finished the Eve with the harrowing tale of Robocat, Apocalyptic Feline Incarnate and the intoxicated audience didst quake with Fear!

Detroit, Part One

We were transported from the Towne of Anne Harbour, Mishigan, by yet another Locomotive under the Jurisdiction of Amtrak. As we wound our slow Way through the barren south-eastern Outskirts of Detroit, Tovio recounted to myself numerous Tales of Interest regarding this Citadel. Some were Stories to make One laugh, but Most were of a darker Hue, One of Sorrow and Contempt, Ones, as I have been told repeatedly, most characteristic of this dark hole of Humanity.

Upon arriving at the Locomotive Station, We quickly gathered up our Things and dismounted the Trayn. We spent some Time looking for the Stables, but our Efforts proved fruitless, and even the few Passers-by we accosted could not (or would not) assist Us. Thus We were forced to travel on Foot to Fourth Street, Whence We would stay for a While at Randy's Apartment. As It happened, Fourth Street was also my travelling Companion's former Dwelling-Place.

We whiled away the Afternoon feasting on Rice & Lentilles and conversing with Randy. We also amused Ourselves with rather distasteful "Video-Game Playing". Only when the Sun was low in the Western Smog of Detroit (pronounced Detwahh) and the Clouds were a crimson Red did We leave for Cafe D'Mongo's Speakeasy, Whence We were to play our Show that Night.

Shortly after our Arrival at the aforementioned Speakeasy, a three-piece Jazz Band entered Larry D'Mongo's Establishment, loudly demanding to be attended to. As It turned out, They were booked to play a Gig Tonight as well! You can imagine our Surprise at this newly-acquired Knowledge. Well, long Story short, We were ne'er permitted to play our Set that Night, due to Mongo's Displeasure with the constant Changing of Bands. It wasn't the first Time, nor the Last, that the Calliope of the Future would be upstaged by a three-piece Jazz Band from Detroit.