Oliver North, his Lawyer, Ma Bell, and Pa Bell all said, "I hate bagels!" at the same instant, though separated by vast distances, thus setting some sort of record. Guinness was not amused.
Oliver North and his Lawyer stood in BeckersTM saying, "No further comment!" to a raving Pict named Hafenvlaader.
The store owner screamed, "Yoo Lackies gut oot of my stoore!" Hafenvlaader owned this store as well as Elvis Schtuckerman's house of warped tunage, but we can visit that later.
Ma and Pa Bell were trying to heist a Mac's MilkTM store in Westbury, Connecticut, for selling bagels in a hick town. Otherwise, they have very little to do with the story.
At that precise moment, Judas Iscariot MCMLXXIII and Dr. Skuppernung, the mad eastern Gemmologist, were sitting in a little known German restaurant in little Laos on the west side barrio and felt this unusual event occur. "Kvick!" Skuppernung said. "Ve must tell ze New Messiah!"
"Yeah, yeah, let me order first, will ya?"
A young waiter named Vladimir Jones (He's a combination of Reggae singer, waiter, and line backer, but if nothing else he's a black Russian) approached their table and asked for their order. The two disciples noted Vlad's dark complexion, but suppressed their overwhelming desire to start the Local KKK Kabinet meetings just yet. Besides, they had already cleaned house at KKKmart's white sale.
"Can I Take y'order, mahn?"
"Yeah, I'll have the Hyena sauerkraut with Mexican rice platter and a killer Kool-Aid," replied Isie in a superior tone.
"Giff me de Oysters und Yogurt, pleez."
"Yah mon, right away." Vlad left in a swirl of dreads.
"Has de dress cote relaxed 'ere or vat?"
"Sure, sure, put a cork in it, Doc. Ya talk too much."
"Humpff."
They sat in silence for a moment and Isie thought about the thermodynamics of his muffler while Doc considered the possible permutations of their bar maid naked in chains with whipped cream applied to all the right places. As time passed and his little daydream continued, he applied more whipped cream and more until the bar maid was completely enveloped in whipped cream except for her hands and feet which were now flailing from suffocation under the heap of whipped cream. Then his vision faded as Vlad arrived with a tray.
"'Ere's yo food, gentlemahn," drawled Vlad as one of his dreads dangled in the rice. He dropped the plates and disappeared back into the kitchen before Doc could ask for ketchup.
Turning to the bar, he signalled the waitress. "Exkoose me. Cudt I haff..?"
"You have a problem, sir?"
"Yes, I..."
"You think you got problems? Look at me! I'm fifty seven years old and trying to make a living as a bar maid! And if that wasn't enough, when I was fourteen I was raped by a runaway bison!"
"I'm sorry..."
"Sorry doesn't cut it, pal! Where were you and your sorries when I was giving birth to twin lambs!.."
Isie and Doc both flashed looks of `I've heard this all before' and started digging into the food after Doc had removed some strands of cotton from his teeth.
Doc returned to the sanctity of his whipped cream imaginings, but the giant lump of whipped cream was still now. She was dead. Returning to reality, Doc would have nothing more to do with the bar maid – She was dead to him in life now too. Doc made a mental note to have a visit with his therapist as he started to imagine the body of his therapist naked and in chains. He started to apply the whipped cream. More and more whipped cream got added. Doc amended his mental note to find a new therapist as his previous therapist was now dead to him.
Meanwhile, outside the restaurant, Hafenvlaader hoisted a sniper rifle into his pear tree and took aim at Judas. "Hold still, you imperialist Christian..."
A wind started to stir and Hafenvlaader along with his pear tree were sucked into the funnel of a space warp. Isie never knew how close to death he had come, which was just as well, considering his heart condition.
