After we got finished at the Stork we took in rapid succession the Mocambo, the 21, 22, 23, 24, and 25 Clubs, the Noire Pansy Club, and the Hi, Low, Top, and Homburg Hat Clubs.
About nine o'clock we were just about pooped out when we noticed that we had lost Hawser someplace. It was quite a relief to us as he had poured the contents of a potted palm over himself at the Noire Pansy Club to make himself feel more at home and he had begun to reacquire the odor that was peculiar only to his body.
It was then that Cassius remarked, "Look at the neighborhood we're in. This is lower than low."
Truer than true were his words. We were in a neighborhood that looked like the inside of a shell-shocked oyster shell. We were surrounded by broken down houses and buildings that looked as though they had been old when Moxie's Army was chewing on rattles. At the end of the street that we were on was a building that was a little better; just a little. By better, I mean it was standing. There was a sign over the door that proceeded to tell us in no uncertain terms that this was the "Drunken Cockroach Nightclub."
I was all for turning back as was Cassius Q, but the Valkyries, Olga and Ketanya who had consumed a great deal of wine (they learned how in Valhalla, they told us) ran on ahead and without a backward hiccough vanished into the rickety building which threatened at any moment to fall on their heads.
With a shrug to the Gods of Chance Rubin, Cassius and myself proceeded to the Spirit Hostelry, or as you choose, Beer Parlor.
The inside of the Drunken Cockroach was worse than the outside. It looked like a nightmare by Dali on a night when he had run out of brushes and had started using his feet.
The bar, which ran across the back of the smoke-filled room, was of a seasick green color while the walls were a burnt umber tinged with beige. The floor was ornamented with a five-pointed star that showed several crawly type animals such as the kind that "... go bump in the night." They were of various hues and were, in all, quite sickening. The bartender was the worst. A small sign above the door related to the fact that he was Oliver Absinthe. He was not only repulsive, he was nauseating. A large bald head encased in folds of pink flesh was what surmounted the largest bay window in the country, outside of Rubin's. He was wearing an apron that showed the demise of many a martini. There were also spaghetti, dirt, milk, coffee, and gravy stains on the apron besides a group of green blotches that I couldn't quite place. It looked like the remains of last week's spinach.
Have you ever heard a sick Hippo tell you about his operation? Well, if not try to imagine how it would sound, since that was what this fellow's voice sounded like. "What's ya pleasure," he said.
"Nothing much," I answered, looking for a quick way to get out if it was needed.