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 By Jack Lepiarz June 28, 2006 Three writers sat around the small, cramped bar in Hell. On the left, Robert Frost sat sipping on a steaming cup of coffee, while George Orwell sat in the middle, drinking from a small, gray cup of cheap gin. No one occupied the third seat on the right, although Franz Kafka stood nearby, downing what was now his tenth drink. "I do say!" he exclaimed. "I feel a bit at sea." Orwell took another sip from his cup of gin. "Ten drinks will do that to ya, laddie." Kafka, completely indisposed, stumbled and tripped his way over to where Frost was sitting quietly. "Just what I need!" he laughed, flooding Frost's nostrils with the odor of alcohol. "A nice pick-me-up before happy hour!" "Happy hour ended three weeks ago." said the bartender, Edgar Allan Poe. "This is Hell, remember? We only get happy hour every two months." Poe's words seemed to have no effect on the sputtering Kafka, who shrugged and took hold of Frost's coffee, attempting to down it in one gulp. However, he had miscalculated the temperature of Frost's drink, and quickly found himself covered in scalding brown liquid. "Aiiieee!" he screamed, holding out his now soaked shirt. "What're ya tryin' to do to me Frosty-boy? Kill me?" "Well, I'm sorry that it's a little colder down here for me than the rest of you guys." Frost whined, shaking his head. "Goddamn Satan." He mumbled. "'Oooh, let's make fun of Frosty's name. He won't mind!'" Frost threw the now empty coffee cup against the back of the bar as a cloud of steam escaped from his lips. "Poe!" he shouted. "Get me another drink. And make this one hot! Not lukewarm, like the last one." "I'll see what I can do, sir." Poe replied, struggling to keep his composure. "Me too!" Kafka called after the sulking Poe. "Two more martians, buddy! Line 'em up!" Poe was about to wheel around and deliver a snide remark when he noticed a man stumbling in over a large toga. "Sophocles!" he cried. "Thank God!" The Greek writer nodded in recognition and led in a young woman, no older than thirty. "Edgar," he smiled at the weary bartender. "I'll have the usual." "And what may I get for the lovely young lady?" Poe replied, sending a small wink at Sophocles' companion. "Woah, back off, buddy." Sophocles warned. "She's taken." Poe smiled and had turned back to fixing the drinks for the three writers when he happened to overhear a bit of conversation from Sophocles and his beautiful date. "Now Sophie," she said in a loud, whining voice. "I don't like you running around in that filthy toga all the time. When was the last time you washed it?" "Last week, mother." he grumbled, folding his arms and shrugging his shoulders. "Ech!" his mother shrieked. "Sophocles, that is disgusting! You are going to march right home and clean those clothes right away!" "Jeez, mom. Can't I stay out for a couple minutes?" Sophocles begged. "I haven't seen the guys since the last happy hour!" "No buts!" she ordered. "Now you march home right now or it's a spanking!" "Fine." he gave an exasperated sigh. "But don't expect me to buy you dinner anymore!" Poe nodded with amusement. Sophocles, like so many of the other writers in Hell, had been turned into one of his many characters. Just like Orwell and Kafka, he was trapped in the vicious cycle of his own mind's creation—The Oedipus Cycle, in his case. "Hey Poe!" Kafka called again. "Those martians ain't gonna pour themselves! C'mon now!" Poe had been lucky enough to avoid Sophocles' punishment, and had instead taken a job bartending at "The Scarlet Tavern," where he worked under one of the meanest managers since Satan himself - Nathaniel Hawthorne. Having poured the drinks for both Frost and Kafka, Poe leaned across the bar and peered at Orwell's face. "You okay, buddy?" Orwell's face snapped up. "Oh yes!" he beamed, almost manically. "Bright and chipper!" "That's good." "Never been better!" He was acting out a bit from 1984, Poe knew. He didn't mind so much. Orwell never really got too crazy, unless he started acting like one of the characters from Animal Farm. Then he got into trouble. Switching from cheap gin to hard whiskey, and refusing to eat from the peanut bowls in any manner other than like a horse. "I say!" Kafka shouted, examining himself in wonder and amazement. "I do believe I've turned into a giant… oh dear, what's the word? I do admit I'm a bit smashed." "A giant beetle, Mr. Kafka?" Poe suggested, hardly paying any attention to the babbling Kafka's tirades. "Indeed!" Kafka exclaimed, wiggling his arms and legs in a peculiar fashion. "Quite extraordinary!" With that, Kafka hopped from his chair and onto the bar, where he immediately began dancing, screaming wildly in German. "Ich bin ein tanzemachina!" he roared, kicking half-filled glasses of vodka and liquor across the bar. Thirty seconds later, Kafka had landed on the street, thrown out by Poe. "Sie sind ein schmutziger Hund!" Kafka screamed at Poe, who simply checked his watch and went back inside, leaving Kafka alone on the hot street corner. Kafka sighed. "Goddamn you, Poe! I shouldn't be here! I wrote great literature! But do I get to go to heaven?" he had gotten to his feet now, and was brushing himself off angrily. "No! They let that wannabe satirist Twain up there! Why, if I got to see that man, I'd give him--" Just before he was able to finish his sentence, Kafka felt a light hand tap his left shoulder. He wheeled around to find himself facing a man dressed completely in white, with white hair, and a thick white moustache. "God!?" he exclaimed. Mark Twain simply guffawed at Kafka's stupefied gaze and gave him a wink. ------------ About the author: Jack Lepiarz is a senior at Madison High School. Born in Waco, Texas, he lived with the Big Apple Circus for much of his early childhood, eventually moving to Madison, New Jersey, where he now resides. Although he is often described as stubborn and egotistical, he tries to keep an open-mind towards new ideas and treat people the way he would like to be treated. Email: Jackwuzhere42@aol.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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