The Last Tiki Bar on Mars

Meanwhile, in the tiki bar…

As usual, the lights are low. On the screen behind the bar a lazy Tulum beach scene mellows out in a lazy Mayan afternoon. There’s a quite in and out rush of surf sounds, like a large animal quietly snoring. “Tell me a story, J-Rod.” Marigold asks, lazily swirling a swizzle stick on the neck of an empty glass, while taking in the tall, stylish black man. He looks like he smuggled himself to Mars on an Esquire cover. “What is this guy doing here?” Marigold’s wondering to himself.

With a quick wrist flip J-Rod spins a playing card forward and watches as it bounces off the lip of his fedora on the floor of the tiki bar. A nine of diamonds. He fist-pumps the air. “Ohhhh! So close! A story you want? What kind of story?”

Marigold leans his elbows on the bar. “How the Schmeck did you end up on Mars anyway, Jay?”

J-Rod lines up another throw. He’s got the only sports coat / turtleneck combo on Mars. And man, and do those shoes look good. Lucky man. “Mars, heh. I was a man who had to get the fuck out of town.”

“You owe someone money?”

J-Rod frowns. ”No, not exactly.”

”¿Que? A woman, maybe?”

”Heh, nah. Nope, nothing like that.” J-Rod lets the card fly, another miss. Three of diamonds.

“You might say they drove me out of town.”

”The cops?”

”Nope. Not the cops, it started with the TP in my trees. Then flaming bags of dog poop on my doorstep. Then the Ronald Chump doll.”

”Gross! What kind of cabrón would do that?”

”The Science-ology Troopers. My man Mr. Bartender, they’re like Storm Troopers but for the Church of Science-ology. They don’t like me much. A sense of humor is something they do not have.”

”Oh? Just what did you do to piss in their corn flakes?” Now Marigold’s curious.

”Nah. Worse.” J-Rod’s lining up another card. “I cut into their cash flow. They get antsy about that. I didn’t even need their money.” And it’s another miss. “Dang!”

”The whole thing started as kind of a prank.” He pauses, thoughtful. ”Yeah, it was the last night of the Drunk Weasel Fight Club NFT conference. Me and my crew had just cashed out…”

”Wait – you were into NFT’s? What’s that… ‘non-fungus…’”

”N.F.T. ‘Non Fungible Token’. It’s a way you can pretend to own something that everyone already has a copy of moment they see it on their computer.”

“I’m going to pretend I understand that.”

J-Rod nods his head back and forth a bit. “Ah, it’s like everyone pretends you own an animated GIF that everyone already has on their computer. The whole thing was a scene, mah-man.” Marigold shrugs and he continues. “We were into selling timeshares of NFT’s, for people who wanted to feel like they were big time playas, but couldn’t swing all the cash to own their own…”

”So, these NFT timeshares were a thing?” Marigold looks doubtful.

”Oh fuck yeah, you better believe it. We pulled the cord and bailed out at the perfect moment – just as someone came up with blockchain mining of new timeshare date ranges.”

J-Rod shakes his head and gives a jack a quiet kiss. “You should have seen those people, the speculators almost had jizz coming out of their tear ducts, desperate to get in on the action… but then the buzz wore off.”

”Let me guess. Marigold starts counting off on his fingers. “They were using some kind of BitCoin-thing to buy dates which don’t exist on the calendar to commit to timeshares on NFT images of your drunk weasels images which also don’t exist.”

J-Rod smacks his palms together with a loud clap. ”Yep, the holy grail of ‘market over-exuberance’ for one whole evening.” He flips the card towards his hat – pow! This time it’s in. J-Rod does a quick victory dance. “So we were sitting around, getting drunk…”

”…as one does…”

”…as one does while lounging on sacks of fresh, hot cash – spitballing what we were going to do to top that. Guess what we came up with?”

”Nostril deodorant?”

“Well, the Rodco Pocket Phisherman for mobile phone hackers was first but then, right there at the bar we setup a GitHub repo for the ultimate self-exploiting scam: an Open Source religion.”

Marigold scratches his thick locks. ”I’ve heard about Open Source stuff. Thought it was already a religion. And what’s a ‘github’?”

”No, no this wasn’t software. Github is this service that lets you share and collaborate to anyone anywhere on the internet. We started a religion where the text of our holy book was fully open source and you can add to it or even fork the project and have your own religion based on it any time you want.” He spins another card, pausing as it wafts towards the bucket. A miss. Five of diamonds.

“We thought it would be funny to call it ‘Open Science-ology’ but the twits at The Church of Science-ology were not amused. Hey, it turned out that our cult was cheaper than theirs, and a whole lot more fun.”

”Can I join?”

He shrugs, “Sure. Raise your left hand and repeat after me:”

”I <insert your name here>, solemnly promise to not get dirt on the living room carpet, pee in the pool or let the weasels out of their cage. Tip your waitress.”

”I’d change that to tip your bartender.”

”We don’t actually need your money, but you’d better tip your waitress. Now that you’re in the cult, you can add any rules you want. Right there on GitHub.“

J-Rod grabs his mug from the bar and takes a swig. He leans on the bar and looks Marigold close in the eyes. “Turns out starting a cult is easy. Get a boat with an open bar, find some young, attractive women who don’t want a real job and the rest pretty much falls into place. Pretty soon we were so successful that one dazed and confused morning we found we’d also founded The Open Bullshit movement, which allows anyone to believe anything they want is true at any time.”

”Isn’t it that way already?”

”Well, sure. But it didn’t have a name.” J-Rod pulls back and sighs. ”It was about then we found someone had beheaded Mr. Bojangles.”

”Who?”

”My cat. I got the message. Didn’t even pack my bong, left that afternoon before they came for my bunny slippers. Now here I am. How’s that for a story?”

“If you didn’t have a Drunk Weasel Fight Club tattoo, I’d think you were making it up.”

”I’ll drink to that! Hey Marigold, these ice cubes are getting dry!”

Author’s note: Say what? Are NFT’s a thing?

Oh, and J-Rod’s open source religion really does have a very real Github repo.
Contribute some new religious thing to ‘The Bibble’ today!

And you can email J-Rod here: jrodgoinon@gmail.com

Tall and thin, The Candyman walks a dog named Scooby Don’t along the lakeshore. The brown and black Great Dane stops to sniff each and every pebble, “reading his pee-mail” it’s called.

”Got my smokes?” Asks the pig, his last coffin nail bobbling on the end of his snout.

”Got my goats?” Fires back the man.

”The best way to prevent relapse is to stay high” rasps the pig.

”So I’m told.”

And so they walk. Sniff sniff, walk. The Candyman is feeling philosophic. A dusty haze is settling over the ruins by the lakefront.

”There’s a dog story in every pee-stain. Time and date-stamped. What was for breakfast, what time was the morning jailbreak? $2 off shooters at Hooters.” The clean, wide brim of The Candyman’s gringo sombrero cuts the blue of the sky like a ginsu knife. Clean and sharp.

“Can the chin-music primate. I want my smokes.”

“Patience pig, where’s my goats? They ain’t gonna steal themselves.”

”They’re on the boat.” Arnold snout-points to a half-sunken cabin cruiser just offshore, the waters of the Salton Sea lapping quietly against the scratched portholes. “That boat there.”

Shading his eyes with his hand, the white guy peers over the water. “Goats don’t float.”

“Nope. Goats don’t float.”

“Drugs, not hugs.”

“Smokes, not jokes.”

The three stand and stare at the grimy water, the sun glancing off the ripples as if to say, “What? What now?”

“FINE.” Sighs the dog loudly. “Hold my beer.”

Right now…

“No trouble with the border?”

“No, no hay problema” rumbles Señor ToughGuy.

“Fuck that fuckin’ border wall, bro!”

Señor ToughGuy cracks his knuckles just for effect. He’s enjoying watching the skinny freak jump with each knuckle going off like a kernel of popcorn, the corners of his mustache twitching as he suppresses a smile.

“Dude, stop that” grumbles Tony. “You’re making me fucking nervous, dawg.”

“You’re already nervous.”

“Gonna show us the good stuff?” ask the short, greasy one. His face is covered with acne. Speed freak, thinks Señor ToughGuy to himself.

“Does the Pope lick his own balls?”

“What?”

“Yes, dammit! Mierda!” Señor ToughGuy rubs his face with his gnarled hands, the orange dawn seeping through his fingers. It’s been a long night. “Got the money ready?”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh” agrees the tall one, hopping from foot to foot. He riffles a stack of greenbacks in a white paper envelope. Señor ToughGuy grunts and with a quick motion unlocks the back of the truck and rolls up the door with a bang.

The tall freak and the short freak stop their jittering for a moment and their jaws drop. The truck is filled with shrink-wrapped cases of Pepsi, Hecho En Mexico.

“Pespi? You brought us fucking Pepsi?”

---

Earlier…

Arnold lights another smoke as the truck’s springs groan and jounce over the potholes. Only two left in the pack. Fuck! Again?

“Es mas barato.” The kid in the center seat stinks of sweat and frijoles.

Señor ToughGuy sucks his teeth, cracks his knuckles but keeps his eyes on the dark road ahead.

“It’s fucking cheaper” coughs the pig.

“Sí, sí. Mas barato. Ustedes no tienes mucho dinero.“

The pig is working up some serious hate, the bile collecting in the back of his throat like the effluent of some dark serpent. “This had better fucking work.”

“No hay problema, Don Puerco. Muchos gente preferente este.“

“Sure, cabrón, but they asked us for Mexican Coke!”

Chad… saves the Mars Colony!

A nicely done Saturday Night Live sketch. Enjoy!

Why not move to space? All the cool kids will be doing it, right? Here’s a couple reference books for you:

The First City on Mars: An Urban Planner’s Guide to Settling the Red Planet, by Justin B. Hollander (Link to Amazon)

A City on Mars: Can We Settle Space, Should We Settle Space, and Have We Really Thought This Through?, by Kelly Weinersmith and Zach Weinersmith. (Link to Powell’s Books, Link to Amazon)

What’s the big deal, right? You’ve already bought a ticket to the Mars colony with a two-week stay through No-Air-bnb, all you have to do is pack!

Both of these books are an informative, interesting and often entertaining look at what it will take to put humans in an orbital space habitat, on our moon and/or Mars. In brief, the Weinersmiths like to point out that there’s much “happy talk” about how we’ll go to space and everything will be great, but not a lot of actual experience with turning moon dust into corn chips – let alone finding a way to mine something that will financially sustain the effort.

Mr. Hollander’s text gives a concise overview of the issues that will need to be addressed for a long-term settlement on Mars and a number of approaches to achieve a permanent and local source of french fries for a sizable population, and a pleasant place to sit and eat them.

I’d say I’m one of those many fans of the idea of exploration and settlement, while also being one of those who questions optimistic estimations of how easy it will be. As the Weinersmiths point out – we have very, very limited experience with how zero and low-gravity existence effects humans and thus… could a lower-gravity colony have a self-sustaining population of Space Babies? No one knows.

Hollander recounts plans of creating structures on Mars using just the rocks, candy wrappers and Bud Lite cans found lying about there – but you have to note: no one’s ever landed on Mars and made a brick. We can do all the pre-planning we can possibly do, but until someone actually does it, the challenges we’ll stumble upon remain unknown.

As we know, a recent mission to land a probe on Mars failed because some caveman on Earth used “yards” for calculations instead of the standard “cubits” used by everyone else. You get to Mars and discover that your 3D printer for printing larger 3D printers needs “D” batteries and you only packed “AA”. And you left the stove on, back on Earth. Oh, and oops – you landed on a spot on Mars that’s short of the mineral you need to make it work. Dang, now what?

Above is a TV mini-series of The Martian Chronicles from 1980. It includes the worst date on Mars…

The original book by Ray Bradbury was published in 1950, written in the aftermath of WWII and thus directly in the shadow of the evidence of man’s ability to destroy, and long before it was well proven that there isn’t breathable oxygen, canals and ancient cities (on the surface at least) of Mars. Like much of enduring Science Fiction, the location of Mars is a fantasy set – a place to work through the aspirations and conflicts going through the conscious and unconscious minds of society that existed at the time of its writing.

If you were me, reading the original text in Jr. High obsessively between classes it becomes a dreamland, an etherial non-place existing in the minds of the Human and Martian protagonists more than any existing place, which is why it retains interest today.

Here’s where I tell you that Jr. High was the pit of my life and one of the things I remember most is diving into the enormous tome of Ray Bradbury’s collected short stories (forget rats, you could kill an alligator with that thick book) as a way to avoid my classmates. Sadly lacking social skills, those wouldn’t appear until much later.

Ray Bradbury’s work exists in the shadow space between waking and dreaming, between living and dying. It’s a metaphor that we can see ourselves in, which is why it’s still worth reading.

A meaty fist taps a donut on the Resolute Desk, scattering powdered sugar like a light dusting of snow. A very large TV is on, competing with the sun coming through the windows for brightness.

On the screen is a long shot of a man in a blue suit, red tie and one of those tiny black masks that only covers the eyes. He’s working on the doornob of a shop with a tiny set of tools. The surround sound barks the announcer’s voice through the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen at home! Can President Big Dingus pull this latest heist off? Can he hit Tiffany’s?”

On the TV the front door to the shop cracks open and the man lifts a fist in victory. He picks up a compact black bag and in a moment he’s in.

“He did it, Bob. Now he’s got 30 seconds to deactivate the security system.”

“Don’t be silly, Ed. He’s already turned it off from his phone. Sure is handy when you can call in favors with the CIA, NSA, FBI and Homeland Security!”

In the office the big man behind the desk chuckles. The camera angle switches to an interior view, in “night mode” as the lights inside are off. We can see the man quickly scurry past the empty display cases and through a door in the back.

“Oh! He’s going straight for the safe! Do you think he’s going to use the same technique he used on that bank on 5th and Main?”

“Maybe, but he’s definitely upped his game from that first pawn shop he hit, right after the Supreme Court made it legal for the President to do anything he wants legal or not.” The camera view shifts again. The man sets his bag on the floor in front of the safe and pulls out a stethoscope. “Holy baloney, Ed. He’s going to do it old school. Can he do it?” President Dingus is scrunching his face with concentration, listening intently to the stethoscope while twiddling the dials on the safe.

“I’ll never forget the night he was picking pockets at the White House Inaugural Ball. Dang, did he get some great watches that night or what?”

“Quick fingers on that man. Remember when Presidents had to be boring? Before we had one man in the country who can do whatever he wants?”

“Dark days indeed, Ed.” On the TV the President continues to fiddle with the dials. “Remember the night we got to watch him car-jack that limo with Julia Roberts in it?”

“Oh yeah, and we got to watch him drive it backwards down I-95 with his underwear on his head! Ha! Good times! Thank god he can’t be taken to court for anything.”

“And the joke show where he just ripped those tags off the mattress you’re not supposed to rip off? What’s he going to do next?” On the TV the President turns the handle on the safe and it opens! He turns towards the camera, lifts both fists in the air and with a big smile performs his trademark “Happy Dance.” Bounce-Bounce-Yow! Big Dingus reaches into the safe and sweeps fine jewelry into his bag with his arm. He reaches in with both hands and withdraws a large necklace sparkling with diamonds and turns to show it to the camera.

“Ho ho! Something nice for the wife! Good thinking, Dingus!” The President places the necklace carefully in the bag, closes it securely, gives the camera a thumbs-up and quick-walks to the front door. He peeks outside, both ways, to make sure the coast is clear, then slips outside closing the door quietly behind him. He adopts a conspicuously casual stroll away then stops.

“Wait, what’s he seeing over there in the alley?” It’s a bum with a crumpled hat and rumpled duds, seated and leaning back against the wall. President Dingus digs into one of his pants pockets, retrieves something and flips a large, round silver object towards the man who scrabbles to retrieve it before it rolls away.

“…and giving back to the little people! What a class act that man is.”

Back in the office, the President toggles off the TV and turns towards his advisors. “Check it out boys, Big Dingus, President and International Jewel Thief. The best show on TV! Yeee-hawwww! What’s next?”

A shrug from the Chief of Staff. “Mebby we hit the art museum, sir?”

Stay tuned for more adventures of President Big Dingus!
“Dingus! Dingus! He’s our man!
If he can’t steal it, nobody can!”

“These fries.

Are cold.”

Señor ToughGuy looks at his knuckles. The fresh bruises will heal, the memories won’t be important. If there are any.

He’s a man who’s mustache has its own mustache.

Outside the sun is setting over the plain, which is as usual, dusty. It doesn’t owe you anything, and it knows it.

Señor ToughGuy taps his ashes onto the “no smoking” placard on the cramped table by the window.

His pants don’t fit, which is why he took them off.

The pig is late.

That red 70’s pickup truck pulls into the parking spot outside. Headlights fade to black.

Someone opens the door to the motel room and stands aside.

Señor ToughGuy lights another unfiltered cigarette. “Pig, you’re late.”

Arnold trots in. The pig shifts his smoke around in his mouth and swallows it.

“Yeah asshole, I’m late but you’ll always be ugly.”

Señor ToughGuy tips his head towards the body of a fat man crumpled on the floor with an ice bucket obscuring his elaborate spray-painted makeup. “Whaddaya want me to do with that guy?”

“Isn’t that your job? Chump went out the way he came in. As a clown.”

“Ass clown is as ass clown does.” Sun’s going down, it’s going to be a long night.