The Last Tiki Bar on Mars

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.

…1969…

“Eva, pass me the Evian please.”

“Yes, dahlink.” Replies Eva, in her delightfully uplifting accent. “Here you arh.”

A light breeze ripples the fronds of the palm trees lining the pool. It’s sunny at the Palm Springs Racquetball Club, but it’s always sunny at the Palm Springs Racquetball Club. Arnold’s eyes are focused in the middle distance over the pool and shaded by his Ray-Bans.

A man with a small blue swimsuit and a chin with a divot large enough to hide a golf ball strolls over, cigarette dangling in his fingers. “Howdy Arnold, how they hanging? Borrow your lighter?”

“Kirk, buddy. It’s all yours.” Arnold doesn’t take his eyes off the pool.

Eva leans over, “Mr. Douglas, how nice to see you. How was your latest movie?”

Kirk snaps the zippo closed and breathes in the healing smoke enjoying its contradictory stimulating and relaxing effect. “The Arrangement?” He taps his lit cig against his leg and grits his teeth. “Average, baby. Average.” He takes a long drag, flicks the dart into the ashtray on table next to Arnold and without a word turns and dives into the pool.

Audrey, resplendent in a simple one-piece black swimsuit reclines deeper into her lounge chair. “Well, he doesn’t seem too happy about that.”

“Pity.” Arnold worries his cig from one side of his mouth to the other. “Eva, I’m thinking Bombay Beach. What do you think about putting some of our TV money into property there?” He’s watching some birds going in lazy circles over the mountains. “I’m thinking it’s primed to go big.”

“Oh, Ahrnold, I just can’t think about that today.”

Arnold barely hears her. He is lost in a daydream of dollars driven by the craze for Salton Sea waterskiing and tourists fishing.

“They say love is the best investment; the more you give, the more you get in return.”

“Audrey, you are so romantick!” returns Eva with a smile.

Arnold lights another Regal. He starts to sing… “Money don’t get everything, it’s true. But what it don’t get, I can’t use…”

He continues to hum the song as the pool staff comes by with fresh gin and tonics.

Author’s note for younger readers:

Kirk Douglas, Audrey Hepburn and Eva Gabor were major stars in the time period of this episode. I will leave it as a Google/Wikipedia exercise for the reader to learn about Palm Springs, The Salton Sea and Bombay Beach.

Your author was recently at an event that required creating some art on a poster, so Banana Man made an appearance. For Justice!

Wait, you don’t know who Banana Man is yet? Click here, pilgrim….

See the Mars that time forgot! Fast ‘n’ loose is how the science works here, but hey, it was filmed in color!

Scene: The Long Up Chuk Chinese-American Restaurant. The lights are low, and mostly red-ish. The Legion of all the Dooms is lounging comfortably in the sagging vinyl booths and battered banquet chairs in the back. A dark miasma of malice hangs in the air like the stench of last years second hand smoke. 

An argument is going on.

“I’ll have a Singapore Sling, heavy on the Singapore.”

“Let’s call Evil Buddha and take out Good Hitler once and for all!”

“That never works. They just clone up a new one. Every. Fucking. Time.”

“Well, fudge a monkey. We need to p0wn some chumps! Halloween’s here. It’s time for mischief.“

“How about … we hand out chocolate covered brussel sprouts!”

“More better, The Communist Manifesto, hidden under tasty chocolate coatings!”

“Or we build The Not-So-Great Pumpkin!”

“Candy that causes hiccups!”

“White chocolate, and… ah god, Circus Peanuts!” <retching noises>

“Broken iPhones!”

“Unhappy Meals. The special prize inside… Tax forms, heh heh.”

“Elephantiasis! In the water supply!”

“Gummy Bears, rock hard gummy bears…”

“Can the chin-music you sock monkeys!”

The bags under Secret Nixon’s eyes look extra dark tonight. “The NRA does more to torment children than we could. I say we stick the knife in deep. Deep in the sweaty little hearts of the Justice League of Justice. I say we take the battle to the enemy, on their own home turf!”

“You mean?”

“Yes… We’re going bowling!“

Good Hitler politely borrowed from Jon Rosenberg.
Kindly support his creative efforts by signing up for this kickstarter!

Good news, everyone!

Just what you’ve always wanted: the freedom from having to make decisions! Now you can have the computer link you directly to a random episode of the bits that don’t need to be read in any order anyway. Give it a try!

→ Jump to a random episode of The Curiously Banal Adventures of Banana Man

→ Jump to a random episode of Burning Pork

…Sadly, you’ll still have to pick which page of The Last Tiki Bar on Mars that you want to read. Which you can do here.