It was with some foreboding, and no small degree of thirst, that I pushed open the now-legendary shatter-glass door and once more entered the bar.

And there was the now elegantly wasted boy behind the bar counter and he looked up from a magazine and copped a glance at me.

‘A bottle of Bud, please, Fange,’ I said. ‘And a hot pastrami on rye.’

And he fainted. Dead away.

And I roused him with the contents of the ice bucket. And he rued the day that he had not worn a wetsuit to work (this day) and arose all dripping to his feet.

‘It is you,’ he said. ‘And you are awake and here.’

‘And looking like dog poo,’ I said. ‘How come nobody gave my teeth a wash?’ And I displayed my teeth to Fangio. Who fell back before the onrushing of my severe halitosis.

‘You’re going to need some alcohol to mask that breath of yours,’ said the barlord. ‘And then we are going to have to talk some very intense toot. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.’

And he popped the top from a bottle of Bud and served up a pastrami on rye.

And I tucked in to all that he served and did so gratefully.

‘I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to see you up and about,’ said Fangio. ‘Even if you do look somewhat dog-pooish. So do you wish to pay in cash, or should I start a tab for you?’

‘I’ll have these on the house,’ I said. ‘As this is my bar.’

‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘Was your bar. The court order came through just last week. When you were declared officially braindead.’

‘Which quite clearly I am not!’ I said. In the voice of outrage.

‘Opinions vary,’ said Fangio. ‘You’re entitled to your own, of course. Personally I incline towards the opinion of the magistrate who signed the court order. But that’s me all over, isn’t it? Upholder of the law and friend to one and all.’

And I did grindings of the teeth. And bits of teeth fell off.

‘I need a wash,’ I said to Fangio. ‘I stink and everything I’m wearing stinks and I need to clean my teeth. A lot.’

And Fangio let me use his bathroom. And he said that he would not charge me for the towels. On this occasion. The man was clearly a saint in the making. And, as he cast but a single shadow, still in the land of the living.

I returned to the bar smelling as sweetly as Elvis once had and reasonably shining-white in the railing regions. And I smiled my almost pearly-whites at Fangio and this time he did not fall back clutching at his nose.

‘It really is good to have you back,’ he said. ‘What are your present opinions regarding the undead? Believer, or non-believer?’

‘Believer,’ I said. ‘Firm and fervent believer. And instrument of vengeance upon the Homunculus. If I get half a chance.’

‘Top man,’ said Fangio. ‘Bonnie Tyler was in here the other day and she was holding out for a hero. I don’t suppose you’re related?’

‘I didn’t know that you knew my real name,’ I said.

‘It was on your hospital records. Which came from extensive CIA files on you. Apparently.’

‘So I heard. Perhaps I should go and speak to the CIA, tell them everything I know. And I know a lot.’

‘Best not,’ said Fangio.

‘You think?’

‘I know. Best not.’ And Fangio pushed the magazine he had been reading when I entered across the bar counter to me.

It was a copy of American Alpha Males Today magazine, which incorporated American Jocks Today magazine. And American Teenage Dirtbags Today magazine. And Hard-Core She-Males Monthly, but this last was in very small lettering.

And there he was on the cover.

In big glossy all full colour.

Keith Presley, brother of Elvis.

Otherwise known as Papa Keith Crossbar.

The Homunculus.

And there was a big blurb on that cover. And that blurb said-

LOOK OUT VILLAINS BEWARE AND TERRORISTS FLEE Keith Crossbar Crowned New Head of the CIA

‘Head of the CIA?’ I said. ‘That’s him, you know. That’s the Homunculus.’

‘Of course I know,’ said Fangio. ‘All of us in the Underground know now. But what can we do? Assassinate him?’

I glugged down another bottle of Bud.

And Fangio served me up another. ‘I’ll put it on your tab,’ he said.

‘Head of the CIA,’ I said. ‘How did that happen?’

‘Folk died,’ said Fangio. ‘Anyone who stood in his career path met with an unfortunate accident. Not always fatal, though, because when they had “recuperated”, they no longer stood in his way – they endorsed his rise to power.’

‘And I bet they all cast two shadows?’ I said.

‘I’ve heard that story, too,’ said Fangio. ‘And I’ll just bet that they do.’

‘How much would you be prepared to bet?’ I asked on the off-chance.

Fangio scratched at what he had left of hairs on his head.

‘Surely I would win that bet,’ he said.

‘You might,’ I replied.

‘I think I’ll pass anyway.’

I raised my bottle of Bud to Fange. ‘It is very good to be sitting here in this bar talking to you,’ I said. ‘Even if we are not talking the toot. It’s good. Cheers to you, my friend.’

‘And cheers to you, too,’ said Fangio.

And we shared a moment. A special moment.

And then the shatter-glass door opened and a newsboy entered and hurled the evening paper onto the bar.

Fangio almost caught it, but didn’t. And the newsboy departed, chuckling.

‘The news,’ I said to Fangio. ‘Now, I have not exactly been too privy to the news lately. Let’s have a look at what’s going on in the world.’ And Fangio smiled and pushed the evening paper across the counter top to me.

And I perused the front page.

And guess what. And wouldn’t you just know it.

There was a great big photograph of me on the front page. And below this were printed the words-

PSYCHOTIC TERRORIST SERIAL-KILLER ESCAPES FROM STATE MENTAL INSTITUTION CIA Head Orders Cops to Shoot on Sight

‘Oh sweet,’ I said. ‘Just perfect.’

So I was Public Enemy Number One.

Which rather spoiled my afternoon.

Not that I’d been having the best afternoon of my life, you understand, what with discovering that one in every three New Yorkers was a walking corpse. But, looking on the bright side, I was up out of my hospital bed and I was in a bar, having the first beers I’d had in ten years.

And my those beers tasted good.

But Public Enemy Number One? On the front page of the newspaper? That wasn’t funny. That wasn’t fair. That was downright spiteful.

Fangio cast eyes across the newspaper and whistled the whistle of surprise. ‘Psycho-terrorist?’ said he. ‘I wonder if there’s a reward.’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I told him. ‘And bring me another beer.’

‘You won’t go blowing the place up when my back is turned?’

I gave Fange that certain look and he fetched further beer.

‘This is a fine kettle of fish,’ I said, upon his return. ‘A right how-do-you-do and a rare turn-up-for-the-book.’

‘Are we talking the toot now?’ asked Fangio. ‘Because you are getting me confused.’

‘I’m upset,’ I said. ‘And I’m angry. A wanted man? That is going to make things rather difficult for me, isn’t it?’

‘These things happen,’ said the barlord. ‘The secret is not to let them get you down. I’ve recently joined a travel club. That takes my mind off my problems.’

‘A travel club. But you never travel anywhere, except to the toilet.’

‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘But that is one of the beauties of the present age. I don’t have to travel. I can employ other people to do it for me.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense at all,’ I told him, in no uncertain tones.

‘Ah, but it does.’ And Fangio rested his elegantly wasted elbows upon the bar counter. ‘I pay for someone to travel to exotic lands and in return they send me postcards telling me all about it and thanking me for being so wonderful as to finance their journeys for them. So it satisfies on so many levels, really.’