It was late, after ten. I was at the Greer St----ks, nearly finished with a 12-ounce octoshot depth charge -- no "room," thank you very much. Despite my interest in the "alternative history" novel written by somebody called Harry Turtledove that I had found on one of the tables, I was tired, and started to rise. Suddenly a shadowy but massive figure advanced toward me. It, or he, was standing nearly on my feet almost before I realized what was going on. The figure was not only tall but broad, not just possessed of the complexion of a mature walnut but liberally covered with hair. To say he was menacing was an understatement.
He spoke, with a deep growl that seemed equally derived from Orson Welles's performance of the angry scenes in "Citizen Kane" and way, way too much espresso. The tone was enough to make me long for last rites, even though I'm not Catholic. What he said was even more troubling.
"I've seen you. Yeah, you, Northerner. 'Van.' I know what you're doing to that blog of yours, ruining it. Destroying its delicately-balanced aesthetics. Causing people to click away from it rather than read the poetry of your fellow bloggers. AND I'VE HAD ENOUGH!"
I gulped. "B... but..." I began.
"No more backchat, cheesehead. I don't want this "Dazzle" thing to be "daily" ever again, see? And if it does, watch out. Not only can I summon the South to rise again and come after you, I've got a friend on the inside of the Brazilian Navy. You don't want to be attacked by Skyhawks launched from an old French aircraft carrier, do you?"
With this parting threat (which actually didn't sound too bad, on reflection) the shadowy giant betook himself off and left me panting, damply, at my table. And "The Daily Dazzle" went away, to be replaced with something much more benign. I called it "The Dazzle."
He spoke, with a deep growl that seemed equally derived from Orson Welles's performance of the angry scenes in "Citizen Kane" and way, way too much espresso. The tone was enough to make me long for last rites, even though I'm not Catholic. What he said was even more troubling.
"I've seen you. Yeah, you, Northerner. 'Van.' I know what you're doing to that blog of yours, ruining it. Destroying its delicately-balanced aesthetics. Causing people to click away from it rather than read the poetry of your fellow bloggers. AND I'VE HAD ENOUGH!"
I gulped. "B... but..." I began.
"No more backchat, cheesehead. I don't want this "Dazzle" thing to be "daily" ever again, see? And if it does, watch out. Not only can I summon the South to rise again and come after you, I've got a friend on the inside of the Brazilian Navy. You don't want to be attacked by Skyhawks launched from an old French aircraft carrier, do you?"
With this parting threat (which actually didn't sound too bad, on reflection) the shadowy giant betook himself off and left me panting, damply, at my table. And "The Daily Dazzle" went away, to be replaced with something much more benign. I called it "The Dazzle."
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