“No shit, Skelton. How’d you get us here? We’re supposed to be there!”

“Goddamn pisspot GPS.”

“Oh, man, where’d you get that device? Amazon?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“How many times I gotta tell you don’t buy electronics in the same solar system you’re gonna do a takeout? How many fuckin’ times you don’t get it? And you sca-rew up the mission?”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry don’t cut it no more, Skelty. You’re poof.”

The Martian who really looked like a Martian—all shiny whatever metal body he be—slipped a KillThrill from nowhere and slew Skelton in a nanosecond.

“Up to me, now,” the Martian crooned.

 Ruthee, the barmaid, came up to him. Asked, “Another, shugah?”

“That’s not a Brooklyn twang but, yeah, one for the telemetry.”

She poured. She didn’t ask. The guy’d slapped down a heavy Platinum Amex and she’d eyed the name. That was all that mattered really.

Asked, “So Mister Reynolds, are you real?” “Yeah, but only in a parallel place. Not here.”

Ruthee wouldn’t admit she was confused. Better to shut up and get the tip, if tip it came.

Mister Reynolds drained his Bourbon through one of his tendrils.

Ruthee, on hard-worked purpose, didn’t freak out.

She never seen anyone or anything yom a cocktail aside from orally.

She thought maybe she should quit nightwork and take her roomie’s advice and go teach English as a Second Language.

“Before you leave, sir, I gotta ask. I know you say you’re only real someplace else? I kinda get that, but if you’re not real here, what are you here?”

Mister Reynolds arose from his stool.

He signed the chit with his laser tendril and added a tip.

Flobberwoggled, and totally out of school, Ruthee picked up the chit and glanced at it as Mister Reynolds parked his Amex on his chestpak.

“Uh, sir,” barely spoke Ruthee, “this won’t fly.”

“What won’t?”

“A uh uh billion dollars tip on a twenty dollar tab?”

“It’s customary where I come from,” he said. “I’ve got an expense account with no ceiling.”

“Oh,” smiled Ruthee. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, can you direct me to Nome?”