While Chiles slept (even as Gotham City and Meshuggadale didn't, particularly, but then, big agglomerations of buildings very rarely snore, exhale or suffer from sleep apnea), Puffy, Pillow and Pander lazily meandered down to the Iron. This was a Meshuggadale institution, a nightclub featuring lots of alternative singers and bands, and really rancid coca cola, for those unable to produce a forged ID, which was actually no one, since they'd pretty much accept any old scraggly piece of plastic or cardboard with smeary printing that looked approximately rectangular and might or might not sport a photo (often of Sarah Michelle Gellar, or sometimes a nice seascape). The Iron had previously been known as "The Bronze," but had recently been re-baptised when assiduous research by Chiles and a group of local historians had revealed that the Bronze Age had ended something like three thousand years ago, even before the advent of twitter, and that it made a really sucky base metal for swords and shields, in any case.

The evening's featured performer was Sophie Zelmani, reprising her ever-popular, "I Don't Remember; I'm Amnestic." Pander grabbed a table in the corner, and when it didn't grab back, the three of them sat down and ordered bloody Mary's, hold the blood, which was something Puffy found herself doing all too often. After a perfunctory scan of the place to identify any teenagers drinking with very pale people who had likewise ordered bloody Mary's (hold Mary) -- for purposes of later identification at the morgue -- Puffy relaxed a bit and began to groove to the melody. Pillow closed her eyes and imagined French monkeys qui avaient piqué des pantalons, which had to make one really wonder about Pillow. Pander just leered at the linoleum.

Within a few minutes, though, the sounds of a scuffle could be heard at the door. An incredibly schlumpy, unshaven and ill-dressed vampire with a grumpy demeanor was arguing with the bouncer about the necessity for a photo on a photo id, of which he didn't, incidentally, have one, but felt aggrieved that photos should be necessary in any case, since vampires tended not to appear on film (except for Fujika, and certain types of Kodachrome). "Grunt-grunt," bellowed (or possibly belched) the vampire, which would have excited Chiles if he had been present, hinting at the possibility of a riveting discussion in Ancient Sumerian. (The author feels compelled to interject, for the sake of historical integrity, that as of the time of writing of The Epic of Gilgamesh, the Sumerians had yet to discover rivets, riveting machines, or even rebars. It was a generally bad time for the construction industry, and also for finding snakes of life.) Ignoring the editorial insertion, the bouncer had decided to eject the fractious vampire, not so much because he was belligerent, as because he was pig-ugly and had failed entirely to offer a suitable emolument for the favor of being admitted to the smoky, noisy (and largely adolescent) inner sanctum.

"Grunt-grunt," reiterated Schmutzplunk, this time shoving the bouncer aside, and gracefully stumbling over three tables, a waiter, and a small irregularity in the linoleum floor, before smashing his head against the wall, dislocating his shoulder, rebounding from the edge of the bar and landing face up and slightly dazed on the floor right next to the Scoobies. "Grunt-grunt," he said, in something approximating Pillow's direction.

Delighted thus to be addressed in Ancient Sumerian, which she had learned in the fifth grade, analyzed for her doctoral dissertation at twelve, and eventually taught to Chiles the year before, Pillow responded, "Grunt-gree-gree-grunt-hunt-and-peck?" This was a very formal response to what Pillow had taken to mean "I'm very pleased to meet you by banging my head into the floor adjacent your table," but by which Schmutzplunk had actually meant, "I'm dyspeptic and grumpy and can't be bothered to articulate all those phoneme thingies, and by the way, where can I go to throw up?"