Chapter Sixteen: Interlude With Sailboat

What about Wario? How much could Bowser tell Wario about that encounter with Waluigi— without telling Wario that Bowser was Bowser?

Any of it?

Waluigi had no reason to talk to Bowser, except for his belief that he Waluigi was Luigi, and that Bowser was Bowser. So really, Bowser could probably not tell Wario about any of it— except for the fact that Bowser had seen Waluigi again. And then, the plain idea that Waluigi was still out in Chai's streets… was an idea that was fundamentally obvious as long as Wario was aware of the local news.

So, there was nothing to say. Unless Bowser admitted he was Bowser.

(And even then, would the story of the encounter be helpful to Wario at all?)

To Bowser, it seemed the most likely solution to this entire "Waluigi problem" (giving it a name like that made it a little farther away, more of an abstract thing to solve) was for Wario to talk with his brother, come to terms with him, and convince him to turn himself in. Waluigi was distinctly affected by Wario. They were family, after all.

It was only by some unfortunate nonsense that Waluigi had made a connection between himself and Bowser— that of the belief that he was simultaneously part-Luigi, and therefore he and Bowser knew each other from before.

This was still a huge relief compared to before, when Bowser believed it was Luigi himself out there. Bowser was involved with this situation now only because of the delusions of a person he didn't really know. That was frustrating and annoying (and frightening).

But it wasn't so strange, after all. The delusion of one person is often the reason for our most unpleasant encounters at any time or place in life.

This case was just a little more extreme.

Part of him thought he might be taking all of this a little too nonchalantly. Another part said that he was being properly levelheaded, that it was good to think with this coolness and rationality, rather than break down in fright or something.

In any case, Waluigi was not coming to kill him. Waluigi believed that Bowser was his friend. And in that case, maybe Bowser could convince Waluigi to stop what he was doing.

Good luck with that, chappie, part of him thought.

Still...still… it was worth trying. As long as we have willpower… we should try to do things. If you feel like you have the potential to try, you may as well… because other times you'll have no strength at all, and you won't even have a chance.

In this case, it would just be a matter of running into Waluigi again. That was, if Waluigi wasn't found by the police first.

Ehh. Eh eh eh…

It was a little while after that— a few days later, during the next weekend— when it began to snow in Chai. It was on that night {vaguely}, with the snow falling from the black empyrean {sacred}, that Bowser wandered down a series of stairs, and found himself in Dark Land again.

It was that old Koopa Kingdom inspired bar, with newspaper clippings and a flag and photos and art.

Former King Bowser Koopa disappears!

Bowser hadn't been there for three months. He had frankly forgotten where the bar was, and had mostly wandered back in by chance.

Now he was there again, and the old mystery of who owned the bar returned to him.

He looked to the counter. There was a young koopa there bartending, younger than him— probably just barely eighteen, maybe nineteen. It was unlikely he was the owner… and upon further recollection, Bowser remembered a middle-aged koopa had been bartending during his last visit three months ago.

In the bar, besides Bowser and the bartender, there were only two goombas in a corner, talking quietly over mugs.

"Good evening," Bowser greeted, "Is the owner here tonight?"

The young koopa was wiping a mug clean with a cloth. He looked up. "The owner?"

The question hung. "Yes… the owner of this pub. The owner of Dark Land."

"Hmmmm…" The younger koopa frowned, almost looking confused. "How do you know… I'm not the owner?"

The question hung.

"I don't know you're not the owner," Bowser admitted, "But I remember an older koopa being here the last time I visited. About three months ago."

"So what? Maybe he works for me."

Bowser couldn't tell if he was the victim of some joke or not. Maybe the bartender wanted him to buy a drink?

Bowser sat down. "OK, if it makes things easier, I'll have a… Soft Shell." His hands settled on the countertop. "So… are you the owner?"

The bartender smiled a little, not moving. "You think I'm too young to be the owner, right?"

"...Yes."

"You think someone my age can't appreciate the Koopa Kingdom of old, right?"

"No. You're not that young. You could have lived there as a child."

The koopa closed one eye. "You don't know how old I am. I may be very old, with a youthful appearance."

"I doubt it." Now Bowser was getting irritated. "I don't think I'd have this kind of conversation with an older person."

"No? ...Hm. Maybe you're right. Maybe... I'm the one who's confused." And he stepped back, teetering a little.

Bowser couldn't believe this. Did this bartender act this way with all of his customers? Had the goombas in the corner had to put up with it? Bowser glanced back at them, but they were still in the same place, chatting with each other.

"Can I have my drink, please?" Bowser turned back and brought some money out. "Soft Shell."

"Right…" The koopa glanced down at the money and put the glass he was cleaning away. "...Soft Shell… I'll need to go into the back for that one…"

Bowser shrugged. "OK." He'd had enough. Maybe the conversation would be easier to deal with if he was a little drunk.

The koopa walked down the area behind the counter and disappeared through a doorway of swinging flaps. Two minutes later, a different koopa walked out— it was the older person that Bowser had remembered from before.

"Good evening," The older koopa said, "Change of shift. ...Had you ordered a drink?"

"Yes," Bowser swallowed his exasperation, "Soft Shell. Please."

"Mm. You ordered already, didn't you? I apologize. The bartender who was working at this counter before me is a bit troubled. Two months ago he received some incredible, frankly preposterous news, and has not entirely recovered since. I think he is getting better, but it is a very slow going. His conversation tends to be rattled… his sense of rationality towards the world and himself has toppled over."

Bowser raised an eyebrow. "Bad news?"

"It was neither good nor bad. It was quite neutral. There were bad aspects to the news, and good aspects. On the whole, the good aspects balanced out the bad aspects, and ultimately, when one reviewed the entire situation, they would feel neither particularly better nor particularly worse about life, whether in a personal or overall sense. But regardless, it was a very surprising and altogether perspective-shifting thing, and ultimately, the bartender you talked to previously had his ways of perceiving and reacting to the world altogether shifted. Hopefully for the shorter, rather than longer, term."

Bowser was unconsciously chewing on the end of one finger. "Is it a good story?"

"It would make an incredible story, there is no doubt. Both the original news, including the history leading up to the events described in the news, and the initial reactions and fallout from the other bartender you spoke to receiving the said news. However, I am afraid it is of a supremely private nature, and it is by funny chance, really its own strange and necessarily detailed story, that even I learned of the news. That story, related more directly to myself, is also of a supremely private nature, due to its intimate relations to the aforementioned initial news in terms of chronology, connected events, and some of the persons involved. Therefore, in summary, I am afraid that I could not tell you about any of the matter at all."

Bowser blinked twice. He felt like he was under some spell.

"Okay." Bowser's fingers scratched slightly into the top of the counter. "Can I… get my drink, please?"

"Of course, sir. I merely wanted you to understand, to the fullest extent possible, the details of the unideal situation you experienced a moment ago, and understand why your drink and regular service was heretofore delayed."

"Okay, I understand. Please. The Soft Shell."

"Right away, sir."

The bartender had returned with the drink and Bowser had choked down about half of it before he remembered his original inquiry.

"Say," He asked the bartender, who was now rubbing at a mug the same way the younger bartender had been going at it, "Are you the owner of this pub?"

The bartender looked up with concern. "The... owner, sir?"

It was weird enough getting called 'sir' repeatedly in a pub— a word he didn't remember the bartender using the last time he was there. But now this questioning again?

"Yes, the owner. Are you, the koopa currently bartending, the owner of this pub, named Dark Land? Do you own it?"

"Oh, no, sir. I do not own any establishment like this. I am not the owner, I am merely a bartender."

Bowser nodded. "OK. Can I meet the owner?"

The bartender stared straight ahead at Bowser, not reacting at all, nor saying anything. Maybe five seconds passed, just long enough to be uncomfortable.

"You want to meet the owner? Well… Are you sure?"

Bowser blinked. His old self would have slammed a fist on the counter and yelled, but now, he just said calmly: "Yes, I would like to meet the owner. I want to meet the owner of Dark Land."

"...I see." The bartender put the glass he was cleaning away. "I will go and ask about it, sir."

And he went back through the swinging flap doors, further into the establishment. Bowser sat back and sighed. He had wandered into some weird fantasy situation. It wasn't necessarily the bar itself, since he had been here before and things had been seemingly quite normal— no, it was the place and the time. He had the weirdest intuitive feeling that this could not have happened except at this time and place.

Bowser turned in his seat and looked back. The two goombas that had been there before had left.

The older bartender returned.

"The owner would like to know who wishes to speak with him?"

Bowser thought for a moment. "An old Koopa Kingdom resident."

The older bartender nodded and returned through the doors.

Another five minutes passed before he returned out again, a troubled look on his face.

"The owner says he can meet with you in one week's time. Next Saturday."

"Next week. Seven days?" Bowser glanced at the back flap-doors. "I'm not here for a business deal, you know. I just wanted to meet… for a moment… the owner."

The older bartender spread his arms and smiled apologetically. "I am afraid the owner is away on a trip. He will only return very late next Friday night, and he will want to rest."

Bowser squinted. "Didn't you just talk to him?"

"Yes, sir. I spoke to him on the telephone."

"...Right." Bowser's eyes wandered over to a green phone that was hanging on the wall near a shelf stacked with bottles. He had the feeling that another detailed and essentially meaningless answer was related to the question of the phone. He wasn't going to ask.

The bartender nodded with understanding. "Ah. You're thinking about that telephone, aren't you, sir?"

"No," Bowser replied quickly.

"It's a matter of privacy, sir," The bartender continued on regardless, "The owner values his conversations as quite private, so if I need to speak directly with him, whether because of an inquiry, or for instructions on making a particularly difficult cocktail, I must use a certain private phone in the back of the establishment. As you may have guessed, the owner is an extraordinarily private fellow."

Yes, I can tell, Bowser thought. You and the other bartender make excellent security.

The bartender looked uncomfortable. "I am quite surprised he even agreed to meet with you... no offense, sir."

"None taken," Bowser said dryly.

"I hope you understand, sir."

"I do, yes. Okay. So I'm going to return in seven days. Next Saturday."

"If you want to meet the owner, yes, sir. I hope you realize it will be a rare occasion."

He's the owner of a pub, Bowser thought with a ludicrous sense. The owner of an underground pub.

But instead, he just said: "Yes, I understand."

And he stood up (he had already paid for his drink) and said some short goodbye, and left, back up the stairs— out into the crisp night. And, feeling remarkably short of breath, he focused on his breathing for some time.