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By Morgan StinemetzAmendment rights. We can say anything wewant to say. We have all been to college, IvyLeague colleges, I might add. We can call itthe BM if we want, and we know what weare doing.”“So did Gary Gilmore, JeffreyDahmer and Ted Bundy,” an anonymousvoice from the crowd of tables said.The pastel green shirt spunaround and snarled, “Who saidthat?”Shorty, who was among thedisenfranchised that day, stoodup, all five-feet-zero of him and stuttered,“I-yi-yi-yi-yi seh-seh-seh-seh said that.”“No you-you-you-you-you di-di-di-di-didn’t,” mockedthe pastel green shirt. He made a mistake in doing that.“You three jerks are cut off,” Doobie said in a calmvoice. “The beers you’ve had will cost you five dollarsapiece. That’s $30 bucks.”“That’s robbery,” whined the lavender shirt.“No, sonny, that’s justice,” Doobie said with the sametone of voice that reminded me of a timber rattlesnake onthe Appalachian Trail, dangerous.“Tough, lady,” said the pink shirt. “We’re leaving.” Buthe was wrong. When the three preppy guys went to pushtheir bar stools back, they found that they could not. Theywere surrounded by about 25 guys, quiet as hooded death,who blocked their way. And not one of them wore a Lacostepolo shirt.Tripwire said in a cordial way, “It would be in your bestinterests to pay the nice lady and then move on. That wayyou can have your BM and eat it, too. But just not here.”The preppy guys started to object, but before theycould do so they had all been grabbed individually andcardboard beer coasters stuffed in their mouths so theycouldn’t talk. One by one they were carried over to thepool table and stretched out. Tripwire used a huge Rambotypeknife he produced to cut the crocodiles off their shirts,one at a time, slice all the plastic in their wallets, includingtheir drivers’ licenses, in half and cut the upperlayer of leather off the top of their L.L. Beanloafers. The preppy guys didn’t say anotherword. Thirty dollars got liberated fromtheir wallets and given to Doobie, witha $10 tip added. The mutilated plasticwas stuffed in their side pantspockets. Their wallets were putback in their hip pockets.Then, after being racked outon the pool table and their attitudestotally adjusted, they weretaken outside and dropped into TheBlue Moon Bar’s Dumpster. It was due tobe emptied the next day, Doobie said later, so itwas rather rank. I think there were rats down inside it, too.I was just a spectator, of course, but I can swear that Iheard scurrying deep inside that Dumpster.Then the regulars came back inside and assumed theirusual places at the bar. Doobie set up free beers on the houseand gave both Shorty and Tripwire a chaste kiss on thecheek. There were smiles all around.About that time, Bubba Whartz, who had not been aparty to the festivities, came through the door and said,“Howdy.” He got a bunch of howdies back.“I saw some really trashy-looking guys outside when Idrove up,” Capt, Whartz said, as he adjusted his red baseballcap, the one with the Peterbilt emblem on it, on hishead. “It looked like they were Dumpster diving. I hopethey don’t come in here.”“I don’t think they will,” said Doobie. And all the guyssitting at the bar high-fived the guys sitting next to them.“Did I miss something?” Bubba asked. There were noreplies.If you ever go into The Blue Moon Bar and use the urinalin the gents’ room, look up on the ceiling right over thesign that says the water in the urinal is not fit for humanconsumption and you’ll see three embroidered crocodilesnailed into the ceiling with small brads. They are lined upwith military precision, crocs on parade.Australian hand-craftedexclusive nauticallinenRobesTowelsCushionsSheet SetsTable WearQuilt Covers& morewww.silversailors.com.auNews & Views for Southern Sailors SOUTHWINDS September 2011 15