If You Have to Ask, You Can't Come In.

The Lounge has rules. Gary rewrote most of them—until someone returned to enforce one.

Even if that sentiment weren't as instinctual to me as tinnitus, I could summon the phrase in an unspecified European accent any time I chose, simply by remembering the time I heard it. And I could also choose to hear it now, apparently, as Rico Frederico casually extended an arm, halting his archi-thugs at the unspoken threshold of the Ballerz Lounge.

-Hallo Geary, it hass bean a whale. Thess plays has scene bitter daze-

Rico certainly hadn't; being Margaritaville Architect Laureate agreed mightily with him, if his tan and bespoke puka shell necklace were anything to go by. The gaudy gold and glittering gems almost hid the real prize: rare, endangered crabs peeking from the puka shells, waving invitingly. And as much as I detested acknowledging it, that at least explained how Rico had been able to enter the Ballerz Lounge in the first place: the dreaded "Prima Yacht-Rocker" clause of the Lounge charter. But why was he here, now, after all this time? His slow swagger across the Lounge floor towards me, no doubt caused by not wearing socks with his weird Euro leather boat shoes, gave me ample time to tune him and his Euro sneer out and get back to remembering...

The origin of the Ballerz Lounge is a legend both whispered amongst the real ones and accursed by the haters. A Secret almost lost to time, and a now-shuttered publisher who didn't do their due diligence on copywritten material before putting out my book "Gary Comma Indiana's The Secret". I wish I could say that the Judge was named "Time" but it was Ffudge which is not quite as poetic even though it actually rhymes. Judge Ffudge's Ffinal Fruling, somehow, was that I couldn't make a profit off of the story in "Gary Comma Indiana's The Secret". Which I'm told is real poetry, specifically by Judge Ffudge in her Fruling.

This next bit could also be considered poetry, being a seamless segue into the Origin of the Ballerz Lounge, as told by yours truly. And hey, it's mostly copied from the book I already wrote about it, so less work for me.

Everyone who is anyone knows about the World Famous Harlem Globetrotters, but how many know the story of the only team brave enough to face them and lose every time? No one knows their story, because history is written by the victors, not the losingest team in basketball. But their heart, dear reader! Sadly not exactly in top shape either, considering losing teams don't get the best doctors. However, at least one man bucked that trend and found a heart big enough to beat a war drum in his chest, an ancient warcry, as old as competitive sports itself: "Offer to throw the game and get paid!" No one knows what happened in Globetrotters Global HQ that day, but when Flute Greeksugar was being dragged out through the foyer, his nails managed to scape up enough floor gold to put a downpayment on a used car lot the very next day.

The lot was a modest success from the start, thanks to the stylish shirts with realistic-looking "seat-belt art" included with every purchase. But the jig was soon up once they tried expanding into selling motorcycles too. The lot closed so abruptly that I seemingly became the owner of the car I had been test driving for the last several years, as I had nowhere to return it. This, unfortunately, never works with books because libraries rarely go out of business, despite the government's best efforts. But with that seed car as collateral, I was able to set the wheels in motion that would lead to this very day, with Rico Frederico once again in my life, and once again rudely attempting to talk over my inner monologue. Luckily, with Rico still too far away to reasonably notice I wasn't paying attention to his complaints about losing his artisan shaker of Euro salt or whatever, I gulp the stale air of his continued presence and retreat back to the briny deep of memory. What a game we play, Rico! But only one of us can be the Globetrotters. See you in the second half.