"Harrison, Harry - Bill, the Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet of The Hippies From Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

"Well, glad to meet you, Bill and Elliot!" said the barkeep. "I'm Uncle Nancy."
"Uncle Nancy. Gee - the owner?"
"That's right," said Uncle Nancy, obviously pleased with himself. "None other."
"So tell me, Uncle Nancy. Give me the scoop, huh?" Bill looked around, grinning, at the crowd. "How come all the men here have to wear dresses?"
"You'll understand fully when you're dead drunk and in a dress, Bill!" said Uncle Nancy, grinning. "Now then, maybe I'd better see to some other customers!"
"Gee - excuse me, Mr. Uncle Nancy," said Elliot. "But aren't those books along those shelves up there?" He was looking up and Bill followed his gaze. Sure enough, in the dark recesses of the overhanging ceiling, a long row of books hung. Alongside this was a placard with a Latin inscription:
Veni, bibi, transvestivi.
"They certainly are!" said Uncle Nancy, his grin getting broader.
"What's the Latin inscription?" asked Elliot.
"'I came, I drank, I dressed cross-sex!'" replied Uncle Nancy.
"Gee, Mr. Uncle Nancy," said Elliot. "All these books ... are you a Commupop?"
Suddenly the roar of conversation died to total silence. All heads swiveled Elliot's way. Jaws tensed. Muscles bulked. Knuckle sandwiches were formed.
"Hell no!" said Uncle Nancy. "But that doesn't mean that a virile man can't read, does, it?"
"Gee - it depends -" Elliot started. But Bill clamped his hand over his mouth.
"What my friend means to say is that he's happy to see that you've got so many terrific-looking books."
The tension broken, people went back to their conversation.
Bill breathed an inward sigh of relief. He personally had nothing against books. He just preferred comix, that was all. He had always been a live-and-let-live kind of guy, this attitude forced upon him by the imperative logic that he liked to live as well. So he personally had nothing against works of literature. And, anyway, he never did learn to read very well. No college degrees down on the farm! Forget books - he was on Barworld! Bring on the Chingers!
"Yeah - glad you like 'em!" said Uncle Nancy. He pointed to another large shelf of leather-bound books above the liquor bottles running the full length of the bar. "That's my personal collection of the classics. Let me show you how nicely put together these rare volumes are. Some of them are said to date back to Earth itself. Which of course can't be possible but is nice to think about."
With great reverence and care he selected one of the books and placed it before Bill and Elliot. Soft vellum. Gilt edged. Black and red. A thing of beauty indeed. Even Bill was impressed.
"DAVID COPPERFIELD, by Charles Dickens," Bill read. "Is that about mining?"
"No! It's one of the classics, Bill!" said Uncle Nancy. "A wonderful book about a coming of age in the early Victorian era."
"It stinks!" said a surly, whiny voice behind Bill. "It's a piece of garbage." Bill looked around and was startled to see behind him the hippie from Hellworld who had tried to fry him!

CHAPTER 6

No, it wasn't.
Actually, the guy just looked like the hippie from Hellworld who had taken a shot at Bill and had incinerated Elliot's arm. Although he wore the same long hair, headband, and bell bottoms, he was a good deal taller and huskier, pimplier and grayer.
And of course, over all this, the repulsive joker was wearing a dress - a very unattractive flower-print muu-muu, actually.
"It sucks," said the man adamantly. There was a wild gleam of anarchy in his eye.
"I thought I told you hippies I didn't want to see you around my place," said Uncle Nancy.
"Gee - I don't know, it sure looks like a real good book," Elliot ameliorated. "What kind of books do you prefer?"
The guy ground his teeth and snorted. He smelled of Kona gold and psychedelic tea. His breath, other than possessing a case of terminal halitosis, was redolent with macroantibiotic food. "I like..." he said the words with a fierce defiance. "Horny-Porny!"
"Well, yeah," said Bill, taking an agreeable swig of beer. "I like horn-po too!"
Without warning, the guy grabbed Bill by the front of his dress. "Don't call it that, man! It's not ho-po or horn-poo or any of those prole acronyms, hear? It's just good old down country horny-porny!"
"Gee, Mister!" said Elliot. "No need to take offense!"
Normally, Bill would have just belted the guy and started up a nice, proper barroom brawl. However, Bill felt uncomfortable with the idea of fighting in a dress - it wasn't ladylike. And the dress might get torn. "Sorry, old buddy. Didn't mean nothing. Buy you a drink?"
The guy looked nervous. "Yeah. I guess maybe I could use a stiff drink."
"A stiff's drink - that's like formaldehyde, right?" barked Uncle Nancy sarcastically. "I think that's a good idea, bud. Too bad I only have good liquor here."
Bill, who had indeed imbibed formaldehyde before and seriously felt that even the dead shouldn't have to take it, shook his head. "Ah, Uncle Nancy. Let's keep things pleasant here." He was relaxing into a glowing alcoholic stupor and wanted everyone to enjoy it. "I'm having a good time, let's all have a good time. Why don't you just give my hairy friend here the most alcoholic brew you got on tap or inna bottle!"
"Comin' up in a jiffy!" The bartender pulled open a drawer, and pulled up a small bottle with a red wrapper. On the wrapper were the words, in Olde English Calligraphy, Olde Mortality, and in very small print Ye be informed no person hath ever lived to finish ye whole bottle.
"I want one too," Bill intoned with alcoholic greed.
"Me three," Elliot said in the same voice.
"Last one," Uncle Nancy told them. "But I got three bottles of fermented yak's milk I will gladly share with you. A favorite tipple of mine this time of day." He quickly opened the bottles, seized one by the neck and passed the others over. "Here's to a good yak," he said, almost draining his.
The drink tasted like nothing Bill had experienced before, settling to the pit of his stomach and exploding there. But good!
Bill's eyes watered with joy. He tried to express his joy, but when he tried to speak all he could say was "Mooo!"
"Yep," said Uncle Nancy, wiping away tears of his own. "This stuff is the real stuff - Moo!"
Elliot Methadrine could only sip his. But the hippie sneered at this abstemiousness and drained his own drink all the way down in a single gulp. Plumes of steam seemed to rise from his ears. But instead of being more relaxed - or dead - the guy's eyes just looked a little wilder. Apparently, not for the first time, the commercial had lied.
"So anyway," said Uncle Nancy, folding his arms together on his chest with disapproval. "What exactly brings a thing like you into my joint?"
"Hey, man, don't rag me," muttered the hippie. "I'm tryin' to remember. I'm so spaced out, man. Must have been something I smoked. Or drank. Or shot up. Or something."
Bill drained his bottle and banged his empty pint down onto, the counter. "Better fill me up with regular. Draft. Lasts a little longer." Bill was feeling positively buoyant. Usually alcohol hammered closed the lid on the loose stuff slogging around in his head. This dark, delicious stuff was actually exhilarating him.