“What’s a Feather Bottom?” “Well, it’s like this,” Randy began. “No, no, no,” Angel said. “She’s my friend. I’m going to tell her what a Feather Bottom is, if you please.” “Be my guest,” Randy said. “I probably wouldn’t get it right the first time anyway.” “Okay, Rita. It’s like this. Feather Bottom: a feather is light, right?” “Right.” “Well, ‘Feather Bottom’ implies you’re light underneath.” “I’m not sure I know what that means.” “Well, I’m not sure either,” Rita said. “It’s just one of those filler things that we all joke about like it’s some big secret and laugh about so one person in the group feels a little targeted, but in the end, the punch-line is a real letdown because there’s really no point to it anyway, because somebody coined the phrase ‘Feather Bottom’ without thinking it through enough to even give it a punch-line.” And we all looked questioningly at the writer tapping at the keyboard just on the other side of the reality field. Well, no one ever said writing was easy. And I know I wasn’t born with all the wit in the world, especially at this point in the game, when all I really want to do is beat the pants off of Connecticut, a booming omnipresent voice said, and everyone in the room froze. “What in the hell was that?” Randy asked, terror stricken. “I don’t know,” Angel said, peering around the room. “I’ve never heard a voice like that before.” “It sounds like God,” I said. “But God’s not female.” “That was definitely female,” Randy said. “I should know.” “Stuff it,” Angel said. “We know what a female sounds like, too. We’re females, Randy.” “Oh yeah.” Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, now is he. Beautiful, but dull. Very, very dull. Angel and I burst into laughter when we heard that, and Randy frowned, hurt. “Hey, we all have our gifts, alright. I can’t help it if mine happens to be a little cliché.” It’s not the gift, Randy. It’s the hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?” Randy demanded, yelling into the air. “Chics dig long hair.” Chics dug long hair fifteen years ago, but it’s--wait. Serious plot flaw here. We’re in the 50’s, aren’t we. Everyone in the room nodded their heads. (Sigh....) Alright. Time to rearrange. The room began to shake and quake, and suddenly, the walls flew away as if a tornado were whipping by and sucking into its churning belly the entire structure and all habitants therein. The bartender was swept away. The fierce guy at the door was swept away. Sam and his piano were swept away. Randy and his hair and his guitar were swept away. All that remained were Angel and me on our little bench in what used to be a dark corner near the stage. Suddenly, a group of ninjas repelled down from an unseen rafter high above in the canopy of nothingness. They moved silently, stealthily, like water, my friend, and when their feet touched the floor, they flashed their swords from the sheaths, and Angel and I gasped, the backs of our hands flying to our gaping mouths, blood curdling screams frozen in our trembling throats. A ninja swooped in a foot away from us with leering eyes. “Mmm-phhm mmm-bwmmm-phmm,” he said threateningly. Angel shook like a leaf, choking back a sob and searching those leering eyes for the meaning she missed. “Mmm-phhm mmm-phmm-bwmmm-phmm, phmmm-bmm?” We paused, confusion slowly chasing our fear away. The ninja glared at us, his sword hovering right above our heads, certain to fall at any moment and rend us into so many tattered shreds. ("tattered shreds"????) “I--I don’t get what you’re saying. Can you repeat it? A little slower this time?” The ninja dropped his sword at his side and heaved his shoulders, sighing irritably. “Mmm-phhm mmm-phmm-BWMMM-phmm! Phmm-BWMMM-phmm!” Angel and I looked at each other, hoping above all hopes the other had a clue. The ninja rolled his eyes and threw his sword to the ground. He pulled and tugged at his hood, untying and unwrapping until he was able to lower the black fabric from over his mouth. “Which way to the penthouse,” he said blandly, scowling. “Oh!” we said in unison. “The penthouse!” “Yeah,” Angel said. “You just go right down that hall there, hang the first left, and there’s the elevator about three doors down. You can’t miss it.” “Thanks,” the ninja said, rearranging his mask and picking up his sword again. He mumbled something to the other ninjas, and as quickly as they appeared, they were gone, leaving Angel and I recompose ourselves and fix our makeup. “How’s my nose?” Angel asked. “I don’t have a mirror.” “Bit of a shine,” I said. “Here, let me help.”