Setting Free the Bears

'Put the bottles up your asses!' he shouted. 'Put the bread in another bag!'

'God!' said Siggy. 'Frot you!'

'Eh?' the man cried, and he did his hop and two-step at us. 'Frot me, eh? Eh!' he shrieked, as if something were caught in his throat.

'Better watch out for him,' the Wirt said.

'I certainly will,' said Siggy.

'Because he'll sue you,' the Wirt said.

'Sue us?' I said.

'It's a profession with him,' said the Wirt.

And the man who was going to sue said, 'Put your asses in one bag!'

'Now look out, you,' said Siggy.

But the Wirt caught his arm. 'Better for you to look out,' he said. 'He'll let you hit him and then he'll sue you. He'll say he can't breathe because of his jaw, he'll say he gets headaches when he eats. Oh, we don't get many strangers here, but he goes after every one.'

'I'll give you the scrap of your life!' the suer yelled. He gave us the two-step again, cupping his beerglass in his palm and slopping his beer.

'I warn you, he won't fight,' said the Wirt. 'He just sues.'

'I can't imagine,' I said.

'It's amazing, I know,' said the tired Wirt, as if he were falling asleep over it. 'And he even gets away with it,' he said.

'How can he get away with it?' said Siggy.

We three stood together and watched him, standing one foot on the other, tottering and squirming his knees like a child trying hard not to wet his pants. But there wasn't anything childish in the man's face. He opened his fly and poured his beer inside his pants.

'He's a bit queer too,' said the Wirt.

And he gave us the two-step, but he was losing his nattiness fast; he flapped his pants fly open and closed, and the beer foam spat down his leg. He winked at Siggy. 'You-you,' he slobbered, 'you-you!'

'He'll sue!' the Wirt cried, but he missed stopping Siggy's arm.

Because Siggy already had his helmet off the counter, and he swung it twice-round by the chin strap, full circles of his arm, and swung it up under the surprised frisky man - caught him in the open crotch and tumbled his one-footed stance. The man howled over hind-end, his knees flinging up to his chest.

'Really,' the Wirt said, 'he'll sue you, I know it.'

'You're an utter dope,' said Siggy. 'And you can tell him we went the other way.'

'Well, sure I can,' said the moping Wirt. 'I don't mind at all, boys.'

And we walked quickly out of there, with no bags at all for what we'd bought; we left the dullest Wirt I'd ever met - with his Gasthof, and with the other's singed-mouse howl.

At the motorcycle, I stuffed the things into Siggy's vent-pocket.

'Christ, Sig,' I said. 'Letting goats loose, bashing queers!'

'Well, frot me, then,' said Siggy.

'Oh, we're quite a pair,' I said, meaning nothing by it, and he turned on the seat; he stared at me.

His voice, then, came up so shrill it seemed to startle the motorcycle. 'Are we now, Graff? Well, there's a butter pat for the pan, and bread for crumbs to roll the trout in. And there's beer for me to pour in my fly! And maybe I'll choke on a fish bone and let you botch the rest of the day by yourself!'