NOTE: This issue takes place during Howard the Duck’s attempt at running for President.

Howard the Duck in…

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

By Bruce Cook

Somewhen

A duck walks into a bar.

What?

There isn’t a punchline. I was just thirsty.

Running for President is hard.

You have to make speeches. You have to shake hands. You have to kiss babies.

Worst of all I have you have to pretend you like stupid mammals.

I don’t.

That’s why I told Beverly to cover for me while I disappeared for a beer…or ten.

The place was a dive, but it was within waddling distance from the hotel. I’d seen it during the last parade. Big dusty windows and a blue neon sign flashing one word: BEER!

My kind of joint.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the cool dark of the bar. A Johnny Cash song about prison was playing from a battered old jukebox in the corner. A haze of blue-grey smoke hung over the room like a fog.

An ancient bar ran the length of the room opposite the door. Dusty bottles lined shelves behind the bar. Several tables were scattered around the floor of the bar. Some were even occupied. A lone patron sat hunched over the bar nursing a highball of amber liquor.

As I started toward the bar, the bartender finally looked up from the magazine he was reading. He looked me up and down then hooked a thumb at a sign behind the bar.

NO SHIRT. NO SHOES. NO SERVICE.

I looked down. I had on my suit coat and tie. Shoes? Not so much.

“What’s the matter? You never heard of Duck Shoes?”

The bartender continued to stare at me. The guy wasn’t a bit surprised that a talking duck was in his bar. The fact that the talking duck wasn’t wearing penny loafers was his issue.

“You ain’t wearing pants either,” he replied.

“Sign doesn’t say anything about pants.”

“Good point,” said the bartender, smiling.

I waddled to the bar and climbed up on one of the too tall barstools favored by mammals. I sat down, laid a twenty on the bar.

“Beer.”

The bartender laid his magazine down and went to the tap. While he was pouring my beer I reached into my jacket and pulled out a cigar. I stuck it in my bill and lit it. That drew a nasty scowl from the guy sitting down the bar. I ignored him.

“That’ll be two bucks,” said the bartender when he sat the beer down in front of me.

I pulled a twenty out of my coat pocket and laid it on the table.

“Keep ’em coming.”

The bartender went back to his magazine. I alternated between the beer and the cigar for a while. Johnny Cash segued into Merle Haggard. A few more patrons trickled in. None of them seemed at all surprised to see a duck drinking in their bar.

Manhattan. Gotta love it.

An ancient television was mounted over the bar. The local news was playing with the sound off. They were running footage from my campaign rally earlier in the day.

The old guy sitting next to me looked up from his highball long enough to see me on the boob tube. He turned his head in my direction. He was older than I originally thought. A fringe of white hair, badly in need of a trim, surrounded his otherwise bald head. He had a long nose that had obviously been broken at least once. His eyes were sharp, even with the booze. His fingers we long and claw like as they grasped the highball in front of him.

“That you?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said, finishing off the first beer. “Barkeep! Another round for me and my friend here.”

“Coming up.”

The old guy and I turned out attention back to the television. The campaign piece gave way to footage of a clash between Spider-Man and the Vulture earlier that day. It seems the Vulture had robbed a bank and Spidey tried to stop him. The package ended with a mug shot of the Vulture denoting that he was still at large.

I stared at the mugshot.

“That you?” I asked the old guy without ever looking over.

“Nope,” he said and polished off his drink.

The bartender put the new drinks down on the bar. I picked up my glass. The old man did the same. I raised mine. He did likewise.

“Cheers.”

The old man nodded his head ever so slightly in my direction and downed his drink.

I picked up my cigar and took a drag. I blew the smoke in the direction of the television just as the local weather started.

The old man stood up and made his way unsteadily to the bathroom. I finished my beer and ordered another. Merle Haggard gave way to Patsy Cline.

The door to the bar opened again. Late afternoon sunlight flooded into the bar. A collective groan went up from the patrons. A pair of New York’s finest walked into the bar. The door shut behind them. They gave their eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness and then began to look around the bar.

Not finding what they were looking for at the tables, they made their way to the bar.

“How’s business?” one of them asked the bartender.

“Slow night.”

The second cop pulled out a mugshot and laid it on the bar. It was the same one I had seen on the television.

“You seen this guy in here tonight?”

The bartender looked at the picture, then at me.

“Nope.”

It was then that the cops noticed me.

“Say, aren’t you…?”

“Nope,” I said.

“If you do see this guy call 911 immediately.”

“Will do,” said the bartender.

The cops gave the bar another quick once over and then headed back into the streets to continue their manhunt.

I finished my beer and ordered another. What can I say? They were really cold.

The old man shuffled back to the bar and sat down.

“That’s my last song,” he said. “Time to fly.”

“Good luck,” I said to him.

“Good luck to you as well.”

He laid a pair of hundreds on the bar.

“Keep the change,” he said to the bartender.

“Much obliged,” said the bartender, never looking up from his magazine.

The old man stagger-stepped to the door. He opened it and stepped into the growing darkness just as Patsy was finishing up her song.

I’m out walkin’
After midnight
Out in the starlight
Just hoping you may be
Somewhere walkin’
After midnight
Searching for me

The music went dead. The bar was silence except for the sound of an occasional cough. I finished my beer. I pulled out another twenty and laid it on the counter.

“Keep the change.”

The bartender nodded.

I laid an All Night Party campaign button next to it.

“And don’t forget to vote.”

I hopped off the stool and headed back into the night.

I saw a winged figure cross in front of the full moon. As it did, a single green feather floated to the sidewalk in front of me.

I walked back to the hotel humming about Reno and prisons.