Dude

Momentarily blinded by the exhaust of yet another Arcturan Porn Freighter, Beefheart instictively threw up his hand to protect his eyes and was so startled to actually see his own hand he flung himself backwards into - to his further shock - a sandbank.

Looking down at his own body which had been so noticeably absent from view for the past three days, Beefheart found it as disconcerting as if he had encountered a corpse in his bed and scuttled backwards across the sand in a futile attempt to escape it, stopping abruptly seconds later as his back hit an immovable obstacle.

Sweating, heart racing, Beefheart closed his eyes for the first time in three days and forced himself to breathe normally, relishing the sensation. Gradually he allowed his awareness to expand beyond his own panic to begin to take in his environment.

Warm sand. Cool breeze. Salty smell.

Good start.

He opened his eyes cautiously and, squinting against the glare, took in the vista before him. From the surf line twenty yards away to the horizon stretched the bluest, cleanest, most inviting stretch of ocean he had ever seen. To either side the longest, purest white beach of his life lay gleaming in the mid morning sun.

"I've gone mad," muttered Beefheart, as he struggled to his feet in the soft sand. "Space fever, utterly fucking bonke-"

With a sickening crack his head struck a wooden beam and Beefheart slumped to his haunches, seeing stars once again. He turned to get the measure of his assailant andsaw that staple of tourist sites everywhere, a wooden sign post, weathered and worn smooth by sun, wind and salt air. Carved in deep letters from top to bottom of the main post was the word "MIDWAY". At random angles around the top jutted wooden arms labelled "Earth", "Port Salut" and "Planet Playtex" amongst others. Beefheart stared at it in a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Midway... It was a legend amongst pirates, drifters and freeloaders everywhere!

Towards the end of the 23rd century, as transdimensional space travel expanded humankind's influence to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, navigation became increasingly complex. To help ease the congestion a vast traffic control centre the size of a small moon was established at the dead centre of the galaxy. Manned in year long shifts by technicians, they constantly searched for new ways to amuse themselves. By selling favourable information to pirates, drug smugglers and gun runners and blasting police patrols with static, they gained favour amongst the galactic underclass. They also, of course, became extremely wealthy, which allowed them to shape their environment to their own ends, importing billions of tons of pure quartz sand and glacial water to construct the perfect beach. Over Beefheart's head burned a controlled fusion reaction in a nuclear stasis field, orbiting the 10 mile long beach in a day of ever varying length and warmth at the whim of its masters.

Although everyone knew of the existence of Midway, police included, the occupants chose to live a rather reclusive life. Being at the centre of thousands of space lanes made the chances of anyone unwelcome actually reaching it unaided about the same as that of a one legged chicken making it safely across a sixteen lane highway, in rush hour, in the fog. For this reason, its existence was flatly denied by every security force in the galaxy, an arrangement which suited both sides' professional pride perfectly.

Staggering to his feet once more and brushing himself off, Beefheart peered along the beach in both directions. To his left, half a mile away, a single walker strolled along the surf toward him. A hundred yards to his right, two shambling figures giggled uncontrollably while splashing around waste deep in the sea. Further up the beach, on the edge of the dunes, stood two ramshackle wooden beach bars declared themselves to be "Chez Jules" and "The Basement". Only Chez Jules appeared to be open so Beefheart trudged up the sand towards the verandah.

He paused at the threshold to take in the interior. It was a perfect replica of a mid twentieth century Carribean beach bar. Bleached wood floor boards and tables, a long semi circular bar with a brass rail around its edge and another eight inches from the floor.

"Morning," grinned the barman as he poured a marguerita into a salted frosted glass and gestured towards a stool. "What you upto, matey?"

"I've gone mad!" offered Beefheart, climbing onto the stool and lifting the cocktail gingerly to his lips.

"Nice day for it," shrugged the barman amiably. A tattered patch on his shirt identified him as Louis.

Beefheart took a long draw on his cocktail then swivelled around on his stool to face the sea. He studied the Hawaiian shirt on the lone walker for a few moments, the man's gait appearing vaguely familar, before his attention was disturbed by two naked men, screaming with laughter running across the wooden storefront of the bar. They somersaulted off the end of the verandah, landed with both feet in the dunes, then tore off whooping towards the surf. Swivelling back to the bar, Beefheart nodded towards the retreating figures.

"Hey Louis, who they?" he asked, between sips.

"Coupla stoners, hitched a ride here to get their rocks off on the centre of the galaxy. Nice guys, but nuts."

"I've gone mad too. Did I tell you?"

"You mentioned it, sure. Another before your friend gets here?" Louis refilled Beefheart's glass. Beefheart's brow furrowed for a moment, then he shrugged it off.

"Got a phone?"

Reaching under the counter Louis brought out an ancient looking, black, bacolite telephone with an alphanumeric keypad crudely soldered to its front in place of a dial. Beefheart bugged his eyes at it, racking his scarred memory for how to use the device. Picking up the receiver and placing it against his head, as he remembered seeing in history books, he tapped in the 17 digit hex code to access nav unit aboard White Boy Bob's ship. Louis looked up from polishing a glass and without a word took the receiver from his hand, inverted it and placed it back against his head.

"You sure the arial doesn't go out the top?" asked Beefheart, blushing. His face leapt as he heard a click on the line. "Hey Bob!" he shouted into the mouthpiece. "Bob! It's me! It's the weirdest fucking thing! Bob? Hey, Bob...?"

He stared glumly at the receiver. "It went dead. I thought I heard him for a second there, then there was this... noise...."

"Never mind," said a voice behind him. "We have a few things we need to talk about."

Turning to greet the stranger, Beefheart squinted at the silouette in the doorway and struggled to identify what was so familiar about him. As he entered the relative gloom of the bar, the stranger took of his battered baseball cap and aviators and took the stool two down from Beefheart. Not wishing to appear rude, Beefheart turned from the glare of the doorway back to his drink and, blinking away the blur of blue green blobs in his vision, slowly let his gaze sidle over the bar top to his new companion. Louis removed another frosted glass from the fridge, placed it in front of the stranger and filled it to the brim. As he reached forward, Beefheart stared at the scar on the back of the strangers hand.

The same scar that Beefheart himself had sustained in a careless trouser ironing accident on his twelfth birthday.

With his scalp desperately trying to force him to look in the other direction, Beefheart slowly turned to the stranger and looked at the same smug, hungover, battered face he had seen every morning in his bathroom mirror.

"Hey there. I expect you have a few questions to ask me," it smirked.