Casmus Docks

	The vast stretch of the Casmus Docks drives north into the waters of the 
Beacon Harbor Bay. All matter of ships are at rest here, everything from vast 
cargo haulers, military transports and pleasure craft. Most of the cargo is 
hauled via truck down Pikeman Circle Drive to Beacon Harbor's industrial 
centers. Traffic flows rather heavily from the heart of the city to the south. 
Across the bay, far to the north east, a lighthouse can be seen out on the 
Point. Its light pierces the thick fog that often plagues the bay in the early 
hours of the morning. A thick band of rubble, rocks dredged up from the bottom 
of the bay when the docks were constructed, forms a barrier between the shipping 
lanes and the long stretch of beach to the east.

Rimmer is walking onto the docks from.... the boardwalk or somewhere else.... 
he's wandering around, hands in pockets, looking at things with mild interest 
and contentment as he searchs for the resturant/place in question..... hrmmm... 
is that name of that ship what he thought it was? He raises a brow at the SS 
Rage of Angels.. interesting.

The dock is a busy place, what with the dockworkers and tourists all running 
about. And it's rather fragrant with the aroma of gutted fish, too. Nice. There 
are several structures here but only one looks remotely like a restaurant. It 
appears to have once been a 'quaint' little Italian bistro, but has been reduced 
to a now rather innocuous-looking building. The faded sign out front reads 
"Cimonelli's".

Rimmer is ignoring the aroma. Which is odd but.... hey... he just seems to 
ignore smells very easily ever since he was on that boat. Maybe it was all of 
that sea sickness. And lack of sanity. Maybe he'll come out of it someday. 
Hopefully not too soon... it means he won't be so uptight about worrying over 
laundry smells and... other things. He does look annoyed about the tourists, 
it's a DOCK for cripes sake, and the dockworkers, though only a little at the 
latter. Hey, they at least work here. He's mostly sticking to the buildings and 
soon finds the one he's looking for... after passing it maybe twice beforehand.

Rimmer walks up to the sign, makes sure he read it properly, takes his hands out 
of his pockets, and examines the door for a doorbell. If there isn't one he 
knocks. He also tries the door before this, to see if it's even locked.

Nah, not locked. And no doorbell. And no reply to the knock.

Rimmer opens the door a little and tries to peer inside first.

The restaurant has a foyer and a podium just inside, the kind where you usually 
place your reservation. A few yards behind that is the bar, silver kitchen doors 
in view just beyond. Of course, its hard to imagine this place as a restaurant 
*now*, what with all the...stuff littered about. The walls are covered in 
drawings and newspaper articles and whatnot. Dusty sheets cover large bulky 
objects around the main room. Booths are cluttered with paintpots and buckets 
and such. The floor seems to be covered in cedar chips--yes, that's what it 
smells like. Sunlight streams in through dusty windows. No one seems to be here.

Rimmer blinks at the strange look of the place and sort of smells the wood 
chips. Didn't lose his sense of smell, they're just affecting him very 
differently from how he originally might have sometime ago. He steps inside and 
examines the podium because it's there. He mutters to himself, as something of a 
non-sequiter/random joke, "Table for one.... watered down paint please... no 
glue, thank you..."

There's a life-sized carboard standup figure of Zippy the Pinhead set up behind 
the podium, as if ready to take reservations. The podium itself has on it 
today's newspaper, a set of keys, and a can of sardines.

Rimmer blinks at Zippy, as he notices, and chuckles a little to himself. He 
glances at the paper, keys, and sardines. He wonders what the keys go to but 
feels it doesn't matter, which it doesn't. He walks up to the bar and examines 
it as well.... all the while stomping around, not intentionally of course but he 
can't help but feel his footsteps sounding a bit heavy on the cedar chips, if it 
can be heard at all..

The bar is apparently the main storage area for art supplies. The bottles of 
tempura paint set up in the winerack is a nice touch.

Rimmer grins at the bottles and then ponders the silver doors or one of the 
dusty sheeted things. Trying to look at all of the booths and then the things on 
the wall would be far too trying. He'd probably end up spending all day just 
doing that alone. He's indecisive though.. should he really even be inside to 
begin with?

Suddenly there is a scraping, a shuffling, and an ear-splitting trumpet-like 
HONK! as something big and white and angry comes hurtling out of one of the 
restrooms, tearing past the pay-phone and plunging, hissing and making other 
god-awful noises, right at Rimmer.

Rimmer nearly jumps in the air a little when he hears the sounds and then... 
stares at whatever it is coming right at him.... his instant response is... to 
try and hide behind the bar... his cowardice kicks in before he even tries to 
find out what exactly it is. He practically jumps over the bar counter after 
rushing towards where the door is. Where the bar tenders and what not would 
normally go in and out. Interestingly enough, he doesn't make a sound, beyond 
footsteps and anything else due to rushing about.

The kitchen is about as tidy as the rest of the place. Obviously, it is not used 
for cooking. The sinks are spattered in paint and the only appliance not covered 
in years of dust is the coffeemaker.

As Rimmer bolts for the kitchen the noisy white thing honks and goes flapping 
after him. However, the swinging kitchen doors swing back after Rimmer's 
departure and smack it full in the face, and it falls back honking indignantly.

There is the sound of a door bursting open back in the main room (funny, Rimmer 
didn't *see* another door anywhere) and a voice yells: "Chrischt, Harpo, what 
the hell'sch the matter with you? Knock it off!"

Rimmer hears the voice and suddenly turns back, especially after pausing a 
moment to see all the paint and other things here.... He shoves at the door he 
came through very forcefully, looking quite indignant and angry actually, which 
could easily be quite funny. Arnie looks around for... well... Blake or the 
white thing... or whatever as he peers out the door he tried to shove open, "I'm 
not a woman, damn it!" Well... hey... anyone who's seen the Marx brothers would 
know they mostly seemed to bother/chase women... it's not really a non-sequiter. 
Yes... he HAS seen the Marx Brothers before. Amazing that, eh?

The door catches the white thing in the face a second time as it rushes forward 
again. It goes sprawling. It turns out to be a huge white goose, and now it lays 
prone on its back on the floor, massive wings spread out like the thing is being 
crucified or something.

"Harpo!" yells Blake again, although in a more concerned tone. Then he blinks at 
Rimmer. "Wh--Wh--You...What are you doing here?" he asks in confusion. "I think 
you've killed Harpo," he changes the subject, looking back down at the goose, 
who has clearly not been killed if you consider the twitching and feeble noises 
he's making.

Rimmer blinks down at the goose and then up at Blake when he sees him, he now 
looks just vastly confused. Ahhhh.... yes. Natural states. Well, aside from the 
fact he rarely shows it if he can help it. Right now he's not even trying for 
appearances. He looks down at the goose again and points at the bird, "It's not 
dead. See? It's groaning... or.. something." He looks down at the bird and of 
course doesn't know what to do. He's not picking it up, he knows what it's like 
to be hit upside the head with a wing, actually. And besides, he was never much 
of an animal person. Not to say he hates them, he's just not sure what to do 
with them let alone much about them.

Blake doesn't seem to be listening. He rushes forward and starts trying to roll 
the goose over and onto his feet. "Jeez I hope you didn't give him a 
concusschion or anything...he'sch the bescht home-schecurity schyschtem I've 
ever had." Then he looks up. "You find the plasche okay?" he asks 
conversationally.

Rimmer loses the confusion as he listens and it dawns on him what has occurred. 
Oh well. He watchs Blake with the goose and though a little surprised at the 
conversational tone, not just the question, calmly responds, "Oh, passed it 
twice before I realized which one it was but aside from that, I did alright."

Blake gets Harpo to his feet and has to manually fold his wings for him, as the 
bird seems intent on keeping them spread. Probably for balance; he looks more 
than a little dazed. "That'sch good," says Blake, tucking the big bird under his 
arm and carrying him to one of the booths along one wall. He sweeps stuff onto 
the floor with his free arm and sets Harpo down onto the table. "I don't 
uschually have to give anyonesch directionsch to thisch plasche." He snaps his 
fingers in front of Harpo's face. The goose doesn't blink. "Scho uh, how're you 
doing?" he asks cautiously, not turning around.

Rimmer just watchs with interest as Blake takes care of the goose and follows 
him around at the same time. Arnie doesn't really know what to make of 
everything yet but he definitely has to grant Blake points for being unusual and 
interesting. He replies to the question, remaining more or less behind Blake, 
"I'm fine. How're you though? After.. ermm.. the library.. I sort of ..... 
expected you to keep me away from the door with a spatula or.. something." 
Spatula.. huh. That just popped in there. Oh well, it sounded good at least.

Blake barely glances around. "Nah. Don't have a schpatula." He feels Harpo's 
head carefully. The goose just sits there. "Beschidesch, I told you you could 
usche my schtuff, didn't I?"

Rimmer just watchs. "Yes.... but...." He trails off, unsure of what in the world 
to say, really. He sounds apologetic though.

Finally, Harpo seems to come around. He blinks, honks softly, and lays his head 
on Blake's shoulder. "Yesch but nothing," says Blake, patting the bird on the 
back. "And I meant it, you can usche anything you like."

Rimmer continues watching and falteringly tries to explain, "It's not that. 
It's... you ran off... like ...." He's not going to outright say what he's 
thinking, that he can't do anything right, but mostly he's trying to get around 
to apologizing and... trying to explain things. Even if it's not needed. He 
debates trying to find a clean seat and sitting down somewhere.

Blake steps back from the table and Harpo stands up, then hops to the ground. He 
watches as the bird waddles back off to the bathroom and disappears inside. "I 
wasch tired and I'd had a weird day," Blake says firmly.

Rimmer gives up on the idea of sitting down and shrugs a little, "I didn't help 
any though. Which is what I meant to but.... I heard what I thought was yelling. 
That's not a good thing to hear in a library." He seems to be wincing a 
little... maybe at just everything.

Blake pauses, then sweeps the papers and stuff on the benches of the booth onto 
the floor with the rest of the stuff. He sits on one side and clearly expects 
Rimmer to sit on the other. He shrugs. "I didn't aschk for any help," he says 
simply. "I thought *you* were the one who needed help. And you're right, the 
whole thing wasch very upschetting. Which isch why I left."

Rimmer sits down where he should and nods, "I know you didn't. It -was- 
upsetting but.... but... I don't know. I think maybe we all did, somewhat." He 
can't think what else to say.

Blake puts his legs up on the bench and leans against the wall. "You haven't 
been in thisch town long," he says at last. "Don't think that you've scheen the 
weirdest schtuff yet, 'causche you haven't. Believe me."

Rimmer gives Blake a glance and leans into the seat a little, "You're right, I 
probably haven't. Although how much stranger you can get beyond an angel, I 
really don't know." He's clueless.

Blake nods. Angels *are* pretty strange. Not nearly as predictable as dragons. 
"Well unfortunately the plache can be really dangerousch scho...I mean, it'sch 
not all angelsch and schtuff."

Rimmer shakes his head, "I at least know enough not to expect it to be even 
remotely like that. Angels, etc." It's hard to tell whether he's referring to 
the fact people don't normally see angels or the fact the city gets bombed and 
other things quite a lot.

Blake tsks. "Well there'sch a *lot* of bad schtuff out there, anywaysch," he 
points out. "A lot of nutballsch, a lot of people being hurt...and the copsch--
the copsch haven't got a clue." Apparently he's tirading or something here. 
"What thisch town needsch is more schuperheroesch."

Rimmer nods... though he doesn't know much about the cops... and then when Blake 
gets to the superheros... he blinks... maybe he mis-heard that.... it's 
possible, what with Blake's lisp... yeah right. Think again, Arnie. "It needs 
more what?" He blinks.

Blake frowns. "You know...shuperheroesch. People with powersch and schtuff, to 
protect Beacon Harbor. Well--they don't *have* to have powersch...juscht people 
willing to defend thisch plasche against all that...you know...bad schtuff." 
There. Eloquently stated.

Rimmer frowns at this point.... he.. sort of knows .. roughly maybe, what Blake 
is getting at but... powers. Powers? "Powers? Rrrmmm..." Yeah... he's even worse 
than Mike right now.

Blake starts to get a little frustrated. "Now I *know* you haven't been here 
long," he says. "You know, schuperpowersch. Like, real comic-book schtuff. 
People with schuper-schtregnth and...x-ray vischion and...invischible jet 
planesch and schtuff. Thisch plasche is crawling with 'em. Only no one scheemsch 
to be putting their powersch to good *usche*." He waits to see if Rimmer 
understands now.

Rimmer sort of does. He at least heard about comic books, even if he never 
really read any. He thinks it over a moment, "I... see. You know... if I hadn't 
met Abdiel I'd say you were crazy. But... right now anything seems possible, 
really. ... Next you'll be telling me there are dragons here." The last comment 
is light-hearted, really. No, he didn't even hear about the dragon (or giant 
puma) in the circle.

Blake practically pouts at Rimmer. "There'sch *everything* here," he says. 
"That'sch the point. But a lot of it would juscht asch schoon rip you in half 
asch look at you. Which isch why I wisch more people would get their actsch 
together and schtand *up* for schtuff."
Rimmer just blinks, "I'm... really lucky then. So far." Oooooohhhhh... he 
shouldn't say that. That's just ASKING for bad things... ooooh. Anyhow, he 
continues, "Well... why don't they? If they have all these powers and 
things...."

Blake bahs. "How schould *I* know?" he asks. "If I had schome impresschive power 
*I'd* be out there. Guessch people have more important thingsch to do."

Rimmer nods and shrugs, "I guess so." He doesn't sound half as concerned as he 
probably should be. It's not that he disbelieves Blake, that's evident, he just 
simply... hasn't found out just how bad it is. "I guess more people like you 
should be superheros with powers. Because the ones already out there must not be 
using them, if it's that bad."

Blake shrugs at Rimmer. "Well...scheemsch like it'sch a crime thesche daysch to 
have *any* schort of schuperpower," he mutters distractedly. "If you even *try* 
to be a hero the copsch throw you in jail. It'sch not asch if *they've* got 
everything under control..."

Rimmer blinks, "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Why do the police do 
that?"
Blake grunts. "Why do the polische do *anything*?" he responds. "They're *not* 
helping. All they do isch ignore the villainsch and follow the good guysch 
around whining about how many lawsch they're breaking..."

Rimmer shrugs, "It sounds pathetic, though. What are they even being payed for?"

Blake looks sharply at Rimmer. "Why are you aschking *me*?" he says. He must 
have a sore spot with the cops, that much is evident. "I don't know. Why don't 
you aschk *them*? If they don't arrescht you for being too inquischitive."

Rimmer holds up his palms in an obligatory 'I'm sorry, back off will you?' 
gesture. "Well, I'm sorry. I just didn't know about any of this before."

"Well now you do." Blake sits up properly again. "You come here to borrow 
schtuff or what?"

Rimmer looks at Blake with interest, why isn't obvious but it probably simply 
had to do with the conversation previously, "Actually, no I didn't. Not today. I 
just came over to talk... really." If Blake had been in a bad mood earlier, or 
what not, he would have used borrowing as an excuse for coming to begin with, 
though.

Blake looks suspicious. "You did? What for?"

Rimmer blinks... "I.. just wanted to apologize originally." He looks confused 
again. One would start to think he's not too bright if they'd been around him 
for particularly long. Not all at once, nessicarily. This isn't -quite- correct 
but.. he's easily confusable for the time being.

Blake stares long and hard over the table at Rimmer. What's with this guy? "You 
wanted to apologische," he states. "Fine, you've apologisched. What elsche do 
you want?"

Rimmer backs up into the seat at the sudden scrutiny and is starting to wonder 
what he's done to get Blake mad at him now... As for why... what can he say? 
Anything he might say would probably make things worse... all he wanted to do 
was to have someone to talk to... but Blake doesn't seem to want to now. He 
looks a bit dejected, "Uhh... I... er.. nothing, then, I suppose." He looks like 
Blake is trying to corner him and dissect him where he is, "I.. er. I guess 
I'll.. go." He doesn't act like he's nervous or trying to avoid anything... he 
just looks like he seems to suddenly think Blake wants to kick him out the door. 
Which Blake probably does. What use is it talking to someone who makes no sense 
and doesn't seem to HAVE much sense? It's not unlikely that could be what 
Blake's thinking by now... Arnie hasn't given him much reason not to.

Blake looks down at the tabletop then, rubbing at it with a fingertip, sort of 
like fidgeting. "I don't mean to kick you out," he says after a moment. "But I 
don't feel that you are being very polite and I keep getting the feeling you 
don't agree much with anything I schay." He looks up. "Which isch why you coming 
here juscht to talk doeschn't scheem to make much schensche unlessch you *like* 
to argue."

Rimmer blinks... he didn't realize he was arguing about anything. What was he 
arguing about? Well...... .... it doesn't matter. This just isn't working out. 
He decides to be fairly blunt, considering how things are going it might be the 
last time he even ends up speaking to Blake and not getting his head nearly 
taken off for being a stupid git... which he deserves anyhow. "I've never been 
very polite before... it's hard to change. I have trouble understanding a lot of 
things... how can I agree when I didn't even realize what point was being made?" 
He debates getting up but decides against it.. he'll probably be thrown out soon 
anyhow, "And as for arguing... it shows you how pathetic I am, because I didn't 
even realize we were having one." He's lost and miserable because he's screwed 
up again.... it might not be worth it to even TRY to socialize... he'll go back 
to just not talking to people unless he has to... If he sounds like he's being 
an arsehole, he can't help it. Ohh well... he deserves everything he gets. How 
dare he even breath?

Blake is terribly confused. "Okay, okay, nevermind," he sighs. "I guessch we 
juscht don't undershtand eachother, then. I schouldn't be schurprisched, I 
guessch. And it couldn't posschibly be all your fault. I know I don't alwaysch 
make a lot of schensche, and I'm not talking about my inibility to pronounsche 
schtuff right."

Rimmer is just as confused and nods, "I guess so." Well... technically the big 
issue is.. general compatability... but Arnie isn't even potentially going to 
touch on that idea because he doesn't want to. As stupid as that sounds.

Blake ponders. "Well," he says at last, "I guessch I'll forgive you for 
confusching the heck out of me and nearly killing my alarm schyschtem. Maybe we 
should schtop trying to make schensche, and then maybe everything will be fine. 
Here, I'll schtart: Green blender polliwog."

Rimmer thinks that's actually the best idea he's ever heard so far, "Certainly. 
Hrmmm... here's mine: Sleepy bell paperclip." Same sort of combo, but since he's 
going second you can't really blame him...

Blake nods solemnly. "I agree completely," he says. "You want to take thisch act 
on the road? Go get schome coffee? To get kicked out of plachesch I uschually 
have to rely on raving inschanely at inanimate objectsch in public, but I'd like 
to try it with another perschon."

Rimmer grins, "Sounds good to me. Maybe with stereo they won't kick us out as 
fast. Maybe they'll even believe their cookie jars have insidious plots for 
eating all the napkins in the city when there's two of us begging the cookie 
jars to leave the paper products alone."
You paged Edward Nigma with 'I invited him to go get coffee with me, but I made 
a passing referance to raving like a lunatic in order to get kicked out of the 
cafe.'.

Blake boggles. "You mean the cookiejarsch don't *reschycle*?? The *fiendsch*!! 
It's up to us to reschcue Beacon Harbor! Let'sch go!" He jumps up.

Rimmer hops up as well, "We'll STAB them with -spoons- until they give in, if 
push comes to shove! ... Better yet... we can put MONOPOLY money in them and see 
if they start thinking they're banks!"

Blake shrugs. "A lot of them *are* banksch...but that'sch not the point. Come 
on." He heads for the door.

Rimmer gasps, "They ARE? ...... hey.. maybe we should rob them and use it for 
cookie money..." He follows right behind Blake...