The police inspector was yelling at Twain and Einstein again. “You two are the worst nightclub owners in all of Soho! I’ll find something to plant on you if it’s the last thing I ever do!”
“I’ve got some potting soil in my underwear,” offered Einstein, but Twain wasn’t so obliging. “Look, Inspector, either charge us or book us! Our farm club is really fantastic, we want to go back there right now and disco with the animals.”
It had been only two weeks since the celebrated pair had opened Surprisers, the first nightclub to feature a petting zoo on the disco floor, as well as a working farm in the men’s room. The place was mobbed every night, and now supplied milk to all the local stores. As a result both Organized Crime and Organizing Farming had been ‘up in arms.’ On this latest raid, the police had found some acid planted behind a cow’s ear, and Twain and Einstein had both been pulled in. “I’ll get you for white slaving or something,” said the inspector, but finally he was forced to release them for lack of evidence.
“Where are the waitresses we just hired? I want to strike out with them,” said Einstein, who was newly single again. “I only hope one is mentally troubled!” But as they entered their office, they found a guest. He was a little timid-looking fellow in a rumpled tweed jacket, and his bulging glasses emphasized his disorderly greying red hair.
“Woodney Allenby, the famous comedian of self-embarassment!” exclaimed Einstein. “What are you doing here? We didn’t order any pratfalls!” Mark Twain joined in on the ribbing. “Maybe he’s come to invite us to the Ployboy Mansion, Al!” he exclaimed. “Woodley’s there every night, I hear it’s a real swinging scene!”
Allenby winced. “Perhaps you gentlemen haven’t heard, but I have dropped the Nebbish business and am concentrating on my new singing career.” He jumped up and began singing:
Doin’ it in the overhead luggage rack
Mile high action, in a highly confined space
Coats and handbags pressin’ on my back
Hear the click as it opens, see the stewardess’s surprised face
Twain and Einstein were unimpressed. Woodney put down the tennis racket he’d been using as a pretend microphone and faced them. “The truth is, fellas, I need your help… as drivers!”
Twain was blunt. “Neither of us can drive, Woodney. If that’s what you need, we can’t help you.” Allenby was disappointed, but he thanked them and left. THE END