Smith had been at the bar, drinking steadily, for an hour when the first of the monsters began to crawl in at the door.
He stared blearily at them, half rising from his stool. When comprehension finally filtered through his alcoholic daze Smith realized they were nothing to get excited about. He was accustomed to seeing pink snakes and little winged horses with green polka dots, so what difference did a little variation make? These monsters were nothing but overgrown spiders, Purple spiders, they were, with green stripes around their abdomens.
They calmly crawled in at the front door and deposited themselves in chairs at the tables, when they could find empty ones. Nobody seemed to mind them at all. Smith was glad he'd never been afraid of spiders, because one of the repulsive crustacians, unable to find a chair at one of the tables, hopped up on the stool next to his.
Smith impulsively raised his glass in a 'here's-to-you" gesture, and emptied the last swallow of the amber fluid into his cavernous mouth. He was only slightly surprised when the spider emulated his gesture, after borrowing a clean glass from the shelf across the bar and pouring it full from Smith's bottle.
This uninvited intrusion slightly peeved Smith. Not even those damn snakes which plagued him were that impudent! But the spider reached into a concealed pocket and came up with several coins; he inserted some of them in the automatic dispensor mounted on the bar and out came two bottles of first class scotch.
Somewhat mollified at this show of comradeship, Smith grinned lopsidedly at the monster. The spider smiled back and they both had another drink.
Several drinks later, Smith began to feel talkative. He leaned over and told the spider in a low confidential voice, "Ya know, you're the damnest lookin' thing I ever shaw, and I've seen some monstrossies in my day!" He looked at the spider a moment longer and then added: "Where'd you come from? I never shaw any of you before!"
The spider laughed a silky spider laugh and replied in a spiderish voice, "We're from the planet you call Mars. I thought everybody knew that, what with television and all ---"
Smith lurched unsteadily to his feet. "You can't fool me, you ugly thing! I'm drunk, thass what! In a minute you'll go away and it'll be pink snakes again." Smith pointed triumphantly at the eight-foot reptile winding slowly up his leg. "See there, you're just like him. I got DT's, thass what! Now go away and make room for the little winged horshes." Smith sat down and began to guzzle again.
The crustacean regarded Smith with spider-solemn eyes. "You're drunk." he pronounced matter-of-factly.
Smith jumped angrily to his feet. "Yur durn right I'm drunk, but ain't no blamed spider gonna tell me what I am!" He sneered at the spider and then added smugly, "Speshly a spider what ain't real."
The spider immediately protested this stern denial of his substantiality, but Smith grabbed his newly emptied bottle and hit him with it. The bottle made a rubbery plunk on the spider's head and he fell to the floor, twitching a few of his legs in the air.
The other customers were horrified. Most of them ran out screaming. The spider's companions rushed up and began to spin a tough, sticky web around Smith; in spite of his frenzied denials of their existence.
When they had bound him securely somebody punched the police-call button and they hauled him off.
The spider on the floor regained consciousness and the manager of the Auto-Bar treated him to a free beer.
"Poor Smith," explained the manager, "He used to be a theology student and he just can't believe you Martians really exist. He's been drunk for six solid weeks -- ever since you arrived in New York."
The purple spider smiled understandingly and drank his free beer while the manager droned on.
THE END
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