Spider Robinson:
"Jesus Christ, Duck, knock it off! What the hell are you doing back?"*************************
"Nap later," the Lucky Duck said. "You're working."
Ernie Shea is known to one and all as the Lucky Duck because around him the laws of probability turn to Silly Putty -- which combined with his short stature explains and may even excuse an irascible sourpuss personality reminiscent of Daffy Duck. He is a mutant, the bastard offspring of a pookah and a Fir Darrig, two creatures commonly thought to be mythical (everywhere except Ireland), and strange things always happen around him. It's sort of a paranormal power.
I was too groggy to think through the implications of his presence.
"The hell I am," I snarled. "I haven't worked in over a year. The goddam bar is as dead as Nutsy's Kells ... and the Folk Music Revival developed ice crystals in the brain from the defrosting process, they had to put it back to sleep again. There is no work, you dumb pookah!"
"You're working," he repeated. "Nikky's here. Come on."
"Huh?"
I levitated, then looked down and stuck my feet firmly to the floor. This was too weird not to be true. At my gesture, the Lucky Duck went back inside, and I followed him. And there, standing at my bar, impeccably dressed as always and wiping drool from the chin of my baby daughter Erin, was indeed and in fact Nikola Tesla.
I love the way this guy writes, especially when he isn't trying to channel Robert Heinlein.
Yeah, that sounds mightily familiar.