If the prepack doesn’t start at Beulah, where can it start? Dan and I light the litany (by that, I mean ritual speech) and take the Davis rope tow up and over the Tabor foothills. Trying to reinvent the wheel, we make a right maze of the route, but finally arrive at the long-neglected Rumpus. Herniapet is there in waiting and Kong and the EBMB arrive shortly thereafter. One singles match before the doubles brigade makes Kong and I the night’s winners. The table is stunning as always, serving up liberal doses of drama and intrigue. Kong’s kielbasa crowned a night where all players recorded a notable. Having had enough shuff, we decided to get some Space. With Kong peeling off, the Spaniel and I took carbon assists from the Snipper and Yasgur to ensure a proper two-round stay at the Room. Rusty Nails and Tanq-tonic, & bitters had us gomed. That is, all of us except the Ginger Sniffer, who went sauceless again. Time was surely up on us, so Dan took further assist and stared through rolling eyes over the dashboard. I took the Chavez pavement south to slip in under schmidnight. Nothing wrong with that effort, fellas.