I was greeted by the distinct aroma of blueberry pie as I entered the Cantina. The place was dimly lit by . . . well, I couldn't see any real bulb-lights to be quite honest. The walk-in fireplace on the far right wall cast a merry glow across the whole room. The flickering, warm red light gave a very earthy feel to the place. The bar was wiped clean of any dirt - not a speck of dust marred its mirror-like surface. A dirty rag lay in a crumpled heap at the farthest edge. An eclectic array of bottled drinks were lined neatly in a row behind the counter ranging from ginger ale to Pepsi to ancient-looking bottles marked "Romulan Ale" in neat, miniscule writing that I could hardly make out. There were several barrels of rum covered in at least an inch of dust in the corner. The source of the familiar pie smell, however, was the kitchen, where thick, gray clouds of smoke billowed from every corner and crack of the double-doors. In it, I also recognized the unpleasant burning odor. I was wrinkling my nose in displeasure when a man bursted out of the kitchen with a loud "CLACK!" as the doors collided with his body.

He seemed to be wearing a safari costume, and he was shouting like a madman. "Get this conflabbed thing offa me! It's got a hold o' me leg!"

Sure enough, like a tiger pursuing its prey, a large oven pounced out after the man, whose leg was caught in the oven door. I shoved my fist in my mouth, stifling a sort of hybrid maniacal laughter/terrified scream. The man grabbed for the nearest object in reach . . . an old chair, tarnished by its years, and futiley attempted to beat the stubborn piece of kitchenware with it.

I cleared my throat amongst the confusion.

"Er - excuse m-me."

No one had noticed me yet. Of course, with a man being eaten by an oven, I think that I would be a little preoccupied to. Out of the blue, a pretty fair-haired blond girl sauntered up to the screaming (though, I noticed, not out of fear or pain, but . . . euphoria?) man, and began to slap the oven with an old, green sock covered with mismatched patches.

"Just drop the damn pie, Jw," she said, half-amused and half-annoyed.

"But-"

"No buts."

"Oh, fine." Jw let out a moan of defeat and hurled the flaming pie through the double-doors and into the kitchen. The oven released its hold on his leg and scampered back like a dog after a bone.

"Yeah, that's right! Go back from whence you came, ye foul beast!" Jw shook his fist, and slumped into the chair he had just utilized. "Are you happy now, Virv?"

"Yes, I am," she retorted and grinned from ear to ear.

Jw looked about to argue back when he noticed me.

"Ah, a visitor!" he exclaimed with girlish glee.

Suddenly, a boy fell from the rafters and landed on his feet like a cat. "Now, now, we don't want to scare the poor man. He looks scared enough, all pasty-faced and bug-eyed."

"Oh, shut up, Irish." Jw stood up to his full height, and I noticed that he was quite tall, and with chiseled facial features. To be honest, he resembled a god from Greek or Roman mythology more than a man. He had long brown hair pulled back behind his ears, and had begun to stroke a non-existent goattee as he looked through me with a wild gleam in his eye.

He was blocked by the blond girl, who looked into my soul with her mossy green eyes. "The name's Virvel . . . or Virv . . . or Virvy . . . or you might call me Virvylicious," she said. Virvel thought for a moment and then continued, "I'm the Matriarch of this here fine establishment, young sir. And what did you say your name was?"

"Er - I didn't, but it's B-b-ben Gambon," I stuttered.

She extended her hand. It was small, but she had long fingers like me, "the fingers of a piano player" my mother used to tell her friends, though I never was much of a musician.

"Oho, don't mind Jw or Irish . . . they're a wee bit off their rockers," she whispered, grinning even wider than before.

I nodded; my glasses slid down my nose and threatened to careen off the edge, balancing precariously on the tip. I adjust them, and peered around - two more men and another woman had gathered around to stare at me. I felt like a caged zoo animal, cornered by the eyes of gaggling, towering giants.

The man standing in front wore a messy, brown beard, and had long, brown hair ending at his mid-back. To contribute to his already odd appearance, he had on a kilt and a faded white tunic like the pages of an old book.

The kilt-man stood next to a woman with short, strawberry-blond hair, and whispered rather loudly, "What do you think he is, Rose? He doesn't look Borg or Vong . . . or even Gou'ald, for that matter." The kilt-man rapped his knuckled against my head. "Nope, he isn't a snake-head, my dear."

"Don't be so mean to the boy," said Rose. She must've noticed me wince when he knocked my head.

"Outta the way, Data!" the third guy shouted, pushing the kilt-man (apparently called Data . . . and what an odd name, at that! I thought) aside.

Data glared.

"'Ello, Ben. You can call me Zifnab." He pushed aside a lock of red hair, and shook my hand.

"And I am Rose. It's a pleasure," said the redhead, smiling kindly.

I darted my eyes between the six of them. "Er - m-might I ask - erm - who y-y-you all a-are?" I asked, stumbling between my words and blushing terribly when I was finished speaking.

Virvel tapped me on the shoulder lightly, and said, "Well, this is the Cantina, and I s'pose you could call us Cantinians."

She frowned at my bemused expression.

"The Cantina, never heard of it?"

"Erm -"

"Oh, come on!" interjected Zfnab, angrily.

"W-well -"

"Harrumph -" Irish snorted, grabbed a Mountain Dew at the bar, and disappeared into the rafters without a trace.

Data wasn't even paying attention. He was happily busy conjuring up goblets of wine and juggling them in the air, much to the amusement and enjoyment of Rose. She giggled uncontrollably.

"We should probably continue this interrogation in the morning. It's getting late," he called over his shoulder. He gave a wide yawn and scratched his stomach.

Virvel tried to stifle her own yawn, but failed horribly. "Yeah, I agree. Wanna stay for the night, Benny? We've got free room and board."

I muttered something that was muffled by my own yawn, but she seemed to assume that it was a yes and took me to a room up the stairs on the left. The room was empty, save for a stool with a lamp on it and the most comfortable bed I had ever seen. Virvel muttered goodnight and closed the door behind me. When I pulled back the sheets, they seemed to ripple like water in my hands. I melted in and was enveloped into a cocoon of warmth. Within seconds, I was gone . . . far, far away in lucid dreams of flying through the sky like a bird and sailing on calm seas with the smell of salt water behind me and hauling in loads of fish.