I woke up in a vintage Jaguar with a person-sized Galt in sunglasses, a fedora, and a 1970s London Fog trench coat driving northbound on Highway 99 just north of Lodi. I had always loved driving on 99 with its signs labeling the different crops along the side of the road and all the little California towns that were so different from both Idaho and New York City.

"You get all my jokes, so I wanted to show you something before dinner," Galt said in a baritone that just purred, full of round vowels and rolled R's. He maneuvered the Jag seamlessly through the traffic as numerous almond orchards flew by.

"There, I paid real money to have that put up for three months in 1978," he pointed at a billboard in the distance. I had to find my glasses and put them on so I could read it.

"WELCOME HOME, JOHN!" The huge letters were in an Art Deco font, yellow on black. Underneath in small print sans serif letters was: "Paid for by the committee to re-elect Ann Rand."

I had a good laugh over it but pointed out to Galt, "you spelled Ayn wrong."

"Deliberate," he smirked. "I didn't want to be too obvious."

I wondered how that was anything but obvious, but what can you say? Galt's a cat, after all.

"So, where's dinner?" I asked.

"Danielle's, corner of Fair Oaks and Watt in Sacramento," and then we were there in the parking lot. "Do you want the original owner's menu or the new owners' menu?"

"How did you know I liked this place?"

"Hey, kitten, give me a little credit," he took off his sunglasses and winked at me. "I am a god, after all."

Dinner was wonderful. Galt was funny, told good 1970s-era jokes, and used lots of bad puns. I had a Coq Breton crepe followed by the blueberry and sour cream crepe for dessert. Then we hopped in the Jag and pulled up to the front of the Plaza Hotel in New York. Tiki in a doorman's uniform came running down the steps.

"Oh, no no no no no no no no no no," Galt told Tiki. "I won the bet, so we have to go to the bar of my choice, not your choice."

"But, but, but," Tiki gestured, "pina coladas!"

"Salt Lake City, bad-taste-in-clothes boy," Galt's ears laid back. "Get in and shut up."

I was trying to think of any good bars in Salt Lake City, a town where it's hard to find a decent cup of coffee, not to mention a decent bar within ten blocks of Temple Square. Well, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. But seriously? Salt Lake City? Moroni was probably rolling over in his grave right now.

Galt pulled up to the front of the old Utah Hotel. I wondered if he had recreated the bar that was once in its basement back before I was even born. Galt walked straight to the elevator, and we went straight up to the restaurant with the wrap-around view of Temple Square and the Temple and the Tabernacle. Galt dialed the weather for Winter so all the Christmas lights were up, and beautiful big white snowflakes were falling.

It wasn't the Utah Hotel 4th floor restaurant I remembered since there was a bar in the middle of the floor. A milk bar. Milk selections from all over the world. They even had Reed's chocolate milk from Idaho Falls, otherwise known as liquid crack for any kid who grew up in eastern Idaho. Just for that, I might even take Galt up on that making kittens offer.

Galt pulled his sunglasses down, "really?"

"Well, on second thought, probably not," I told Mister Don Gato Juan.

"Dang," he said. "Dang it all to heck."

Tiki and I just looked at Galt and cracked up.

"Well, have to blend in with the natives," Galt said defensively.

"A cat, in a trench coat and fedora, and he wants to blend in?" Giltak's alto purred behind me, "Oh, I want to sit next to Emily." Then they were sitting next to me. Tiki showed up behind the bar in a black vest and black bow tie over a Hawaiian shirt.

"I'll have a Duche de Leche, love, and go heavy on the cassia," Giltak smiled. They had pastel green hair this evening to go with the pastel green shirt, the pink duster, and the pale pink bell-bottoms.

"Any preference on the rum?" Tiki asked.

"Bajan, Mount Gilboa if you have it," Giltak simpered.

"So who invited you to crash my drinking party," Galt wanted to know.

"Why I did, you cute little fluffy kitty," Giltak smiled like someone who knew they could get away with just about anything with enough chutzpah.

There was an ominous thunder sound in the distance. Giltak looked a little bit worried and Galt smiled.

"You two," Tiki pointed at both of them, "behave."

"So, why am I out drinking again with you, Tiki?" I asked. It's not that I minded, but I did think it was weird that the gods of this place were paying so much attention to me. It was a bit unnerving.

"Shall I take that Reed's chocolate milk you lust after and make it a special Black Russian?"

"No way," I clutched my glass to myself. "One can only adulterate Reed's chocolate milk with a scoop of Reed's vanilla ice cream." Then there was some, plus a spoon and straw.

"No problem," Tiki chuckled.

"You didn't answer my question," I pointed out.

Galt sighed, "I was so happy you won my bet for me, Emily, that I asked Mugash if you could heal up a little faster." He looked depressed.

"She said no," Tiki added.

"So, since you're still in a deep sleep," Galt continued, "I thought it might be nice to spend some fun time with you, to cheer you up a bit."

"Especially since Aylem and Imstay are rediscovering the carnal delights with one another right about now," Giltak said with the most innocent smile I have ever seen. I was waiting for Giltak's face to crack, it was so perfect.

Then it sunk in, "wait, Aylem and Imstay are...?"

"Yep," Giltak grinned. "Surd will be so happy over this."

"I don't get it? What do people see in that greedy schmooze artist? He's like the ultimate con man. It's bad enough that Usruldes likes the guy, but he conned Aylem into bed with him? Just how bad is her self-esteem?" The news made my brain hurt.

"Still sour on the king, eh?" Tiki asked. "Hmmm. A Sour King: a whiskey sour made with Chivas Regal. I like it. Need to add that to the menu."

"Look, he's charming and personable, kissing babies and buttering up political donors on the campaign trail, and all that. He'd make a great politician in late 20th century America," I explained. "I feel that no one ever gets to see the real Imstay. He's always got a mask on. How can I trust a person who never shows his real face?"

"Are you sure you're not still mad over his blowing up your home?" Galt asked, looking over the top of his sunglasses.

Just then, the Jizo who doubled as Gertzpul hopped on the barstool next to Galt, "Mai Tai, please."

"Nope," Tiki the bartender refused. "This is a milk bar. Drinks have to have milk in them."

"Okay," the Jizo said. "One Mai Tai with milk, please."

"Yuck," we all said in unison.