The chameleon

There's a mysterious chameleon living behind the bar at my local drinking hole.

I say it's mysterious because no one seems to see it except me. Yes, I realize that the chameleon's claim to fame is its ability to blend into its surroundings, making it easier to hide from predators. But then why do I, far from being an eagle-eyed observer of my environment, see this chameleon scampering willy-nilly across the bar, ducking in and out between bottles of Johnnie Walker and Jack Daniels, while the rest of the establishment's patrons carry on, oblivious to its presence?

Don't get me wrong; I'm not an animal-hater or anything. Pit bulls, piranhas, snakes -- they're all OK with me.

But this grinning reptile taunts me at every opportunity. He sticks his tongue out at me and smirks smugly when I try to point him out to one of my drunken companions. Every once in a while he bolts from the bar on to my table and spills my drink, then slinks back to his favourite spot behind the television, while everyone points at me, laughing and clapping like a bunch of Portuguese folks whose plane has just landed without incident.

This bloody chameleon is driving me mad.

I tried to lasso him once. I spent $65.95 on a piece of rope (I think I got taken on that one) and studied lassos on the Internet for a day-and-a-half. I waited for my opportunity -- Halloween of course, to better hide my intentions -- then strode John Wayne-like into the bar, fully intending to capture my elusive prey.

After five minutes, I had pulled down and shattered over three-quarters of the liquor bottles behind the bar and earned myself a two-week ban from the premises, along with the disdain of the bar's regular patrons and a razor-sharp tongue lashing from the tavern's proprietor.

As I was being escorted to the door, I turned to look back over my shoulder and saw the chameleon, a cigarette dangling from his lipless mouth, grinning at me like he'd just dined on a plump, maple-glazed guinea pig or some other chameleon delicacy.

My girlfriend, disgusted by my behaviour, had stayed behind to enjoy the Halloween festivities. She was wearing red leather -- a delicious low cut blouse and mini-skirt ensemble -- and little red horns sat neatly on her head.

The chameleon stood beneath her legs and looked up her skirt. An appreciative whistle escaped his mouth as smoke tendrils rose from his nostrils. I was the only one who noticed.

God, I hate that chameleon.