Darling
Beer starts playing randomly as I begin this. Staring at an almost
blank page, realising I’m procrastinating again. One day before a deadline.
It’s ready but I could have another look at it, add a few more supporting
documents. I’ve spent the last few days trying to draw a stick figure comic
strip about the basic principles, physics wise, as to how a man weighing one
hundred kilos could clear a two metre wide gap with little run up. I’m
relevantly accepting of the most recent attempt.
I got myself the beverage that Schoolfight
heartily recommends and decided I need to get thought of my next project
out of my head, so I can concentrate on the task at hand.
It was fitting that Whitey started singing when he did because he
was central to my decision to elevate this idea from just a one off attempt at
some light humour regarding the soon to be famous investigative crime solving
duo Little Street and Five-Eight.
Brisbane was experiencing a slight reprieve from an attempt at
being cold and I had vacated The Stool to partake in a tobacco cigarette and
some jovial conversation. The Beer Garden was crowded but I managed to find
myself a perch around a table with Whitebread, Splinta and The Tan Tan. For
reasons that have become lost to common memory the subject of my abstinence
from Pork was raised and to my surprise Whitebread said he was a no bacon bloke
as well. His No Swine Dining Policy doesn’t extend as far as mine however and
when he mumbled
‘What, not even your Mum’s Christmas Ham?’.
I responded by enquiring who Crispy Sam was.
He denies that he mumbled. The background noise was elevated but
words had been uttered that couldn’t be withdrawn and “Crispy Sam” was added to
the litany of aliases attributed to me over my lifetime. A family friend used to mock my mother for the
number of different names she used when referring to me, joking that I would
develop multiple personality disorder.
After Deadline
That didn’t quite occur, but the application of monikers has not
ceased to this day. So Crispy Sam became the much needed, drought breaking rain
to germinate the seed of an idea that had been dry sown and was sitting as less
than a paragraph of text on my desktop.
Little Street and Five Eight.
As a serial name attributor, I realised I had a plethora of
characters ready to go, not based on the people themselves but the random arse
nicknames that people give their Mates or Randoms whose names we couldn’t be
fucked learning. It wasn’t long before Captain No Beard, Ropey and The
Redcliffe Repeater were added to the list. Others followed, and I knew I was on
to something, but there was the application for the book about falling off
mountains, so I went to the pub and sent it off.
But this is supposed to be about Views from The Office. I was reminded
of that when I looked up at the bare wall of my Cave behind the screen.
Depending on the time of day, my view from The Office, if I’m in Brisbane will most
likely be that or whichever aspect of The Pub I am appreciating from The Stool.
It’s moments like this that you remember The Office being a restaurant on the
banks of Rivers; Mekong, Kwai, Red, Black or Perfume. A place where they know
you and you aren’t required to order because they know what you want and when. They
may have been concerned after the first four or five days, but you paid the tab
to become their favourite customer, so they don’t care when you run up another
impressive expenses account because they have your passport in the safe and
know that you can operate the ATM at the servo down the street.
Sometimes I move The Office out of 4101, as I did last night, and
head east to the couch and coffee table of The Tan Tan and Dopey Dog where my
view above the screen is another screen and the constant news stream. When Dog
wakes up he stares at me with his dopey brown eyes expecting to be fed. He must
have known I was writing about him because he left. But his presence does
remind me that the bloody cat is still missing. When I’m in The Cave she either
sleeps on the desk or my lap when she is present and becomes part of the view.
Views are central to good Office location. If you are like me and
don’t need to visually document every aspect of your life, you’ll know when
you’ve found a good office because you’ll want to take a picture of it. Little
Street and Five Eight have never taken a photo of their Office because it’s not
much more than a card table in a shed behind The Pub. But that doesn’t detract
from the fine work they do. Private Investigators with a keen eye for detail
don’t trouble themselves with frivolities such as an inspiring vista – they are
far too busy solving crimes.
White Ghost and Black Dog have no such qualms and possess many
photos of The little 8 Detective Agency, much to the chagrin of the gumshoes
who see the bedsheet clad Paranormal Investigator and his canine companion as
lunatic hacks attempting to steal the PI acronym while jumping at shadows.
The Ghost and Dog have refuted these allegations and point to the
fact that if Street and Eight merely looked out the door of their shed they
would witness the Vampire incursion occurring under their very noses. Black Dog
is especially adamant about the noses point as it is his greatest asset when it
comes to getting your truth is out there on.
The Dracula Hunting Duo have been relentless in their pursuit of a
suspected Vampire Cabal apparently masquerading as legitimate food distributors
of “Traditional Transylvanian Fare” at The Weekend Markets and have
meticulously documented the entire carpark in multiple visual spectrums. The
most obvious they say are the thermal imaging shots that show human like
figures with bat wings who do not exhibit signs of warm blood. But more
disturbing and possibly incriminating (is being a Vampire against The Law?) are
the audio recordings of what could only be described as bat calls emanating
from the vicinity of The Markets.
After consulting experts in the field of Chiropteran research I have been advised that the audio
recordings are merely standard communication between local Flying Foxes harvesting
fruit from the tree that dominates The Beer Garden. The scientists tell me that
this is a normal phenomenon at this time of year and are more concerned by the
reduction of warning calls regarding “Bats” that once upon a time would precede
the automated response from The Massive to place a hand above their respective
liquid receptacles. Those days have long passed us by, but the Ghost/Dog
combo will not let the bone go.
‘Vampires’ they tell me ‘as sure as the sun shines’. An
interesting analogy but they are adamant even when I point out the UV bathing
The Carpark and the fact that Transylvania has been setting up for an hour or
two already. ‘The Carpark is shaded already. It’s only direct sunlight that
affects them’. An interesting observation but due to the weekly rotating roster
of locations for the market stalls, I decided to launch my own investigation. A
five metre walk to the window is my wild card, but I see the Transylvanians are
in the back corner and the stall is bathed in sunshine. ‘Aspirants’ I am
informed, ‘they get the people that want to be Vampires to do the day work.
It’s only after dark when the real monsters make an appearance’.
Accepting their assertation because they are apparently the
experts in this field. I bludge a smoke from Bin Jammin and contemplate the
possibility of blood sucking fiends populating the post code. Dismissing the
proposition as potential but not probable, I absorb Jammin’s latest Jah
inspired musical interpretation of the current waste problem facing the world.
His dreadlocks shift in the breeze as he strums the three strings on his guitar
and The Tan Tan starts to tap on her Djembe. The Caribbean influenced ditty
delivered on a blustery and overcast August afternoon does little to appease my
growing concerns regarding human shaped leeches populating the vicinity around
my imbibing facility. But when Little Street walks past and recounts his
experience of the last five minutes my seventh sense starts to warn me of
impending danger.
Having purchased a traditional cheese pie from The Transylvanians,
his trajectory led him to an area where he could both drink beer and eat food. After
passing the Sri Lankan food stall, Little Street was advised that he was
bleeding from the neck.
Neck bleeding is not something the average person expects to see at
their local, so this observation was met with a considerable level of concern. White
Ghost and Black Dog immediately jumped to the conclusion that Little Street was
attacked without his knowledge while collecting some Transylvanian fare. Street
told them that if they really wanted to be investigators their time would be
better spent finding out who was pillaging riverfront properties and
terrorising the locals. He looked at me as he said it, knowing full well my
Viking heritage and failing to notice The Tan Tan finding an excuse to go
inside.
Lawyer Client Confidentiality prevents me from going into too much
detail but suffice to say The Tan Tan’s relationship with Captain No Beard is
public knowledge and rumours abound of a clean chinned pirate being sighted
hoisting The Jolly Roger on an agile racing skiff before sacking properties as
far up the river as Moggill. Reports of drumming before the assault is launched
and a braided, war painted woman with wild eyes and a coarse tongue being
present are spurious and untrue. It is my understanding that Captain No Beard
is somewhere south of The Tweed, down Mexico way.
My admiration of The Tan Tan’s subtle move distracted me
momentarily from the unfolding scene in front of me. White Ghost had dropped
Black Dog’s lead while he was arguing with Little Street and Five Eight had
finished his mountain of donuts.
‘How tall was he? Five Eight? Was he Five Eight? How tall? The
Vampire? Was he Five Eight? Because you have to be tall to bite Little Street
on the neck’.
While simple, Five Eight’s investigative strategy is surprisingly
effective and was the main reason The little 8 Detective Agency were able to
identify “The Loch St Looker” as the papers termed him.
Five Eight doesn’t even reach Little Street’s neck with his
forehead, but someone told him once that five foot eight inches was tall, and
he never let it go. While White Ghost didn’t get a chance to answer, it would
be irrelevant in this instance because Black Dog was busy sniffing around the
Transylvanian stall. Failing to find little more than a trace of Vampiric scent
he began to yelp and whine in the world wide accepted code of paranormal
detection dogs. Not being ignorant to Vampire hunting hounds, The
Transylvanians leapt into action.
Thinking Black Dog was about to be attacked, White Ghost reacted,
leaping tables and performing feats of acrobatics one would think impossible
when wearing a bedsheet. The Markets dissolved into what appeared to be chaos
but what was in reality; a military precision operation. From beneath their
counter The Transylvanians drew wooden stakes from concealed compartments and
one barked a command to Black Dog in Language and the hound responded, heading
straight for the Sri Lankan stall.
I only learned later that it was a Riri Yaka but it was certainly
a formidable opponent. While families and tourists fled, White Ghost realised
that the threat wasn’t The Transylvanians, in fact, they were about to do his
job for him. Throwing himself wholeheartedly into the fray beside his canine
companion and his unexpected allies he was nothing short of a fury reminiscent
of Achilles.
It was a bloodbath and confronting to watch. Only two
Transylvanians remained standing when Black Dog began to gnaw on the corpse of
the vessel that had housed the Riri Yaka. They spat on the corpses of their
companions and ensured they were dead before setting them alight. Black Dog was
dragged from the corpse of “the boyfriend of the owner’s cousin’s daughter” and
it too was burned.
The Sri Lankans began their own ceremonies to rid the place of
evil spirits while The Transylvanians performed exorcisms on each other and
White Ghost. Black Dog required no such treatment as dogs are notorious for
their inability to contract Vampirism. Rabies, sure, but not Vampirism. Little
Street was subjected to a more intense session having been allegedly assaulted
by the Riri Yaka and therefore more at risk of being the new vessel for the
blood demon. Think Poltergeist and
you’re falling well short of the mark.
I recall a terrible joke from primary school where a child would
be asked what they would prefer. The options were something obviously horrible
or seven holes in your head. Naïve logic determined that seven holes in your
head would result in death and therefore the unknowing would acknowledge
preference for the former option, regardless of what it may have been. At which
point derisive laughter would be directed at the respondent as they were
informed that their eye, ear, nose and word holes made up seven holes in their
head. It was fucking hilarious.
For some reason my schoolyard chums and I never came up with a
joke regarding an exorcism where all nine potential orifices expelled some vile
substance simultaneously. I can assure you, it’s a hard thing to see the humour
in.
The Carpark was almost abandoned at this time of night, which was
good for Little Street’s dignity. It is not fitting for a Professional to be
seen incapacitated and soiling themselves in the best of circumstances, but to
do so while possessed by a bloodthirsty spirit is a sure fire route to failure.
I removed myself from the splatter zone when he started shitting
himself. The blood was bad enough, but I would have to represent Little Street
when The Police turned up and could already hear the sirens. If the corpse
fires hadn’t alerted The Fireys’, someone probably called The Po-Po about the
bloodshed after they had finished fleeing for their lives and it wouldn’t be
fitting for Legal Counsel to be smattered in faeces during the initial
interaction with law enforcement, so I decamp to The Bar and accept a neat rum
from Hairy Man.
‘Trouble outside?’
I reply in the affirmative, drink the rum, signal for a beer and
grab a cloth to clean the mess off me. Wiping the last of the filth from my
person I feel The Tan Tans presence at my shoulder requiring legal counsel. My
expert advice was to buy us both a rum and make herself scarce. Glasses
clinked, molasses liquor was swallowed, and Triple T extracted herself from the
location. Turning to Hairy Man I was disrupted from furthering my explanation
of events by Five-Eights intrusion as I resumed my position on The Stool.
‘Did you see it? You reckon it was five eight? I don’t. Too short.
Shorter than Little Street. He’s alright but he’s dirty and needs a bath’.
Not having been debriefed by The Transylvanians as to the origin
or specifics of a Riri Yaka at this point I decided damage control was the best
course of action and demanded Hairy Man make available the cleaning hose while
instructing Five-Eight to relocate Little Street to The Gravel Pit and strip
him down in preparation for a prison wash.
A desolate place, within stone’s throw of The Stool, The Gravel
Pit is considered by most to be nothing more than a gated carpark for The Pub’s
neighbouring businesses, but harbours vicious secrets. If a cloudless night
presents during the third, sixth, ninth or twelfth full moons of The Lunar Year,
The Gravel Pit converts to a blood soaked arena as canine combatants compete
for glory and a sizeable cash prize.
Having torn most of his clothes off during the exorcism Little
Street removes the last vestiges of dignity and receives the blast of cold
water with reluctant acceptance. He cleans the filth away as best as possible.
I can’t tell if he’s shaking from shock or the temperature. Probably both.
The Transylvanians scamper around him, collecting his discarded
items and adding them to the quickly reducing pile of corpses in The Carpark. Turning
the hose off, I found White Ghost standing behind me and asked him how they
were burning so quickly. He looked at me through his eye holes and I could tell
his mouth was open in disbelief at my ignorance behind his pristine bedsheet.
I have no idea where he keeps his spares but the last time I saw
him he was drenched in blood and now he looks freshly laundered. It’s only the
sheet though, his pants and shoes are still drenched in all sorts of gore. His
appearance reminds me to advise Little Street to find one of the undercover
outfits from his shed, it wouldn’t serve to be wandering around in all his
glory when the authorities arrive.
‘The Quiet’. White Ghost whispers.
Being naïve in this subject area I enquired who, exactly, The
Quiet were and was subjected to a hero worship story of more conjecture and
rumour than fact. From what I could gather through the adoration was that they
were some kind of UN for monster hunters. A secretive society born through
globalisation and migration. Formed centuries ago and known by different names
in many countries they are committed to ending, in their words, the pandemic of
supernatural creatures. Many slaves who rose to prominence throughout history
were members of the order, having been captured and shipped far from their
homeland carried with them The Knowledge.
When the inevitable bad apple was exposed, the keepers of The
Knowledge would present themselves to combat the threat. These actions were
often witnessed by those who had possession of the keepers of The Knowledge and
also possessed The Knowledge themselves, only of a different type. They knew
how to deal with their local threats but not those they had brought back from
their conquests. Alliances were formed, wisdom was shared, and The Knowledge was
slowly organised until it became The Quiet. Hairy Man, who had been listening
in as he was winding up the hose asked what type of creatures they hunted.
‘All types’
Hairy Man worked a bit faster after White Ghost’s response and
disappeared back into The Pub. Some people have suggested he may have lupine
tendencies, while others lean towards Yeti or one of its close relatives. Whatever
the case may be, The Ghost informs me The Transylvanians are Vampire and Blood
Demon specialists while The Sri Lankans were just innocent bystanders who had
no idea the Riri Yaka was in their presence. He expects now for The
Transylvanians to select one Sri Lankan for induction into The Quiet to pre-empt
future incidents.
As a specialist in Maritime, Constitutional and International Law,
I could only absorb the apparent knowledge being imparted on me by an alleged
expert in the field of The Paranormal. When Little Street reappeared disguised
in the most effective urban camouflage – Hi-Vis – he acknowledged his
complacency had contributed to the bloodshed and recognised White Ghost and
Black Dog as partially useful investigators. Guardedly accepting the
compliment, The Ghost/Dog combination reminded us of the impending arrival of
The Emergency Services.
Evacuation Strategy 709 was deemed the most appropriate response
to the unfolding situation. White Ghost and Black Dog would exit via The Gravel
Pit and negotiate the neighbouring backyards in their trademarked acrobatic
style, while Little Street and Five-Eight adopt the “hide in plain sight”
philosophy by taking the service alley and walking up The Main Drag apparently
oblivious to the commotion. My role, as it is in every Evacuation Strategy that
begins with a 7 is to remain on site and run interference with The Authorities.
The Transylvanians being the consummate professionals they had
proved themselves to be immediately agreed to my plan. One of them looked at me
like I was a simpleton for suggesting, what I later learned is standard
practice in such situations, while the other simply nodded and handed me a
talisman that I immediately identified as a Drop Bear claw. I was hesitant to
take the charm, having been on the receiving end when still attached to one of
them, but The Transylvanian smiled and told me The Quiet was well aware of my
efforts a decade ago when I came face to face with one of the beasts just south
of Bundaberg.
Instinctively, I touched the scars that crisscross my torso. How
they knew I am yet to determine, as the other three people present certainly aren’t
members of The Quiet because they didn’t do a bloody thing when the abomination
cleared at least a 12 foot gap to land on the front deck of the agile racing
skiff on which I was a passenger. It was left to me to channel my Inner-Gurkha
and despatch the carnivorous koala with my trusty Kukri.
Remembering the blade, I kept my focus on South Asia by informing
The Sri Lankans that an oil fire got out of control as one of The Transylvanians
kicked through the ashes of their stall to ensure any traces of anything that
could be suspected as human had disintegrated. It will be many months before I can
be entrusted with the recipe for The Quiet’s accelerant, but I can assure you
it works and is much more effective than just chucking a corpse off the
starboard stern, hoping the sharks will take care of it.
Reluctant at first, some of The Sri Lankans had a few visa issues
and were worried about any interaction with The Authorities. I advised them to
follow Little Street and Five-Eight while those whose papers were in order
would remain to corroborate my version of events. Placated, we got our stories
straight and agreed that any reports of blood demons or violence of any kind
were clearly hallucinations, probably caused by some sort of food contamination
issue. It remains unclear how LSD was found in the remains of the chai store
run by Fippies but it’s easy to blame fools with dreadlocks and as no one contested
the eventual findings, the matter is therefore resolved.
The fire had pretty much burned itself out by the time the first
engine turned up and The Po-Po weren’t far behind with their questions. It
intrigued me at the time when one of The Cops shook hands with The
Transylvanians and after a few words walked over to where I was smoking in a
legislated no smoking area. He ignored my infraction and briefly showed me the
Sea Wombat tooth he had on a chain around his neck. Figuring it was protocol, I
pulled my own talisman from my pocket and indicated I’d be more comfortable
responding to his enquires with a beer on the side. Walking through the back
door we passed Hairy Man explaining to another officer that the CCTV is on the
fritz and the repair guy is coming out tomorrow. As he’s occupied I have to
serve myself. I ask The Officer if he would like one, I know he can’t because he’s
on duty, but it would be rude not to.
After the expected denial I resumed my place on The Stool and
braced for interrogation. It was not forthcoming. Instead we chatted amiably
for a short while. He told me that he had harvested his talisman himself and I
commented that if I’d known how valuable they were I would have kept a few
instead of just carving off the flesh and tipping the rest back overboard. An
uncomfortable silence ensued until I invited him to join the next hunt – The
Wet is on the way and Sea Wombats will be flocking to Moreton Bay to breed and
feast on Dugong. The impasse broken, he remembered he was supposed to appear to
be questioning me and competently records my account, reminding me of details I
may have forgotten before jotting down my details.
Name:
Crispy Sam
Residence:
The Cave at the top of The Hill
Occupation:
Attorney at Large
Fuck me standing. This started as a reflection on the various places
The Office finds itself located and resulted in possibly one of my greatest procrastination
efforts. I procrastinated so hard with this I even procrastinated on it by
sending off a couple of articles and starting a few more applications before
starting to procrastinate on those and came back to it. It was never supposed
to reach 4000+ words, but if you got this far, Congratulations.
After a bloody week I got the thing done. Well, something done. I
don’t know what the buggery I’ve managed to come up with but to bring things
full circle, The Office has moved itself between The Cave, The Stool, The Tan
Tan’s Living Room and even a dirt floored kink dungeon in Sex Town. But the most
important location for The Office has and always will be The Street. Not much
writing occurs on The Street, but walking is not only good for your
constitution, it provides time to think and you witness some weird as fuck shit
if you’re lucky.
PS.
I’m already in discussions with an illustrator but if any more
want to throw your hat in the ring I’d be more than welcome to have chats. Also,
Animators.
Stay Tuned for more from Douchebag
Menagerie.
