Views from The Office/Douchebag Menagerie:Crispy Sam Begins.

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 The background noise was elevated but words had been uttered that couldn’t be withdrawn and “Crispy Sam” was added to the litany of aliases attributed to me over my lifetime.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.