Can Can Man

She was taking him in, but not in the way he’d hoped. Leaning against the door jamb, she ran her eyes up from the scuffed shoes to the oversized hat. It wasn’t a long gaze, and there lay the problem. Or, in the case of the person outside the stage door, there stood the problem.

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘truth in advertising’, Henri?” she asked before answering for him. “Obviously not.”

His smile stayed in the place. “I can’t imagine what you mean, my dear.” Sensing the ‘my dear’ hadn’t help his cause, he added: “ … I’m confused. Your letter was so inviting.”

She sniffed. Either she was savouring his new cologne or testing the air for humbug. “Your profile described you as a tall, blond, 29-year-old bringer of joy. An artist and a gentleman of independent means.” Another sniff. “Book early to avoid disappointment, the advertisement said.”

Tilting his head, he mouthed: “So?”

Her open hand swept upwards, “For starters …”

“Let me stop you right there. I know what you’re going to say. I’m not blond.”

She shifted closer. “That too.”

“There’s something else?”

“When I read the word ‘tall’ in a personal column advertisement, I expect the writer to match it.”

Taking off his hat, Henri brushed dust off the crown and slipped it back on. It sat firmly atop his ears. “But ‘tall’ compared to whom? To you? I can name you countless women who …”

“Spare me,” she said. “I want what it says on the packaging.”

He lifted his chin. That must have added another centimetre or two, he decided. “What could a taller man do for you that I can’t?”

“I want someone I can walk down the street with while I rest my head of his shoulder.”

“You could do that with me. Try it.” He took her vigorous head shake as a “no”.

For a moment, he considered retreating but he’d only paid for a one-way Metro ticket. Deciding to save the delicate matter of lack of money until a more appropriate moment, he pressed on. “As the advertisement also says, I bring joy. Would you care to experience it?”

The resulting shudder seemed to be another “no”.

He ignored it. “Brace yourself.” From behind his back, he drew a tambourine. “Something with a gypsy flavour, perhaps?”

The jingling and his piping voice carried over the wet, cracked pavement. Along the street, windows slammed shut.

“Perhaps not,” she said. From the folds of her silk gown, she produced a cigarette, lit it and blew smoke in his direction. The cloud passed a metre over his head. “Rehearsals start soon. Goodbye.”

“So, dinner tonight is out of the question?”

The closing door banged on his outstretched tambourine. His last chance. “I’m also a painter.”

“Thank you, but wallpaper is all the rage these days.”

“… of people. I’m quite well known in some circles.”

Like a magician’s dove, a folded newspaper appeared from her gown. Squinting, she read out his name from the personal column: “Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec”.

“Ah, you’ve heard of me.”

“No.”

His tambourine, stuck in the doorway, creaked with strain as she pulled on the handle.

“I paint dancers. The critics say my work is heartbreakingly beautiful. If I paint you, men will be in awe of your grace for eternity.”

The door flung open. Both Henri and his tambourine sighed with relief.

“Eternity?”

“Or thereabouts,” he said, squeezing past her and finding himself amongst the theatre’s gloomy backstage clutter. Long legged dancers scampered by, their dark stockings setting off white petticoats. “Remind me what this place is called.”

“The Moulin Rouge.” She smiled for the first time. “Where would you like to paint me?”

He hitched his trousers a little higher. “The dressing room is always a good start.”

# # #

Mr Wolf’s Wicked Guide to Life

– Ignatius Wolf –

Sex
• Bestiality is frowned on by the squeamish. We’ve all experienced how difficult it is to book into a hotel with our pet llama (the South American alpaca not the Tibetan priest variety) and be refused by some overly cautious jobs-worth at the reception desk. Possibly painful and smelly, bestiality is nevertheless very fashionable in certain quarters – for example, the animal kingdom.

• Adultery is perfectly acceptable providing you get caught. Obviously you’re not in it for the sex – a few crumpled $100 notes will get that for you a lot cheaper and almost certainly better. No, you’re in it for the thrill of letting your friends know what a sexual drawcard you are. The best way to have the good news spread quickly is to be “accidently” discovered at 11pm in a city bar by one of your friends, ideally the one with the biggest mouth. Unless, of course, that’s the person you’ve started sleeping with.

• For practical purposes, anal sex is best practised in private. Utilising public places, such as street corners, tends to startle passing taxi drivers. Finding yourself rescuing a surprised and shaken cabbie from his crashed vehicle may take the gloss off your evening out.

• It is important to know the difference between aural sex and oral sex. Aural sex can be sought out in motel rooms with cardboard walls, oral sex is more likely to be found amongst people with a blinkered view of the world.

• Oedipus wasn’t that complex.

• At least with necrophilia, there’s no question of whether or not your partner will still respect you in the morning. If your social skills are underdeveloped, this could be a viable option.

• Being gay doesn’t automatically make you witty. In fact, your gay-ness may not even make you appealing to others with a similar bent. Perhaps you should consider bi-sexuality – it will double your chances of getting a date.

• 95% of Internet content is pornography, the rest is rubbish.

::

Money

• Money can buy happiness: the rich have been lying to you.

• High maintenance prima donnas get all the attention at work and in life. Quietly focusing on the job won’t get you a pay rise. Employers aren’t interested in results, they want angst. Give it to them. It fills in their day.

• He who dies with the most toys doesn’t win: he just dies.

• We were put on Earth to make the rich happy.

::

Showbiz

• Scientology is good for your teeth: look at Tom Cruise.

• There is such a thing as bad publicity.

• You’ll never marry a movie star – they just don’t want to meet you.

::

Public speaking

• The key to being a good public speaker is misplaced self confidence. 90% of all audience members are silently begging any speaker on any topic to get the hell off the stage. Provided you don't consider the possibility that your audience loathes you, you'll do just fine. Ibsen thought of it as "the saving lie".

::

Sports

• The world loves sports bores.

::

Fashion

• Don’t dress your age: mutton dressed as mutton is not an appealing sight

• A full burqa flatters the figure.

• Everyone’s bum looks big in a thong.

• Fashion tip: if you’re going to Hell, wear something cool.

::

Mental health

• We are all mad to some degree.

• Country & Western music and Leonard Cohen's musings are not appropriate for psychiatrists’ waiting rooms.

• Stay sane: lie to yourself.

::

Environment

• Climate change is just a swimming lesson for polar bears.

::

Terrorism

• The al-Qaeda Anger Management Course just isn’t working.

• Let Iran have its nuclear bomb: what could possibly go wrong?

• Memo suicide bombers: there's a good reason those 72 virgins awaiting you are still single.
::

Table manners

• Drinking alcohol doesn’t make you more attractive.

• The world would be a better place without calories.

• Use-by-dates are accurate to within two weeks – either side of the date.

::

Mr Wolf’s Little Black Book of Helpful Hints:

 Every sinking ship needs a rat to lead the way.

 Your cat really doesn’t like you.

 In an ideal world, English would sound like French.

 The half-life of strontium-90 is 28 years, six years less than airline food.

 The human race is a slow one.

 “Carpe Diem” is actually Latin for “Seize the Donkey”.

 Elton John is heterosexual. Don’t be fooled by his social life.

 No one ever had a creative thought in a supermarket aisle.

 Astrologers can only predict the past.

 A little of Russell Crowe goes a long way.

 Good neighbours are the only real estate criteria.

 There’s nothing less relevant than an ex-politician.

 Travel broadens your mind and your bottom. It must be the pasta.

 Aliens already live amongst us. Be aware.
 Only considerate people are civilized.

 There is life on other planets, but no laughter.

 No-one is interested in your holidays.

 Getting a tattoo will not make you look like Angelina Jolie.

 Don’t consider suicide. The other bastards must go first.

 100,000 years of humankind’s progress ended with the introduction of instant coffee.

 Washing the homeless is a worthy charity.

 An aircraft in flight is an erotic sight.

 Politeness is shocking.

 A heart has nothing to do with love.

 Bestiality is painful and smelly - presumably.

 The egg came first.

 The world is not crying out for another Charlie’s Angels sequel.

 Don’t forgive and don’t forget. It’s more satisfying.

 There’s something rather silly about a penis.

 Cry wolf. The world will never catch on.

 There is no stairway to Heaven.

 A knight in un-shiny armour is more experienced.

 The more money you have, the more options you have.

 A cigarette makes you look cool – for one puff.
 Stale tobacco smoke smells of poverty.

 One swallow does not make a summer, but it can ruin a reputation.

 Pigs can’t fly.

 The Irish can write but not dance.

 The sword is mightier than the pen.

 Politicians can’t think with their pants down.

 Marlon Brando was a smug ham.

 Knowing one way to skin a cat is one way too many.

 Pushing the envelope doesn’t sound that risky.

 You may have to bang more than your head against the glass ceiling to succeed in business.

 The solution to greenhouse gas emissions? Fewer greenhouses.

 We all pay for sex – one way or another.

 Capital punishment solves the repeat offender problem.

 The Lord of The Rings trilogy was two rings too many.

 Career opportunity: a lawyer with kind eyes.

 Global warming is excellent for drying the washing.

 God is not dead: as you’re about to find out.

 Pride & Prejudice taught us one thing: moody rich guys get the chicks.

 Skinny people are a bumpy ride.

 Only happy drunks should be allowed alcohol.

 Paris Hilton is smarter than we are: she’s not reading magazine articles about us.

 Football would be more fun to watch if men played against women.

 Terrorists need a nice, quiet hobby.

 Don’t hate in plurals. Hate in the singular.

 The Beatles became self-important.

 Stir your martini. Only an amateur shakes it.

 Unique business opportunity: smuggle people to the East.

 Citizen Kane was the worst movie ever made.

 Fish tastes great with red wine.

 Elastic-waisted pants make life worth living.

 Celebrity tip: if you meet a TV star, only talk about him or her.

 Chocolate may be your only true friend.

 Any fool can write a rap song: and any fool has.

 Wraparound sunglasses should only be worn while robbing a corner store.

 A toupee should not have a parting.

 Celebrity chefs should butch it up a little.

 Wake Me Up Before You Go Go may be the world’s best pop song.

 If only the truth was out there.

 Have a nice day for all I care.

Copyright © 2011 GREG FLYNN

The Man Who Said No To Kate Middleton

Perhaps the Hon. Cubert Houpton-Houpton wasn’t every girl’s dream, but he did have two things going for him: his surname. The result of an ancestor eloping with a cousin, the double-barrelled name had stood the test of centuries if not the test of marriage vows. When the Houpton-Houptons weren’t banging away at the wildlife on their estate they were doing it to guests and junior staff members, admittedly minus Purdey 12 bores and gorse-proof pants.

Bounders and bolters, the Houpton-Houptons were also aristocratic. Although there was something to be said for being gentry, Cuthbert couldn’t immediately think what it was. That evening, he had other things on his mind. Squaring his shoulders to disguise their sloping nature, he was ready. Before him lay both his future and Kate Middleton. They were not the same.

Resting against a pile of cushions, Kate was studying a copy of her favourite magazine, Toff. Cuthbert couldn’t fault her eager research into how the Upper Class lived. The magazine lay open at a forensically-illustrated story informing readers the Brazilian was old school, and that well-bred young ladies seeking topiary below the belly button were choosing recreations of great British battles done in silhouette. The Defence of Rorke's Drift and the Relief of Mafeking were particularly popular.

Cuthbert gave a small cough. “Midsie, you’re a brick.’

Kate tossed her big hair, knocking an Edwardian lamp off a side table. “Gosh, thank you, Cuthie.”

“So,” continued Cuthbert, letting his shoulders droop slightly, “I know you’ll take it well when I tell that I’ve decided to call off …”

The final word was drowned out by an alarm from Kate’s iPhone. The polyphonic ring tone played: “Here Comes The Bride.”

Kate swung her coltish legs off the divan. “It’ll have to wait, Cuthie, because the Windsors won’t.”

Half an hour later, Kate and Cuthbert stood with rapidly warming Kenyan Riesling in their glasses while the Windsor brothers worked their way around the cocktail party, greeting guests. Prince Harry was kitted out as a Khmer Rouge Death Squad commander.

Tilting her head sideways just enough to sweep four glasses off the tray of a passing butler, Kate studied Harry. “I didn’t know it was fancy dress,” she said.

“It’s not,” said Cuthbert, emptying his glass and grasping for another.

In a far corner, Harry’s brother William broke free from a scrum of young women with prominent teeth and needy eyes.

Waving to Cuthbert, William loped across the room. “Super of you to come, Hopeless Squared.” It was a nickname William had given Cuthbert at prep school and it’d stuck. Cuthbert still hated it.

“Such fun,” responded Cuthbert and swallowed more wine.

William tipped his head forward, gazing at Kate through his eyelashes, an affectation he’d learnt from his mother. Cuthbert loathed that too.

“I say, Hopeless Squared, who’s the totty?’

Cuthbert twisted around to see who William was referring to, then he sighed. “Oh, this is Kate Middleton.”

William whispered in Cuthbert’s ear something which sounded like “Scorchio!” before bending to kiss Kate’s hand.

How easy it would be, thought Cuthbert, to give His Royal Highness a boot in the botty. Instead, he paused. That moment was long enough to hatch a plan.

Dropping Kate’s hand, William straightened. “We’re putting together a rather interesting table for Saturday evening at Madame Dita’s. Care to join us?”

Cuthbert brightened. “Is that the club where you can drink champagne from a burlesque dancer’s navel?”

“Actually, it’s a Bridge Club.”

Kate appeared puzzled. “Suspension, Cantilever or Arch?”

William peered through his eyelashes. “Cards.”

“Such fun,” said Kate.

She was a blank slate, thought Cuthbert. It was a shame he didn’t have the chalk to take advantage of it. A regrettable incident the previous year with a bar of saddle soap, a mare and the regimental nurse had seen him cashiered from the 7th Royal Dragoon Guards. Ever since, he couldn’t face tupping women with horsey legs.

Thumping sounds from under a nearby table distracted the heir (once removed) to the British throne. William rushed off. Beneath the table, Prince Harry was wrestling with what at first glance appeared to be an inverted mop with two balloons tied to it. Cuthbert recognised the skeletal figure of the Hon. Amanda Frogmorton.

Taking Kate by the elbow, Cuthbert led her onto the balcony. A gentleman would be subtle and let her down gently. Cuthbert braced himself. “We’re finished,” he told her. “I’m off.”

Kate shook her head vigorously, entangling her tresses in a climbing rose, trapping her against the thorns.

Cuthbert did something his ancestors would have applauded. Stepping forward, he vaulted over the edge of the balcony and landed on all fours in the garden bed.

Looking up, he saw that His Royal Highness Prince William Arthur Philip Louis of Wales, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter had come to Kate’s rescue.

Dusting off his suit, Cuthbert made his way to the front gates – and freedom.

# # #

Copyright © 2011 GREG FLYNN

Help Wanted

Going around the bend, I saw the train limping the last few kilometres to the M’Botoan Royal National Transportation Hub. Even from a distance, I could tell the engine was a LMS four-cylinder Coronation Class. My tutor Mr Patel would have been proud of me. I could almost hear his ghostly praise: “Well done, Prince Tshepo.” Mr Patel would still be with us if it had not been for an unfortunate incident when, during a history lesson, he insisted on re-enacting William Tell’s shooting of the apple off his son’s head with a crossbow. “Let us switch roles – you play William Tell,” he had said. His last words.

Unfortunately for both Mr Patel and my lesson about the 14^th Century Swiss Confederacy, I could barely lift the crossbow, let alone aim straight. I may be heir to the throne of Africa’s 17^th most economically advanced country by GDP and seven-and-a-half years old, but I am small for my age. Nevertheless, as my former au pair Birgitta said: “You are beautifully proportioned – just like your father.” Birgitta left hurriedly after I heard my mother shout at her what sounded like: “You ditch.” Although why my mother would describe a Swedish staff member as a long, narrow excavation made by digging is rather strange.

However, as my ageing Phantom 1 Rolls Royce wound through the foothills towards the station, I was not alone. With chauffeur Mmusa Ohilwe at the wheel and enough fuel to get us back to the Palace, I felt confident it would be a successful trip.

The train not so much stopped as expired at the station. The driver, having made the sign of the Cross, took a swig from a bottle in a brown paper bag.

“Medicine,” commented Mr Ohilwe.

“Really?” I said. “I would have thought it was some form of alcohol.”

From the 3^rd Class carriage at the rear of train, we heard a voice. A man, wearing a crushed safari suit that had once been light blue, yelled at Mr Ohilwe: “Get our bags, Ali! Chop, chop or I’ll flay your heathen hide.”

Mr Ohilwe told the stranger where he could shove the bags. I am no student of anatomy, but even I doubted the luggage would fit.

I recognised the man from the photo attached to his emailed response to my “Help Wanted” advertisement. “Harry Briggs, Tutor to the Gentry”, was how he styled himself. Behind him at the carriage door, stood the woman I knew to be his wife, Mavis “Putting the Oh in Au Pair” Briggs.

Mrs Briggs was not making the most of herself. The cigarette behind her ear was partially concealed by hair that, frankly, needed a good conditioner.

Introductions concluded, the pair climbed into the Rolls’ rear seat with me.

Forty minutes later, outside the village of Ramatlhkwane, two men sprung from behind a tree, pointed rifles at our car and shouted “Bang! Bang!”, before diving from sight.

As Mr and Mrs Briggs crouched on the floor in terror, I explained that the men were from the M’Botoan Peoples Liberation Front. Unfortunately, a shortage of funds meant the MPLF rebels could not afford bullets.

With the evening light flattering the Palace and its peeling paintwork, I felt a tug of sadness as I walked the silent halls with Mr and Mrs Briggs. My parents had passed away. Well, “passed away” to nearby Bophuthatswana to visit the casino. I expected them back by the New Year.

Thanks to our country’s National Broadband Network – installed at no cost by Chinese Government engineers under the mistaken impression that M’Boto was the iron ore rich country of Mauritania – I could follow my parents’ adventures on Twitter.

 “What’s this?” Mr Briggs asked, picking up a wooden box trimmed with purple velvet.

“My grandfather’s family jewels.”

Mr Briggs smiled. It was last time I saw him smile. Indeed, it was the last time I saw him and his good lady wife. Stealing the wooden box, they slipped out at midnight, leaving a note saying: “Follow us and your grandfather’s Family Jewels on Twitter.”

Perhaps they didn’t understand the M’Botoan custom of keeping a deceased King’s testicles as a memento mori.

Two days later, Mr and Mrs B tweeted: Help! We’re being held captive by MPLF rebels. They’ll kill us tonight unless you pay big ransom. No joke. Wire money to bank account number

What could I do without the account number? The curse of Twitter’s 140-character limit had struck.

Personally, I would have recommended the flexibility of Facebook.

# # #

Copyright © 2010 GREG FLYNN

Lazarus

When the shovel hit the coffin, I became alive.

The cool embrace of the grave lost its hold even before I saw a chisel tip tear through the weakened nails holding down the lid. Creak. Sunlight. Creak. The smell of damp earth.

A face hovered over me. Dennis Hiver’s face.

Hiver the Driver. Young and cocky. I could have done worse than Hiver. Running his hands over my pockets, he tore at the fragile, rotting cloth, leaving it hanging. He didn’t care about my dignity. Puffs of dust rose, hovered and fell. His right hand brushed past my face. The letters L-O-V-E-R were tattooed on the knuckles.

Turning his head away – was it disgust at himself or the fear of my decomposing flesh? – Hiver rolled me on my side and ripped the silk lining from the coffin floor. “The key,” he muttered. “Where’s the key?”

Frustrated, he stood up, turned his back and pulled a mobile from his hip pocket. He was beginning to punch in numbers when he stopped. Froze. Spinning around he saw me standing just centimetres away. The scream died on his lips as I ate his soul.

I was surprised his body – no, my body now – didn’t feel awkward. Clambering out of the deep hole, I stretched my legs before leaning back against a stone cross. A mound of freshly-dug soil was piled next to my gravesite.

Patting my jeans’ pockets, I found a set of car keys, two cigarettes, a cheap lighter, and a condom packet with no use-by-date. Hiver must have been psychic.

The tobacco smoke went deep into my lungs and came out with a sigh. Flicking the still burning butt into the grave, I took a final look at my old decaying body lying twisted, half in, half out of the vandalised coffin. Sic transit gloria mundi.


I’m not quite certain why I drove past the bank. It certainly wasn’t for sentimental reasons. Beneath street level, clad in blast-proof steel, the safety deposit box vault would have even tighter security by then. But security means nothing if a disgruntled staffer gives you the codes. How many weeks had it been since we’d all stood in the vault, slapping each other’s backs, kings and queens of the world? The deposit boxes had been crammed with cash, jewels, even small artworks. While the others had filled bags, I’d prised open Box 792. I became bewitched by a slim phial of gleaming green liquid resting alongside a hypodermic needle. A slip of paper read: Prescott Pharmaceuticals. Vax-a-Life. Batch #92, followed by a two paragraph description of the contents. So, so tempting. Pocketing the phial and syringe, I’d rejoined the looting.

By the time we’d reached the safe house, the other five – Dennis Hiver, The Lamp Lighter, Vig Vigorish, Salvation Joan and D D McNally – were quiet. I found out why.

McNally had waited until the final lock clicked into place before he’d knocked me to the floor. He’d seen me shoot up on the darkened stairwell of the bank. I’d broken the code of whatever honour those thieves had – I’d stolen from the gang.

They’d circled around me as I lay on the bare boards. I’d pleaded that I had the key to the world’s greatest secret: eternal life. McNally had laughed, shook his head, then nodded at someone behind me. When the electrical cord was drawn tight around my throat, I’d seen a hand. L-O-V-E-R was spelt out on the knuckles. Karma’s a bitch.

Hiver, the fool, had thought the key was an object. The key was a man and I knew his name. I was tasting a stone cold dish of revenge. I liked it.


The lobby of Prescott Pharmaceuticals was guarded by two security men. I left their bodies laid out neatly behind the reception desk.

On the third floor, I found the laboratory. Professor Prescott was bent over a microscope, a note-taking assistant at his side. When I swung open the glass door, the assistant moved towards me, her hand outstretched. Prescott didn’t appear concerned.

“Hello, young man,” he said. “Have you come to help me?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve come to stop you.”

# # #

Copyright © 2010 GREG FLYNN

The Chosen One

Running my fingertips over the brass plates beside each door, I could feel grooves left by an engraver. The names, however, were illegible, worn away by time and polishing. Which door to choose? Of the two, the tulip yellow one was more inviting. The reception I received, less so.

The woman who answered my knock was hunch-shouldered, her shawl so large it swept the ground. Tapping her wooden walking stick in front of my shoe caps, she insisted I couldn’t enter without an appointment.

I assured her that I had one with Doctor Mary Kelly.

There was no Doctor Kelly at 11a, she said, shutting the door in my face. A moment later, the letter box flap opened: “Try Number 11.”

I did. After the second knock, the red door swung wide. The same woman stood before me. This time, her cane was lifted a few centimetres off the ground, its rubber tip aimed at my knees.

“And you are?” she asked.

“Remember? I’m Doctor Kelly’s 10 o’clock appointment.”

“I’ve never seen you before, and there’s no Doctor Kelly here.” Slam went the red door. “Try Number 11a,” said the voice through the letter box slit.

For the second time in five minutes, I rapped on the yellow door.

She was still hunched, but the stick was raised even higher this time. “Yes?” she asked.

“Let’s not go through this again,” I said. “I just tried next door and was told to come back here.”

“Told? By whom? No one has lived there for years.”

I was tiring of the game. “So, there are no psychiatrists in this building?”

“Of course, there’s Doctor Bristow. Come in.”

“Don’t I need an appointment?” I asked as she led me down a dark hallway lined with stuffed animal heads, each with a slightly startled look on its face.

“Of course not,” she said. “Where would you get a silly idea like that?”

Doctor Bristow rose from behind his desk. A heavy three-piece suit was set off by a bright yellow tie that matched the colour of the front door. He was in his mid-60s but, possibly, had never looked young. His hand touched my shoulder as he motioned me towards a leather couch. “Lie down and tell me what’s the problem.”

“I’d rather sit,” I said, reaching out for a visitor’s chair. The moment I sat in it, the rear legs began to give way. I went to the couch.

The corner of Bristow’s mouth curled up. “Go on.”

I explained how I felt that my life was in the hands of others; that I was dancing like a puppet.

Bristow lit a black cheroot, turned it over in his fingers and blew smoke down his nostrils. “Ah, yes. We call that ‘determinism’. Determinists believe the universe is governed by causal laws resulting in only one possible state at any point in time. In short, you have no free will.”

“We? As in: you psychiatrists?”

“I’m not a psychiatrist. Where would you get a silly idea like that?”

Swinging my legs off the couch, I crossed the room in three strides and flung open the door. It was a broom closet.

“Lie down,” said the voice behind me.

I refused. He shrugged. Beneath my feet I could feel the floorboards begin to creak. The creaking grew louder. I went to the couch.

“I don’t believe my life is pre-determined,” I said. “I do have free will. Look ….” I waved my hands around the room, “I chose to come here.”

“You had the illusion of choice. Two doors, some minor difficulties, the offer of a second doctor, a chance for you to feel as if you were in charge. The purpose? To lead you somewhere we chose for you.”

I wanted to ask “we?” again. But I was terrified of the answer.

The room seemed smaller than when I’d arrived, while Bristow and his cheroot were growing. Through the smoke, I could see his eyes were slowly turning the colour of the door at Number 11. It was like being trapped in a folk tale.

I had an idea. Slapping the couch with my open palms, I smiled at Bristow. “You know, this is a fine couch. Very comfortable. I love it here. I’m choosing to stay.”

Bristow’s eyes were crimson. “No,” he said. “No.”

I pinched the leather. “Frankly, I couldn’t be happier. I want you to keep me here.”

A moment of darkness, a splinter of bright light and I was back on the wide steps facing the two doors. A braver man may have stayed to wonder why. Not me. Turning quickly, I bumped into a smartly-dressed woman who was heading for the red door.

“You must be my 10 o’clock appointment,” she said. “Come in.”

# # #

Copyright © 2010 GREG FLYNN

The Tracker

With his right ear close to the red earth and his eyes squinting against the setting sun, he could make out the uneven ruts left by a four-wheel drive. The tread marks were smooth on the tyres’ shoulders, grooved on the insides. The killer’s wheels needed balancing.

The tracker didn’t have to be on his hands and knees, his face so near to the dirt that if he drew in a breath the dust would silt up his nostrils. Crouching on the ground was an affectation. No, he decided, that wasn’t right. It was a performance. He could just as easily have inspected the marks by leaning out the window of his Land Rover, but the bounty hunter would expect a touch of show business. You don’t team up with a blackfella to have him sit in the air conditioning, peering through a window: you want him scrabbling amongst the spinifex and ants’ nests, making remarks like: “Gubba gone bush. Lookin’ like shame job, boss.” and hefting a kangaroo carcass onto the campfire.

Standing up, the tracker left the dust on his palms and the knees of his jeans. More bits of business. Brushing off the dirt wouldn’t match the hunter’s preconceived ideas of how an aborigine behaved. He had to be as one with his country. For the tracker, his country was now a block of land and a self consciously neat house on the outskirts of Broome. “On with the show,” he said softly.

Inside the Land Rover, the airconditioning was barely keeping the desert heat at bay. A cluster of sweat beads shone on the hunter’s forehead. “Is it him?” the hunter asked.

Turning away, the tracker held his breath and nodded. When the hunter spoke there was the sour aroma of stale tobacco and fresh alcohol. Lowering the driver’s side sun visor, the tracker unhooked a photograph held in place by two elastic bands. He studied the photo as if the image of a man standing at a ticket booth in a foreign land would help. “Photo man” was braced against the booth’s counter, his face only partially exposed – damn useless for identification but it was the only ID that the client could offer. For all the tracker knew, “Photo man” mightn’t even be the killer. Maybe an acquaintance, maybe not.

The photo had fallen from the killer’s jacket when he’d swung a pub pool cue, cracking the client’s brother above the ear. The brother was dead before he hit the floor. Within the hour, the killer had fled the town, leaving behind one photo, one dead man and one vengeful relative.

Tracking down the killer should’ve been a task for the Broome police but the client wasn’t a patient man. He was, however, wealthy. He offered the hunter and the tracker a two-tiered deal: if they caught the killer and brought him back to justice, the two men would share $40,000. If they found the killer and he never returned, the split would be $50,000 for the man who did “the job” and $20,000 for the other person. Maths wasn’t the tracker’s strong point but he worked out that, as he had no intention of murdering anyone, either way he would get $20,000.

The hunter popped open the glove box. A 9mm pistol lay in its holster amongst maps, discount petrol coupons and unpaid traffic fines. Reaching in, the hunter cleared the scraps of paper away, leaving the weapon in clear sight. Looking satisfied, he twisted around. “Where do you reckon the photo was taken?”.

“Italy.”

“I knew it was some wog country,” said the hunter. “Not much use to us.”

At least they agreed on one thing, thought the tracker. Securing the photo back onto the sun visor, he reached across the hunter’s legs and clipped the glove box shut. He liked everything tidy. Guns weren’t tidy. On the second night after the men had left Broome, as soon as the hunter began drinking by the fire, the tracker had popped the first three cartridges out of the 9mm’s magazine, prised off the bullet heads, emptied the gunpowder and replaced the heads and then the cartridges. If he was getting 20K for the killer dead or alive, he wanted it to be the latter.

By dawn, the men were rattling inside their violently shaking vehicle, its tyres slipping on desert shrubs, sliding off rocks. The Land Rover was tilted at almost 45 degrees, the crest of the hill above them seemingly beyond reach.

“Why didn’t you take the road?” shouted the hunter, his hands flailing, searching for something to grip onto.

“Ask the killer,” said the tracker almost at the same time as he heard the crack.

The hunter hit his seat belt’s release button and spun towards the rear. The tracker stared ahead. He’d heard that sound before. The differential was gone, buggered, cactus.

The two men abandoned the Land Rover and began the climb, each with their water bag, each with a weapon – the hunter and his gun, the tracker and a nulla-nulla which he’d never used and which he only vaguely remembered his grandfather throwing 30 years earlier at a dingo foraging in a rubbish bin. Each man unhappy in his own way.

On the top of the hill they saw it: a dark blue Toyota with a pile of rocks propped under the passenger’s side wheel hub. Left under the only shade for 50 kilometres, the vehicle was cool to the touch. The tracker estimated it had been there for at least 12 hours.

The surrounding ground was hard but there was enough grit for the imprints of the killer’s boots to have left scuffing. The killer was heading further into the desert. There was nothing ahead for him but death.

As arguments went, it was a short, sharp dispute. The tracker was adamant that only a fool would walk deeper into the desert – and only a fool stood before him. They parted without farewells. The hunter’s shoulders were back, peacock proud, his holster on his hip. The tracker watched the hunter, just as much a dead man walking as the killer.

Taking off his Akubra, the tracker flicked dust off the brim, checked the bash in the crown was even from front to rear, then pushed the hat back into place. The sun was climbing above the lone tree. Time to go. It was going to be a bloody long walk back to collect the hunter’s $50,000.

# # #

Honeymoon Sweet

How I envy you both. You’re going to love it. Just picture yourself relaxing on a deserted beach, with the gentle lap of the waves, the lulling cry of gulls and, frankly, all you have to remember is not to get too close to the water’s edge or a seven metre Killer Whale might leap from the depths and drag you out to sea. We lost another honeymooning couple that way in June. Too much in love, is the way I see it. They were lying on their beach towels, furiously bonking away and – snatch – the next thing they know they’re somewhere off the Ross Ice Shelf being served as lunch to a pod of baby Orcas. Still, it’s a holiday they won’t forget in a hurry.

Trust me – Antarctica is the choice for adventurous travellers seeking a memorable honeymoon location. Unimaginative punters whose idea of an exotic experience is the Holiday Inn off the Patpong Road may be satisfied with la-di-dah toilets which flush, but I’ve been in the travel agency business long enough to know that my clients want something different, even if it means spending a few additional weeks trapped on an ice floe eating penguin chicks while waiting to be rescued by a Russian trawler.

Oh, yes, admittedly other just-married couples arrive home all suntanned, waving photos of lagoons and palm trees. But here at Bride’s Nightie Travel (motto: “You’ll Be Off Quicker”) we strive for the unusual. Who wants a hotel room with crisp, ironed sheets and those ghastly little chocolates on the pillows which have always melted because the air conditioning broke down and you spend the night picking gooey bits of Cadbury out your left ear? There’s none of that at Club Dread. You’ll be very comfortable, provided the dog sled can reach the huts before nightfall. Just between you and me, you wouldn’t want to be out in the open after sunset because the polar bears we introduced from Taronga Zoo last year to act as game for a planned shooting safari have escaped and were last seen disembowelling two British scientists who’d stopped for a pee behind a snow drift.

At Club Dread, remember, it’s all about you. For instance, the wonderful thing about the club’s Quonset huts is that, when the wind picks up to 140 kph and is driving snow and sleet through the cracked window panes, you can lie in your collapsible Chinese Army-issue bed at night listening to the rhythmic banging of sheets of corrugated galvanised iron. You’ll be asleep in no time – although if I were you I’d do a quick check under the bed each evening for rats. Roald Amundsen may have been a great explorer but he obviously never inspected his ship for rodents. Since 1911, the little bastards have bred and if it wasn’t for their crazed pink eyes which glow in the dark, you’d never be able to hit them with a shovel as they advance slowly across the room towards you at 3 a.m.

The cost, you ask? We have a number of tailored packages. For honeymooners who’re a little short on cash, we offer the BlueTube.com.au Discount Deal. It’s simple. We video your first night in bed as husband and wife – in the best possible taste, as you can imagine – and upload it onto BlueTube.com.au where sentimental strangers can download the video as a memento of the happy occasion. Whatever we make on the sales will be deducted (after we’ve taken out some trifling production expenses) from your holiday bill. I know these are early days, but if you do choose the BlueTube option, would you mind if in the opening scene of the video, the wife starts off wearing a fur bikini and the husband comes through the door dressed as an Eskimo? It’s a creative little scenario I’ve been considering and I think it could work provided you’re not put off by having a camera crew in the room. I’m trying to keep the crew numbers down, but I’m afraid Rhonda at Reception (you’ll have seen her with her feet up, painting her toe nails) has been auctioning the crew roles on eBay. So far we have 11 cameramen and a sound recordist.

If you’re a little shy, there’re other deals, most of which won’t require you stripping off. And, please, please, don’t be concerned about the two-way glass mirror above the bed. It’s mainly for show – unless, of course, the guests who’ve chosen the attic suite get inquisitive during the night. I always think a dead giveaway is when you notice a small, red “record” light on the other side of the mirror.

No, don’t thank me. It’s my job. Now, sign here and here. It’s purely for insurance purposes. You’ve no idea how pricey it is to get coffins out of a snowed-in camp.

# # #

© Greg Flynn 2009

French Letter

New Holland, Terra Australis
Dated this year of Our Lord 2009

To His Most Royal Highness, Louis XVI, King of France – or may I call you “Lou”? (I am afraid the over familiarity displayed by the locals here appears to be rubbing off on me).

I write to you as your most obedient servant, Jean François de Galaup, comte de La Pérouse.

Just as I have always admired your dress sense – all that glisters is gold, n’est-ce pas, Lou? – I am also in awe of your patience. When I set sail from La Belle France in 1785, the plan was to cruise down to the great southern continent to see what mischief the English were up to, and then return home with my two ships groaning under the weight of silks, spices and exotic fruits (which reminds me, I must admonish the Quartermaster about his rogering of the cabin boy).

However, as we headed for Cape Horn, I foolishly decided to ignore the course that Captain Cook charted 17 years earlier, and instead took the pretty route via the Bermuda Triangle. With the wind filling the sails and a rather fiery Bouillabaisse under their belts, my ships’ crews ignored the Triangle’s vile green fog as it crackled with lightning. Not so our priest. I knew something was up when Père Pierre screamed: “God has forsaken us. We are all going to die!”, then flung himself overboard and began swimming back towards France. Call me superstitious, but it did not seem to be a great start to the voyage.

Days passed and I would have fallen asleep at the wheel if it had not been for the howls of torment from the crew – here is a tip for that gorgeous wife of yours, Marie Antoinette: do not put too much cayenne pepper in the fish soup, it plays havoc with the bowels.

One morning, as I breakfasted lightly on an albatross that had become entangled in the rigging, I noticed the fog lifting to reveal a beautiful sight. Et, voilà. Land. By some miracle we had emerged from the fog just off the headlands of what I now know to be “Sydney Harbour”. Dropping anchor in a narrow bay that featured a long wharf with en plein air dining, I chose six of my bravest men (and on ships crewed by Frenchmen they took some finding), and rowed ashore. I have named the place where we landed “Woolloomooloo” after the Aboriginal term meaning “place of pretentiousness”.

While we provisioned at “Otto” – a nearby store – I sampled a plate of Wagyu beef carpaccio with truffle dressing, capers, Parmesan and baby rocket leaves; rather overpriced, I thought, at $28. The store’s faux Italian setting confused me for a moment, but my extraordinary powers of deduction came into play when I saw all the street signs were in English. As you may have guessed by now, Lou, Les Anglais have beaten us to claiming the whole continent. Worse, a passing urchin, mocking my knee-breeches and stockings, shouted that the year was 2009 Anno Domini.

Mathematics is not my strong point, but despite me appearing to be 44 years old when I shaved that morning, if the child is correct, I am in fact aged 268. Either the whole affair is très spooky or it goes to show the benefits of using a good skin moisturiser. Nevertheless, following your instructions that I investigate our once and future enemy’s plans, I led my men away from the bay towards a high, rocky escarpment known as Kings Cross. En route, we were harassed by roving bands of brigands called real estate agents. In order to understand
this strange city, we captured one of the agents and loosened his tongue with a bottle of Château Pétrus ’48 that we had been saving. The agent summed up Sydney thus: the locals’ prime raison d’être is “where you live defines your worth as a human being.”
The city, we learnt, is quartered along compass lines. The Eastern Suburbs, towards which we were heading, has a sun bleached, haughty quality adored by women with surgically surprised eyes and their louche companions who wear the haunted looks of publicists. To the North lie humdrum suburbs while, to the South, is “The Shire”, a self-titling description which apparently boosts property values. The West stretches endlessly, well, westwards.

Belted tightly around Sydney’s core is the Inner City, an area that enjoys the cosmopolitan lifestyle of Sodom and Gomorrah – but with higher rents. Taking our captive agent with us, we climbed the slopes towards The Cross. We knew we had reached the fabled Inner City when we caught sight of the needle-strewn alleys and smelt the aromatic derelicts sleeping in doorways. Malheursement, Xanadu it ain’t.

Before we released the real estate agent back into the wild, he gave us this warning: ahead lay two suburbs uncomfortably rubbing their hips together. Crossing himself, he explained that the toffy one was Paddington, the scruffy one Darlinghurst. Property prices, he said, fell off a cliff along the border between the two, and Paddington homeowners protected their suburb’s regional boundaries as fiercely as tinpot French winegrowers fought to defend their Appellation Contrôlée. In “Paddo”, residents sipped rosé and let down each other’s car tyres (Lou, I will explain “tyres” when I get back to Paris) for the abominable crime of parking across the too few driveways, while in “Darlo”, junkie hookers banged their johns in graffitied laneways. Despite the contrasting lifestyles, the neighbouring suburbs’ architecture was similar, the agent said. Built by émigré Englishmen whose ability to recall the housing designs of their motherland had been almost erased by 13,750 nautical miles, the suburbs’ terraced homes were tricked out with wrought iron balconies and separated by “dunny” lanes.

His eyes wide with fear, the agent told us that we should avoid both suburbs. He claimed we could afford neither Paddington’s restaurants nor the gimlet-eyed courtesans who, in knickerless splendour, worked the streets of Darlinghurst.

Spurred on by your Royal command and the possibility of getting laid, my men and I pressed forward. La nuit became le jour and we found we had taken the wrong turning. We were in an area with the mellifluous name of Coogee.

Standing on Coogee’s golden sands with only the snores of drunken Swedish backpackers breaking the serenity, I knew the time had come to write to you. I sat down and, quill in hand, began scratching out this letter. But how to get it to you? The answer lay around me. Fortunately, the beach was littered with countless empty liquor bottles so thoughtfully placed there by local tribesmen.

In a few moments I will seal the letter in a bottle and hurl it out to sea. I hope it finds you as it leaves me – in good health and full of optimism that your reign will last a thousand years.

À bientôt … and a big hug for Marie.

La Pérouse

------------------------------------------------
Historical footnote: During his actual voyage, La Pérouse wrote to Louis XVI saying that the expedition would return to France by June 1789. However, a few months after sending the letter, La Pérouse and his ships mysteriously disappeared.
------------------------------------------------

© Greg Flynn 2009

Advertisement in The Times - "Lady In Waiting"

She has a lovely seat. As I watched her buttocks rise and fall – picking up speed until she was going like the clappers – I pulled the silk kerchief from around my throat and dabbed my forehead. There’s nothing quite like the sight of a woman who can sling a leg over, let out a full throated cry and not be phased by flanks flecked with sweat. It seemed nothing could stop her.

The rhythm picked up until her bottom rose one last time, suspended itself in mid-air for a lingering second, then slammed down on hard leather moments before her steed’s hind legs thrust into the damp soil.

Astride Zounds, her gelding, the Duchess of Cornwall gracefully cleared the wooden fence and disappeared amongst the trees that marked the edge of my estate. I heard Camilla shout “Tally Ho!”, followed by “Gotcha!”. The squeals of a fox being torn to pieces by a pack of hounds was drowned out by the triumphant blowing of the hunt’s horns.

Spurring my own horse Hubris (sired by Scenic [IRE] out of Lovers Knot [NZ]) into a gallop, I raced to the site of the kill. I prayed I’d be first to wipe the bloodied brush on Camilla’s still flushed cheeks – those on her face, that is.

I reached the clearing where the foxhounds were dismembering the tiny beast, dismounted and strode towards a tree stump where Camilla was sitting, her high leather boots planted apart. A Benson & Hedges between her fingers sent a smoke signal into the morning air.

“Fruity Frogmorton,” she called. “What kept you?”

“As soon as I saw the hounds were all metal and had a good head, I thought I’d let you have the honour.”

“Gosh, Fruity,” she said, squeezing my arm and leaving bruising that would take two weeks to fade, “how gallant of you. That vixen certainly is a quick thing.”

“Was,” I corrected her.

For a minute we sat side by side, our jodhpured thighs pressed against each other while we admired how Baskerville, the lead hound, dragged the fox’s carcass backwards and forwards over the soil, sketching out in blood what to my besotted eyes was a heart shape.

Camilla broke the silence by scratching a match against the underside of her boot and lighting a fresh cigarette. “I must have one more before Charles arrives. He’s a wet blanket when it comes to smoking.”

Her husband’s name, so unwelcome in such an intimate scene – just we two, the slaughtered animal and 31 panting hounds – made me start. Pulling my leg away from hers, I stood up, breathed deeply and tried not to dive back into the limpid pools that were her eyes. No, no, I needed to look at her. I turned and found she was squinting as the cigarette smoke trailed up, stinging her eyes and enveloping her head in a blue grey cloud. The last person I’d seen who was able to hold a cigarette between the lips for that length of time was Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep.

“Camilla, you know why I placed that advertisement in personal columns of The Times?”

“The one that read: ‘Mature, portly male with potency issues seeks bi-curious Thai masseuse.’?”

“No, the other one: ‘Mr and Mrs K. Friday was fantastic. Hope you felt the same. Your dreams are ours. And our wish is a second meeting. Maybe earlier than discussed? Respectfully. Fx.’”

“Well, you’d been playfully referring to Charles and I during our last visit to Frogmorton Hall as ‘Mr & Mrs K’ – K for ‘King’ – so when I saw the ad I knew that you and your dear wife …”

“Lady Penelope,” I said helpfully.

“Indeed, what a woman. When Charles saw her bending over the Aga basting a haunch of venison with gooseberry jam, I recall him saying: ‘I’d like a piece of that.’”

I gave a polite cough to cover my annoyance at the thought of the Prince tupping my wife. “Yes, well, getting back to the advertisement. I wanted you to come back to the hall so I could tell you … tell you …”

“Tell me what, Fruity?”

“Yes,” said an ice cold voice from a tall bush to my left, “tell her what?”

Camilla was on her feet, clenching her leather riding crop. Then she snapped the whip so hard against her boot I thought I’d swoon. “Who’s that?” Camilla hissed through teeth that, after decades of a two-pack a day habit, had the hue of old ivory.

The bush parted and Lady Penelope stepped into view. I’d never seen her looking more lovely, with her lipstick almost straight – which meant she hadn’t found the gin bottle I’d hidden behind the stable door – and the sunlight bouncing off the twin barrels of the Purdey Over & Under 12 bore that she was pointing at my crutch.

“I heard that bitch cry out and came here, knowing what was going to happen,” Penelope said.

“You can’t refer to the Duchess of Cornwall as a ‘bitch’,” I protested.

“I was referring to Baskerville. I know when that hound recognises a moving scent.”

Swinging my gaze between Penelope, holding 7lbs 8oz of hand-crafted shotgun, and Camilla swotting her crop against her Ariat Challenge Field Boot, I felt my own boot heels rise a few inches into the air. I was doubly in love.

The sound of Penelope cocking the Purdey brought me back to earth.

Taking a deep breath, I decided to throw her off the scent. “Did you know …” I began as I backed towards my horse, “that Prince Charles fancies you?”

With Hubris breaking into a canter, the last words I heard from the clearing were Camilla’s shout of: “How dare you, you strumpet?!?”

# # #

© Greg Flynn 2009

Taking out the trash

Tamping down loose soil with the back of a shovel firms up the ground but often it’s not enough to stop a corpse suddenly sitting bolt up in the grave as if Gabriele’s horn had summonsed the dead.

When rigor mortis sets in about three hours after death, the muscles in the body begin to stiffen, so I’ve barely got time to hop back to the service station to pour myself a steadying Campari and Soda before heads and torsos start popping up through the topsoil.

Of course, I could bury them deeper but, frankly, I’ve got a business to run. And, thank you for asking, the Dunroamin Service Station & Quik-e-Mart are doing quite nicely. Ever since leaving St Leonards in late July, I’ve managed to shrug off the stress of big city living. You may have seen the news stories about how the riff raff were moving into the Lower North Shore: flirty-eyed bail jumpers with too tight jeans, non-slip lipstick, moisturised skin and frosted highlights in their hair – and, let me tell you, the Ogilvy women were just as bad.

For 20 years, I’d owned a sweet little petrol outlet on Pacific Highway – at that spot where St Leonards leaves behind the hustling bustle of Crows Nest. There was a touch of the exotic about the area, almost as if the highway was winding its way north to the fabled ports of Aden and Goa rather than Artarmon and Gordon. Because most of my customers were wearing hats and driving Volvos, I used to call it “The Old Spice Route”.

Then the corporate gypsies rattled over the Harbour Bridge, flogging their hand-carved wooden pegs, “lucky” heather and slightly used Thought Leadership programs – so I left. But I’ve got my life back. All it takes is a no-nonsense approach to bad manners. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s rudeness. Take last week, for example. There I was polishing my bowser when a large silver Porsche SUV slid to a halt over my right toecap. Leaping from the vehicle, the driver rushed towards me. He was kitted out in a black sleeveless T-shirt, camouflage shorts and brand new topsiders. “I hope you haven’t damaged my tyre,” he yelled.

Tugging at my shoe, I managed to extract it and, with as much dignity as possible, I limped around to the front of the car. As I lifted back the windscreen wipers, the driver reached out, grabbing my right wrist. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“I’m about to clean your windows,” I said, with my brightest smile. “I’m full service, you know.”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re Mary Friggin’ MacKillop. Get your hands off my car.”

I’m not a Catholic but I’m willing to take offence on the Church’s behalf. After all, Pope Benedict seemed a nice enough chap when he visited Sydney, although he could butch up his image by ditching the red slippers. I like a priest to look as if he could tear out the Devil’s heart with bare hands not give Satan a good perm and blow dry.

Leaving the driver to fill his own tank, I went around the back of the Quik-e-Mart to the shed where I keep my shovel. With its long handle and 18 inch industrial gauge blue steel blade, it’s practical and stylish. Just as I turned the corner with the shovel at waist height, the driver’s “wife” slid out of the passenger’s seat and clip-clopped across the forecourt in high heels and little else. “Oooh, I do like a man with a big one,” she said, eyeing off my implement.

Now if there’s another thing I can’t stand, it’s a woman with a potty mouth.

Whack! She toppled sideways like a felled ox, thumping into the Porsche before sliding to the ground.

“Hey!” the man screamed at her. “Don’t get blood on the Cayenne.”

I lifted my shovel above my head.

He looked worried. “Careful … this T-shirt is Armani.”

“Yes, but only Emporio Armani.” Thott! He joined her on the concrete.

Piling them into a wheelbarrow, I trundled the pair across the road into the forest. In a peaceful clearing, I struggled with the old problem of just how to place them in the grave. If I put the woman in first – face up – and lay the man atop her – face down – it would appear they were bonking for eternity. If I put him on the bottom face up and her lying on top of him, also face up, I’m certain they’d be in a position condemned by both the Bible and the Talmud. So, as usual, I opted for her on bottom facing towards the sky and him lying on top, also looking upwards. In some ways, they appeared to be on a tandem bicycle, peddling to the After World.

Back at the service station, a police car was parked diagonally, blocking the Porsche’s exit. Inside the Quik-e-Mart, a young constable leant into the glass-doored cooler, handing cans of Coca-Cola back to an older officer.

“That’ll be $26.50,” I called out, after a quick calculation which included my standard discount for public servants in uniform.

“Let’s just say,” sneered the officer with his arms full of cans, “this is your donation to the Policemen’s Bundy & Coke Party.”

Now … if there’s yet another thing I won’t put up with, it’s bullying.

# # #

© Greg Flynn 2009

From Randwick With Love

The hotel’s Adirondack chair was as flat and hard as my stomach. Uncoiling myself, I stood and stretched, allowing the sea breeze to tug at the thin fabric of my swimmers. I heard Holly whimper at the sight just moments before I felt her running her finger tips down the machete scar between my shoulder blades.

Her lips came up to my ear. “Oh, Ignatius, thank you so much for last night. You were magnificent.”

Turning towards her, I cupped her chin in my hand. “I know you were disappointed when I stopped after eight times. But, frankly my dear, it was getting a bit – what’s the word? – ‘samey’.”

A single tear ran down her café au lait cheek.

Although my heart is usually as hard as my arteries, I relented this time and slipped a $100 note into her bikini top, telling her to go buy something pretty.

Before I could reach the sea, a waiter approached with my lunch – two chilled Feijoa vodkas and a hot Chinese dumpling. Her name was Cui Ping. As tempting as she was, I knew that I’d be hungry again in an hour’s time. Tossing back the drinks and waving away Cui Ping, I gave the waiter a tip: “Don’t wear brown shoes with a blue suit.” Ignoring his grateful thanks, I loped off across the sand to the water’s edge.

Seconds later, my lean, tanned body scythed into the limpid sea just as a pod of dolphins rose to greet me. Calling to them in their clickety-click language, I challenged them to race me to a rocky reef, a mere 12 nautical miles offshore.

Within the hour, I was back on the beach, the exhausted dolphins left far behind. Waiting on the shoreline were three men in hotel uniforms.

The shortest of the trio, a foreign looking chap with patent leather hair and a damp handshake, began to speak: “Mr Wolf, we …”

I cut him off. “There’s no need to thank me. Exercising dolphins is my gift to Nature.”

He continued: “…were hoping you could settle your bill. Do you think …”

“Think?!?” I exploded. “I insist! You’ll have the cheque by late October.”

“This year?” he asked.

“Quite possibly,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. I headed towards the hotel before the men could show their appreciation.

Once inside, an eager room maid tore off my swimmers, sponged me down and dried me with a soft towel. Ideally she could have waited until I had made it past the reception desk but she was insistent.

In my room at last, I dressed carefully, choosing a light blue Sea Island cotton shirt, a black silk tie and dark blue, fine wool trousers. Stepping up to the full length mirror I admired the effect.

“You look like someone rather senior in State Rail,” said a gruff voice behind me.

Dropping into a Wounded Crane stance, I let fly with a wasabi kick, catching the stranger in the chest and sending him flying across the room. Within seconds I was upon him, grabbing his neck. “Who the hell do you think you are, Trinny and Susannah?”.

Only my extraordinary powers of observation saved his life. He was wearing long black robes and a wide scarlet sash around his waist. Stepping back, I recognised him as Sydney’s Archbishop George “Big George” Pell.

Struggling to his feet, the Archbishop looked around the floor. “Where’s my biretta …?”

The edge of my hand sliced down on the back of his neck, dropping him flat to floor. I wasn’t going to let him find his gun.

Lifting his head, he groaned: “Biretta not Beretta. I’ve lost my four-cornered priest’s cap with a tuft on top.”

“Ah,” I said, pulling him upright and patting him down for more weapons. He was clean.

“Let me get to the point, Mr Wolf,” said the Archbishop getting to the point and confirming he knew me. “The Church needs you. Ideally we’d hire an albino assassin linked to Opus Dei but, if you’re willing to powder up, wear pink contact lenses and a cilice, the job’s your’s. Listen carefully – the Pope is coming to Sydney and we need Randwick Racecourse for our special events. However, the racing industry is trying to block us. We want the industry destroyed. We’ll pay $10 million. It’s nothing to be sneezed at.”

Eureka! A plan began to crystallise in my mind, freezing my handsome features into those of Rodin’s The Thinker. What was the difference between a bird and a horse – aside from size, feathers vs hair, number of legs and the ability to fly? Nothing. So, all I needed was a sneezing chicken and access to Randwick stables. Within a week, flu would ravage the equine industry.

Throwing an arm over the Archbishop’s shoulders, I gave him a squeeze. “George, why don’t we find ourselves a couple of frisky nuns and a bottle of Benedictine. You’re going to love this idea.”


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© Greg Flynn 2009

Just bear with me while I shoot the cat

“Mar sin tha beatha.”

No. Having the characters speaking in Gaelic isn’t going to work. Let’s try it with a Scottish accent. “Ay yoo, Jimmy, och aye the noo? Wha hae wi' yoo?”

Worse. We’ve no choice, I’m afraid, we’ll have to stick with Standard English. It sounds a little strange in these Glaswegian streets where the walls weep from the rain, but fortunately the background noise of phlegmy coughing from the tenements drowns out most conversations.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes, planning to talk to the two wee ones on the footpath below. The best way to get through to laddies like them is to offer some friendly counsel. For instance: “Come near here again, you shites, and I’ll hang you both from the nearest lamp post.”
A few minutes before, I’d caught one of them writing in chalk on the wall of the house I was trying to sell. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d written: “Buy a lifestyle" or “Your private escape”. Instead the shorter of the two – the basin haircutted one who seemed to wearing somebody else’s ears – had written: ‘Condemned’.” In fact, he’d written “Kondemed.” But I’m a real estate agent not a school teacher, so the threat to lynch the pair if they came back was the limit of my advice.

No wonder I’m tense. It’s a high pressure job, this real estate selling in the Gorbals. My beat is the stretch along the south bank of the Clyde, up to the Broomielaw Bridge. There used to be a rather nice leper hospital on the Gorbals side of the bridge until leprosy became unfashionable. Now it’s a Pizza Express. I just hope they wiped down the benchtops before starting the new business. On the bright side, having a fast food joint in the area shows the Gorbals is moving upmarket.

A few years ago, getting soggy fish and chips and razor slash on your cheek was the locals’ idea of a great night out. Now you have a choice of such traditional Lowland dishes as chicken tikka masala or something European – perhaps scampi in a basket. With chips. The houses have changed too. When I first started in this business, only posh homes had a toilet. In other houses, you opened the upstairs window and peed into the street. The constant rain meant it was difficult to tell what was coming from Heaven and what was courtesy of the McNab family. Now, most residences have loos, many of which flush. In fact, the house I’m currently marketing has some outstanding features, including a working toilet (to be confirmed).

As I have your attention, you might be interested. Let me show you around. Step through this door. Now, don’t worry. I can see from your expression you think because the knob came off in my hand moments before the hinges gave way, there may be some quality issues. This house went up 200 years ago. You don’t get workmanship like this anymore. None of your nail guns, plastic and plasterboard used here, thank you. Each nail was hammered home by a craftsman. The wood is oak. Or it could be beech. Whatever. This great land’s fleets were created from this very timber. We sailed off to build an Empire on floor boards like these. What? All right, point taken, the English did the sailing and Empire building, but the Scots could well have been involved.

Duck your head! Now that’s what I call quaint. These low doorways just scream history. You want something to stop the bleeding? Just press a handkerchief to your forehead, we won’t be long now.

That noise? It could be the Scottish pipes. Turn on a tap and the plumbing plays “Bonnie Dundee”.

You’ll have to forgive me, we real estate agents are renowned for our sense of humour.
Yes, yes, I can hear it too. Hold on a moment, I see the problem. Could you turn your back? Just bear with me while I shoot the cat. Don’t go all RSPCA on me. It was a clean kill – AND you’ll notice the neighbours didn’t bang on the walls or call the poliss. True. Possibly they are used to the sound of gunfire.

Anyway, back to the cat. Lord knows how it got into the oven. Jings, is that the right time? You’ll have to excuse me. I have to go, I have another house to show. Please lock up when you leave. Guidbye.

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© Greg Flynn 2009