This is a compilation of music by semi-anonymous girl groups from the USA's west coast, a present from me to my beloved on her birthday. The best track is 'You Haven't Seen Nothing Till You've Seen My New Boyfriend' by Dee Dee Young. Her new boyfriend is something else, apparently, though, as this track was originally released in the mid-1960s, I bet he is not up to much now. The album as a whole is an enjoyable confection of teen drama.
This is on some reissue label called Ace. They look like they are a bit less of a dodgy hole-in-the-wall operation than that now defunct Radioactive lot – the record includes sleevenotes and claims to have been recorded from original masters, where these still exist.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Fish in a Barrell
It is easy to laugh at Conservapedia, this crazy website for strange people who are building a parallel universe by constructing an encyclopaedia that leaves out or grossly misinterprets anything from the real world that challenges their mindset. Currently giving us all roffles in Panda Mansions is the very impartial entry on Barack Obama, which includes many fascinating facts. I was particularly struck by the FIFTEEN proofs that he is a secret Muslim, proofs that include the following:"Obama uses the Muslim Pakistani pronunciation for "Pakistan" rather than the common American one."
"Obama has chosen the Secret Service code name 'Renegade'. 'Renegade' conventionally describes someone who goes against normal conventions of behavior, but its first usage was to describe someone who has turned from their religion. It is a word derived from the Spanish renegado, meaning 'Christian turned Muslim.'"
Click here for more worrying facts that the liberal media conspiracy have tried to hide.
Click here for pandas
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
v/a "Rebel Music: Songs of Protest & Insurrection"
This is a somewhat disappointing Mojo compilation of supposedly insurrectionary music that came out with an issue containing an interesting (to me) article about The Clash, in the time around Combat Rock (an album by The Clash). What do Inuit Panda readers think of Combat Rock? Some people say it is one of the three "good" Clash albums, but other people say it is shite. I have not listened to my vinyl copy for a while, but I remember liking the mix of more straight-ahead tracks on side one and the wacky noodles on side two. But I can see how people might prefer it without the wacky noodles.
Furry Folk - Part 27 LAST EPISODE
It has been a long and eventful journey, but now Jack has joined the Furry Freedom Force and is racing with them to take on the sinister villain who controls furry crime in Dublin.
The vans sped off towards the Lion's den. Underneath the camel suit, Jack felt nervous, wondering if he was going to make it back in one piece, wondering if he had the guts to do what had to be done. He looked at the other furries in the back of the van with him. They looked calm and ready for anything. But of course, he could not see their faces. Behind the fur, they could be as worried as he was.
He looked at his gun. It would probably be a good idea to get an idea how it worked before the shooting started, but it all seemed so complicated. The rabbit beside him noticed his puzzlement.
"Never handled an AK 47 before?" she asked.
"No, can't say I have", he answered.
"There's not much to it", the Rabbit said. "That’s the whole beauty of them. This here is the most important bit". Her paws fell on a switch, which she clicked first one way, and then another. "That's the safety catch. Keep it back like that when you're with friends in a situation like now. That avoids any nasty accidents. When the shooting starts, flick it forward first. Otherwise you won't be able to shoot anything".
"That wouldn’t be too good".
"No, certainly not. This lad here is another thing you need to know about. But the switch here, the gun is in fully automatic mode. That means that if you pull the trigger, the bullets will keep coming out until you let go the trigger or the magazine empties. But put it like this, it's only in semi-automatic mode. When you pull the trigger it only fires once. You want to fire another round, you have to release the trigger and then pull it again".
"Which is best?"
"Well", said the Rabbit, "It depends how much ammunition you have. How much ammunition do you have?"
"Just what’s in the gun".
"Stick to semi-automatic".
"Thanks", said Jack. Looking around, he noticed that Jane was similarly familiarising herself with her weapon, while another furry was, with difficulty, dissuading Anto from playing with his rocket launcher in the enclosed space of the van's interior.
"Quiet in the back, lads!" came a voice from the front of the cab. "We're just coming up to the gates".
The cab slowed and halted. Jack thought that maybe he could just about hear the automatic gate opening, and then the van started moving again. This is it, he thought.
"OK lads!" said the Fox. "Here we go. You all know the drill. Eh, apart from you three, so I'd better run it by you. When we reach the house, we go in fast and fan out quickly, looking for the Lion. If you find him, bring him down to the Panda immediately. Don't shoot anyone unless you have to, but if you do, kill them. Anyone else you meet, disarm them and make them lie on the floor".
The van slowed to a halt. The driver knocked twice on the partition wall.
"This is it! Go! Go! Go!"
The furries leapt out of their van, joining the others who were doing the same. The house's door was already open, and a bewildered looking sheep was standing there with his paws up as the first FFFers were already rushing over to him.
"Down! Down!" barked a Triple F in a dogsuit, waving his gun wildly so the sheep got the point. He crouched on the ground, front paws over his head. Other FFFers took up firing positions protecting the front of the house from the direction of their approach. The Fox led the rest of the squad inside, Jack, Anto, and Jane among them, Anto's dog running alongside him gamely.
"Split up! Move fast!" ordered the Fox. The others complied. Jack found himself with Anto, Jane, and the Rabbit moving through the ground floor of the house. He had been blindfolded when he was here before, but he had the sense that his feet were guiding him back to where he had been interviewed by the Lion. As they moved along, they kicked open doors, quickly checking the rooms for occupants. At this stage, the Lion was probably unaware that his house was under attack, so there was no need to search for him – if he was in a room, he would be there in plain sight.
Then things changed. A shot rang out from somewhere else in the house, somewhere above them from the sound of things. Then a burst of automatic gunfire. Then more shots. Right. If the Lion was downstairs, he would know something was up now.
In amongst the spasmodic shooting, Jack realised that he could hear something else. It was music, but music so saccharine and repulsive that it bore only the most notional relationship to what many would consider the highest of the arts.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered to Jane.
"Yes", she answered. "It sounds like…" She trailed off, unable to place the awfulness of what she was hearing. Jane had spent her life thus far seeking out far better kinds of music and avoiding the aural pap she was hearing now. Being forced to listen to it created a strange form of cognitive dissonance within her. In form this was music, with melody, timbre, and rhythm, but it was music of a uniquely dreadful kind. There was something wrong with a world that permitted such things to exist.
"What is this brutal music?" inquired Anto.
"Westlife", said the Rabbit. "It's Westlife".
"I was here before", said Jack. "The Lion was listening to Westlife. Where that music is, so is he".
"Let's go get the fucker!" said Anto, leading them on down a corridor towards the sickening sounds they were hearing.
A door ahead of them opened, and a chipmunk-suited fellow came out. "What the hell's going on? Who the fuck are you?" he asked. The music was noticeably louder now, clearly coming from the room behind him.
"Freeze!" shouted the Rabbit, sounding very scary and waving her gun at him. "You are a prisoner of the Furry Freedom Force!"
"Like hell I am!" shouted back the Chipmunk. He had a pistol by his side and he loosed off a couple of shots at them before jumping back behind the door and slamming it shut. His shots missed, as did the couple of bullets the Rabbit squirted off in his vague direction.
"We've got to go through that door", said the Rabbit. "We can't leave him free there".
"And the Lion could be there too", said Jane.
"But they'll be waiting for us", said the Rabbit, steely determination in her voice. "We may not all come back from this. Are you ready for this?"
"Let's do this" said Jane.
"Let's roll" said Jack, trying to sound like he was more up for it than he was.
"Let's even the fucking odds!" said Anto, firing off his rocket at the Chipmunk's door. It blasted through the door and then exploded on the other side. Anto was already running forward, the others close behind, kicking in the door and surveying the damage beyond, using the Luger as a weapon now that he had shot his bolt with the rocket launcher. The Chipmunk was now a bloody mess on the floor, the room generally was looking rather charred, and the infernal music had stopped.
"Result!" said Jack.
This was the room in which he had met the Lion, or what was left of it, but the Lion was not there. No one was apart from the charred Chipmunk. The Lion had clearly been here, and been here recently – the table by his sofa boasted some half-drunk cocktails.
"Come on!" said Jack, leading the others to another door that led from the room. Running over to it, he slipped the switch that changed his gun into fully automatic mode. This was no time for aimed shots. The door opened back towards them, and he pulled it back open while the Rabbit and Jane waited to blast anyone on the other side who fancied a go. But there was no one there in what seemed to be a large and elegant dining room.
They moved into the room carefully, conscious that it presented them with many nooks and crannies from which an ambush could be sprung, and that the room had several doorways through which the Lion could have escaped or more of his minions could appear. Their next step was not immediately obvious, when they were suddenly faced with the Lion's two humans of restricted growth. These two tiny balls of malevolence leaped out from behind an antique grandfather clock and rushed shrieking at Jack, each wielding what looked like a meat cleaver. Fortunately for Jack, their diminutive size put them at something of a disadvantage, and he was able to dodge one and kick the other in the face, knocking him directly into unconsciousness. He did not feel good about treating such a small fellow with such violence, but he did not fancy having his leg half cut off by its blade. The other dwarf Anto clubbed with his Luger, bending down to smash her head hard. She too was out for the count.
"Poor little fuckers", said Anto. He seemed genuinely sorry for the two they had just knocked out.
"Our quarrel is not with them", said Jane, her Marxist sentiments surfacing, "but with their master. Now let's find him and bring this to an end".
"Which way?" said Jack, indicating the three untried doors at their disposal.
"Each one in turn", answered the Rabbit. "And quickly! We'll see which one looks like it leads somewhere interesting".
Anto opened the first door, while Jack covered behind them and the other two pointed their machine guns through into the other side. A shotgun blasted back at them, suggesting that this route showed promise.
"Jesus!" said the Rabbit. She'd been hit in the shoulder. Jane blasted off a burst from whence the shot came. Jack came around to give supporting fire, looking down into a back corridor. It was the Lion's bloodhound retainer who had shot the Rabbit. He was now slumped against the wall, his gun on the ground beside him, having taken a couple of Jane's bullets himself.
"Anto! Stay with the Rabbit!" shouted Jane. "Get her outside if you can. Jack! Come on!" The Rabbit had slumped to the floor. The dog sniffed at her worriedly.
Jane was already moving into the short corridor. Jack followed. Something crashed to the floor ahead of them. Jane broke into a run, and then crouched as she moved from the corridor into a large kitchen area. Several furries (in what looked suspiciously like rat suits) held their hand up and cowered in a terrified manner.
"The Lion! Where's the Lion?" shouted Jane.
"They went through there", said one of the rats, pointing. "They're going to the bunker".
"We've got to catch them!" said Jack. "Once they get into the bunker, they can hold out forever".
"Get down on the floor!" shouted Jane to the rats, firing a burst over their head to show she meant business. "Now!" The rats complied, and Jack and Jane left them to run after their quarry. From elsewhere in the house came the sound of explosions and more gunfire. This was really going down.
They were in another corridor. From an alcove up ahead, a furry figure leaned out and let of a shot at them from a pistol, before ducking under cover. It was Inspector Scratcher of the Furry Squad.
"Give me covering fire, Jack", whispered Jane. "I'm going to take him out".
Jane crept forward while Jack squeezed off short bursts in the direction of the Pig's alcove, hoping that he would not accidentally hit her. He stopped firing as she sprinted to cover the last stretch, turning the corner and blasting off with her gun.
"He's gone! Come on Jack, this is the entrance to bunker! The door is closing, we've got to get in there before they seal themselves in!" She disappered into the alcove as Jack ran to catch up. The alcove hid a narrow stairwell, down which Jane was bounding. At the end was a heavy looking door (looking not unlike the door to a lift), a door that was slowly closing. Jack raced down after her as Jane leapt through the narrowing gap. Jack just made it through behind her, the doors closing behind him.
Once through, he wished that maybe he had chosen discretion over valour. Jane was standing there, her gun making ominous clicking noises while the Pig, the Lion, and his two lionesses all stood there pointing pistols at her and now him.
"Drop your weapons!" shouted Jack, brandishing the Kalashnikov, hoping that a show of front would decide things in his favour. In this he was to be cruelly mistaken.
"I know that voice!" said the Lion. "Mr Devlin! How good of you to join us! Your friend here seems to have run out of bullets. Now, be a good fellow and put your gun down".
"No, you drop your weapons, or I'll mow you down!" said Jack. He tried to sound intimidating, but his voice betrayed how terrified he was. "It's over. The Furry Freedom Force are all over your house. Give up now and appeal for clemency!"
"I think not, Mr Devlin", replied the Lion. "I think it is over for you and your friend here. I can see by the way you hold that weapon that you are not too skilled in its use. If you try to use it then we will cut down you and your friend here. And don't expect any help from your fanatical friends outside. This bunker is proof against a low level nuclear attack. They will never get in to save you. And I'm afraid they are the ones that have problems now".
"Yes, Mr Devlin", continued Inspector Scratcher. "I've put a call into the Furry Squad. The SWAT team is on its way. Your friends look pretty tough, but I don't think they stand much of a chance against tanks and helicopter gunships".
"Do it Jack!" said Jane. "Kill him".
"Shut it!" snapped the Lion, suddenly shooting her in the leg with his revolver. She fell to the ground.
"Drop the gun!" shouted the Lion to Jack. "Do you want me to finish her off? Do you want me to see how many shots I can fire into her before she dies?"
"I think you'd better put the gun down", said the Pig, quietly, playing the good cop.
"Alright", said Jack. He slowly put the gun down on the ground, and then stood back up with his hands up. "Now what?"
"Well Mr Devlin", said the Lion, "Now I think I will kill you. I will wait here for the Furry Squad to come and exterminate your friends, and then I will resume my reign as master of furry crime. I'll have your friend here patched up, and then I will put her to work – down the Furry Glen!" The Lion laughed triumphantly. His allies laughed along with him.
"I don't think so!"
It was Jane. From where she was crouched on the floor, she was able to grab the AK 47, squeeze the trigger, and blindly spray it at the Lion and his associates. They all took bullets in their legs, at just around ankle height, and fell to the ground screaming. Jack was on them in a thrice, taking their pistols and punching the Lion and the Pig in the face so that they would experience a more balanced pain environment.
The floor was now turning into a lake of blood. Someone had been hit somewhere you do not want to take a bullet. It was the Lion. Blood was pouring out of him.
"Oh God, help me, I think she hit an artery" he said, in a frankly pathetic voice that contrasted greatly with his smug tone of only moments before.
"Sorry pal", said Jack, "My secretary here has been hurt bad too, and I've got to get her to a doctor. No time to help you, I'm afraid".
"You'll never get away with this!" said the Pig. "The Furry Squad will hunt you down. I'll see to that".
"You won't see to anything", said Jack, as he shot the Pig in the head. He did the same with the Lion. It all seemed unreal, like someone else had said that and done the shooting. Then he turned his attention to the door. Once he figured out how to start it opening, he hoisted up Jane, and supported her out of the room.
"Goodbye, ladies" he said to the two Lionesses.
And that, basically, was that. The FFF squad regrouped at the entrance. The Panda was sorry not to be able to dispense justice to the Lion himself, but he took satisfaction from his furry reign of terror being at an end. The FFFers made their escape before the Furry Squad reinforcements arrived, confident that with their paymaster and commander dead they would have no further interest in pursuing them. Jack was rewarded handsomely by the Panda, and he took great satisfaction from seeing his secretary make a full recovery. It would be touching to say that the experience threw Jack and Jane together romantically, but this did not happen. Instead, she and Anto became involved, united by their shared experience of danger and a love of small dogs. Jack did start seeing the Furry Freedom Force Rabbit (who, unfortunately, largely lost the use of her left arm), and as part of their courtship he found himself donning the camel suit many times more, but that is a whole other story.
THE END
image source
The vans sped off towards the Lion's den. Underneath the camel suit, Jack felt nervous, wondering if he was going to make it back in one piece, wondering if he had the guts to do what had to be done. He looked at the other furries in the back of the van with him. They looked calm and ready for anything. But of course, he could not see their faces. Behind the fur, they could be as worried as he was.
"Never handled an AK 47 before?" she asked.
"No, can't say I have", he answered.
"There's not much to it", the Rabbit said. "That’s the whole beauty of them. This here is the most important bit". Her paws fell on a switch, which she clicked first one way, and then another. "That's the safety catch. Keep it back like that when you're with friends in a situation like now. That avoids any nasty accidents. When the shooting starts, flick it forward first. Otherwise you won't be able to shoot anything".
"That wouldn’t be too good".
"No, certainly not. This lad here is another thing you need to know about. But the switch here, the gun is in fully automatic mode. That means that if you pull the trigger, the bullets will keep coming out until you let go the trigger or the magazine empties. But put it like this, it's only in semi-automatic mode. When you pull the trigger it only fires once. You want to fire another round, you have to release the trigger and then pull it again".
"Which is best?"
"Well", said the Rabbit, "It depends how much ammunition you have. How much ammunition do you have?"
"Just what’s in the gun".
"Stick to semi-automatic".
"Thanks", said Jack. Looking around, he noticed that Jane was similarly familiarising herself with her weapon, while another furry was, with difficulty, dissuading Anto from playing with his rocket launcher in the enclosed space of the van's interior.
"Quiet in the back, lads!" came a voice from the front of the cab. "We're just coming up to the gates".
The cab slowed and halted. Jack thought that maybe he could just about hear the automatic gate opening, and then the van started moving again. This is it, he thought.
"OK lads!" said the Fox. "Here we go. You all know the drill. Eh, apart from you three, so I'd better run it by you. When we reach the house, we go in fast and fan out quickly, looking for the Lion. If you find him, bring him down to the Panda immediately. Don't shoot anyone unless you have to, but if you do, kill them. Anyone else you meet, disarm them and make them lie on the floor".
The van slowed to a halt. The driver knocked twice on the partition wall.
"This is it! Go! Go! Go!"
The furries leapt out of their van, joining the others who were doing the same. The house's door was already open, and a bewildered looking sheep was standing there with his paws up as the first FFFers were already rushing over to him.
"Down! Down!" barked a Triple F in a dogsuit, waving his gun wildly so the sheep got the point. He crouched on the ground, front paws over his head. Other FFFers took up firing positions protecting the front of the house from the direction of their approach. The Fox led the rest of the squad inside, Jack, Anto, and Jane among them, Anto's dog running alongside him gamely.
"Split up! Move fast!" ordered the Fox. The others complied. Jack found himself with Anto, Jane, and the Rabbit moving through the ground floor of the house. He had been blindfolded when he was here before, but he had the sense that his feet were guiding him back to where he had been interviewed by the Lion. As they moved along, they kicked open doors, quickly checking the rooms for occupants. At this stage, the Lion was probably unaware that his house was under attack, so there was no need to search for him – if he was in a room, he would be there in plain sight.
Then things changed. A shot rang out from somewhere else in the house, somewhere above them from the sound of things. Then a burst of automatic gunfire. Then more shots. Right. If the Lion was downstairs, he would know something was up now.
In amongst the spasmodic shooting, Jack realised that he could hear something else. It was music, but music so saccharine and repulsive that it bore only the most notional relationship to what many would consider the highest of the arts.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered to Jane.
"Yes", she answered. "It sounds like…" She trailed off, unable to place the awfulness of what she was hearing. Jane had spent her life thus far seeking out far better kinds of music and avoiding the aural pap she was hearing now. Being forced to listen to it created a strange form of cognitive dissonance within her. In form this was music, with melody, timbre, and rhythm, but it was music of a uniquely dreadful kind. There was something wrong with a world that permitted such things to exist.
"What is this brutal music?" inquired Anto.
"Westlife", said the Rabbit. "It's Westlife".
"I was here before", said Jack. "The Lion was listening to Westlife. Where that music is, so is he".
"Let's go get the fucker!" said Anto, leading them on down a corridor towards the sickening sounds they were hearing.
A door ahead of them opened, and a chipmunk-suited fellow came out. "What the hell's going on? Who the fuck are you?" he asked. The music was noticeably louder now, clearly coming from the room behind him.
"Freeze!" shouted the Rabbit, sounding very scary and waving her gun at him. "You are a prisoner of the Furry Freedom Force!"
"Like hell I am!" shouted back the Chipmunk. He had a pistol by his side and he loosed off a couple of shots at them before jumping back behind the door and slamming it shut. His shots missed, as did the couple of bullets the Rabbit squirted off in his vague direction.
"We've got to go through that door", said the Rabbit. "We can't leave him free there".
"And the Lion could be there too", said Jane.
"But they'll be waiting for us", said the Rabbit, steely determination in her voice. "We may not all come back from this. Are you ready for this?"
"Let's do this" said Jane.
"Let's roll" said Jack, trying to sound like he was more up for it than he was.
"Let's even the fucking odds!" said Anto, firing off his rocket at the Chipmunk's door. It blasted through the door and then exploded on the other side. Anto was already running forward, the others close behind, kicking in the door and surveying the damage beyond, using the Luger as a weapon now that he had shot his bolt with the rocket launcher. The Chipmunk was now a bloody mess on the floor, the room generally was looking rather charred, and the infernal music had stopped.
"Result!" said Jack.
This was the room in which he had met the Lion, or what was left of it, but the Lion was not there. No one was apart from the charred Chipmunk. The Lion had clearly been here, and been here recently – the table by his sofa boasted some half-drunk cocktails.
"Come on!" said Jack, leading the others to another door that led from the room. Running over to it, he slipped the switch that changed his gun into fully automatic mode. This was no time for aimed shots. The door opened back towards them, and he pulled it back open while the Rabbit and Jane waited to blast anyone on the other side who fancied a go. But there was no one there in what seemed to be a large and elegant dining room.
They moved into the room carefully, conscious that it presented them with many nooks and crannies from which an ambush could be sprung, and that the room had several doorways through which the Lion could have escaped or more of his minions could appear. Their next step was not immediately obvious, when they were suddenly faced with the Lion's two humans of restricted growth. These two tiny balls of malevolence leaped out from behind an antique grandfather clock and rushed shrieking at Jack, each wielding what looked like a meat cleaver. Fortunately for Jack, their diminutive size put them at something of a disadvantage, and he was able to dodge one and kick the other in the face, knocking him directly into unconsciousness. He did not feel good about treating such a small fellow with such violence, but he did not fancy having his leg half cut off by its blade. The other dwarf Anto clubbed with his Luger, bending down to smash her head hard. She too was out for the count.
"Poor little fuckers", said Anto. He seemed genuinely sorry for the two they had just knocked out.
"Our quarrel is not with them", said Jane, her Marxist sentiments surfacing, "but with their master. Now let's find him and bring this to an end".
"Which way?" said Jack, indicating the three untried doors at their disposal.
"Each one in turn", answered the Rabbit. "And quickly! We'll see which one looks like it leads somewhere interesting".
Anto opened the first door, while Jack covered behind them and the other two pointed their machine guns through into the other side. A shotgun blasted back at them, suggesting that this route showed promise.
"Jesus!" said the Rabbit. She'd been hit in the shoulder. Jane blasted off a burst from whence the shot came. Jack came around to give supporting fire, looking down into a back corridor. It was the Lion's bloodhound retainer who had shot the Rabbit. He was now slumped against the wall, his gun on the ground beside him, having taken a couple of Jane's bullets himself.
"Anto! Stay with the Rabbit!" shouted Jane. "Get her outside if you can. Jack! Come on!" The Rabbit had slumped to the floor. The dog sniffed at her worriedly.
Jane was already moving into the short corridor. Jack followed. Something crashed to the floor ahead of them. Jane broke into a run, and then crouched as she moved from the corridor into a large kitchen area. Several furries (in what looked suspiciously like rat suits) held their hand up and cowered in a terrified manner.
"The Lion! Where's the Lion?" shouted Jane.
"They went through there", said one of the rats, pointing. "They're going to the bunker".
"We've got to catch them!" said Jack. "Once they get into the bunker, they can hold out forever".
"Get down on the floor!" shouted Jane to the rats, firing a burst over their head to show she meant business. "Now!" The rats complied, and Jack and Jane left them to run after their quarry. From elsewhere in the house came the sound of explosions and more gunfire. This was really going down.
They were in another corridor. From an alcove up ahead, a furry figure leaned out and let of a shot at them from a pistol, before ducking under cover. It was Inspector Scratcher of the Furry Squad.
"Give me covering fire, Jack", whispered Jane. "I'm going to take him out".
Jane crept forward while Jack squeezed off short bursts in the direction of the Pig's alcove, hoping that he would not accidentally hit her. He stopped firing as she sprinted to cover the last stretch, turning the corner and blasting off with her gun.
"He's gone! Come on Jack, this is the entrance to bunker! The door is closing, we've got to get in there before they seal themselves in!" She disappered into the alcove as Jack ran to catch up. The alcove hid a narrow stairwell, down which Jane was bounding. At the end was a heavy looking door (looking not unlike the door to a lift), a door that was slowly closing. Jack raced down after her as Jane leapt through the narrowing gap. Jack just made it through behind her, the doors closing behind him.
Once through, he wished that maybe he had chosen discretion over valour. Jane was standing there, her gun making ominous clicking noises while the Pig, the Lion, and his two lionesses all stood there pointing pistols at her and now him.
"Drop your weapons!" shouted Jack, brandishing the Kalashnikov, hoping that a show of front would decide things in his favour. In this he was to be cruelly mistaken.
"I know that voice!" said the Lion. "Mr Devlin! How good of you to join us! Your friend here seems to have run out of bullets. Now, be a good fellow and put your gun down".
"No, you drop your weapons, or I'll mow you down!" said Jack. He tried to sound intimidating, but his voice betrayed how terrified he was. "It's over. The Furry Freedom Force are all over your house. Give up now and appeal for clemency!"
"I think not, Mr Devlin", replied the Lion. "I think it is over for you and your friend here. I can see by the way you hold that weapon that you are not too skilled in its use. If you try to use it then we will cut down you and your friend here. And don't expect any help from your fanatical friends outside. This bunker is proof against a low level nuclear attack. They will never get in to save you. And I'm afraid they are the ones that have problems now".
"Yes, Mr Devlin", continued Inspector Scratcher. "I've put a call into the Furry Squad. The SWAT team is on its way. Your friends look pretty tough, but I don't think they stand much of a chance against tanks and helicopter gunships".
"Do it Jack!" said Jane. "Kill him".
"Shut it!" snapped the Lion, suddenly shooting her in the leg with his revolver. She fell to the ground.
"Drop the gun!" shouted the Lion to Jack. "Do you want me to finish her off? Do you want me to see how many shots I can fire into her before she dies?"
"I think you'd better put the gun down", said the Pig, quietly, playing the good cop.
"Alright", said Jack. He slowly put the gun down on the ground, and then stood back up with his hands up. "Now what?"
"Well Mr Devlin", said the Lion, "Now I think I will kill you. I will wait here for the Furry Squad to come and exterminate your friends, and then I will resume my reign as master of furry crime. I'll have your friend here patched up, and then I will put her to work – down the Furry Glen!" The Lion laughed triumphantly. His allies laughed along with him.
"I don't think so!"
It was Jane. From where she was crouched on the floor, she was able to grab the AK 47, squeeze the trigger, and blindly spray it at the Lion and his associates. They all took bullets in their legs, at just around ankle height, and fell to the ground screaming. Jack was on them in a thrice, taking their pistols and punching the Lion and the Pig in the face so that they would experience a more balanced pain environment.
The floor was now turning into a lake of blood. Someone had been hit somewhere you do not want to take a bullet. It was the Lion. Blood was pouring out of him.
"Oh God, help me, I think she hit an artery" he said, in a frankly pathetic voice that contrasted greatly with his smug tone of only moments before.
"Sorry pal", said Jack, "My secretary here has been hurt bad too, and I've got to get her to a doctor. No time to help you, I'm afraid".
"You'll never get away with this!" said the Pig. "The Furry Squad will hunt you down. I'll see to that".
"You won't see to anything", said Jack, as he shot the Pig in the head. He did the same with the Lion. It all seemed unreal, like someone else had said that and done the shooting. Then he turned his attention to the door. Once he figured out how to start it opening, he hoisted up Jane, and supported her out of the room.
"Goodbye, ladies" he said to the two Lionesses.
And that, basically, was that. The FFF squad regrouped at the entrance. The Panda was sorry not to be able to dispense justice to the Lion himself, but he took satisfaction from his furry reign of terror being at an end. The FFFers made their escape before the Furry Squad reinforcements arrived, confident that with their paymaster and commander dead they would have no further interest in pursuing them. Jack was rewarded handsomely by the Panda, and he took great satisfaction from seeing his secretary make a full recovery. It would be touching to say that the experience threw Jack and Jane together romantically, but this did not happen. Instead, she and Anto became involved, united by their shared experience of danger and a love of small dogs. Jack did start seeing the Furry Freedom Force Rabbit (who, unfortunately, largely lost the use of her left arm), and as part of their courtship he found himself donning the camel suit many times more, but that is a whole other story.
THE END
image source
Furry Folk - Part 26
Jack and Anto have got rid of their captors and are now intent on rescuing Jane and the panda-lady
The other van had pulled quite a bit ahead of them while they were stopped, but from its course its occupants seemed not to have noticed that anything was amiss. This gave Jack a window of time to hit them before they reacted. His intention was to come up behind them as quickly as possible, then pull out suddenly along side them and force them off the road. The bears would still have the advantage of numbers, but the element of surprise would, he hoped, even the odds.
Things did not, however, work out like that. They were getting closer to the van ahead of them, when Jack noticed another vehicle – a large sedan car with darkened windows – pulling alongside it. Then the sedan car did what Jack had intended to do, suddenly cutting in front of the van and forcing it to a halt. What was happening?
Time speeded up. Jack had to slam on the brakes to avoid crashing into the other van. As they came to a halt, more furries suddenly appeared from the side of the road where they had been hiding. These ones looked a bit more moth-eaten than the ones he had encountered so far, but a couple of things about them struck Jack as significant. One was the berets they were all wearing, and the other was the machine pistols they were carrying. Similar looking furries were jumping out of the sedan car.
"Bollocks!" said Anto, holding his hands up while a rabbit pointed a gun suspiciously at him.
"Out of the van! Now! Keep those hands where I can see them!" the Rabbit barked at them. A woman's voice. Jack and Anto complied, and were pushed around to the off-road side of the van, where the furries made them stand with their hand splayed on the side of the vehicle.
Up ahead came a burst of automatic fire. Jack saw the van's rear door open, and the bears come jumping. They were looking for action, but their tune changed when another burst of automatic fire went over their head. They threw their paws to the sky, and were soon in the same position as Jack and Anto on their van. The bear who had been driving soon joined them.
"Vans secured!" said an owl to a fox.
"Well done!" answered the Fox, who seemed to be in command. "Now release the prisoners".
Two of the furries went bounding into the front van. Jack could feel some more getting into their vehicle as well. Soon Jane and Laura were being helped out onto the road. The Owl, meanwhile, came running back to the Fox. "The prisoners are gone!"
"What?"
"Actually guys", said Jack, "We're the prisoners. We had managed to get rid of our guards. We were hoping to rescue the others ourselves, when you lot showed up".
The Fox looked at Jack and Anto, appraising their story. "That explains your hairless features" he eventually replied. Then to his fellows he said: "It's alright, they're on our side". He beckoned Jack and Anto away from the van-side.
"Who are you people?" asked Jack.
"Have you never heard of us? We are the Furry Freedom Force".
"What?" said Laura. "I thought you people were a legend".
"No legend", answered the Fox. "Wherever our kind are in danger, sooner or later the Triple F will come to their aid. Now tell me, ladies, which one of you is Miss Cuddlebuns?"
"That would be me", answered Laura.
"Well then, someone here is looking forward to meet you". He gestured into the woods, from which a figure emerged – a figure in a panda suit.
"Chubbytail!" cried Laura, running to him. They threw their arms around each other.
"Oh Cuddlebuns, is it really you?" said the Panda, his voice clearly wracked by emotion.
"Yes! Yes it is! I never want to leave you again".
The continued embracing, but then the Panda broke free from her. "I have something here for you", he said, reaching into a bag he was carrying. He removed a folded-up object and shook it out. Even before the black and white shape reached its full length, all those watching knew what it was.
"My skin", whispered Laura.
"I thought you would want it", said the Panda.
"I'll put it on now" said Laura, taking the suit and then making her way into the front van to change. The others waited till she came out again, a panda once more.
"How do I look?" she said, now Miss Cuddlebuns and no longer Laura.
Like a woman in a panda suit, thought Jack, but he joined in the generally approving responses. Even the dog barked its approval, tail wagging.
"What's this all about, Chubbytail?" asked Jack.
"It is simple enough, Mr Devlin. I am sure you realised that I am a panda of means. What perhaps you did not realise was that I have for some time now been funding the furry underground. The furry folk of this country have for a long time now been toiling under the yoke of the Lion and his ilk. One day, though, the day would have to come when furries rise up against this tyranny. That day is upon us, sooner than I thought. You see, Mr Devlin, like you I took my wife's note at face value. I thought she was trying to leave furrydom behind, to become a shavy like you. If I had known that she was trying to protect herself and me from the Lion, then I would never have hired you. A surgical strike from the Triple F would have finished off the Lion and signalled that the day of furry freedom had arrived".
"I see".
"And when she contacted me, I realised what was happening. I feared that the Furry Squad would find you all before I could, so I had their station staked out. My people saw you being brought in, and I knew they would try to bring you (or at least my wife) out to the Lion. Hence this ambush".
"Now we're going to take out the Lion", said the Fox. The other FFF furries cheered.
"I will be leading the assault personally", said the Panda, in his most patrician tones. "You have all suffered at the hands of the Lion. Would you care to join the attack, Mr Devlin, Anthony, and – I'm afraid I don't know your name".
"Call me Jane", said Jane. "And give me a gun. I'm in!"
"Me too!" said Anto.
"And me", said Jack, not entirely convinced that this was really the wisest course of action. Still, in for a penny.
"I'm coming too", said Cuddlebuns.
The FFFers cheered again. Then Anto's dog barked to say that she too was keen on taking part in whatever the others were all doing. Everyone laughed.
"One thing" said the Fox, injecting a note of seriousness into proceedings. "There's no room for shavies in the Triple F".
"What do you mean?" said Jack.
"I think he means we've got to – become like them", said Jane.
"That's right", said the Fox. "We foresaw this eventuality, and brought some spare skins". He clicked his fingers, and one of the furries came running up with a bag, out of which he pulled three animal suits – a guinea-pig suit, a camel suit (such things exist), and a cartoon dog suit. "Take your pick".
"The guinea pig looks cute, I'll take that", said Jane. Anto took the dog suit, leaving Jack with the camel. They put them on over their clothes, which the furries present found highly amusing.
"Reynard, deal with the bears", said Chubbytail abruptly.
"Jesus Christ", said Jack. "I know they're pricks, but you're not going to just kill them in cold blood?"
"We're not murderers", answered the Fox. "Not like they are". He strode over to his comrades guarding the foxes. "See to them, lads!"
The FFFers got to work, not executing the bears but stripping them out of their bearsuits. It did not take long. Jack could not help but notice that they were all naked under their suits. They stood around looking cold and vulnerable as the furry revolutionaries tied their hands behind their backs and then roped them all up together. Two of the furries led them off into the woods.
"We'll release them on the way back" said Reynard. "They'll be no threat to us then".
Two of the smaller of the Fox's furries were now putting bear suits on over their existing animal costumes. "The Lion's den is highly secure", said the Panda, "surrounded by electrified fences with a gate defended by a well-placed machine gun nest. A frontal assault would be possible, but it would also be costly. It would also give the Lion long enough to either flee or to take refuge in his nigh impregnable inner sanctum. But if we drive up to the get in the Lion's vans, with drivers wearing the skins of his minions – why then there is every likelihood that we will simply be waved in. That will allow us to drive straight up to the door of the house. By the time the assault starts, it will be too late for the Lion to get away".
"Deadly", said Anto.
"Yes indeed", replied Mr Chubbytail. "Now comrades!" he called out to the FFFers, "some weapons for our new friends!"
Miss Cuddlebuns was presented with a revolver, Jane with some kind of small automatic machine-pistol, Jack with a Kalashnikov, and Anto (who already had the faux Luger) with an RPG-7 grenade launcher.
"Try not to use it indoors, Anthony", said the Panda diffidently.
"No problemo", answered Anto, clearly relishing the opportunity to blow something up.
"OK everybody!" called out the Fox. "Load up! Come on guys, we haven't got all evening".
They quickly piled into the vans, Jack and his lot among them. Then they sped off towards the final showdown.
The other van had pulled quite a bit ahead of them while they were stopped, but from its course its occupants seemed not to have noticed that anything was amiss. This gave Jack a window of time to hit them before they reacted. His intention was to come up behind them as quickly as possible, then pull out suddenly along side them and force them off the road. The bears would still have the advantage of numbers, but the element of surprise would, he hoped, even the odds.
Time speeded up. Jack had to slam on the brakes to avoid crashing into the other van. As they came to a halt, more furries suddenly appeared from the side of the road where they had been hiding. These ones looked a bit more moth-eaten than the ones he had encountered so far, but a couple of things about them struck Jack as significant. One was the berets they were all wearing, and the other was the machine pistols they were carrying. Similar looking furries were jumping out of the sedan car.
"Bollocks!" said Anto, holding his hands up while a rabbit pointed a gun suspiciously at him.
"Out of the van! Now! Keep those hands where I can see them!" the Rabbit barked at them. A woman's voice. Jack and Anto complied, and were pushed around to the off-road side of the van, where the furries made them stand with their hand splayed on the side of the vehicle.
Up ahead came a burst of automatic fire. Jack saw the van's rear door open, and the bears come jumping. They were looking for action, but their tune changed when another burst of automatic fire went over their head. They threw their paws to the sky, and were soon in the same position as Jack and Anto on their van. The bear who had been driving soon joined them.
"Vans secured!" said an owl to a fox.
"Well done!" answered the Fox, who seemed to be in command. "Now release the prisoners".
Two of the furries went bounding into the front van. Jack could feel some more getting into their vehicle as well. Soon Jane and Laura were being helped out onto the road. The Owl, meanwhile, came running back to the Fox. "The prisoners are gone!"
"What?"
"Actually guys", said Jack, "We're the prisoners. We had managed to get rid of our guards. We were hoping to rescue the others ourselves, when you lot showed up".
The Fox looked at Jack and Anto, appraising their story. "That explains your hairless features" he eventually replied. Then to his fellows he said: "It's alright, they're on our side". He beckoned Jack and Anto away from the van-side.
"Who are you people?" asked Jack.
"Have you never heard of us? We are the Furry Freedom Force".
"What?" said Laura. "I thought you people were a legend".
"No legend", answered the Fox. "Wherever our kind are in danger, sooner or later the Triple F will come to their aid. Now tell me, ladies, which one of you is Miss Cuddlebuns?"
"That would be me", answered Laura.
"Well then, someone here is looking forward to meet you". He gestured into the woods, from which a figure emerged – a figure in a panda suit.
"Chubbytail!" cried Laura, running to him. They threw their arms around each other.
"Oh Cuddlebuns, is it really you?" said the Panda, his voice clearly wracked by emotion.
"Yes! Yes it is! I never want to leave you again".
The continued embracing, but then the Panda broke free from her. "I have something here for you", he said, reaching into a bag he was carrying. He removed a folded-up object and shook it out. Even before the black and white shape reached its full length, all those watching knew what it was.
"My skin", whispered Laura.
"I thought you would want it", said the Panda.
"I'll put it on now" said Laura, taking the suit and then making her way into the front van to change. The others waited till she came out again, a panda once more.
"How do I look?" she said, now Miss Cuddlebuns and no longer Laura.
Like a woman in a panda suit, thought Jack, but he joined in the generally approving responses. Even the dog barked its approval, tail wagging.
"What's this all about, Chubbytail?" asked Jack.
"It is simple enough, Mr Devlin. I am sure you realised that I am a panda of means. What perhaps you did not realise was that I have for some time now been funding the furry underground. The furry folk of this country have for a long time now been toiling under the yoke of the Lion and his ilk. One day, though, the day would have to come when furries rise up against this tyranny. That day is upon us, sooner than I thought. You see, Mr Devlin, like you I took my wife's note at face value. I thought she was trying to leave furrydom behind, to become a shavy like you. If I had known that she was trying to protect herself and me from the Lion, then I would never have hired you. A surgical strike from the Triple F would have finished off the Lion and signalled that the day of furry freedom had arrived".
"I see".
"And when she contacted me, I realised what was happening. I feared that the Furry Squad would find you all before I could, so I had their station staked out. My people saw you being brought in, and I knew they would try to bring you (or at least my wife) out to the Lion. Hence this ambush".
"Now we're going to take out the Lion", said the Fox. The other FFF furries cheered.
"I will be leading the assault personally", said the Panda, in his most patrician tones. "You have all suffered at the hands of the Lion. Would you care to join the attack, Mr Devlin, Anthony, and – I'm afraid I don't know your name".
"Call me Jane", said Jane. "And give me a gun. I'm in!"
"Me too!" said Anto.
"And me", said Jack, not entirely convinced that this was really the wisest course of action. Still, in for a penny.
"I'm coming too", said Cuddlebuns.
The FFFers cheered again. Then Anto's dog barked to say that she too was keen on taking part in whatever the others were all doing. Everyone laughed.
"One thing" said the Fox, injecting a note of seriousness into proceedings. "There's no room for shavies in the Triple F".
"What do you mean?" said Jack.
"I think he means we've got to – become like them", said Jane.
"That's right", said the Fox. "We foresaw this eventuality, and brought some spare skins". He clicked his fingers, and one of the furries came running up with a bag, out of which he pulled three animal suits – a guinea-pig suit, a camel suit (such things exist), and a cartoon dog suit. "Take your pick".
"The guinea pig looks cute, I'll take that", said Jane. Anto took the dog suit, leaving Jack with the camel. They put them on over their clothes, which the furries present found highly amusing.
"Reynard, deal with the bears", said Chubbytail abruptly.
"Jesus Christ", said Jack. "I know they're pricks, but you're not going to just kill them in cold blood?"
"We're not murderers", answered the Fox. "Not like they are". He strode over to his comrades guarding the foxes. "See to them, lads!"
The FFFers got to work, not executing the bears but stripping them out of their bearsuits. It did not take long. Jack could not help but notice that they were all naked under their suits. They stood around looking cold and vulnerable as the furry revolutionaries tied their hands behind their backs and then roped them all up together. Two of the furries led them off into the woods.
"We'll release them on the way back" said Reynard. "They'll be no threat to us then".
Two of the smaller of the Fox's furries were now putting bear suits on over their existing animal costumes. "The Lion's den is highly secure", said the Panda, "surrounded by electrified fences with a gate defended by a well-placed machine gun nest. A frontal assault would be possible, but it would also be costly. It would also give the Lion long enough to either flee or to take refuge in his nigh impregnable inner sanctum. But if we drive up to the get in the Lion's vans, with drivers wearing the skins of his minions – why then there is every likelihood that we will simply be waved in. That will allow us to drive straight up to the door of the house. By the time the assault starts, it will be too late for the Lion to get away".
"Deadly", said Anto.
"Yes indeed", replied Mr Chubbytail. "Now comrades!" he called out to the FFFers, "some weapons for our new friends!"
Miss Cuddlebuns was presented with a revolver, Jane with some kind of small automatic machine-pistol, Jack with a Kalashnikov, and Anto (who already had the faux Luger) with an RPG-7 grenade launcher.
"Try not to use it indoors, Anthony", said the Panda diffidently.
"No problemo", answered Anto, clearly relishing the opportunity to blow something up.
"OK everybody!" called out the Fox. "Load up! Come on guys, we haven't got all evening".
They quickly piled into the vans, Jack and his lot among them. Then they sped off towards the final showdown.
Furry Folk - Part 25
Jack and the others are being taken away to what he suspects is their death.
The van rolled on. Jack sank into a terrible gloom. He had failed. It was all over. He found himself thinking of all the things he could have done differently. If only he had not told the Pig where they were hiding out. If only he had been more alert when he left the pub with the mobile phone printout. If only he had not taken the stupid case. Like many people in similar situations before him, Jack found himself wishing that he had the power to turn back the clock and undo his past mistakes. He remained stuck in his dreadful present.
Beside him, Anto rolled gingerly over onto his side. From his face, he looked fast asleep. Jack admired his ability to surrender to sleep in the face of their coming end. Then he realised that Anto was up to something. Lying as he was, his arms behind him projected under the bench beneath two of the furries. There was something there under the bench. It was Anto's dog. Where had it come from? Jack had not seen it jump into the van, but a little dog like that can easily sneak where human (and furry) eyes will not see it. And what was the dog doing? It seemed to be going to work on the rope tying Anto's hands together, carefully and silently. A dog who could untie knots, or bite through rope? What a wonder this thing was. Jack resolved nevermore to be an enemy of canines.
Anto's eyes opened slightly. He made eye contact with Jack, and then winked. Jack winked back. This was not over yet.
After a couple of minutes, the dog seemed to be finished with its work. It stuck its head up at Jack, looking at him expectantly, but still hiding from the furries. Jack decided to try the oldest trick in the book. "Urrrghh, Urrrrgghuuugh!" he moaned, while writhing in his best approximation of one struck suddenly with stomach cramps.
"Hey, what's up with him?" said the Leopard.
"Stop that, you prick!" barked the Koala, giving Jack a dig with his foot. But Jack moaned and writhed on, also doing his best to drool as much of spittle onto the floor of the van. If he could foam at the mouth on demand he would have done that to.
"Maybe he's got something catching?" said the third furry, a spectacled bear. He sounded concerned.
"Check him out!" ordered the Koala. The Leopard bent down to try holding Jack still, while the Bear kneeled down to look in his face. Jack obliged his interest by suddenly recovering his health, giving the Bear a sharp head-butt in the face.
"The little fucking bollocks!" swore the Koala, jumping up ready to start kicking Jack into submission. Unfortunately for him, Anto was springing up behind him. He grabbed the Koala from behind and sharply threw him against the back doors of the van. They flew open, sending the Koala off down the road behind them. The Leopard did not react quickly enough, and his failure to move meant he took a punch from Anto so hard that it smashed him against the side of the van. That left him so stunned that he gave no resistance when Anto grabbed him and threw him out the back after the Koala.
"Ah Jesus guys!" said the Bear, somewhat pathetically, still gripping the face where Jack had nutted him. Jack kneed him in the nuts, and Anto then turfed him out after the others.
"Looks like you missed your stop", said Anto, trying to sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger; in a Dublin accent the effect was not quite the same.
"What the fuck are you doing back there?" called out a voice from beyond the partition that separated them from the front cab. "The boss said he wanted them in one piece". Good, he could not see what went on with them, and had not seen the furries littering the road behind them.
"They needed a few slaps", said Jack, in his best approximation of the Koala's voice. "The fuckers were getting a bit rowdy". As he spoke, Anto and the dog were hard at work on the knots holding his hands together. And now he was free. He crept up towards the front of the van, and then slid back the hatch dividing them from the cab. The Badger driving looked back at them in what Jack thought was probably astonishment, though it was so hard to tell with furries.
"What the fuck?" he exclaimed.
"Looks like you might need a few slaps too" commented Jack, before throwing a length of rope around the driver's neck. He pulled hard, choking the driver. The Badger lost control of the vehicle, and it lurched off road onto the hard shoulder, coming slowly to a halt. The Badger's struggles slowly subsided. Anto hopped out the back of the van, running round to the driver's door, and pulling it open. Jack released the barely conscious Badger, and Anto pulled him out of the van.
"I'll get rid of this prick," said Anto, emptying the Badger's pockets and then dragging him off while the dog barked excitedly. "Get in the front – we'll have to catch up with the other van fast, and I think you are the man for speed". Jack ran around to the driver's seat. Anto threw the Badger into a ditch beside the hard shoulder, then climbing in beside Jack. The dog perched on his lap, looking very pleased with itself. As they pulled off, Anto fumbled in the glove box.
"Look what we have here!" he said, holding up a nasty looking pistol. Jack thought it looked not unlike a Luger from the German army in the Second World War, though some cheap thugs like the Badger, Koala and their pals would hardly be able to afford such an expensive antique weapon. Even as a duplicate, though, the pistol was an astonishing piece of weaponry, the kind of thing that holding makes you feel that bit more confident and something you really do not want anyone pointing at you.
"Awesome", said Jack.
"Ha ha ha, those furry fuckers are for it now!" said Anto triumphantly.
"You got it", answered Jack, flooring the accelerator.
The van rolled on. Jack sank into a terrible gloom. He had failed. It was all over. He found himself thinking of all the things he could have done differently. If only he had not told the Pig where they were hiding out. If only he had been more alert when he left the pub with the mobile phone printout. If only he had not taken the stupid case. Like many people in similar situations before him, Jack found himself wishing that he had the power to turn back the clock and undo his past mistakes. He remained stuck in his dreadful present.
Anto's eyes opened slightly. He made eye contact with Jack, and then winked. Jack winked back. This was not over yet.
After a couple of minutes, the dog seemed to be finished with its work. It stuck its head up at Jack, looking at him expectantly, but still hiding from the furries. Jack decided to try the oldest trick in the book. "Urrrghh, Urrrrgghuuugh!" he moaned, while writhing in his best approximation of one struck suddenly with stomach cramps.
"Hey, what's up with him?" said the Leopard.
"Stop that, you prick!" barked the Koala, giving Jack a dig with his foot. But Jack moaned and writhed on, also doing his best to drool as much of spittle onto the floor of the van. If he could foam at the mouth on demand he would have done that to.
"Maybe he's got something catching?" said the third furry, a spectacled bear. He sounded concerned.
"Check him out!" ordered the Koala. The Leopard bent down to try holding Jack still, while the Bear kneeled down to look in his face. Jack obliged his interest by suddenly recovering his health, giving the Bear a sharp head-butt in the face.
"The little fucking bollocks!" swore the Koala, jumping up ready to start kicking Jack into submission. Unfortunately for him, Anto was springing up behind him. He grabbed the Koala from behind and sharply threw him against the back doors of the van. They flew open, sending the Koala off down the road behind them. The Leopard did not react quickly enough, and his failure to move meant he took a punch from Anto so hard that it smashed him against the side of the van. That left him so stunned that he gave no resistance when Anto grabbed him and threw him out the back after the Koala.
"Ah Jesus guys!" said the Bear, somewhat pathetically, still gripping the face where Jack had nutted him. Jack kneed him in the nuts, and Anto then turfed him out after the others.
"Looks like you missed your stop", said Anto, trying to sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger; in a Dublin accent the effect was not quite the same.
"What the fuck are you doing back there?" called out a voice from beyond the partition that separated them from the front cab. "The boss said he wanted them in one piece". Good, he could not see what went on with them, and had not seen the furries littering the road behind them.
"They needed a few slaps", said Jack, in his best approximation of the Koala's voice. "The fuckers were getting a bit rowdy". As he spoke, Anto and the dog were hard at work on the knots holding his hands together. And now he was free. He crept up towards the front of the van, and then slid back the hatch dividing them from the cab. The Badger driving looked back at them in what Jack thought was probably astonishment, though it was so hard to tell with furries.
"What the fuck?" he exclaimed.
"Looks like you might need a few slaps too" commented Jack, before throwing a length of rope around the driver's neck. He pulled hard, choking the driver. The Badger lost control of the vehicle, and it lurched off road onto the hard shoulder, coming slowly to a halt. The Badger's struggles slowly subsided. Anto hopped out the back of the van, running round to the driver's door, and pulling it open. Jack released the barely conscious Badger, and Anto pulled him out of the van.
"I'll get rid of this prick," said Anto, emptying the Badger's pockets and then dragging him off while the dog barked excitedly. "Get in the front – we'll have to catch up with the other van fast, and I think you are the man for speed". Jack ran around to the driver's seat. Anto threw the Badger into a ditch beside the hard shoulder, then climbing in beside Jack. The dog perched on his lap, looking very pleased with itself. As they pulled off, Anto fumbled in the glove box.
"Look what we have here!" he said, holding up a nasty looking pistol. Jack thought it looked not unlike a Luger from the German army in the Second World War, though some cheap thugs like the Badger, Koala and their pals would hardly be able to afford such an expensive antique weapon. Even as a duplicate, though, the pistol was an astonishing piece of weaponry, the kind of thing that holding makes you feel that bit more confident and something you really do not want anyone pointing at you.
"Awesome", said Jack.
"Ha ha ha, those furry fuckers are for it now!" said Anto triumphantly.
"You got it", answered Jack, flooring the accelerator.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 24
Jack and the others in the hands of the Furry Squad
Jack and Anto had been waiting in their cell for a couple of hours when the door suddenly opened. A furry Guard (a bulldog) stood in the doorway, with an indeterminate number of his fellows behind him. "Come on now guys, time you were on your way" said the Bulldog. Jack and Anto meekly trooped out into the open area, where almost a dozen of the Furry Squad were waiting for them. Jane and Laura were already out there, hands seemingly cuffed behind their backs. Jack felt his arms being pulled behind him and then the cold metal of a handcuff was on his wrists. Anto seemed to have been similarly treated.
"This way, guys", said the Bulldog. "And let's no one do anything stupid, eh?" He led on, and a few shoves from the Guards set Jack and the others on their way after him. They were led out into a courtyard, where familiar looking blue and white van was waiting for them. Jack was not particularly surprised to see the bears from earlier loafing around outside as well, reinforced by his old friend the Koala and his crew. Ominously, one of the larger bears sported a bandage on his head. The bearsuits were more or less identical, making it difficult to tell one bear from another, but Jack suspected strongly that this was Barney, the bear he had managed to knock unconscious, the bear whose bike he had stolen. The bearsuit made it impossible to read facial expressions, but Jack sensed that this one was staring at him with something approaching to pure malevolence.
"Here they are", said the Bulldog.
"Great stuff" answered one of the bears, obviously the leader of the Lion's people here. He turned to his gang and said: "Load them into the vans, boys".
"Hold on now!" said the Bulldog, halting the mobsters moves towards the prisoners with a gesture. "You can have these fuckers, but the handcuffs are Garda property. We'll have to take them off, then you can have them".
"Can't we send them back when we're finished with them?" said the Bear, somewhat exasperated.
"No way, pal, more than my job's worth. The cuffs stay here".
"Okay, okay, take 'em off. We'll tie them up". He gestured to some of his furries to fetch rope from inside the vans.
Like the others, Jack was uncuffed by the Guards and then had his hands tied back together at the wrist by the Lion's men. The bear he thought was Barney did him, making sure to tie the rope so tightly that Jack thought he might lose his hands. Still, he decided to try needling the bear.
"Hi Barney," he said, as flippantly as possible. "We meet again. I see you've brought some pals with you – couldn't handle me on your own?"
Barney growled and gave Jack a dig, but the boss bear called out to him. "Leave it out Barney, the boss wants them in one piece. He'll decide what to do with them. If he decides to get rid of the cunt then you can have your fun with him". Barney backed off, but Jack could tell that he was not too happy with this business of waiting to administer extreme violence to Jack. "I'll get you", he whispered to Jack, in a distinctly subhuman voice.
Jack was herded with Anto into one of the vans, Jane and Laura into the other. Jack and Anto found themselves in the custody of the Koala and his fellows. They were pushed to the floor, made to lie face down while the others sat on benches on either side of the van. "Don't try anything, you little pricks" said the Koala. "I've got to bring you out to the boss in one piece, but I don't think he'd mind if you got hurt while trying to escape. I would really like to hurt you bags of shit – especially you". He gave Jack a kick – not the kind of painful kick that does serious damage, but a kick that gives you just enough pain that you know that the kicker means business and is capable of kicking you much harder. For the Koala, it was almost his way of saying hello. "So don't make me think you are trying to escape, or I might end up hurting you very badly indeed".
Jack and Anto lay there. What else was there to do. The van pulled off.
Jack and Anto had been waiting in their cell for a couple of hours when the door suddenly opened. A furry Guard (a bulldog) stood in the doorway, with an indeterminate number of his fellows behind him. "Come on now guys, time you were on your way" said the Bulldog. Jack and Anto meekly trooped out into the open area, where almost a dozen of the Furry Squad were waiting for them. Jane and Laura were already out there, hands seemingly cuffed behind their backs. Jack felt his arms being pulled behind him and then the cold metal of a handcuff was on his wrists. Anto seemed to have been similarly treated.
"Here they are", said the Bulldog.
"Great stuff" answered one of the bears, obviously the leader of the Lion's people here. He turned to his gang and said: "Load them into the vans, boys".
"Hold on now!" said the Bulldog, halting the mobsters moves towards the prisoners with a gesture. "You can have these fuckers, but the handcuffs are Garda property. We'll have to take them off, then you can have them".
"Can't we send them back when we're finished with them?" said the Bear, somewhat exasperated.
"No way, pal, more than my job's worth. The cuffs stay here".
"Okay, okay, take 'em off. We'll tie them up". He gestured to some of his furries to fetch rope from inside the vans.
Like the others, Jack was uncuffed by the Guards and then had his hands tied back together at the wrist by the Lion's men. The bear he thought was Barney did him, making sure to tie the rope so tightly that Jack thought he might lose his hands. Still, he decided to try needling the bear.
"Hi Barney," he said, as flippantly as possible. "We meet again. I see you've brought some pals with you – couldn't handle me on your own?"
Barney growled and gave Jack a dig, but the boss bear called out to him. "Leave it out Barney, the boss wants them in one piece. He'll decide what to do with them. If he decides to get rid of the cunt then you can have your fun with him". Barney backed off, but Jack could tell that he was not too happy with this business of waiting to administer extreme violence to Jack. "I'll get you", he whispered to Jack, in a distinctly subhuman voice.
Jack was herded with Anto into one of the vans, Jane and Laura into the other. Jack and Anto found themselves in the custody of the Koala and his fellows. They were pushed to the floor, made to lie face down while the others sat on benches on either side of the van. "Don't try anything, you little pricks" said the Koala. "I've got to bring you out to the boss in one piece, but I don't think he'd mind if you got hurt while trying to escape. I would really like to hurt you bags of shit – especially you". He gave Jack a kick – not the kind of painful kick that does serious damage, but a kick that gives you just enough pain that you know that the kicker means business and is capable of kicking you much harder. For the Koala, it was almost his way of saying hello. "So don't make me think you are trying to escape, or I might end up hurting you very badly indeed".
Jack and Anto lay there. What else was there to do. The van pulled off.
Sonic Youth "Sister"
I bought so I can put it on my iTunes and, one day, make my killer introduction to the Youth compilation. I already have it on vinyl, so I may send this off to Oxfam shortly. Sister is one the band's three big 1980s albums. If you are new to the band, it is probably as good a place to start as any, mixing together their squalling guitar noise, rampant experimentalism, pop sensibilities, and moments of almost blessed out beauty (not always on the same song). It has some total classic tunes - 'Catholic Block', 'Kotton Krown', 'Hotwire My Heart', etc. You love it.
image source
Furry Folk - Part 23
The Furry Squad are coming to get the panda lady, and it's all Jack's fault.
"What the fuck do we do now?" said Anto.
Jack sized up the situation. He had brought the cops here. It was up to him to get Laura away.
"Anto", he said, in a deliberate tone making quite clear that he knew what had to be done. "Grab anything that even looks like a weapon and follow me downstairs. A chair, a bottle, anything. We'll hold them off. Jane, take Laura out the back way. There is a back way?"
"Yes".
"OK, let's go!"
Jack and Anto ran down the stairs, each carrying one of the chairs Jane had at her kitchen table. They down ran to the main hallway, to see one of the Furry Squad (a zebra) coming through the front door. They ran screaming at him. Anto smashed the chair over his head, stunning him, and then kicked him out the door. They slammed it shut behind him.
"Open up in there!" called out a bovine voice from outside.
"Fuck off Guard!" shouted back Anto.
Behind them Jack saw Jane leading Laura down the hallway to the back of the house. The dog ran along with them, looking very excited.
"Go! We'll hold them!" shouted Jack.
A blow of terrible force struck the front door, breaking the useless lock. What did they have out there, a battering ram? Jack and Anto were now doing their best to hold the door closed, while outside the Guards were smashing against it.
"You're only making things worse for yourselves", the bovine voice called in again. "Surrender and you'll get a fair trial".
"Suck my balls!" shouted back Anto, for whom abusing the Garda SÃochána seemed to be a way of life.
Behind them, a door to another flat opened and a middle-aged man with spectacles stuck a head out.
"What's going on out there?" he inquired, both angry and frightened.
"It's hard to explain", answered Jack.
"Get back to your flat and keep your fucking head down!" shouted Anto in a less charitable tone. It got the desired response.
The door was still holding, but Jack was getting worried about something else.
"Anto", he said urgently "They might have more cops coming round the back. Run back there, see if the girls need help getting away. I'll hold them here".
"The two of us, man. We'll go together".
"We can't let them in – " began Jack, but he was interrupted by something smashing through the fanlight above the door. It was a canister of tear gas.
"Come on!" said Anto, grabbing Jack and pulling him away from the door. It flew open, and the furry Guards came pouring in, only they were not expecting the door to open so abruptly that they all fell into a pile on top of each other. Jack and Anto ran towards the rear of the house, largely escaping the worst of the tear gas. Behind them they could hear the cops gasping and coughing. No inbuilt respirators in their furry suits then.
Jack had caught which way Jane and Laura had went – through a door which he and Anto now took into a room with two washing machines. From there a door led into an ugly garden, out into which they ran. The walls on either side were high, but the one at the end was low and climbable. Figuring that this was the way the women would have gone, Anto and Jack ran to it and shimmied over. This led into another garden, better maintained than the one they had left, with a forbidding looking house on either side, but lower looking walls on either side. Now which way?
The sound of a barking dog to their left suggested their next move. Clambering over the wall, they came onto a worrying scene. Three furry guards were grappling with Jane and Laura, both of him were resisting gamely while the dog ran around barking frantically. The house behind was only semi-detached to its neighbours, suggesting that the furries had come into the garden that way.
Anto and Jack were on the furries in a second, going for faces with fists and crotches with their knees. Caught by surprise, the Guards were off the women and doubled up on the ground in no time. But now things were getting hairier. More of the Furry Squad were coming over the wall behind Jack and Anto. They made towards the gap between the house and its neighbour, but then another two furries appeared there, blocking their way.
Anto ran at the furries screaming, brandishing a broken chair leg. A well aimed blow brought one down, but the other (a polar bear) hit him hard with his cane, leaving Anto paralysed with pain. Then Jane and Laura were on the polar bear. Jane in particular fought like a fury, her small size seemingly in inverse proportion to the damage she could dish out. In a matter of seconds, the polar bear was on all fours, his front paws trying to comfort the testicles Jane's fists had crushed. It was, however, all over. Jack had been rushed by the Furry Squad, dealt a few disabling blows, and was now screaming defiance while being held by his arms. More furries came up from the side of the house, viciously caning resistance out of Jane and restraining Laura and Anto. Next thing they were all being dragged out onto the street and thrown in the back of a Furry Squad van, where they were locked in place. Unnoticed by the Guards, Anto's little dog jumped in with them.
"You've led us on a merry journey", said the Polar Bear, now partially recovered. "But we have you now".
Some furries piled in the back of the van to keep an eye on them, and then the vehicle pulled off. The four sat there in subdued silence. Only Jane tried to lighten the mood. Her face was already a mass of bruises from the beating she had received. Turning to Jack, she said "I feel like you after a night out". And then she laughed. Jack smiled back weakly, but he had nothing to laugh about.
The van brought them to the Garda Station in Phoenix Park which now seemed to serve as the headquarters of the Furry Squad. They were manhandled into the building, but then separated. Jane and Laura were led off one way, Jack and Anto in another. Then the men were separated from each other. Jack was brought into an interview room, where three furry cops gave him a good going over. From the noise coming from the room next door, it sounded like Anto was getting similar treatment.
After a sound thrashing, Jack was thrown back into a cell, with a battered looking Anto joining him a couple of minutes later.
"Those cunts", said Anto. "What do you think they're going to do to us?"
"I don't know", answered Jack. "But I'm expecting the worst".
A furry face appeared at the window of their cell door. It was the porcine features of Inspector Scratcher.
"Well well well", he said. "There you are now. Two naughty boys who thought they could take on the Furry Squad. Look at you now".
"Come in here and say that!" snapped Anto.
"Oh dear, you are frightening me", replied the Pig. "Now then, gentlemen, I expect you're wondering what comes next. I don't think we can keep you here for too much longer. Cut backs, you see. It costs a lot to keep cells occupied. So I think what we will do is release you without charge, into the custody of some friends of yours. They've offered to guarantee your good behaviour, or at least to guarantee that you don't get up to any further mischief. Your two lady friends will be going with you. I think it will be possible to find gainful employment for them, but you two… I don't think so".
This was not good at all. Jack wished he had listened to his mother and studied accountancy, or taken a trade, or done anything other than enter this stupid career. He had failed completely, and, worse, in his failure he had brought everyone else down with him.
"Well gentleman", continued the Pig, "I would love to stay and chat, but I must go now. I have a dinner invitation with an old friend – an acquaintance of yours, Mr Devlin, and your sister's employer, Mr McClafferty". He slid the hatch closed across the viewing window and left them to their own devices. Jack held his face in his hands and sobbed.
"What the fuck do we do now?" said Anto.
Jack sized up the situation. He had brought the cops here. It was up to him to get Laura away.
"Yes".
"OK, let's go!"
Jack and Anto ran down the stairs, each carrying one of the chairs Jane had at her kitchen table. They down ran to the main hallway, to see one of the Furry Squad (a zebra) coming through the front door. They ran screaming at him. Anto smashed the chair over his head, stunning him, and then kicked him out the door. They slammed it shut behind him.
"Open up in there!" called out a bovine voice from outside.
"Fuck off Guard!" shouted back Anto.
Behind them Jack saw Jane leading Laura down the hallway to the back of the house. The dog ran along with them, looking very excited.
"Go! We'll hold them!" shouted Jack.
A blow of terrible force struck the front door, breaking the useless lock. What did they have out there, a battering ram? Jack and Anto were now doing their best to hold the door closed, while outside the Guards were smashing against it.
"You're only making things worse for yourselves", the bovine voice called in again. "Surrender and you'll get a fair trial".
"Suck my balls!" shouted back Anto, for whom abusing the Garda SÃochána seemed to be a way of life.
Behind them, a door to another flat opened and a middle-aged man with spectacles stuck a head out.
"What's going on out there?" he inquired, both angry and frightened.
"It's hard to explain", answered Jack.
"Get back to your flat and keep your fucking head down!" shouted Anto in a less charitable tone. It got the desired response.
The door was still holding, but Jack was getting worried about something else.
"Anto", he said urgently "They might have more cops coming round the back. Run back there, see if the girls need help getting away. I'll hold them here".
"The two of us, man. We'll go together".
"We can't let them in – " began Jack, but he was interrupted by something smashing through the fanlight above the door. It was a canister of tear gas.
"Come on!" said Anto, grabbing Jack and pulling him away from the door. It flew open, and the furry Guards came pouring in, only they were not expecting the door to open so abruptly that they all fell into a pile on top of each other. Jack and Anto ran towards the rear of the house, largely escaping the worst of the tear gas. Behind them they could hear the cops gasping and coughing. No inbuilt respirators in their furry suits then.
Jack had caught which way Jane and Laura had went – through a door which he and Anto now took into a room with two washing machines. From there a door led into an ugly garden, out into which they ran. The walls on either side were high, but the one at the end was low and climbable. Figuring that this was the way the women would have gone, Anto and Jack ran to it and shimmied over. This led into another garden, better maintained than the one they had left, with a forbidding looking house on either side, but lower looking walls on either side. Now which way?
The sound of a barking dog to their left suggested their next move. Clambering over the wall, they came onto a worrying scene. Three furry guards were grappling with Jane and Laura, both of him were resisting gamely while the dog ran around barking frantically. The house behind was only semi-detached to its neighbours, suggesting that the furries had come into the garden that way.
Anto and Jack were on the furries in a second, going for faces with fists and crotches with their knees. Caught by surprise, the Guards were off the women and doubled up on the ground in no time. But now things were getting hairier. More of the Furry Squad were coming over the wall behind Jack and Anto. They made towards the gap between the house and its neighbour, but then another two furries appeared there, blocking their way.
Anto ran at the furries screaming, brandishing a broken chair leg. A well aimed blow brought one down, but the other (a polar bear) hit him hard with his cane, leaving Anto paralysed with pain. Then Jane and Laura were on the polar bear. Jane in particular fought like a fury, her small size seemingly in inverse proportion to the damage she could dish out. In a matter of seconds, the polar bear was on all fours, his front paws trying to comfort the testicles Jane's fists had crushed. It was, however, all over. Jack had been rushed by the Furry Squad, dealt a few disabling blows, and was now screaming defiance while being held by his arms. More furries came up from the side of the house, viciously caning resistance out of Jane and restraining Laura and Anto. Next thing they were all being dragged out onto the street and thrown in the back of a Furry Squad van, where they were locked in place. Unnoticed by the Guards, Anto's little dog jumped in with them.
"You've led us on a merry journey", said the Polar Bear, now partially recovered. "But we have you now".
Some furries piled in the back of the van to keep an eye on them, and then the vehicle pulled off. The four sat there in subdued silence. Only Jane tried to lighten the mood. Her face was already a mass of bruises from the beating she had received. Turning to Jack, she said "I feel like you after a night out". And then she laughed. Jack smiled back weakly, but he had nothing to laugh about.
The van brought them to the Garda Station in Phoenix Park which now seemed to serve as the headquarters of the Furry Squad. They were manhandled into the building, but then separated. Jane and Laura were led off one way, Jack and Anto in another. Then the men were separated from each other. Jack was brought into an interview room, where three furry cops gave him a good going over. From the noise coming from the room next door, it sounded like Anto was getting similar treatment.
After a sound thrashing, Jack was thrown back into a cell, with a battered looking Anto joining him a couple of minutes later.
"Those cunts", said Anto. "What do you think they're going to do to us?"
"I don't know", answered Jack. "But I'm expecting the worst".
A furry face appeared at the window of their cell door. It was the porcine features of Inspector Scratcher.
"Well well well", he said. "There you are now. Two naughty boys who thought they could take on the Furry Squad. Look at you now".
"Come in here and say that!" snapped Anto.
"Oh dear, you are frightening me", replied the Pig. "Now then, gentlemen, I expect you're wondering what comes next. I don't think we can keep you here for too much longer. Cut backs, you see. It costs a lot to keep cells occupied. So I think what we will do is release you without charge, into the custody of some friends of yours. They've offered to guarantee your good behaviour, or at least to guarantee that you don't get up to any further mischief. Your two lady friends will be going with you. I think it will be possible to find gainful employment for them, but you two… I don't think so".
This was not good at all. Jack wished he had listened to his mother and studied accountancy, or taken a trade, or done anything other than enter this stupid career. He had failed completely, and, worse, in his failure he had brought everyone else down with him.
"Well gentleman", continued the Pig, "I would love to stay and chat, but I must go now. I have a dinner invitation with an old friend – an acquaintance of yours, Mr Devlin, and your sister's employer, Mr McClafferty". He slid the hatch closed across the viewing window and left them to their own devices. Jack held his face in his hands and sobbed.
Furry Folk - Part 22
Jack is hiding out with the panda lady in his secretary's flat.
Jack drifted off to sleep, but he woke up before too long. Although very tired after his previous night's exertions, he could not relax. His mind kept going over the events he had been through, turning over the question of what move he would have to make next. Little things started to niggle at him, like the motorbike parked outside the house. What if the bears came by, and recognised the bike? Then they would know he was in here. For all that the likelihood of the bears doing a complete sweep of Dublin's streets was somewhat low, the thought preyed on him. He did not want to be caught by something so simple. No matter how much he tried to put it out of his mind, he kept being haunted by a vision of three bears coming by in their van, one of them seeing the motorbike, pointing it out to the others, and then their closing on Jane's apartment building. He had to move the bike.
He got up, grabbed a set of keys that Jane had left out, and headed outside. Rather than start the engine (patrolling bears might recognise the sound) he simply wheeled the bike round the corner, parking it outside the largest looking block of flats he could find. That should throw the bears of his scent. Maybe after checking the apartment block they would do a complete door-to-door sweep of the area, but the resulting disruption would alert Jack to their presence, allowing an escape.
When he got back to the flat, Jane was up and dressed, looking also like she had just showered. "I'm heading into the office", she said matter-of-factly.
"But why?" asked Jack.
"I see it like this", said Jane. "Your furry pals may well call the office looking for you. They won't expect to find you there, but they might hope that whoever is there – me, basically – can be tricked into revealing your location. Now, if they ring and I am not there, what will they think? They may well suspect the truth, that you are hiding out in my place with her". She indicated the bedroom. "They don't have anything else to go on, so they'll come here to check it out. And here we will all be".
"Your logic is irrefutable".
"Yes", said Jane. "So instead, I'll go into the office. The bears will ring looking for you, and I will play the dumb airhead and claim not to know where you are. If I can work out something half-way convincing, I might 'let slip' something that sends them off on a wild goose chase somewhere".
"I like it", said Jack admiringly. "You're a treasure, Jane".
"Yes. Well, I've got a pay review coming up, you know how to show your appreciation. So what will you two do?"
"I don't know yet", replied Jack. "Probably lie low here and try to plan a next move. When she wakes up, I'll talk to her, see what I can find out about the Lion. Maybe he has a weakness of some sort".
"Perhaps he cannot resist string dangled in front of him", said Jane archly. "He is a big cat after all".
"I was hoping more for some kind of organisational weakness", said Jack, not really registering that she had made a joke. "Something that can be turned against him. You know how it is with these criminal types. They break the big laws, but they also break the small ones too. Maybe he doesn't have proper car insurance, so we could get him banged up for that".
"I know there's been a bit of a crack-down on traffic offences, but they don't normally impose custodial sentences for not having insurance".
"Well, yes. But there's got to be something".
"Well", said Jane. "I'll leave you to it. I'm sure you'll think of something". She did not sound entirely convinced. "I'll ring you if any ursine characters make inquiries at he office. You have the spare keys. Good luck!"
He waved her goodbye. Now what? He made himself a cup of tea and some toast, and sat in the living room to ponder the way forward. His tiredness meant, though, that he was easily distracted. He found his eyes drifting over towards Jane's bookshelves. Jack liked to think of himself as reasonably well-read, but Jane's choice of books seemed a bit weird. Advanced Theories of Interpersonal Politics, Towards a Hermeneutics of Feminist Pornography, A Critique of Marxist Reconstruction – what was this shite? Jack had a sense of his receptionist possessing a vast intellect that greatly overshadowed his. But, he consoled himself, her mind was applied to all this crazy abstract stuff. He may not be so hot on the "book smarts", but when it came to application of mental power to practical problems, he was unbeatable. Or so he thought.
Laura came wandering out of the bedroom in a dressing gown, carrying a towel. "Shower", she said, continuing on into the bathroom. People are always having showers, thought Jack.
Over breakfast, Laura said that she wanted to ring her brother and tell him where they were. "And I need to make sure he is alright", she added.
"Fine to check up on him", said Jack. "But telling him we're here, is that wise? If he comes here, could the bears follow him? Maybe they have him under surveillance".
"You don't know Anto, no one can keep him under surveillance".
"OK, but how about you ring him and I'll go and meet him? I can bring him back on the bike. That way I can outrun any bear pursuit".
So that's what they did. Laura rang her brother, who had hidden in a park until the coast seemed clear enough to head out onto the streets. Once the big shopping centre opened, he made his way there, figuring that the bears would not come after him in such a public place. He did have his customary problems with the store detectives, but this was all manageable. Jack was to ride over and meet him at the site of the old shopping centre, the one that now had metaphorical tumble-weed blowing through it.
Jack met Anto as arranged. He had the dog with him, who barked at Jack and then pissed on the bike. "Do we have to bring the dog?" asked Jack.
"Yes", replied Anto. His tone suggested that this was a non-negotiable matter and that physical violence might be meted out to Jack should he push the issue.
"Fine. Any sign of the bears?"
"Nope. I think they must have left the area. I thought of going back to the flat and hiding out there, but they might be watching it, and they might check it again later".
"They could be watching us now".
Anto looked around shiftily. Jack also scanned their surroundings.
"I don't see any bears", said Anto.
"They could be hiding. Or they could have taken off their bear suits. They could be anyone out there".
"Jesus Christ". The thought had obviously not occurred to Anto until now. It disturbed him.
"Come on, let's go. They won't be able to catch us on the bike".
Jack mounted the machine. Anto put the dog in one of the luggage compartments, with his little head sticking out, and then got on behind Jack. They zoomed off, taking a zig-zagging route to hide their destination. No roadblocks sprang up suddenly in their path. They were away, and soon moving so quickly that only motorbike mounted pursuers would be able to keep pace with them. Seeing no bikes behind them, Jack assumed that they were in the clear.
Back in Dun Laoghaire, Laura was pleased to be reunited with her brother. Anto's dog was pleased to be reunited with her. Then Laura dropped a bombshell.
"I phoned my husband".
"What?" said Anto, incredulous.
"Was that wise?" asked Jack.
"It's alright, I didn't tell him where I was. Well, I couldn't I don't really know where we are. But I had to talk to him, to… tell him that I love him. I can't live without him. One way or another, we have to be together".
"But what are you going to do? If you go back to him, the Lion will know where to get you".
"We'll sort something out".
"What did he say?"
"What do you think? He was pleased to hear from me. Oh, he says that you will be looked after for saving me from the bears".
"Great".
Jack's phone rang. It was Jane.
"Jack. I've just had an interesting caller on the line. He was looking for you, said it was urgent. There was something about his voice… well, he sounded a bit furry, you know".
"What did you tell him?"
"I give him my address and told him you were there. No! I said that you had said something about having some business down in Wexford, that you were heading down there for the day and couldn't be contacted while you were there. But just to confuse him, I kind of implied that you are always saying you have business in Wexford when you are just taking a day off to go boozing".
"Let's hope that it was one of the furries, and not a prospective client", said Jack drily.
"Indeed. Anything else?"
"Not really. Well, Laura's brother is here now. And his dog".
"Ohmigod, what kind of dog?" Jane had suddenly become very animated.
"A little mongrelly thing. He yaps a lot".
"Ohmigod, that sounds gorgeous! Don't let him go before I get back".
"I won't", said Jack disconsolately, and then they hung up.
Jack made a cup of tea while Laura moped on the sofa and Anto looked through Laura's bookshelves. The dog was sniffing around somewhere.
"There's some deadly books here", said Anto.
"Yes", said Jack back unconvincingly.
"Where do you stand on post-stucturalism yourself?" inquired Anto.
"It's not really my thing", replied Jack, hoping that they would stop asking him stupid questions.
"You're like Laura, she's got no time for any of that post- stuff", commented Anto.
"It's not so much that", said Laura, like she had had to make the point many times previously. "It's more that I am an unreconstructed Marxist. Post-structuralism, post-modernism, it's all revisionist bollocks".
"Yeah whatever", said Jack. This line of conversation was boring him. The dog was nearby, so he idly held his hand to stroke it. The little fellow seemed to like this, and lay on its back for a tummy rub. "Who's a good boy?" inquired Jack.
"She's not a boy, she's a girl", said Anto, offended that his dog's sexuality was being challenged.
Jack saw that he was right. "Who's a good girl?" he corrected himself. The dog seemed to like this, giving a little bark back in reply.
Ultimately, though, Jack was not really a dog person, and he tired of rubbing the dog's stomach. He was also getting a bit tired of the siblings' conversation, which now seemed to be about who was the greatest living Marxist. Various foreign sounding names he had never heard of were being bandied about. He finished his tea and went over to the kitchen area to see what kind of foodstuffs Jane had available. Perhaps he could cook everyone their dinner. They would like that, and it would keep himself busy. But poking through the cupboards, there was not that much stuff, certainly not that much stuff that Jack felt happy cooking with. He would have to rectify this.
"I'm going out to get some food", he told the others. "Stay here while I'm away. Don't open the door to anyone but me or Jane. I won't be long".
Leaving the house he walked down to the shopping centre, but then decided to first take a promenade along the sea front. This was perhaps not the wisest course of action if you were a man being hunted by furry thugs in bear-suits, but Jack reckoned he could handle the risk.
The fresh sea air felt like a welcome change from the enclosed environment of Jane's flat. After what was perhaps an overlong walk, he came back to the shopping centre, picked up some groceries, and commenced the walk back. On the way his phone rang. He did not recognise the number.
"Hello?"
"Hello Mr Devlin. Inspector Scratcher here, of the Furry Squad. You will recall meeting me last Sunday morning".
"Ah yes", said Jack, who had in fact largely forgotten the porcine policeman over the action packed days that had followed. "What can I do you for?"
"Well Mr Devlin, it's more what we can do for you. I was thinking about that party you went to, where you were so cruelly set upon. There is nothing I would like more than to see justice brought to bear on the perpetrators of that crime. I was wondering if anything had happened to jog your memory of the event – would you be able to give me some pointers as to who these felons were?"
"I'm afraid not, Inspector".
"Oh well, that is a shame. Remember, Mr Devlin, we are here to help. If there is any crime being committed, by or against furries, we in the Furry Squad will want to do our damndest to stamp it out. If you become aware of anything with which we could help, do let me know".
"Well… there is one thing", said Jack. In breaking the habit of a lifetime he was perhaps making a terrible mistake, but all things considered there seemed like no other way of getting the Lion of his back.
"Yes?" said the Pig, sounding like an old gossip about to be served an exciting tit bit.
"I've got into a spot of bother with a criminal furry character, goes by the name of Leo the Lion. The fucker runs all kinds of furry vice in this town. Long story, but he is trying to force this unfortunate woman back into furry prostitution. I've ended up trying to protect her, but now we're holed up in a safe house but we don't really know what our next move is. The Lion has his thugs out looking for her, we're kind of stuck".
"My God, Mr Devlin, you should have come to me sooner. Is this woman willing to testify against the Lion?"
"I believe she is", said Jack. The topic had not come up in conversation, but at the end of the day who would not be willing to testify against a furry gangster intent on pimping you out whether you like it or not?
"That's excellent news. We've been after the Lion for years, but no one will ever give evidence against him. But once we get a statement out of this woman of yours, we can haul him in and break up his empire. I'll send a car for her straight away. Where is she?"
Jack gave the address, the Pig thanked him and hung up.
When he got back to Jane's flat he realised that he had been away for longer than he thought. Jane was back from work, seemingly just back as she was only taking her jacket off.
"We were just talking about what to do next", she said.
"Right", answered Jack. "Actually I – "
"I think I'll have to leave the country", interrupted Laura. "I'll send word for my husband to follow me. The Lion doesn't care about the rest of you, you'll be fine".
"I don't like letting that shit scare you away like that", said Anto.
"What else could we do?" said Jane.
"Well, as it happens – " began Jack.
"One thing we can't do is call the Guards", said Laura emphatically.
"Fucking Guards!" said Anto. He seemed to have some first hand experience of their ways.
"No Guards?" said Jack, with something of a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"A shower of fucking eejits, they'd be no good for anything", said Anto, almost spitting out the words.
"It's worse than that", said Laura. "They're riddled with corruption. If we went near the Guards, we'd be passed on to the Furry Squad. And then it’s all over – the Furry Squad are completely in the pocket of the Lion".
"Right", said Jack. "So now would not be the best of time to tell you that I've just been talking to a contact in the Furry Squad, and I told him where we were and said you were going to give evidence against the Lion? It seemed like the wisest course of action at the… "
He trailed off. The three of them looked aghast at him. Even the dog seemed shocked by what he had said.
The moment was ended by the sound of vehicles breaking in the street outside. Rushing over to the window, they looked out to see a Garda car and van skid to a halt. From the Garda van, a squad of furries in Garda caps and utility belts leapt out and took up positions. Their wicked looking canes rather drew the eye. From the car came Inspector Scratcher and the cow he had had with him in the Garda Station. Percy pointed up to the building they were in, indicating to the other furry Guards their target.
"You complete moron, Jack", said Jane.
Jack drifted off to sleep, but he woke up before too long. Although very tired after his previous night's exertions, he could not relax. His mind kept going over the events he had been through, turning over the question of what move he would have to make next. Little things started to niggle at him, like the motorbike parked outside the house. What if the bears came by, and recognised the bike? Then they would know he was in here. For all that the likelihood of the bears doing a complete sweep of Dublin's streets was somewhat low, the thought preyed on him. He did not want to be caught by something so simple. No matter how much he tried to put it out of his mind, he kept being haunted by a vision of three bears coming by in their van, one of them seeing the motorbike, pointing it out to the others, and then their closing on Jane's apartment building. He had to move the bike.
When he got back to the flat, Jane was up and dressed, looking also like she had just showered. "I'm heading into the office", she said matter-of-factly.
"But why?" asked Jack.
"I see it like this", said Jane. "Your furry pals may well call the office looking for you. They won't expect to find you there, but they might hope that whoever is there – me, basically – can be tricked into revealing your location. Now, if they ring and I am not there, what will they think? They may well suspect the truth, that you are hiding out in my place with her". She indicated the bedroom. "They don't have anything else to go on, so they'll come here to check it out. And here we will all be".
"Your logic is irrefutable".
"Yes", said Jane. "So instead, I'll go into the office. The bears will ring looking for you, and I will play the dumb airhead and claim not to know where you are. If I can work out something half-way convincing, I might 'let slip' something that sends them off on a wild goose chase somewhere".
"I like it", said Jack admiringly. "You're a treasure, Jane".
"Yes. Well, I've got a pay review coming up, you know how to show your appreciation. So what will you two do?"
"I don't know yet", replied Jack. "Probably lie low here and try to plan a next move. When she wakes up, I'll talk to her, see what I can find out about the Lion. Maybe he has a weakness of some sort".
"Perhaps he cannot resist string dangled in front of him", said Jane archly. "He is a big cat after all".
"I was hoping more for some kind of organisational weakness", said Jack, not really registering that she had made a joke. "Something that can be turned against him. You know how it is with these criminal types. They break the big laws, but they also break the small ones too. Maybe he doesn't have proper car insurance, so we could get him banged up for that".
"I know there's been a bit of a crack-down on traffic offences, but they don't normally impose custodial sentences for not having insurance".
"Well, yes. But there's got to be something".
"Well", said Jane. "I'll leave you to it. I'm sure you'll think of something". She did not sound entirely convinced. "I'll ring you if any ursine characters make inquiries at he office. You have the spare keys. Good luck!"
He waved her goodbye. Now what? He made himself a cup of tea and some toast, and sat in the living room to ponder the way forward. His tiredness meant, though, that he was easily distracted. He found his eyes drifting over towards Jane's bookshelves. Jack liked to think of himself as reasonably well-read, but Jane's choice of books seemed a bit weird. Advanced Theories of Interpersonal Politics, Towards a Hermeneutics of Feminist Pornography, A Critique of Marxist Reconstruction – what was this shite? Jack had a sense of his receptionist possessing a vast intellect that greatly overshadowed his. But, he consoled himself, her mind was applied to all this crazy abstract stuff. He may not be so hot on the "book smarts", but when it came to application of mental power to practical problems, he was unbeatable. Or so he thought.
Laura came wandering out of the bedroom in a dressing gown, carrying a towel. "Shower", she said, continuing on into the bathroom. People are always having showers, thought Jack.
Over breakfast, Laura said that she wanted to ring her brother and tell him where they were. "And I need to make sure he is alright", she added.
"Fine to check up on him", said Jack. "But telling him we're here, is that wise? If he comes here, could the bears follow him? Maybe they have him under surveillance".
"You don't know Anto, no one can keep him under surveillance".
"OK, but how about you ring him and I'll go and meet him? I can bring him back on the bike. That way I can outrun any bear pursuit".
So that's what they did. Laura rang her brother, who had hidden in a park until the coast seemed clear enough to head out onto the streets. Once the big shopping centre opened, he made his way there, figuring that the bears would not come after him in such a public place. He did have his customary problems with the store detectives, but this was all manageable. Jack was to ride over and meet him at the site of the old shopping centre, the one that now had metaphorical tumble-weed blowing through it.
Jack met Anto as arranged. He had the dog with him, who barked at Jack and then pissed on the bike. "Do we have to bring the dog?" asked Jack.
"Yes", replied Anto. His tone suggested that this was a non-negotiable matter and that physical violence might be meted out to Jack should he push the issue.
"Fine. Any sign of the bears?"
"Nope. I think they must have left the area. I thought of going back to the flat and hiding out there, but they might be watching it, and they might check it again later".
"They could be watching us now".
Anto looked around shiftily. Jack also scanned their surroundings.
"I don't see any bears", said Anto.
"They could be hiding. Or they could have taken off their bear suits. They could be anyone out there".
"Jesus Christ". The thought had obviously not occurred to Anto until now. It disturbed him.
"Come on, let's go. They won't be able to catch us on the bike".
Jack mounted the machine. Anto put the dog in one of the luggage compartments, with his little head sticking out, and then got on behind Jack. They zoomed off, taking a zig-zagging route to hide their destination. No roadblocks sprang up suddenly in their path. They were away, and soon moving so quickly that only motorbike mounted pursuers would be able to keep pace with them. Seeing no bikes behind them, Jack assumed that they were in the clear.
Back in Dun Laoghaire, Laura was pleased to be reunited with her brother. Anto's dog was pleased to be reunited with her. Then Laura dropped a bombshell.
"I phoned my husband".
"What?" said Anto, incredulous.
"Was that wise?" asked Jack.
"It's alright, I didn't tell him where I was. Well, I couldn't I don't really know where we are. But I had to talk to him, to… tell him that I love him. I can't live without him. One way or another, we have to be together".
"But what are you going to do? If you go back to him, the Lion will know where to get you".
"We'll sort something out".
"What did he say?"
"What do you think? He was pleased to hear from me. Oh, he says that you will be looked after for saving me from the bears".
"Great".
Jack's phone rang. It was Jane.
"Jack. I've just had an interesting caller on the line. He was looking for you, said it was urgent. There was something about his voice… well, he sounded a bit furry, you know".
"What did you tell him?"
"I give him my address and told him you were there. No! I said that you had said something about having some business down in Wexford, that you were heading down there for the day and couldn't be contacted while you were there. But just to confuse him, I kind of implied that you are always saying you have business in Wexford when you are just taking a day off to go boozing".
"Let's hope that it was one of the furries, and not a prospective client", said Jack drily.
"Indeed. Anything else?"
"Not really. Well, Laura's brother is here now. And his dog".
"Ohmigod, what kind of dog?" Jane had suddenly become very animated.
"A little mongrelly thing. He yaps a lot".
"Ohmigod, that sounds gorgeous! Don't let him go before I get back".
"I won't", said Jack disconsolately, and then they hung up.
Jack made a cup of tea while Laura moped on the sofa and Anto looked through Laura's bookshelves. The dog was sniffing around somewhere.
"There's some deadly books here", said Anto.
"Yes", said Jack back unconvincingly.
"Where do you stand on post-stucturalism yourself?" inquired Anto.
"It's not really my thing", replied Jack, hoping that they would stop asking him stupid questions.
"You're like Laura, she's got no time for any of that post- stuff", commented Anto.
"It's not so much that", said Laura, like she had had to make the point many times previously. "It's more that I am an unreconstructed Marxist. Post-structuralism, post-modernism, it's all revisionist bollocks".
"Yeah whatever", said Jack. This line of conversation was boring him. The dog was nearby, so he idly held his hand to stroke it. The little fellow seemed to like this, and lay on its back for a tummy rub. "Who's a good boy?" inquired Jack.
"She's not a boy, she's a girl", said Anto, offended that his dog's sexuality was being challenged.
Jack saw that he was right. "Who's a good girl?" he corrected himself. The dog seemed to like this, giving a little bark back in reply.
Ultimately, though, Jack was not really a dog person, and he tired of rubbing the dog's stomach. He was also getting a bit tired of the siblings' conversation, which now seemed to be about who was the greatest living Marxist. Various foreign sounding names he had never heard of were being bandied about. He finished his tea and went over to the kitchen area to see what kind of foodstuffs Jane had available. Perhaps he could cook everyone their dinner. They would like that, and it would keep himself busy. But poking through the cupboards, there was not that much stuff, certainly not that much stuff that Jack felt happy cooking with. He would have to rectify this.
"I'm going out to get some food", he told the others. "Stay here while I'm away. Don't open the door to anyone but me or Jane. I won't be long".
Leaving the house he walked down to the shopping centre, but then decided to first take a promenade along the sea front. This was perhaps not the wisest course of action if you were a man being hunted by furry thugs in bear-suits, but Jack reckoned he could handle the risk.
The fresh sea air felt like a welcome change from the enclosed environment of Jane's flat. After what was perhaps an overlong walk, he came back to the shopping centre, picked up some groceries, and commenced the walk back. On the way his phone rang. He did not recognise the number.
"Hello?"
"Hello Mr Devlin. Inspector Scratcher here, of the Furry Squad. You will recall meeting me last Sunday morning".
"Ah yes", said Jack, who had in fact largely forgotten the porcine policeman over the action packed days that had followed. "What can I do you for?"
"Well Mr Devlin, it's more what we can do for you. I was thinking about that party you went to, where you were so cruelly set upon. There is nothing I would like more than to see justice brought to bear on the perpetrators of that crime. I was wondering if anything had happened to jog your memory of the event – would you be able to give me some pointers as to who these felons were?"
"I'm afraid not, Inspector".
"Oh well, that is a shame. Remember, Mr Devlin, we are here to help. If there is any crime being committed, by or against furries, we in the Furry Squad will want to do our damndest to stamp it out. If you become aware of anything with which we could help, do let me know".
"Well… there is one thing", said Jack. In breaking the habit of a lifetime he was perhaps making a terrible mistake, but all things considered there seemed like no other way of getting the Lion of his back.
"Yes?" said the Pig, sounding like an old gossip about to be served an exciting tit bit.
"I've got into a spot of bother with a criminal furry character, goes by the name of Leo the Lion. The fucker runs all kinds of furry vice in this town. Long story, but he is trying to force this unfortunate woman back into furry prostitution. I've ended up trying to protect her, but now we're holed up in a safe house but we don't really know what our next move is. The Lion has his thugs out looking for her, we're kind of stuck".
"My God, Mr Devlin, you should have come to me sooner. Is this woman willing to testify against the Lion?"
"I believe she is", said Jack. The topic had not come up in conversation, but at the end of the day who would not be willing to testify against a furry gangster intent on pimping you out whether you like it or not?
"That's excellent news. We've been after the Lion for years, but no one will ever give evidence against him. But once we get a statement out of this woman of yours, we can haul him in and break up his empire. I'll send a car for her straight away. Where is she?"
Jack gave the address, the Pig thanked him and hung up.
When he got back to Jane's flat he realised that he had been away for longer than he thought. Jane was back from work, seemingly just back as she was only taking her jacket off.
"We were just talking about what to do next", she said.
"Right", answered Jack. "Actually I – "
"I think I'll have to leave the country", interrupted Laura. "I'll send word for my husband to follow me. The Lion doesn't care about the rest of you, you'll be fine".
"I don't like letting that shit scare you away like that", said Anto.
"What else could we do?" said Jane.
"Well, as it happens – " began Jack.
"One thing we can't do is call the Guards", said Laura emphatically.
"Fucking Guards!" said Anto. He seemed to have some first hand experience of their ways.
"No Guards?" said Jack, with something of a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"A shower of fucking eejits, they'd be no good for anything", said Anto, almost spitting out the words.
"It's worse than that", said Laura. "They're riddled with corruption. If we went near the Guards, we'd be passed on to the Furry Squad. And then it’s all over – the Furry Squad are completely in the pocket of the Lion".
"Right", said Jack. "So now would not be the best of time to tell you that I've just been talking to a contact in the Furry Squad, and I told him where we were and said you were going to give evidence against the Lion? It seemed like the wisest course of action at the… "
He trailed off. The three of them looked aghast at him. Even the dog seemed shocked by what he had said.
The moment was ended by the sound of vehicles breaking in the street outside. Rushing over to the window, they looked out to see a Garda car and van skid to a halt. From the Garda van, a squad of furries in Garda caps and utility belts leapt out and took up positions. Their wicked looking canes rather drew the eye. From the car came Inspector Scratcher and the cow he had had with him in the Garda Station. Percy pointed up to the building they were in, indicating to the other furry Guards their target.
"You complete moron, Jack", said Jane.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 21
Jack, the panda lady, her brother, and a small dog (an actual dog, not someone in a dog-suit) are trapped – besieged in the brother's flat by three bear-suited thugs.
The bears got to work at forcing in the door while Jack and the brother threw anything they could against the door. The armchairs, sofa, and loose bookshelf they were using as obstacles would not hold the bears for long, but they would buy them some time. But time to do what? Laura, meanwhile stood back from them both, in a state of near shock. It was only when the two men had done as much as they could to block the bears that they noticed how badly off she was.
"Hey! Are you alright?" asked her brother.
"I'm sorry. It's just that… I can't go back. You don't know what it's like to be what they want me to be, but I do. I know only too well. You know how it is with pandas? They're everyone's favourite animal. But that goes for everyone – including the pervs who go down the Furry Glen. If those bears get me… No! It's not going to happen. When they come in here, I'm jumping from the balcony". Jack could tell that she was deathly serious.
"Ah no, Laura…" said the brother, but he trailed off because, ultimately, he could not really think of any better suggestion.
"Come on guys!" said Jack, trying to hit their defeatism on the head. "This isn’t over yet. Let's consider options. That door is the only way out?"
"Yes", replied the brother.
The door made a worrying noise, suggesting that it was beginning to submit to the bears' attentions.
"What about the balcony?" said Jack, striding over to the French windows, throwing them open, and stepping outside. Laura followed him. "Don't jump just yet!" he said to her emphatically. "Let's see if there is someway out of here". He looked over the balcony's edge. They were far too high to jump safely to the ground. At best, any such attempt would leave them stuck down there with broken ankles while the bears came down the stairs to sort them out. What about the balcony below? Sometimes these apartment buildings were built so that it was surprisingly easy to climb from one balcony to the one below it, or to suspend oneself and then jump into the balcony of the downstairs neighbour. Then it hit him – the balcony below was much too far away, but the one to their side was separated by only a thin partition wall. They would be able to climb that with ease. He pointed it out to her. "Do you see?"
"We don't have much time!" called the brother from within the living room. The bears seemed to have finally broken through the door, and were trying to push the furniture obstacles out of the way. The brother was gamely trying to keep the barrier in place while the dog barked frantically.
"Climb over the wall", said Jack to Laura. "Then wait there". She did as she was told. Jack came back in to flat and said to the brother in a low voice: "We can get away through the neighbouring flat. But we can't have the dog giving us away".
"Palin! BE QUIET!" said the brother to the dog in a tone of such terrifying authority that the dog stopped barking and cowered down silently.
"I'll take over here", said Jack. "Climb over into the neighbouring balcony and wait for me there".
The brother scooped up the dog and ran out onto the balcony while Jack took over trying to hold back the bears. When he had judged that they were over the partition and into the neighbour's balcony he left the barrier and hightailed it after them, hoping that the bears would take just long enough to get through the barricade. Out on the balcony, he slid the French window closed after him and then climbed over to where the siblings were waiting.
"Not long now", he whispered.
With crash of falling furniture, the bears burst into the living room. "Hey, where are they?" said one in a slightly confused tone of voice. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" said another, following this with the same chuckle he had used outside the door.
Jack slipped open the door to the neighbour's balcony and walked gingerly into the still darkened living room, beckoning the others to follow him. The room was a mirror image of the one they had just left. He crept over to the door out into the corridor, the others just behind him. He quietly tried the door, hoping that it would be on the latch and that he would not have to look for a key or need to force it. His luck was in – the door opened for him. He glanced into the corridor. Good, the bears had not left anyone in the hall. Looking back at the siblings, he pointed down the corridor towards the fire escape. He gestured for them to go first. They left hand in hand, the brother still carrying the dog in his other arm, and Jack scurried after them.
Just as Jack reached the stairwell he heard a furry voice call out behind them. "Run!" he shouted, and the three of them belted at breakneck speed down the stairs and then out into a laneway. They ran away from the building as fast as if it really was on fire and about to explode, only stopping to catch their breath when they had rounded a few corners and were no longer in its line of sight.
"What now?" asked the brother.
"I don't know" said Jack. "We can’t stay here, they'll be out and looking for us in no time. I've got a bike parked nearby, but we can't all get away on that".
"Take Laura", said the brother. "She's the one they're after. I'll hide. Laura, be strong. You can do this. Ring me when you are somewhere safe".
"OK", she replied. "Let's move. See you soon, Anto".
They went their separate ways. Jack brought Laura to the bike, still thankfully where he had left it. "Here we are", he said, displaying a proprietorial pride towards the motorbike he had only first seen a couple of hours previously.
"No helmets?" inquired Laura.
"Ah, no", answered Jack. "I took the bike from one of bears. I didn't see any helmets there. Maybe bears don't need helmets".
He climbed onto the bike. Laura climbed on behind him, and held onto him as he turned on the engine and they pulled away. He gunned the engine as loudly as possible, so that the bears would hear and try (futilely) to pursue him, letting Laura's brother go free. They roared quickly away, without catching sight of the bears.
So now where to go? It says much for Jack's opinion of those charged with defending law and order in Ireland that going to a Garda station never crossed his mind. He did not consider it and decide against it, it just never came up as an option. Instead he thought of taking Laura back to his place and hiding her there for a bit, but there were a couple of obvious problems with this. Firstly, the bears knew who he was, so they probably knew where he lived. His home was one of the first places they would look for him in. The other problem with his home was his idiot flatmate. Jack sometimes wondered what vengeful deity he had offended in a former life, for only some kind of divine retribution could be the cause of his being saddled with Tadhg. That said, Tadhg was in an of himself relatively harmless, provided you did not have to live with him, but Jack's real worry was that he might have invited the performance artists back to stay. Laura had been through a lot, and the last thing she needed was to have to make friends with Spike, Butch, and Stinky. So he could not bring her there.
Where else was there? He thought of some of his other friends, but they were not the kind of people who had homes where you would bring someone of a delicate disposition, particularly if they were a woman who might object to wall-mounted pornography and widely distributed unwashed kecks. Jack did have some friends who lived in more presentable surroundings, but with them there was another problem. They were married. Jack felt that marriage was not, in the abstract, anything to be ashamed of, but he noticed one worrying thing about any of his friends who joined with another in that most blessed of his unions: their wives were always rather hostile to Jack, seeing him (perhaps correctly) as a bad influence on their husbands. Jack could think of friends who would always be glad to see him call at any hour of the day or night, but their wives could be relied upon to send him on his way (or to call the bears in to get rid of him).
One option presented itself like a bolt out of the blue. Of course! Why had he not thought of this one straight away? "Hang on!" he shouted to his passenger as he revved up the bike again and sped onto the road that led towards Dun Laoghaire. They made good time (and were not really that far from their destination). Soon they were flying through the southside borough. The morning was now so advanced that the streets they traversed were beginning to come to life, the first commuters heading off on their way to whatever awful jobs had them up so early. But it was still early, with so little traffic (vehicular and human) on the roads that Jack thought he saw a fox at one point. An actual fox, not some freak in a fox suit.
He found the street he was looking for, parked the bike, and led Laura up to the door of a large house now converted into apartments. He looked at the set of doorbells and found the one he was looking for. Pressing it in for a good long time, he then waited for a response.
"Helloaoauurw?" said a sleepy woman's voice out of the intercom.
"Jane! It's me, Jack", he said, trying to communicate the urgency of his situation.
"Jack? What? Do you know what time it is? Have you been drinking again?" Jane only seemed marginally more pleased to hear from him than the people in Dundrum.
"Jane, I'm sorry. Listen, can you let us in. We need to hide out somewhere. There's people after us".
"Us? What is this, do you think that just because I work for you you can bring your mates round from the pub for a party?"
"No, it's not like that. Jane, please, we're being chased by nutters in bear suits, they want to kill me, but Laura here they want to force into furry sex slavery".
Jane considered the situation for a minute. Jack worried that perhaps she might end up concluding that the bears' good points outweighed the bad. But then she replied: "OK, I'll come down and let you in".
They waited, and after a couple of minutes a dressing-gowned Jane unlocked the door and beckoned them in.
"I'm Laura", said Laura, as they followed Jane up some stairs and into her bijoux flat. "Thanks for doing this".
"No problem", said Jane awkwardly. "Being chased by people in bear suits, that's pretty mental".
"They're working for her ex-husband", said Jack. "You've seen him, Jane. Remember the guy in the panda suit?"
"Indeed yes".
"You've got that all wrong", said Laura emphatically.
"What?" said Jack. They were no sitting down in Jane's cramped living room. "What have I got wrong?"
"The bears. They're not working for my husband. Chubby is comfortably off Panda, but he is in no position to send armies of thugs off to do his bidding. And anyway, it's not the sort of thing he'd do".
"But doesn't he run the Furry Glen? There seem to be a good few furry gangsters down there".
"What are you talking about?" Laura was getting quite agitated. "My husband doesn't run the Furry Glen! What are you saying? You are traducing the honour of a kind and decent panda". She started to sob quietly to herself, tears gently rolling down her cheeks. Jane sat beside her and put an arm around her.
Jack was confused. "I don't understand. If the bears aren't working for your husband, then who were are working for?"
"For the vicious animal who controls the Furry Glen. For the master of Furry vice in this city!" Laura's tears were gone now as animation returned to her voice. "Have you never heard of the King of Furry Crime – Leo the Lion?"
"Leo the Lion? I thought he was just a night club owner".
"Nightclubs are just a way for him to launder his profits. His real enterprises are criminal. You know about the furry prostitution, but he also sells drugs to furries, peddles furry pornography, pirates DVDs of the Banana Splits, and much more besides. He is a monster, Jack. His paws are all over everything bad that happens in this city, at least where furries are involved".
"I see", said Jack, feeling that he had somewhat been taken for a ride. "But if your husband was not trying to force you into furry prostitution then why had you left him?"
Jack immediately wondered if perhaps he could have phrased the question a bit more delicately, as tears were starting to well up in Laura's eyes once more.
"I left him to protect him", she said, and both Jack and Jane were touched by the strength of emotion in her voice. "I left him to protect him, because I love him with all my heart, and I would do anything to protect him. Anything! Even", she sobbed slightly, "leaving him".
"What were you protecting him from?" asked Jack in his most caring sharing touchy feely voice.
"From the Lion", replied Laura, her tone suggesting that the answer was a bit obvious, which in fairness it was. "He wanted me back. He wanted me back working for him down the glen. That's where I was when I met my husband first. I tried to hide it from him – wouldn't you? Wouldn't you try to hide that you were a furry smack whore? But he knew, and he loved me for what I was, what I could be. I paid off my debt to the Lion, told him that I was finished with that life, and tried to build a new one for myself with Chubby. The Lion left me alone, but then he decided that he wanted me back. I was too profitable for him. He said that if I did not come back on my own he would take me and force me. But more than that – he was going to kill my husband. I couldn't have that. I thought of going back to the Glen, if that's what it would take to protect him. But I couldn't, I couldn’t go back to that. So I ran away".
"Does your husband know that the Lion has been looking for you?" asked Jack.
"No! I couldn't tell him. If he knew, he would confront the Lion. And then he would be killed". She paused, and then continued again. "That's why I paid you to not take the case, Mr Devlin. I knew the Lion would have my husband watched, and that any investigator he hired would also be watched. For my sake and that of my husband, I did not want to be found".
"I see", said Jack. He had really misread all this, but he consoled himself with the thought that furry cases are most unusual and have their own twisted logic. Furthermore, it is very hard to read furries' intentions, given the face-hiding nature of their masks.
"One thing", said Laura, "what led you to think that the bears were working for my husband? Why did you think that he controlled the Furry Glen?"
"Well", said Jack, realising that there was no way of saying this without sounding like an idiot, "The Lion told me that your husband ran the Furry Glen, and that he – "
"What?" interrupted Laura indignantly. "That, that savage beast told you that my husband was a furry pimp who catered for the perverse needs of shavies, that he was looking to sell the body of his own wife, and you believed him?"
"I'm sorry", said Jack weakly. "It fitted the facts at the time".
Laura looked like she was about to explode.
"I'm sure he meant well", said Jane. "Look, would anyone like a cup of tea?"
"I'm alright", said Laura. "This night has taken a lot out of me. I think I need to get some sleep".
"You can sleep in my bed", said Jane. "Jack and I will get a couple of hours shut-eye here. Give me a minute to get some blankets for us". She jumped up and started doing things. Jack found himself thinking that as he had been severely duffed up earlier that night and as he had been the one who had saved Laura from her enemies, maybe he had a better claim on the bed, but he did not want to push his luck.
They settled down for what was left of the night. Jack and Jane were settled down under blankets on separate arm chairs. Just before she turned off the light, Jack found himself thinking that Jane looked pretty swish under that dressing gown of hers. He had always considered her a rather attractive woman, but the whole boss-employee relationship meant it never seemed like a good time to approach her. But now, perhaps, thrown together by circumstances and danger, could this be the time for two people to come together, their hitherto denied passions for each other exploding into a frenzy of lovemaking?
Jane spoke before he could say or do anything. "No funny business, Jack". There was no way her glacial tone could be taken as a come-on. He decided to get some sleep.
The bears got to work at forcing in the door while Jack and the brother threw anything they could against the door. The armchairs, sofa, and loose bookshelf they were using as obstacles would not hold the bears for long, but they would buy them some time. But time to do what? Laura, meanwhile stood back from them both, in a state of near shock. It was only when the two men had done as much as they could to block the bears that they noticed how badly off she was.
"I'm sorry. It's just that… I can't go back. You don't know what it's like to be what they want me to be, but I do. I know only too well. You know how it is with pandas? They're everyone's favourite animal. But that goes for everyone – including the pervs who go down the Furry Glen. If those bears get me… No! It's not going to happen. When they come in here, I'm jumping from the balcony". Jack could tell that she was deathly serious.
"Ah no, Laura…" said the brother, but he trailed off because, ultimately, he could not really think of any better suggestion.
"Come on guys!" said Jack, trying to hit their defeatism on the head. "This isn’t over yet. Let's consider options. That door is the only way out?"
"Yes", replied the brother.
The door made a worrying noise, suggesting that it was beginning to submit to the bears' attentions.
"What about the balcony?" said Jack, striding over to the French windows, throwing them open, and stepping outside. Laura followed him. "Don't jump just yet!" he said to her emphatically. "Let's see if there is someway out of here". He looked over the balcony's edge. They were far too high to jump safely to the ground. At best, any such attempt would leave them stuck down there with broken ankles while the bears came down the stairs to sort them out. What about the balcony below? Sometimes these apartment buildings were built so that it was surprisingly easy to climb from one balcony to the one below it, or to suspend oneself and then jump into the balcony of the downstairs neighbour. Then it hit him – the balcony below was much too far away, but the one to their side was separated by only a thin partition wall. They would be able to climb that with ease. He pointed it out to her. "Do you see?"
"We don't have much time!" called the brother from within the living room. The bears seemed to have finally broken through the door, and were trying to push the furniture obstacles out of the way. The brother was gamely trying to keep the barrier in place while the dog barked frantically.
"Climb over the wall", said Jack to Laura. "Then wait there". She did as she was told. Jack came back in to flat and said to the brother in a low voice: "We can get away through the neighbouring flat. But we can't have the dog giving us away".
"Palin! BE QUIET!" said the brother to the dog in a tone of such terrifying authority that the dog stopped barking and cowered down silently.
"I'll take over here", said Jack. "Climb over into the neighbouring balcony and wait for me there".
The brother scooped up the dog and ran out onto the balcony while Jack took over trying to hold back the bears. When he had judged that they were over the partition and into the neighbour's balcony he left the barrier and hightailed it after them, hoping that the bears would take just long enough to get through the barricade. Out on the balcony, he slid the French window closed after him and then climbed over to where the siblings were waiting.
"Not long now", he whispered.
With crash of falling furniture, the bears burst into the living room. "Hey, where are they?" said one in a slightly confused tone of voice. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" said another, following this with the same chuckle he had used outside the door.
Jack slipped open the door to the neighbour's balcony and walked gingerly into the still darkened living room, beckoning the others to follow him. The room was a mirror image of the one they had just left. He crept over to the door out into the corridor, the others just behind him. He quietly tried the door, hoping that it would be on the latch and that he would not have to look for a key or need to force it. His luck was in – the door opened for him. He glanced into the corridor. Good, the bears had not left anyone in the hall. Looking back at the siblings, he pointed down the corridor towards the fire escape. He gestured for them to go first. They left hand in hand, the brother still carrying the dog in his other arm, and Jack scurried after them.
Just as Jack reached the stairwell he heard a furry voice call out behind them. "Run!" he shouted, and the three of them belted at breakneck speed down the stairs and then out into a laneway. They ran away from the building as fast as if it really was on fire and about to explode, only stopping to catch their breath when they had rounded a few corners and were no longer in its line of sight.
"What now?" asked the brother.
"I don't know" said Jack. "We can’t stay here, they'll be out and looking for us in no time. I've got a bike parked nearby, but we can't all get away on that".
"Take Laura", said the brother. "She's the one they're after. I'll hide. Laura, be strong. You can do this. Ring me when you are somewhere safe".
"OK", she replied. "Let's move. See you soon, Anto".
They went their separate ways. Jack brought Laura to the bike, still thankfully where he had left it. "Here we are", he said, displaying a proprietorial pride towards the motorbike he had only first seen a couple of hours previously.
"No helmets?" inquired Laura.
"Ah, no", answered Jack. "I took the bike from one of bears. I didn't see any helmets there. Maybe bears don't need helmets".
He climbed onto the bike. Laura climbed on behind him, and held onto him as he turned on the engine and they pulled away. He gunned the engine as loudly as possible, so that the bears would hear and try (futilely) to pursue him, letting Laura's brother go free. They roared quickly away, without catching sight of the bears.
So now where to go? It says much for Jack's opinion of those charged with defending law and order in Ireland that going to a Garda station never crossed his mind. He did not consider it and decide against it, it just never came up as an option. Instead he thought of taking Laura back to his place and hiding her there for a bit, but there were a couple of obvious problems with this. Firstly, the bears knew who he was, so they probably knew where he lived. His home was one of the first places they would look for him in. The other problem with his home was his idiot flatmate. Jack sometimes wondered what vengeful deity he had offended in a former life, for only some kind of divine retribution could be the cause of his being saddled with Tadhg. That said, Tadhg was in an of himself relatively harmless, provided you did not have to live with him, but Jack's real worry was that he might have invited the performance artists back to stay. Laura had been through a lot, and the last thing she needed was to have to make friends with Spike, Butch, and Stinky. So he could not bring her there.
Where else was there? He thought of some of his other friends, but they were not the kind of people who had homes where you would bring someone of a delicate disposition, particularly if they were a woman who might object to wall-mounted pornography and widely distributed unwashed kecks. Jack did have some friends who lived in more presentable surroundings, but with them there was another problem. They were married. Jack felt that marriage was not, in the abstract, anything to be ashamed of, but he noticed one worrying thing about any of his friends who joined with another in that most blessed of his unions: their wives were always rather hostile to Jack, seeing him (perhaps correctly) as a bad influence on their husbands. Jack could think of friends who would always be glad to see him call at any hour of the day or night, but their wives could be relied upon to send him on his way (or to call the bears in to get rid of him).
One option presented itself like a bolt out of the blue. Of course! Why had he not thought of this one straight away? "Hang on!" he shouted to his passenger as he revved up the bike again and sped onto the road that led towards Dun Laoghaire. They made good time (and were not really that far from their destination). Soon they were flying through the southside borough. The morning was now so advanced that the streets they traversed were beginning to come to life, the first commuters heading off on their way to whatever awful jobs had them up so early. But it was still early, with so little traffic (vehicular and human) on the roads that Jack thought he saw a fox at one point. An actual fox, not some freak in a fox suit.
He found the street he was looking for, parked the bike, and led Laura up to the door of a large house now converted into apartments. He looked at the set of doorbells and found the one he was looking for. Pressing it in for a good long time, he then waited for a response.
"Helloaoauurw?" said a sleepy woman's voice out of the intercom.
"Jane! It's me, Jack", he said, trying to communicate the urgency of his situation.
"Jack? What? Do you know what time it is? Have you been drinking again?" Jane only seemed marginally more pleased to hear from him than the people in Dundrum.
"Jane, I'm sorry. Listen, can you let us in. We need to hide out somewhere. There's people after us".
"Us? What is this, do you think that just because I work for you you can bring your mates round from the pub for a party?"
"No, it's not like that. Jane, please, we're being chased by nutters in bear suits, they want to kill me, but Laura here they want to force into furry sex slavery".
Jane considered the situation for a minute. Jack worried that perhaps she might end up concluding that the bears' good points outweighed the bad. But then she replied: "OK, I'll come down and let you in".
They waited, and after a couple of minutes a dressing-gowned Jane unlocked the door and beckoned them in.
"I'm Laura", said Laura, as they followed Jane up some stairs and into her bijoux flat. "Thanks for doing this".
"No problem", said Jane awkwardly. "Being chased by people in bear suits, that's pretty mental".
"They're working for her ex-husband", said Jack. "You've seen him, Jane. Remember the guy in the panda suit?"
"Indeed yes".
"You've got that all wrong", said Laura emphatically.
"What?" said Jack. They were no sitting down in Jane's cramped living room. "What have I got wrong?"
"The bears. They're not working for my husband. Chubby is comfortably off Panda, but he is in no position to send armies of thugs off to do his bidding. And anyway, it's not the sort of thing he'd do".
"But doesn't he run the Furry Glen? There seem to be a good few furry gangsters down there".
"What are you talking about?" Laura was getting quite agitated. "My husband doesn't run the Furry Glen! What are you saying? You are traducing the honour of a kind and decent panda". She started to sob quietly to herself, tears gently rolling down her cheeks. Jane sat beside her and put an arm around her.
Jack was confused. "I don't understand. If the bears aren't working for your husband, then who were are working for?"
"For the vicious animal who controls the Furry Glen. For the master of Furry vice in this city!" Laura's tears were gone now as animation returned to her voice. "Have you never heard of the King of Furry Crime – Leo the Lion?"
"Leo the Lion? I thought he was just a night club owner".
"Nightclubs are just a way for him to launder his profits. His real enterprises are criminal. You know about the furry prostitution, but he also sells drugs to furries, peddles furry pornography, pirates DVDs of the Banana Splits, and much more besides. He is a monster, Jack. His paws are all over everything bad that happens in this city, at least where furries are involved".
"I see", said Jack, feeling that he had somewhat been taken for a ride. "But if your husband was not trying to force you into furry prostitution then why had you left him?"
Jack immediately wondered if perhaps he could have phrased the question a bit more delicately, as tears were starting to well up in Laura's eyes once more.
"I left him to protect him", she said, and both Jack and Jane were touched by the strength of emotion in her voice. "I left him to protect him, because I love him with all my heart, and I would do anything to protect him. Anything! Even", she sobbed slightly, "leaving him".
"What were you protecting him from?" asked Jack in his most caring sharing touchy feely voice.
"From the Lion", replied Laura, her tone suggesting that the answer was a bit obvious, which in fairness it was. "He wanted me back. He wanted me back working for him down the glen. That's where I was when I met my husband first. I tried to hide it from him – wouldn't you? Wouldn't you try to hide that you were a furry smack whore? But he knew, and he loved me for what I was, what I could be. I paid off my debt to the Lion, told him that I was finished with that life, and tried to build a new one for myself with Chubby. The Lion left me alone, but then he decided that he wanted me back. I was too profitable for him. He said that if I did not come back on my own he would take me and force me. But more than that – he was going to kill my husband. I couldn't have that. I thought of going back to the Glen, if that's what it would take to protect him. But I couldn't, I couldn’t go back to that. So I ran away".
"Does your husband know that the Lion has been looking for you?" asked Jack.
"No! I couldn't tell him. If he knew, he would confront the Lion. And then he would be killed". She paused, and then continued again. "That's why I paid you to not take the case, Mr Devlin. I knew the Lion would have my husband watched, and that any investigator he hired would also be watched. For my sake and that of my husband, I did not want to be found".
"I see", said Jack. He had really misread all this, but he consoled himself with the thought that furry cases are most unusual and have their own twisted logic. Furthermore, it is very hard to read furries' intentions, given the face-hiding nature of their masks.
"One thing", said Laura, "what led you to think that the bears were working for my husband? Why did you think that he controlled the Furry Glen?"
"Well", said Jack, realising that there was no way of saying this without sounding like an idiot, "The Lion told me that your husband ran the Furry Glen, and that he – "
"What?" interrupted Laura indignantly. "That, that savage beast told you that my husband was a furry pimp who catered for the perverse needs of shavies, that he was looking to sell the body of his own wife, and you believed him?"
"I'm sorry", said Jack weakly. "It fitted the facts at the time".
Laura looked like she was about to explode.
"I'm sure he meant well", said Jane. "Look, would anyone like a cup of tea?"
"I'm alright", said Laura. "This night has taken a lot out of me. I think I need to get some sleep".
"You can sleep in my bed", said Jane. "Jack and I will get a couple of hours shut-eye here. Give me a minute to get some blankets for us". She jumped up and started doing things. Jack found himself thinking that as he had been severely duffed up earlier that night and as he had been the one who had saved Laura from her enemies, maybe he had a better claim on the bed, but he did not want to push his luck.
They settled down for what was left of the night. Jack and Jane were settled down under blankets on separate arm chairs. Just before she turned off the light, Jack found himself thinking that Jane looked pretty swish under that dressing gown of hers. He had always considered her a rather attractive woman, but the whole boss-employee relationship meant it never seemed like a good time to approach her. But now, perhaps, thrown together by circumstances and danger, could this be the time for two people to come together, their hitherto denied passions for each other exploding into a frenzy of lovemaking?
Jane spoke before he could say or do anything. "No funny business, Jack". There was no way her glacial tone could be taken as a come-on. He decided to get some sleep.
Furry Folk - Part 20
Jack is desperately trying to find the panda lady before the bears get to her.
Now what? He was at the entrance to the apartment building. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was just after 5.00 a.m.. He had a bit of time before the bears arrived, assuming that their van did not have a secret jet engine built into it, but not too long. So he could just wait, and hope that the panda lady would hear his message and call him back. But that path was one of passivity, and it left him too dependent on other's actions. What if the panda lady did not get the message by the time the bears arrived? What if she got the message, but decided not to call him back? These were risks he could not take.
One other course of action presented itself – ringing the doorbell of every flat in the building. Cold calling people in the small hours of a weekday morning, asking them if they knew a Laura who liked to dress up as a panda – Jack suspected that this was not a way to make new friends. But it might just bring him to the panda lady. And waking the building's residents up might just help him out should things get nasty with the bears. He got to work, deciding to try all the apartments in turn, starting from number one. He pressed the buzzer. No response. He pressed it again. No response. He held it down a third time, this time leaving it down for long enough to show that he meant business.
"Hello?" said a groggy male voice over the intercom.
"Hello Sir", replied Jack, trying to sound simultanaeously business like and apologetic. "I'm sorry to disturb you, it's just that I am urgently looking for a good friend of mine but I don't know which apartment she lives in. Is there a Laura there with you?"
"What? Fuck you, you prick", said Jack's new best friend, hanging up.
This really is going to be fun, thought Jack, but he persevered. Subsequent attempts proved similar to the first, a succession of sleepy male and female voices transformed into angry ones by his enquiry. Two of them had threatened to call the Guards on him when he hit what seemed to be pay dirt with apartment 12. He had delivered a variant of his spiel, asked the woman he was talking to if her name was Laura, and got this reply: "My name is Laura. Who is this?"
"My name is Jack Devlin," Jack replied. "But, eh, the problem I have is that I don't know the surname of the Laura I am looking for".
"So how do I know if you are looking for me?"
"Well, it comes down to this. Are you the kind of person who likes to dress up in a panda suit?"
The woman hung up, but not before issuing a stream of expletives followed by the word "pervert". She was probably not his target.
Jack had been sworn at by the occupants of a couple more apartments when the inner door suddenly opened, revealing an angry looking man in a white tracksuit.
"What is your fucking problem?" inquired the man of Jack, who backed away lest he might have to defend himself from the violent temper of this fellow.
"Hey! Sorry about waking you up, it's just that I have to find my friend – it's a matter of life or death".
"Don't give me that bollocks" came the retort. "I know his is just a job for you. You took our money, but you still took the job, you fucking prick. Now fuck off and don't come back here again".
The money referred to – was this the cash left in his postbox by someone who wanted him to not take the case? In that case, was this guy someone other than an apartment dweller woken up in the middle of the night by a mysterious caller?
"Wait a minute… you left that money? So you know where Laura is? Is she here?"
"No more questions, snooper! Get the fuck out of here before I batter the shite out of you!" The man in the silky tracksuit seemed rather incensed.
"No listen", said Jack, trying to sound as persuasive as possible, but worrying that he was just coming across as someone trying to push car-loans. "I'm not on that case any more. I dropped it once I realised that I was just being used to find Laura so that she could be forced back into a life of panda sex slavery. But they've still managed to track her down. There are a crowd of gangsters in bear suits on their way to take Laura away. They'll be here any minute. Jesus Christ, listen to me! If Laura is here, she has got to get away, fast".
Jack's earnestness had touched a nerve somewhere in the heart that lay beating beneath his conversant's track suit top. He looked a bit less sure of himself, less clear that all would be well if Jack were to just make himself scarce. "They're on their way here?" he asked hesitantly.
"Yes!" Jack replied. "They had left me a prisoner, with one of them who was meant to finish me off, but I managed to escape. I passed them on the way here, but they'll be here any minute. Laura has got to get away!"
The man in the tracksuit started mumbling back an incoherent reply when, as if on cue, a blue van came careering round the corner towards them, three angry looking bears in the front seat.
"Holy fuck!" exclaimed the tracksuit.
"We've got to get inside!" said Jack. "They're armed!"
"OK, quick, come on!"
Jack was pulled in through the buiding's front door, which slammed shut behind them, just as they heard the van skid to a halt out front. The tracksuit fumbled with the keys for the inner door as large men in bear suits started trying to force open the door behind them. Jack and the other made it through the inner door, and then Jack followed tracksuit as he sprinted down a corridor and into a stairwell. Several floors up, Jack was winded, but still able to follow down another corridor and to the door of an apartment. Trackie unlooked the door and led Jack in, to be greeted by a small dog (who barked at Jack suspiciously) and a dark-haired woman in a dressing gown. She looked in her mid thirties, and, Jack thought, the kind of woman who might be described as attractive but not conventionally so.
"Miss Cuddlebuns, I presume?" said Jack, offering her his hand.
"Mr Devlin", she replied, shaking his hand quickly and then letting go. "We meet at last". She turned to the other man. "Why have you brought him here?"
"I had to! There were three bears coming after us. He came here to warn us".
"Really?" she said, fixing Jack with a gaze suggesting that she was not entirely convinced of his motives. Looking at her eyes, Jack detected a certain redness, suggesting that she had been crying.
"It's true", he replied. "My story is complicated, but the upshot is simple enough. I found out that the bears were coming to take you back – to your former life. I couldn't allow that, particularly as it was through me that they had located you".
"That's very admirable of you", she said in a strikingly even tone.
"Look, you can believe it or not, but the bears are here, your man here has seen them, and they are intent on abducting you and, probably, killing me. We've got to get away. This is a big apartment, but their sort will find us soon enough. There's no point trying to stand against them, and I don't think there's anyone we can call to our aid against them".
"No point calling the Guards", commented Tracky.
"No, the bears will be upon us before those clowns have finished their doughnuts. You'd better get dressed".
"Give me a minute", said Laura, leaving Jack and the tracksuit in the apartment's living room with the dog. The animal had by now registered that Jack was not an immediate threat and was sniffing intently at his shoes.
"How long have you known her?" said Jack, by way of making conversation.
"What? All my life. She's my big sister", replied Tracky, seemingly a bit confused by the question.
"Ah", said Jack, "I'd thought that you were, you know…"
"Well we're not!" came the emphatic retort. Jack felt that it would be wise not to press the point.
"Fair enough. So she came to you when she left the panda?"
"Yeah. We had got a bit distant over the years, especially when she got into all that weird stuff, but she's my sister and I'll always be there for her".
"Of course", said Jack, touched by this sibling loyalty. He thought of all the tiresome practical jokes his own idiot brothers still played on him every time they met. On balance, he reckoned that he would not be there for them should they ever find themselves being hunted by bear-suited thugs who, for some ungodly reason, wanted to force them into furry prostitution. Then he thought of something. "Wait a minute… she's your sister?"
"Yes, I told you, she's my fucking sister".
"But that means that you would have the same surname".
"Yes, of course, McClafferty".
"McClafferty! Great!" Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
Now Laura had rejoined them. She was wearing black jeans and a top with black sleeves and a white body.
"What?" she inquired.
"Your name. The bears probably know your surname. Once they knew what apartment you were in, they would have checked to see if there was anyone here with the same surname, in case you were holed up with a relative. Now, if your name had been Murphy or O'Neill, they would probably have to check off a couple of apartments, but how many McClafferties do you think there are here?"
Laura and her brother looked at each other and then back at Jack.
"We've got to move!" said Laura. There was a steel in her voice.
"We can take the fire escape at the other end of the corridor" said the brother. "That will get us outside without having to go by the bears at the front entrance".
"That's if they are still at the front entrance", said Jack ominously. "They could well be in through those two doors now".
"Bollocks!" said the brother.
"I'll check if the coast is clear", said Jack. He opened the front door, and peeped down the corridor, only to see the bears coming out of the stairwell they had just come from. They saw him too, and broke into a trot towards him. He slammed the door shut and put on the chain.
"The coast is not clear. They're here. We've got to block that door".
"Stop wasting our time", came a voice from beyond the door. "You can't escape. Give up now, let's not make this any more unpleasant than it has to be. We only want the woman. Give her to us. She won't be lost to you forever… if you ever want to see her, just come down to the Furry Glen!" Then the voice laughed, not in the cackling laugh of a cartoon maniac, but in a low, sinister chuckle that only a man in a bear suit can master. The three of them in the flat were in a desperate situation, and the laughing bear knew it.
Now what? He was at the entrance to the apartment building. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was just after 5.00 a.m.. He had a bit of time before the bears arrived, assuming that their van did not have a secret jet engine built into it, but not too long. So he could just wait, and hope that the panda lady would hear his message and call him back. But that path was one of passivity, and it left him too dependent on other's actions. What if the panda lady did not get the message by the time the bears arrived? What if she got the message, but decided not to call him back? These were risks he could not take.
"Hello?" said a groggy male voice over the intercom.
"Hello Sir", replied Jack, trying to sound simultanaeously business like and apologetic. "I'm sorry to disturb you, it's just that I am urgently looking for a good friend of mine but I don't know which apartment she lives in. Is there a Laura there with you?"
"What? Fuck you, you prick", said Jack's new best friend, hanging up.
This really is going to be fun, thought Jack, but he persevered. Subsequent attempts proved similar to the first, a succession of sleepy male and female voices transformed into angry ones by his enquiry. Two of them had threatened to call the Guards on him when he hit what seemed to be pay dirt with apartment 12. He had delivered a variant of his spiel, asked the woman he was talking to if her name was Laura, and got this reply: "My name is Laura. Who is this?"
"My name is Jack Devlin," Jack replied. "But, eh, the problem I have is that I don't know the surname of the Laura I am looking for".
"So how do I know if you are looking for me?"
"Well, it comes down to this. Are you the kind of person who likes to dress up in a panda suit?"
The woman hung up, but not before issuing a stream of expletives followed by the word "pervert". She was probably not his target.
Jack had been sworn at by the occupants of a couple more apartments when the inner door suddenly opened, revealing an angry looking man in a white tracksuit.
"What is your fucking problem?" inquired the man of Jack, who backed away lest he might have to defend himself from the violent temper of this fellow.
"Hey! Sorry about waking you up, it's just that I have to find my friend – it's a matter of life or death".
"Don't give me that bollocks" came the retort. "I know his is just a job for you. You took our money, but you still took the job, you fucking prick. Now fuck off and don't come back here again".
The money referred to – was this the cash left in his postbox by someone who wanted him to not take the case? In that case, was this guy someone other than an apartment dweller woken up in the middle of the night by a mysterious caller?
"Wait a minute… you left that money? So you know where Laura is? Is she here?"
"No more questions, snooper! Get the fuck out of here before I batter the shite out of you!" The man in the silky tracksuit seemed rather incensed.
"No listen", said Jack, trying to sound as persuasive as possible, but worrying that he was just coming across as someone trying to push car-loans. "I'm not on that case any more. I dropped it once I realised that I was just being used to find Laura so that she could be forced back into a life of panda sex slavery. But they've still managed to track her down. There are a crowd of gangsters in bear suits on their way to take Laura away. They'll be here any minute. Jesus Christ, listen to me! If Laura is here, she has got to get away, fast".
Jack's earnestness had touched a nerve somewhere in the heart that lay beating beneath his conversant's track suit top. He looked a bit less sure of himself, less clear that all would be well if Jack were to just make himself scarce. "They're on their way here?" he asked hesitantly.
"Yes!" Jack replied. "They had left me a prisoner, with one of them who was meant to finish me off, but I managed to escape. I passed them on the way here, but they'll be here any minute. Laura has got to get away!"
The man in the tracksuit started mumbling back an incoherent reply when, as if on cue, a blue van came careering round the corner towards them, three angry looking bears in the front seat.
"Holy fuck!" exclaimed the tracksuit.
"We've got to get inside!" said Jack. "They're armed!"
"OK, quick, come on!"
Jack was pulled in through the buiding's front door, which slammed shut behind them, just as they heard the van skid to a halt out front. The tracksuit fumbled with the keys for the inner door as large men in bear suits started trying to force open the door behind them. Jack and the other made it through the inner door, and then Jack followed tracksuit as he sprinted down a corridor and into a stairwell. Several floors up, Jack was winded, but still able to follow down another corridor and to the door of an apartment. Trackie unlooked the door and led Jack in, to be greeted by a small dog (who barked at Jack suspiciously) and a dark-haired woman in a dressing gown. She looked in her mid thirties, and, Jack thought, the kind of woman who might be described as attractive but not conventionally so.
"Miss Cuddlebuns, I presume?" said Jack, offering her his hand.
"Mr Devlin", she replied, shaking his hand quickly and then letting go. "We meet at last". She turned to the other man. "Why have you brought him here?"
"I had to! There were three bears coming after us. He came here to warn us".
"Really?" she said, fixing Jack with a gaze suggesting that she was not entirely convinced of his motives. Looking at her eyes, Jack detected a certain redness, suggesting that she had been crying.
"It's true", he replied. "My story is complicated, but the upshot is simple enough. I found out that the bears were coming to take you back – to your former life. I couldn't allow that, particularly as it was through me that they had located you".
"That's very admirable of you", she said in a strikingly even tone.
"Look, you can believe it or not, but the bears are here, your man here has seen them, and they are intent on abducting you and, probably, killing me. We've got to get away. This is a big apartment, but their sort will find us soon enough. There's no point trying to stand against them, and I don't think there's anyone we can call to our aid against them".
"No point calling the Guards", commented Tracky.
"No, the bears will be upon us before those clowns have finished their doughnuts. You'd better get dressed".
"Give me a minute", said Laura, leaving Jack and the tracksuit in the apartment's living room with the dog. The animal had by now registered that Jack was not an immediate threat and was sniffing intently at his shoes.
"How long have you known her?" said Jack, by way of making conversation.
"What? All my life. She's my big sister", replied Tracky, seemingly a bit confused by the question.
"Ah", said Jack, "I'd thought that you were, you know…"
"Well we're not!" came the emphatic retort. Jack felt that it would be wise not to press the point.
"Fair enough. So she came to you when she left the panda?"
"Yeah. We had got a bit distant over the years, especially when she got into all that weird stuff, but she's my sister and I'll always be there for her".
"Of course", said Jack, touched by this sibling loyalty. He thought of all the tiresome practical jokes his own idiot brothers still played on him every time they met. On balance, he reckoned that he would not be there for them should they ever find themselves being hunted by bear-suited thugs who, for some ungodly reason, wanted to force them into furry prostitution. Then he thought of something. "Wait a minute… she's your sister?"
"Yes, I told you, she's my fucking sister".
"But that means that you would have the same surname".
"Yes, of course, McClafferty".
"McClafferty! Great!" Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
Now Laura had rejoined them. She was wearing black jeans and a top with black sleeves and a white body.
"What?" she inquired.
"Your name. The bears probably know your surname. Once they knew what apartment you were in, they would have checked to see if there was anyone here with the same surname, in case you were holed up with a relative. Now, if your name had been Murphy or O'Neill, they would probably have to check off a couple of apartments, but how many McClafferties do you think there are here?"
Laura and her brother looked at each other and then back at Jack.
"We've got to move!" said Laura. There was a steel in her voice.
"We can take the fire escape at the other end of the corridor" said the brother. "That will get us outside without having to go by the bears at the front entrance".
"That's if they are still at the front entrance", said Jack ominously. "They could well be in through those two doors now".
"Bollocks!" said the brother.
"I'll check if the coast is clear", said Jack. He opened the front door, and peeped down the corridor, only to see the bears coming out of the stairwell they had just come from. They saw him too, and broke into a trot towards him. He slammed the door shut and put on the chain.
"The coast is not clear. They're here. We've got to block that door".
"Stop wasting our time", came a voice from beyond the door. "You can't escape. Give up now, let's not make this any more unpleasant than it has to be. We only want the woman. Give her to us. She won't be lost to you forever… if you ever want to see her, just come down to the Furry Glen!" Then the voice laughed, not in the cackling laugh of a cartoon maniac, but in a low, sinister chuckle that only a man in a bear suit can master. The three of them in the flat were in a desperate situation, and the laughing bear knew it.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
More "Waltz with Bashir" action
If you saw that Waltz with Bashir film but feel that your retrospective enjoyment of it could be improved by reading a dull exposition of the the events the film covers, then check out this post on my other blog.
Furry Folk - Part 19
For complicated reasons, Jack is racing some furries to an apartment block in Dundrum
The rest of Jack's journey to Dundrum passed without significant incident. He had the address of the apartment that block the panda lady's phone seemed to residing in, and he was able to find it without too much difficulty. Now he had a bit of a problem. He had tha panda lady's phone number, and he knew from Mr Chubbytail that her first name was Laura. And that was it. He did not know her surname, he did not know what she looked like, and he did not know the particular apartment number she was in. And it was now the small hours of the morning. To cap it all, he only had a short period of time before the bears arrived. Like him, they did also did not know the particular apartment that the panda lady was in, but they might well know what she looked like, almost certainly knew her surname, and one of them was armed. He pondered these questions as he parked and locked the motorbike around the corner from the apartment block. As he walked briskly over to the apartment's main entrance, he was still no surer of the way forward, but he knew he had to achieve results fast.
First things first. He went to take out his phone, to try phoning the panda lady's number again, but he took out the bear's phone again. A couple of missed calls – he would not have heard the phone ringing while he was on the bike. Then it rang again. What the hell, he thought, answering it but not saying anything.
"Barney! Where the fuck have you been? That snooper zoomed by us on your bike – did you let him go or something?"
"Barney's been a silly little bear", replied Jack in as sinister a voice as he could manage. "It might be a while before he can answer your questions".
"What? Are you the snooper? You fucking dickwad, we'll get you!"
"That's what Barney said", said Jack before hanging up. He wished he had been able to think of a wittier quip, but he reckoned he had managed to project a sense of nonchalance that they would find somewhat unnerving.
Now to real business. Setting the bear's phone to silent, he put it away, then took his own out and keyed in the panda lady's number. Despite the lateness of the hour, it rang rather than going straight to voicemail. Good, the phone was on. It rang a couple of times and then the voicemail kicked in. She may have been asleep and not got to the phone, or she might have seen the number, not recognised it, and decided not to answer.
He barked in a message. "Laura! You don't know me, but for the love of God listen to this message. I am outside your apartment block in Dundrum. There are bears coming for you, they'll be here any minute. I can get you away from here. Please let me in or come down to me!"
That was all he had time for. Would it be enough?
The rest of Jack's journey to Dundrum passed without significant incident. He had the address of the apartment that block the panda lady's phone seemed to residing in, and he was able to find it without too much difficulty. Now he had a bit of a problem. He had tha panda lady's phone number, and he knew from Mr Chubbytail that her first name was Laura. And that was it. He did not know her surname, he did not know what she looked like, and he did not know the particular apartment number she was in. And it was now the small hours of the morning. To cap it all, he only had a short period of time before the bears arrived. Like him, they did also did not know the particular apartment that the panda lady was in, but they might well know what she looked like, almost certainly knew her surname, and one of them was armed. He pondered these questions as he parked and locked the motorbike around the corner from the apartment block. As he walked briskly over to the apartment's main entrance, he was still no surer of the way forward, but he knew he had to achieve results fast.
"Barney! Where the fuck have you been? That snooper zoomed by us on your bike – did you let him go or something?"
"Barney's been a silly little bear", replied Jack in as sinister a voice as he could manage. "It might be a while before he can answer your questions".
"What? Are you the snooper? You fucking dickwad, we'll get you!"
"That's what Barney said", said Jack before hanging up. He wished he had been able to think of a wittier quip, but he reckoned he had managed to project a sense of nonchalance that they would find somewhat unnerving.
Now to real business. Setting the bear's phone to silent, he put it away, then took his own out and keyed in the panda lady's number. Despite the lateness of the hour, it rang rather than going straight to voicemail. Good, the phone was on. It rang a couple of times and then the voicemail kicked in. She may have been asleep and not got to the phone, or she might have seen the number, not recognised it, and decided not to answer.
He barked in a message. "Laura! You don't know me, but for the love of God listen to this message. I am outside your apartment block in Dundrum. There are bears coming for you, they'll be here any minute. I can get you away from here. Please let me in or come down to me!"
That was all he had time for. Would it be enough?
Friday, December 26, 2008
Suspicions confirmed
Like many people I watched some Dr Who yesterday, but it was old Doctor Who from 25 years ago, called Resurrection of the Daleks. This one was about the Daleks (hence the title), who were trying to bust a rather sulky Davros out of jail so he could make them immune to some virus. For plot device reasons they were storing samples of this virus in a disused warehouse in London's docklands, connected to their space ship by a "time corridor". The Doctor manages to defeat the Daleks (obv.), but his annoying Australian companion Tegan Jovanka decides she has had enough time travel and leaves.
One of the most striking things about the story was Tegan's rather outlandish costume. It may have been the kind of thing that young ladies wore back in the early 1980s, but it did lead to ongoing "WTF?" reactions every time she came on screen (see image; Tegan is the one to the right). There was an accompanying bonus feature in which then Dr Who producer John Nathan Turner and Janet Fielding (who played Tegan) appeared on some early morning breakfast programme (itself a fascinating relic of the early 1980s). JNT confirmed that the rather revealing costumes the lady assistants wore were primarily designed to appeal to any dads who might be viewing.
image source
One of the most striking things about the story was Tegan's rather outlandish costume. It may have been the kind of thing that young ladies wore back in the early 1980s, but it did lead to ongoing "WTF?" reactions every time she came on screen (see image; Tegan is the one to the right). There was an accompanying bonus feature in which then Dr Who producer John Nathan Turner and Janet Fielding (who played Tegan) appeared on some early morning breakfast programme (itself a fascinating relic of the early 1980s). JNT confirmed that the rather revealing costumes the lady assistants wore were primarily designed to appeal to any dads who might be viewing.image source
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 18
Jack is trying to escape from a bear-suited psychopath
The bear rose to his feet, growling in a manner suggesting that he was taking the whole furry thing a bit too seriously. Then, with the knife held menacingly in his right hand, he began to circle around the sofa towards Jack. Jack grabbed one of the legs from the shattered chair and made ready to defend himself as best he could.
The bear roared and lunged at Jack with the knife. He sidestepped, bringing his improvised club down hard on the bear's fore-arm. The bear yelped and dropped the knife, but he reacted quickly, slamming his left paw hard into Jack's ribs. The blow threw Jack back across the room, but he was lucky. The blow had been painful, yes, but Jack managed to remain upright and avoid tripping, and the blow did not throw Jack against a wall or other obstacle that would inflict further damage on him. It did, nevertheless, emphasise the power of the opponent he faced. If the bear were to close with him, then he would be ripped apart.
The fight between them now took the form almost of a bullfight. The bear kept charging at Jack, arms flailing, but, being more nimble, Jack was able to keep out of reach. With the club he was able to land an occasional blow on the bear's head. The furry plainly did not like this, but it was not doing anything obvious to slow him down. Jack feared that it was only a matter of time before the bear cornered him, and then he was a dead man.
Things ended sooner than he thought. Dodging a charge from the bear, Jack found himself trapped in one corner of the room. As the bear readied to rush him again, Jack realised that this was it – there was no way of dodging the bear this time. Instead, he readied himself to deal the strongest blow he could to the bear. As the furry charged to him, arms outstretched, Jack brought the club down hard on his head. The impact was so hard that the club cracked in two, but it did not stop the bear, who crashed into Jack like a train. They collapsed into a pile. It was only when it became apparent that the bear was lying on Jack like a deadweight that he realised that his last blow had, finally, been enough to put the bear out for the count. It was only momentum that had brought him on to impact against Jack.
Jack eventually managed to crawl out from under the unconscious bear. He got the rope that he had so recently been tied in, and securely tied his enemy's hands behind his back. Finding a bit more rope, he did the same with his feet. That should protect him from any unpleasant surprises, should the bear suddenly regain consciousness. He quickly rifled the pockets in the bear-suit, finding a wallet with some money but nothing that contained a name, a mobile phone, and a set of keys. He slipped all of these into his own pocket.
Now what? Jack considered making good his mistake. He was out in the middle of nowhere, but on leaving the house he was sure he would soon find some way of getting back into the city. Walking should eventually bring him to a main road, from where he would be able to hitch. If all else failed, once he established where he was, he could phone for a taxi. But these options were unsatisfying. Jack strongly suspected that the other bears were now headed back into the city, going to the apartment building where the panda-lady's phone had last been used. Jack did not know the panda-lady from Adam and had no strong feelings towards her, good or bad, but one thing he did not want to see happen was her being forced back into furry sex slavery. He had dropped the case to prevent this happening, but now Mr Chubbytail's minions had tracked her down thanks to Jack's own investigative efforts. That rankled. He felt it was almost a point of principle that he had to save her from her former husband. But how?
Jack got his answer when he went looking around the outside of the house. Someone had left a motorcycle parked in the back yard. Investigation revealed quickly that it belonged to the bear whose head he had just cracked open, or at least that his set of keys fitted the locks. The bears in the van had left some time ago, true, but they had left in a van. He had a motorbike, and he knew he would be able to outrun them to Dundrum. OK, so he had never actually ridden a motorbike before, but he felt that it was something he could pick up on the way. He started up the engine, and headed out onto the road.
The van had seemed to come from the left, so Jack headed off in that in that direction first. Initially he drove slowly; he was getting the feel of the bike, and he was still not quite sure which way he was going. Soon, though, the back road he was on joined a bigger road, giving him a clearly signposted way to Dublin. Now Jack was able to open up the throttle, feeling the primal power of the bike as it powered ahead. This felt good.
It seemed like almost no time before the road had brought him onto the main road to Dublin. He was speeding like a demon now, sailing past the occasional car or other vehicle out that late at night. It occurred to him that it would be unfortunate if he found himself halted by a Garda checkpoint, but then he decided not to worry. No Garda car would be able to catch him on this machine, and even if they took the number plate for later action they would just end up hauling in the bear.
He somewhat lost track of time, but then he saw something up ahead that jolted him out of his enjoyment of speed for its own sake. What was that up ahead? Why, it was a rather familiar looking blue van. It could, of course, be any blue van, but something in Jack's gut told him that it was carrying a crew of evil furries. He thought of hanging back and trailing it, but what good would that do? He knew where they were going, or at least had a very good idea of it. There was nothing to be gained from letting them get their first. There were, after all, at least three of them, and there was only one of him. They also had another possible advantage over him – they might very well know what the panda-lady looked like outside the panda suit. No, he had to get to the apartment block first. And there was no way of doing it without going past them, revealing to them that he had escaped – if he tried taking another route back to Dublin, there was the danger of his getting lost or losing so much time that they arrived ahead of him. There was nothing else for it. He opened up the throttle.
Jack's hope was that the van's occupants would only recognise him as he roared past – other wise they might try to knock him off the bike while he overtook them. So the faster he went, the better. His bike roared like a fighter plane as he accelerated past them. He glanced in at occupants of the cab (three men in bear suits), giving them the finger as he did so. One of them pointed at him in astonishment. "How do you like that, furry fuckers?" he shouted, more to himself than to them, as he surged on ahead.
It turned out that they did not like that at all. A loud cracking noise rang out. It took Jack a moment to realise what it was. They were shooting at him. The bears were actually shooting at him. He gunned the bike up to even greater speed, and weaved his beast from side to side to present a moving target. Three more shots rang out before he had left them too far behind to bother wasting further bullets. Four shots fired, no hits. Jack was away!
The bear rose to his feet, growling in a manner suggesting that he was taking the whole furry thing a bit too seriously. Then, with the knife held menacingly in his right hand, he began to circle around the sofa towards Jack. Jack grabbed one of the legs from the shattered chair and made ready to defend himself as best he could.
The fight between them now took the form almost of a bullfight. The bear kept charging at Jack, arms flailing, but, being more nimble, Jack was able to keep out of reach. With the club he was able to land an occasional blow on the bear's head. The furry plainly did not like this, but it was not doing anything obvious to slow him down. Jack feared that it was only a matter of time before the bear cornered him, and then he was a dead man.
Things ended sooner than he thought. Dodging a charge from the bear, Jack found himself trapped in one corner of the room. As the bear readied to rush him again, Jack realised that this was it – there was no way of dodging the bear this time. Instead, he readied himself to deal the strongest blow he could to the bear. As the furry charged to him, arms outstretched, Jack brought the club down hard on his head. The impact was so hard that the club cracked in two, but it did not stop the bear, who crashed into Jack like a train. They collapsed into a pile. It was only when it became apparent that the bear was lying on Jack like a deadweight that he realised that his last blow had, finally, been enough to put the bear out for the count. It was only momentum that had brought him on to impact against Jack.
Jack eventually managed to crawl out from under the unconscious bear. He got the rope that he had so recently been tied in, and securely tied his enemy's hands behind his back. Finding a bit more rope, he did the same with his feet. That should protect him from any unpleasant surprises, should the bear suddenly regain consciousness. He quickly rifled the pockets in the bear-suit, finding a wallet with some money but nothing that contained a name, a mobile phone, and a set of keys. He slipped all of these into his own pocket.
Now what? Jack considered making good his mistake. He was out in the middle of nowhere, but on leaving the house he was sure he would soon find some way of getting back into the city. Walking should eventually bring him to a main road, from where he would be able to hitch. If all else failed, once he established where he was, he could phone for a taxi. But these options were unsatisfying. Jack strongly suspected that the other bears were now headed back into the city, going to the apartment building where the panda-lady's phone had last been used. Jack did not know the panda-lady from Adam and had no strong feelings towards her, good or bad, but one thing he did not want to see happen was her being forced back into furry sex slavery. He had dropped the case to prevent this happening, but now Mr Chubbytail's minions had tracked her down thanks to Jack's own investigative efforts. That rankled. He felt it was almost a point of principle that he had to save her from her former husband. But how?
Jack got his answer when he went looking around the outside of the house. Someone had left a motorcycle parked in the back yard. Investigation revealed quickly that it belonged to the bear whose head he had just cracked open, or at least that his set of keys fitted the locks. The bears in the van had left some time ago, true, but they had left in a van. He had a motorbike, and he knew he would be able to outrun them to Dundrum. OK, so he had never actually ridden a motorbike before, but he felt that it was something he could pick up on the way. He started up the engine, and headed out onto the road.
The van had seemed to come from the left, so Jack headed off in that in that direction first. Initially he drove slowly; he was getting the feel of the bike, and he was still not quite sure which way he was going. Soon, though, the back road he was on joined a bigger road, giving him a clearly signposted way to Dublin. Now Jack was able to open up the throttle, feeling the primal power of the bike as it powered ahead. This felt good.
It seemed like almost no time before the road had brought him onto the main road to Dublin. He was speeding like a demon now, sailing past the occasional car or other vehicle out that late at night. It occurred to him that it would be unfortunate if he found himself halted by a Garda checkpoint, but then he decided not to worry. No Garda car would be able to catch him on this machine, and even if they took the number plate for later action they would just end up hauling in the bear.
He somewhat lost track of time, but then he saw something up ahead that jolted him out of his enjoyment of speed for its own sake. What was that up ahead? Why, it was a rather familiar looking blue van. It could, of course, be any blue van, but something in Jack's gut told him that it was carrying a crew of evil furries. He thought of hanging back and trailing it, but what good would that do? He knew where they were going, or at least had a very good idea of it. There was nothing to be gained from letting them get their first. There were, after all, at least three of them, and there was only one of him. They also had another possible advantage over him – they might very well know what the panda-lady looked like outside the panda suit. No, he had to get to the apartment block first. And there was no way of doing it without going past them, revealing to them that he had escaped – if he tried taking another route back to Dublin, there was the danger of his getting lost or losing so much time that they arrived ahead of him. There was nothing else for it. He opened up the throttle.
Jack's hope was that the van's occupants would only recognise him as he roared past – other wise they might try to knock him off the bike while he overtook them. So the faster he went, the better. His bike roared like a fighter plane as he accelerated past them. He glanced in at occupants of the cab (three men in bear suits), giving them the finger as he did so. One of them pointed at him in astonishment. "How do you like that, furry fuckers?" he shouted, more to himself than to them, as he surged on ahead.
It turned out that they did not like that at all. A loud cracking noise rang out. It took Jack a moment to realise what it was. They were shooting at him. The bears were actually shooting at him. He gunned the bike up to even greater speed, and weaved his beast from side to side to present a moving target. Three more shots rang out before he had left them too far behind to bother wasting further bullets. Four shots fired, no hits. Jack was away!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 17
Jack has been kidnapped again, this time by three bears.
A good pummelling left Jack stunned and unable to even contemplate action. One of the bears then frisked him and went through his pockets while the others looked on. They remained silent. The frisker soon reached the music magazine, which Jack had rolled up and scrunched into his back pockets. Taking it and opening it, he found the print-out Jack had got from Tony. He held it up for the others to see. One of them gave a thumbs up sign, and then banged three times on the partition separating them from the driver's compartment. Someone there gave another three knocks back.
Then the three bears turned back to Jack.One of them looked at him, and then looked at the others, making a sign indicative of a throat being cut with one hand while pointing at Jack with the other. This doesn't look good, thought Jack. But one of the others shook his head, making a slow-down-there gesture with his hands. They were not going to finish Jack off, at least not yet. Oh wait, now that bear was holding his arm out and pointing to where a watch would be. Later. The bear who had wanted to kill him straight away gave a thumbs up sign.
For all that the bears were obviously planning to finish him off in the relatively near future, Jack was himself in the process of coming to life. He had taken so much damage over the last few days that the beating the bears had just administered seemed rather mild by comparison. While certainly conscious of the pain his body was suffering, Jack was no longer stunned. He was back to a state of alertness, waiting for a chance pull one over on these furry fucks. But of course, he was too astute an operator to let them think that he was anything other than semi-conscious.
As the van raced on, Jack's mind raced with it. Where were they going? There was no real way of telling, but he could tell where they were not going. They were not going anywhere near the Dundrum apartment block in which the phone had been located. Jack deduced this from two things – the bear had not looked at the print-out for long enough to work out the phone's location, stashing the papers as soon as he saw what they were. And even if the bear had spotted where the phone's user seemed to be staying, he had not communicated any information on where to go to the driver. So they were going somewhere else. Perhaps they wanted to finish him off before they went looking for the panda lady.
Where the van was going was impossible to determine. Jack could not time the journey, as he dared not risk showing the bears how alert he was by glancing at his watch. He tried to keep time in his head, but such things are impossible to do with any accuracy. The van's journey, meanwhile, gave no obvious clues. It did seem to embark on some twists and turns, but it also spent a lot of time going in what seemed like a relatively straight line. He reckoned they were not speeding through the mountains, but apart from that they could be going anywhere.
The bears gave him no clues. They maintained their silence throughout the journey. One of them (the one who had seemed intent on immediately killing Jack) did at one stage make a noise like he was about to say something. A nudge from one of the other bears (the one who had suggested the delay) and a gesture drawing attention to Jack's presence silenced him. Even this was interesting to Jack – it established a hierarchy among the furries, and it showed which one of the bears was the unreliable psycho brought along to pad out the numbers. The third bear was no doubt the sensible henchman the boss bear knew he could rely on.
After a journey of indeterminate length, the van stopped. The boss bear looked at each of the two juniors and then pointed at Jack, before opening the door and hopping out. The junior bears picked up Jack like he was a sack of potatoes and carried him out. He could just about make out his surroundings. The van was parked in the yard of a small country cottage. The boss bear was unlocking the cottage's front door and walking in, with the other two and Jack following him. Whoever was driving the van seemed to have remained in the van, out of Jack's line of sight.
Still feigning only semi-consciousness, Jack was put sitting in a wooden chair in the cottage's rather pokey living room. His arms were pulled roughly behind the back and his hands tied together. Then the bears did a bit of pottering about, largely outside Jack's vision. He heard a toilet flush a couple of times. One thing he did see was the boss bear now taking the opportunity to study the print-out at his leisure. He seemed, finally, to have worked out what he wanted to know from it. This led to him abruptly jumping up, and rousing the more reliable of the other two bears, who was slumped on the couch. The psycho bear jumped up two, following the master bear and the other as they made for the door out of the room, but the boss bear stopped him. First he made a "hold on there" gesture, putting the flat of his palm towards the other. Then he pointed at Jack. The psycho bear looked at Jack, looked back at the boss bear, and nodded. The other two left, waving goodbye. Jack heard the van start up again and drive off.
The scary bear picked up a rather nasty looking blade that had been left on the mantel piece. It looked like it might have been sold as a bread knife, but Jack suspected strongly that the bear was not planning to slice any bread. The bear looked in Jack's direction, patting the flat of the knife in the palm of his other paw. Jack was still pretending to be stunned and only partially aware of what was going on around him. He reckoned his only chance would be to take the bear by surprise when he came in close to do whatever he had planned, and to do that he would need to keep up the pretence as long as possible. Jack was not, however, confident that he stood much of a chance. He was, after all, tied to a chair, while the bear in front of him was built like a tank, and armed with a knife. Still, thought Jack, better to go out fighting.
The bear looked like he was about to approach Jack and start work on him when he stopped playing with the knife and instead held up the other paw with one finger extended, like he had had an idea. Jack thought for a second that the bear had thought up some deranged plan for an even more sadistic form of torture. Then the bear turned away from Jack and over to the other side of the room, where he turned on the small television that sat there. He pressed some buttons on its front (there seemed to be no remote control), until he reached the channel he wanted. It was one of those reality TV programmes, where minor celebrities or complete non-entities pulled in off the side of the street (who would soon be spending a few months as minor celebrities) were dropped into some contrived situation and expected to engage in a number of unusual activities for the delectation of the viewing public. The bear sat down on the sofa to watch the programme, now facing away from Jack.
Jack was not really one for reality TV programmes. In fact, he hated them so much that he considered begging the bear to torture him to death so that he would not have to watch it. But he knew that where there is life, there is hope, and the bear was obviously not going to kill him while his favourite programme was on. This gave him a window of opportunity in which he could plot his escape. He started to test the ropes in which he had been tied. The bears had thought him unconscious, and had probably expected psychobear to kill him as soon as the others left, so maybe they had not been that thorough in their binding? Yes! Jack began to pull, and he felt the rope letting him move far more than it should. Given time, he would be able to get his hands free. Then there would be the small matter of the bear and the bread knife. First things first, thought Jack.
Jack worked and worked on the ropes. He could not get his hands free immediately, and he could not risk making any noise for fear of alerting the bear to his wakeful state. A dicey moment arrived when the reality TV programme went into a commercial break – would the bear, bored by the advertisements, take the opportunity to kill his captive? No, fortunately not. He just sat there vacantly staring at the TV while a former member of the Happy Mondays encouraged viewers to use a well-known washing powder on their dirty clothes. A couple of ads later, and the reality TV programme was back on. The bear sat up again, that bit more alert, but alert in a way that meant he only had eyes and ears for the television.
And now Jack's hands were free. How to play this? He could try to slip out of the house, but where would he go? Anyway, the chance was too great that he would make a noise when he moved and then the bear would be on him. The only chance was to take out the bear. And the only weapon he really had was the chair on which he was sitting. So, throwing caution to the wind, in one swift movement he stood up, grabbed the chair, and swept towards the bear with the chair raised over his head. The bear heard him move, and turned around just as Jack came to him. He put a finger to his mouth in astonishment just as Jack brought the chair crashing down on his head. It impacted with a satisfyingly painful noise and broke into pieces on the bear's furry head.
"Take that, Bruno!", shouted Jack triumphantly.
His sense of premature triumph faded away rapidly when the bear rose to his feet, holding its head in one hand and the bread knife in the other, all the while emitting a series of bestial growls. With a sinking feeling Jack remembered the old adage: there is nothing more dangerous than a wounded bear.
A good pummelling left Jack stunned and unable to even contemplate action. One of the bears then frisked him and went through his pockets while the others looked on. They remained silent. The frisker soon reached the music magazine, which Jack had rolled up and scrunched into his back pockets. Taking it and opening it, he found the print-out Jack had got from Tony. He held it up for the others to see. One of them gave a thumbs up sign, and then banged three times on the partition separating them from the driver's compartment. Someone there gave another three knocks back.
Then the three bears turned back to Jack.
For all that the bears were obviously planning to finish him off in the relatively near future, Jack was himself in the process of coming to life. He had taken so much damage over the last few days that the beating the bears had just administered seemed rather mild by comparison. While certainly conscious of the pain his body was suffering, Jack was no longer stunned. He was back to a state of alertness, waiting for a chance pull one over on these furry fucks. But of course, he was too astute an operator to let them think that he was anything other than semi-conscious.
As the van raced on, Jack's mind raced with it. Where were they going? There was no real way of telling, but he could tell where they were not going. They were not going anywhere near the Dundrum apartment block in which the phone had been located. Jack deduced this from two things – the bear had not looked at the print-out for long enough to work out the phone's location, stashing the papers as soon as he saw what they were. And even if the bear had spotted where the phone's user seemed to be staying, he had not communicated any information on where to go to the driver. So they were going somewhere else. Perhaps they wanted to finish him off before they went looking for the panda lady.
Where the van was going was impossible to determine. Jack could not time the journey, as he dared not risk showing the bears how alert he was by glancing at his watch. He tried to keep time in his head, but such things are impossible to do with any accuracy. The van's journey, meanwhile, gave no obvious clues. It did seem to embark on some twists and turns, but it also spent a lot of time going in what seemed like a relatively straight line. He reckoned they were not speeding through the mountains, but apart from that they could be going anywhere.
The bears gave him no clues. They maintained their silence throughout the journey. One of them (the one who had seemed intent on immediately killing Jack) did at one stage make a noise like he was about to say something. A nudge from one of the other bears (the one who had suggested the delay) and a gesture drawing attention to Jack's presence silenced him. Even this was interesting to Jack – it established a hierarchy among the furries, and it showed which one of the bears was the unreliable psycho brought along to pad out the numbers. The third bear was no doubt the sensible henchman the boss bear knew he could rely on.
After a journey of indeterminate length, the van stopped. The boss bear looked at each of the two juniors and then pointed at Jack, before opening the door and hopping out. The junior bears picked up Jack like he was a sack of potatoes and carried him out. He could just about make out his surroundings. The van was parked in the yard of a small country cottage. The boss bear was unlocking the cottage's front door and walking in, with the other two and Jack following him. Whoever was driving the van seemed to have remained in the van, out of Jack's line of sight.
Still feigning only semi-consciousness, Jack was put sitting in a wooden chair in the cottage's rather pokey living room. His arms were pulled roughly behind the back and his hands tied together. Then the bears did a bit of pottering about, largely outside Jack's vision. He heard a toilet flush a couple of times. One thing he did see was the boss bear now taking the opportunity to study the print-out at his leisure. He seemed, finally, to have worked out what he wanted to know from it. This led to him abruptly jumping up, and rousing the more reliable of the other two bears, who was slumped on the couch. The psycho bear jumped up two, following the master bear and the other as they made for the door out of the room, but the boss bear stopped him. First he made a "hold on there" gesture, putting the flat of his palm towards the other. Then he pointed at Jack. The psycho bear looked at Jack, looked back at the boss bear, and nodded. The other two left, waving goodbye. Jack heard the van start up again and drive off.
The scary bear picked up a rather nasty looking blade that had been left on the mantel piece. It looked like it might have been sold as a bread knife, but Jack suspected strongly that the bear was not planning to slice any bread. The bear looked in Jack's direction, patting the flat of the knife in the palm of his other paw. Jack was still pretending to be stunned and only partially aware of what was going on around him. He reckoned his only chance would be to take the bear by surprise when he came in close to do whatever he had planned, and to do that he would need to keep up the pretence as long as possible. Jack was not, however, confident that he stood much of a chance. He was, after all, tied to a chair, while the bear in front of him was built like a tank, and armed with a knife. Still, thought Jack, better to go out fighting.
The bear looked like he was about to approach Jack and start work on him when he stopped playing with the knife and instead held up the other paw with one finger extended, like he had had an idea. Jack thought for a second that the bear had thought up some deranged plan for an even more sadistic form of torture. Then the bear turned away from Jack and over to the other side of the room, where he turned on the small television that sat there. He pressed some buttons on its front (there seemed to be no remote control), until he reached the channel he wanted. It was one of those reality TV programmes, where minor celebrities or complete non-entities pulled in off the side of the street (who would soon be spending a few months as minor celebrities) were dropped into some contrived situation and expected to engage in a number of unusual activities for the delectation of the viewing public. The bear sat down on the sofa to watch the programme, now facing away from Jack.
Jack was not really one for reality TV programmes. In fact, he hated them so much that he considered begging the bear to torture him to death so that he would not have to watch it. But he knew that where there is life, there is hope, and the bear was obviously not going to kill him while his favourite programme was on. This gave him a window of opportunity in which he could plot his escape. He started to test the ropes in which he had been tied. The bears had thought him unconscious, and had probably expected psychobear to kill him as soon as the others left, so maybe they had not been that thorough in their binding? Yes! Jack began to pull, and he felt the rope letting him move far more than it should. Given time, he would be able to get his hands free. Then there would be the small matter of the bear and the bread knife. First things first, thought Jack.
Jack worked and worked on the ropes. He could not get his hands free immediately, and he could not risk making any noise for fear of alerting the bear to his wakeful state. A dicey moment arrived when the reality TV programme went into a commercial break – would the bear, bored by the advertisements, take the opportunity to kill his captive? No, fortunately not. He just sat there vacantly staring at the TV while a former member of the Happy Mondays encouraged viewers to use a well-known washing powder on their dirty clothes. A couple of ads later, and the reality TV programme was back on. The bear sat up again, that bit more alert, but alert in a way that meant he only had eyes and ears for the television.
And now Jack's hands were free. How to play this? He could try to slip out of the house, but where would he go? Anyway, the chance was too great that he would make a noise when he moved and then the bear would be on him. The only chance was to take out the bear. And the only weapon he really had was the chair on which he was sitting. So, throwing caution to the wind, in one swift movement he stood up, grabbed the chair, and swept towards the bear with the chair raised over his head. The bear heard him move, and turned around just as Jack came to him. He put a finger to his mouth in astonishment just as Jack brought the chair crashing down on his head. It impacted with a satisfyingly painful noise and broke into pieces on the bear's furry head.
"Take that, Bruno!", shouted Jack triumphantly.
His sense of premature triumph faded away rapidly when the bear rose to his feet, holding its head in one hand and the bread knife in the other, all the while emitting a series of bestial growls. With a sinking feeling Jack remembered the old adage: there is nothing more dangerous than a wounded bear.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Furry Glen
I'm not sure if anyone is still reading Furry Folk, but if you are you may have noticed references to the Furry Glen. I can assure you that this is an actual place, in Dublin's Phoenix Park. I went there and took some pictures to research my novel.
Here's the road in the park that leads to the Glen.
And here is the path that leads into the Glen itself.
This was taken deep in the Glen.
Trees.
I was there in the afternoon, so there were no shady customers in furry suits hanging around making lewd suggestions to me.
Other research reveals that there is mysterious nightclub in Dublin called the Furry Glen. Details are sketchy, but it seems to be popular with bears.
Here's the road in the park that leads to the Glen.And here is the path that leads into the Glen itself.This was taken deep in the Glen.Trees.I was there in the afternoon, so there were no shady customers in furry suits hanging around making lewd suggestions to me.
Other research reveals that there is mysterious nightclub in Dublin called the Furry Glen. Details are sketchy, but it seems to be popular with bears.
Furry Folk - Part 16
Tough private detective Jack Devlin has dropped the Panda's case. So now what?
After that, Jack was at something of a loose end. He did not know what to do. He sat in his office for a while, staring into space, then he idly surfed the Internet in a disconsolate manner. The only sonic accompaniment was the tap of Jane's fingers on her keyboard in the reception area. Eventually he gave up and drifted out of the office, relieving Jane no end.
Jack was glumly drinking a pint in a pub favoured by solitary alcoholics that cannot be named for legal reasons when his mobile phone rang. He answered it, not recognising the number.
"Jack! Good to talk to you". The voice at the other end was over friendly, with a hint of worry and desperation behind the bonhomie. "It's me, Bill Murphy". That would be Bill Murphy, top dog in the Private Investigators Guild.
"Hi Bill", said Jack non-commitally.
"How are you keeping Jack, everything well with you?"
"Not too bad, Bill, not too bad. How are things with you?"
"Oh, everything's fine here, Jack. Well, nearly everything. That's why I've called you, you see".
Right, thought Jack, now we get to the heart of it. "Really?" he said.
"Well Jack, it's like this – "
Jack missed the rest of Bill's reply, because some incoherent drunk had come over to his table and started berating him for using his mobile in a place where people were going for a quiet drink. Jack decided to take the call outside, but warned the drunk first that if he touched his pint then he would split his face open. Outside, he apologised and asked Bill to repeat himself.
"OK, I'll say it again. The Guild has received complaint, from one of your clients. Or rather, from one of your former clients. The fellow says you took on his case, but then dropped him".
"And who was this alleged client?" inquired Jack.
"A chap with the rather rum name of Mr Chubbytail".
"Oh yeah, him", said Jack, like it was a surprise. "He is a funny guy. Dresses up in a panda suit. All the time, apparently".
"Really?" said Bill.
"Yes indeed. There's a lot of people who do the same thing. Well, maybe not all the time, but these people love to dress up in animal suits and get together for parties and stuff like that. Furries, they call themselves".
"Are you serious?"
"I am afraid so, yes. I think for some of them, it is some kind of sexual kink. You know, they like to get it on with each other while wearing the animal suits".
"Well holy God". Bill was plainly shocked that such things could go on in Ireland. That was one of the great things about him, Jack remembered. He was always being shocked by things. It made him a great private detective, forever being astonished that people might cheat on their wives or fake injuries for insurance purposes.
"So it was this Chubbytail fella who made the complaint?"
"It was".
"By phone, I take it".
"Yes indeed, and I was talking to him myself. He was most – "
"Well", said Jack, in a knowing tone, "he was probably wearing the panda suit when you were talking to him".
"Jaysus", said Bill, remembering now that complainant's voice did seem slightly muffled.
"So anyway, pissed off was he?"
"He was", Bill replied. "Listen Jack, you took him on as a client, and then you dropped him. That's not really in accord with the Guild's rules now, is it?"
"I suppose not, but I found out a few things about the Panda that made me not want to have anything further to do with him".
"Well now Jack, nobody's perfect. The point is, he was your client. Technically speaking, he still is. You have an obligation to see through the case".
"Bill, if you knew the kind of sick stuff the panda is mixed up in, and what he wanted me to do for him, then you would thank me for dropping the case. That Chubbytail guy is one sick fucker".
"But Jack – "
"No buts, Bill. Look, the Panda wanted me to find his wife for him, so that he could pimp her out to freaks who like to get it on with people in panda suits. He runs a furry prostitution ring, with sad fucks selling their furry asses to pervs who get their jollies out of doing it with someone in an animal suit. If you don't believe me, go to Phoenix Park any evening, and check out the Furry Glen".
"The Furry Glen?"
"Between the Islandbridge and Chapelizod gates. Take the path down into the woods from the Upper Furry Road. Actually no, don't do that, you won't like what you see, and the furry pimps won't like you poking their noses around there. Look, the point is, that Panda is running a vice ring, and he wanted me to be part of forcing someone into it against their will. I can't do that, Bill. Could you?"
"Well, I can't really say", flustered Bill. "The point is, you took the case… if you had moral qualms, you should have not taken it on in the first place. The Guild's rules are quite precise".
"Oh come on, Bill, what am I meant to do? Run a background check on every potential client who comes through my door? It's not like he walked in and introduced himself as the guy who runs Dublin's furry sex slavery scene".
"Even so, Jack, even so – "
"Look Bill, I can’t discuss this any more. If the Guild is going to throw the book at me, so be it. If you want to try and cheer up the Panda, put him in touch with Nolan. I'm sure he'd be happy to take the case".
Luke Nolan was widely acknowledged as the worst private detective in Dublin.
"Jack, Mr Chubbytail wants you. Nothing else will satisfy him".
"Well fuck him then. Sorry Bill, I've got to go, there's a pint going flat on me inside [name of pub deleted]". He hung up and went back inside. Two of the pub's habitual drinkers were drifting ever closer to the pint he had left unattended while he talked to Bill, clearly planning to accidentally pour some of his Guinness into their glasses. He chased them away with a few choice expletives. They slunk back into their corners and eyed him resentfully.
Jack was still drinking his pint when his phone beeped to tell him that he had a text message. "Fancy a rematch?" was the apparently cryptic message from Tony, but Jack knew what it meant. It signified that he had been able to find something on the phone number Jack had given him, and that he would be in their standard meeting spot for such things (the Submarine Bar in Walkinstown) that evening to hand over his findings. Even though Jack had dropped the panda case, he would still have to meet Tony; protocol demanded it. So he texted back a simple "CU THEN" and finished his drink.
Jack took it easy for the rest of the day, arriving out in the Submarine Bar at eight o'clock. Tony was not there yet. The bar was reasonably quiet, so he ordered a drink and grabbed the most secluded table he could find. He did not have to wait for long – Tony arrived before he had taken more than a few sips of his pint.
"Hi there, Jack", said Tony, sitting down opposite him. "Let's hope you don't get kidnapped again this time. Speaking of which, I ended up having to pick up the whole tab last time".
"Sorry about that, I'll see you right. Care for a drink tonight?" Jack beckoned over one of the serving staff. Like everyone else in the pub, she was dressed in a sailor-suit.
"What can I get ee?" she inquired, her Polish accent struggling with the salty-sea-dog patois the management obliged their unfortunate staff to adopt.
"A pint of Carlsberg, please", said Tony.
"Nothing for me right now", said Jack.
"One Carrrrlsberg coming up, you swabs", said the Slavic server, before scurrying off.
"I got some good stuff on that phone you were looking for", said Tony. "It has been used, and we have fixes for it that pretty much narrow down its user to living in one particular apartment block out in Dundrum".
"Cheers Tony", replied Jack. "Turns out, though, that I don't need the information. I've dropped the case the phone was mixed up in. Don't worry, I'll get you back the usual way".
"No problem", said Tony, taking a weirdo music magazine out of the bag he was carrying. "Either way, I think you should take this". He handed the magazine over to Jack. A number of loose A4 sheets were semi-concealed within it. Jack knew the form – Tony wanted rid of the incriminating evidence, and did not care what use Jack had for it. He took the magazine from him.
"Avast, here be Carrrrlsberg" said the returning waitress. Jack paid her, and she was off.
"So you've dropped a case, Jack?" inquired Tony, after taking his first mouthfuls of what some allege to probably be the best lager in the world. "That's not like you".
"I suppose it's not. But yeah, I did drop the case. I was in over my head, being used by a total cockfarmer for their own sinister purposes".
"Sounds like my workplace" quipped Tony.
"I'm sure it does. Nah, I don't want to go into the details, but I found out enough to know that if I were to close the case, I would be serving someone up on a plate to this evil fucker, and I didn't want that. So I quit".
"And this evil fucker, is there any danger of him coming after you? Surely he is a bit pissed off that you have left him high and dry?"
"Jesus, you might be right" said Jack. The thought had not occurred to him, but now that Tony had mentioned it he had sudden visions of the panda sending his minions to rough him up. Worse, they might throw an animal suit onto him and pimp him out to the pervs who frequented the Furry Glen. There's nothing funny about being forced into furry prostitution, he thought. But then he collected himself. "It is a worry, I have to admit, but I reckon I can handle myself. Let the fucker do his worst!"
He raised his glass like he was proposing a toast. Tony and he clinked their glasses and then drank deeply from them. Their conversation moved on to cheerier things, and it was not long before they were calling over the waitress and demanding subsequent pints.
They stayed for a couple more drinks. Not enough to turn the night into a serious session, but enough. At one point, while Tony was off in the gents, Jack idly glanced the music magazine and the enclosed print-out. His curiosity was now only idle, but after looking at the print out for a minute or two it was clear enough where the mobile phone was spending its nights. The fix was not so close that it could be narrowed down to a particular address, but it was good enough to indicate the particular apartment block. If he was still on the case, this would have given him his next step – head out to the apartment block and – somehow – find the panda lady there. But he was not on the case.
Unlike Jack, Tony had to be in an office ready to perform at nine the following morning, so he called a halt to proceedings before things got too out of hand. Tony hailed a taxi outside the bar, while Jack unlocked his bike. Cycling and drinking, not perhaps the wisest of combinations. It did at least mean that he would not have to put up with another idiot taxi driver, and while cycling under the influence might be a tad dangerous, it was at least not something subject to legal penalties.
As far as Jack was concerned, the night was drawing to a close. He would cycle home and then go to bed. That was it. Fate, however, had other plans in store for him. A blue van suddenly pulled in front of him, and then stopped suddenly. He braked sharply to avoid slamming into its rear. Things then happened very quickly. The two doors at the back of the van slammed outwards, the one on the kerbside catching the front of his bike and tipping him over on his side. Three furries in bear suits leapt out. Without saying anything, one of them punched him in the face before he could get up. While he was still reeling, the bears grabbed him and threw him into the back of the van and then jumped up behind him. Still not saying anything, they rained blows down on Jack. Through a mist of pain, the only thing Jack could think was "here we go again".
After that, Jack was at something of a loose end. He did not know what to do. He sat in his office for a while, staring into space, then he idly surfed the Internet in a disconsolate manner. The only sonic accompaniment was the tap of Jane's fingers on her keyboard in the reception area. Eventually he gave up and drifted out of the office, relieving Jane no end.
Jack was glumly drinking a pint in a pub favoured by solitary alcoholics that cannot be named for legal reasons when his mobile phone rang. He answered it, not recognising the number.
"Hi Bill", said Jack non-commitally.
"How are you keeping Jack, everything well with you?"
"Not too bad, Bill, not too bad. How are things with you?"
"Oh, everything's fine here, Jack. Well, nearly everything. That's why I've called you, you see".
Right, thought Jack, now we get to the heart of it. "Really?" he said.
"Well Jack, it's like this – "
Jack missed the rest of Bill's reply, because some incoherent drunk had come over to his table and started berating him for using his mobile in a place where people were going for a quiet drink. Jack decided to take the call outside, but warned the drunk first that if he touched his pint then he would split his face open. Outside, he apologised and asked Bill to repeat himself.
"OK, I'll say it again. The Guild has received complaint, from one of your clients. Or rather, from one of your former clients. The fellow says you took on his case, but then dropped him".
"And who was this alleged client?" inquired Jack.
"A chap with the rather rum name of Mr Chubbytail".
"Oh yeah, him", said Jack, like it was a surprise. "He is a funny guy. Dresses up in a panda suit. All the time, apparently".
"Really?" said Bill.
"Yes indeed. There's a lot of people who do the same thing. Well, maybe not all the time, but these people love to dress up in animal suits and get together for parties and stuff like that. Furries, they call themselves".
"Are you serious?"
"I am afraid so, yes. I think for some of them, it is some kind of sexual kink. You know, they like to get it on with each other while wearing the animal suits".
"Well holy God". Bill was plainly shocked that such things could go on in Ireland. That was one of the great things about him, Jack remembered. He was always being shocked by things. It made him a great private detective, forever being astonished that people might cheat on their wives or fake injuries for insurance purposes.
"So it was this Chubbytail fella who made the complaint?"
"It was".
"By phone, I take it".
"Yes indeed, and I was talking to him myself. He was most – "
"Well", said Jack, in a knowing tone, "he was probably wearing the panda suit when you were talking to him".
"Jaysus", said Bill, remembering now that complainant's voice did seem slightly muffled.
"So anyway, pissed off was he?"
"He was", Bill replied. "Listen Jack, you took him on as a client, and then you dropped him. That's not really in accord with the Guild's rules now, is it?"
"I suppose not, but I found out a few things about the Panda that made me not want to have anything further to do with him".
"Well now Jack, nobody's perfect. The point is, he was your client. Technically speaking, he still is. You have an obligation to see through the case".
"Bill, if you knew the kind of sick stuff the panda is mixed up in, and what he wanted me to do for him, then you would thank me for dropping the case. That Chubbytail guy is one sick fucker".
"But Jack – "
"No buts, Bill. Look, the Panda wanted me to find his wife for him, so that he could pimp her out to freaks who like to get it on with people in panda suits. He runs a furry prostitution ring, with sad fucks selling their furry asses to pervs who get their jollies out of doing it with someone in an animal suit. If you don't believe me, go to Phoenix Park any evening, and check out the Furry Glen".
"The Furry Glen?"
"Between the Islandbridge and Chapelizod gates. Take the path down into the woods from the Upper Furry Road. Actually no, don't do that, you won't like what you see, and the furry pimps won't like you poking their noses around there. Look, the point is, that Panda is running a vice ring, and he wanted me to be part of forcing someone into it against their will. I can't do that, Bill. Could you?"
"Well, I can't really say", flustered Bill. "The point is, you took the case… if you had moral qualms, you should have not taken it on in the first place. The Guild's rules are quite precise".
"Oh come on, Bill, what am I meant to do? Run a background check on every potential client who comes through my door? It's not like he walked in and introduced himself as the guy who runs Dublin's furry sex slavery scene".
"Even so, Jack, even so – "
"Look Bill, I can’t discuss this any more. If the Guild is going to throw the book at me, so be it. If you want to try and cheer up the Panda, put him in touch with Nolan. I'm sure he'd be happy to take the case".
Luke Nolan was widely acknowledged as the worst private detective in Dublin.
"Jack, Mr Chubbytail wants you. Nothing else will satisfy him".
"Well fuck him then. Sorry Bill, I've got to go, there's a pint going flat on me inside [name of pub deleted]". He hung up and went back inside. Two of the pub's habitual drinkers were drifting ever closer to the pint he had left unattended while he talked to Bill, clearly planning to accidentally pour some of his Guinness into their glasses. He chased them away with a few choice expletives. They slunk back into their corners and eyed him resentfully.
Jack was still drinking his pint when his phone beeped to tell him that he had a text message. "Fancy a rematch?" was the apparently cryptic message from Tony, but Jack knew what it meant. It signified that he had been able to find something on the phone number Jack had given him, and that he would be in their standard meeting spot for such things (the Submarine Bar in Walkinstown) that evening to hand over his findings. Even though Jack had dropped the panda case, he would still have to meet Tony; protocol demanded it. So he texted back a simple "CU THEN" and finished his drink.
Jack took it easy for the rest of the day, arriving out in the Submarine Bar at eight o'clock. Tony was not there yet. The bar was reasonably quiet, so he ordered a drink and grabbed the most secluded table he could find. He did not have to wait for long – Tony arrived before he had taken more than a few sips of his pint.
"Hi there, Jack", said Tony, sitting down opposite him. "Let's hope you don't get kidnapped again this time. Speaking of which, I ended up having to pick up the whole tab last time".
"Sorry about that, I'll see you right. Care for a drink tonight?" Jack beckoned over one of the serving staff. Like everyone else in the pub, she was dressed in a sailor-suit.
"What can I get ee?" she inquired, her Polish accent struggling with the salty-sea-dog patois the management obliged their unfortunate staff to adopt.
"A pint of Carlsberg, please", said Tony.
"Nothing for me right now", said Jack.
"One Carrrrlsberg coming up, you swabs", said the Slavic server, before scurrying off.
"I got some good stuff on that phone you were looking for", said Tony. "It has been used, and we have fixes for it that pretty much narrow down its user to living in one particular apartment block out in Dundrum".
"Cheers Tony", replied Jack. "Turns out, though, that I don't need the information. I've dropped the case the phone was mixed up in. Don't worry, I'll get you back the usual way".
"No problem", said Tony, taking a weirdo music magazine out of the bag he was carrying. "Either way, I think you should take this". He handed the magazine over to Jack. A number of loose A4 sheets were semi-concealed within it. Jack knew the form – Tony wanted rid of the incriminating evidence, and did not care what use Jack had for it. He took the magazine from him.
"Avast, here be Carrrrlsberg" said the returning waitress. Jack paid her, and she was off.
"So you've dropped a case, Jack?" inquired Tony, after taking his first mouthfuls of what some allege to probably be the best lager in the world. "That's not like you".
"I suppose it's not. But yeah, I did drop the case. I was in over my head, being used by a total cockfarmer for their own sinister purposes".
"Sounds like my workplace" quipped Tony.
"I'm sure it does. Nah, I don't want to go into the details, but I found out enough to know that if I were to close the case, I would be serving someone up on a plate to this evil fucker, and I didn't want that. So I quit".
"And this evil fucker, is there any danger of him coming after you? Surely he is a bit pissed off that you have left him high and dry?"
"Jesus, you might be right" said Jack. The thought had not occurred to him, but now that Tony had mentioned it he had sudden visions of the panda sending his minions to rough him up. Worse, they might throw an animal suit onto him and pimp him out to the pervs who frequented the Furry Glen. There's nothing funny about being forced into furry prostitution, he thought. But then he collected himself. "It is a worry, I have to admit, but I reckon I can handle myself. Let the fucker do his worst!"
He raised his glass like he was proposing a toast. Tony and he clinked their glasses and then drank deeply from them. Their conversation moved on to cheerier things, and it was not long before they were calling over the waitress and demanding subsequent pints.
They stayed for a couple more drinks. Not enough to turn the night into a serious session, but enough. At one point, while Tony was off in the gents, Jack idly glanced the music magazine and the enclosed print-out. His curiosity was now only idle, but after looking at the print out for a minute or two it was clear enough where the mobile phone was spending its nights. The fix was not so close that it could be narrowed down to a particular address, but it was good enough to indicate the particular apartment block. If he was still on the case, this would have given him his next step – head out to the apartment block and – somehow – find the panda lady there. But he was not on the case.
Unlike Jack, Tony had to be in an office ready to perform at nine the following morning, so he called a halt to proceedings before things got too out of hand. Tony hailed a taxi outside the bar, while Jack unlocked his bike. Cycling and drinking, not perhaps the wisest of combinations. It did at least mean that he would not have to put up with another idiot taxi driver, and while cycling under the influence might be a tad dangerous, it was at least not something subject to legal penalties.
As far as Jack was concerned, the night was drawing to a close. He would cycle home and then go to bed. That was it. Fate, however, had other plans in store for him. A blue van suddenly pulled in front of him, and then stopped suddenly. He braked sharply to avoid slamming into its rear. Things then happened very quickly. The two doors at the back of the van slammed outwards, the one on the kerbside catching the front of his bike and tipping him over on his side. Three furries in bear suits leapt out. Without saying anything, one of them punched him in the face before he could get up. While he was still reeling, the bears grabbed him and threw him into the back of the van and then jumped up behind him. Still not saying anything, they rained blows down on Jack. Through a mist of pain, the only thing Jack could think was "here we go again".
Free the Pandas!
The People's Republic of China has sent some unruly pandas to Taiwan, where they are being held in jail until they repent of their malevolent ways. Or maybe this whole panda thing is a bit of racket, and they have just sent off two guys in furry suits.
Would you like to know more?
Furry Folk - Part 15
Having discovered the secrets of the Furry Glen, Jack is now undergoing a crisis of conscience
In the morning, Jack could not say that he was well-rested, but a sense of certainty had come over him. He headed into his office at 9.00 a.m., startling Jane who did not normally have to start pretending to work until much later in the morning. Seeing him, she noticed another set of bruises across his face.
"Morning Jack", she said. "Has someone punched your face in again?"
"I'm a popular man", replied Jack ruefully. "But tell me, Jane, do you understand the difference between morality and ethics?"
"I've got a fairly good idea".
"People often think they're the same", continued Jack, not really registering her response. "But they're not. Have you ever seen that film Election? You know, the one with Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick? They talk a bit about it in that. It's a while since I've seen it, but I think they put it like this. Morality, that's to do with having a sense of right and wrong, where you shun what is bad and embrace what is good. Ethics, though, is to do with following rules. These rules are often set up for perfectly good reasons, but an ethical rule is not necessarily a moral one".
Jane thought that Jack might be oversimplifying a bit, but reckoned that it never pays to look like you know more about anything than your boss. So she replied with a questioning "Yeah?"
"I think so. Now, in that film, the characters, particularly the Matthew Broderick character are thrown a number of ethical and moral dilemmas. There's the whole thing where he tries to get it on with that hot woman, can't remember who plays her. I don't think that's an obviously ethical dilemma, but it is obviously a bit immoral, given that he is married to someone else. As, I think, is she.
"The real moral-ethical dilemma in the film concerns the election in the film's title. I'm sure you remember it. The Reese Witherspoon character is plainly the Devil in human form, but this truth is only plain to Matthew Broderick, who is overseeing the counting of the votes. She is about to, narrowly, win the election, but this is largely because the school authorities have disqualified the most popular candidate. This leaves him with a bit of a dilemma. The ethical thing to do is, obviously, to count the votes as they have been cast, and let Reese Witherspoon win the election. But he feels that the moral thing is to rig the votes and stop her winning. Now, you could argue that maybe he is taking an election for head student in school a bit too seriously, but you can see where he is coming from. Imagine if you were counting the votes in Germany, and you could see what would happen if the Nazis came to power – the moral thing to do would surely be to rig the vote against them".
"I found the Matthew Broderick character in that film a bit self-absorbed and annoying", said Jane. "Reese Witherspoon's boundless ambition was a bit terrifying, but at least you knew where you were with her. The real heart of the film for me was the lesbian school girl whose candidacy the school blocked. To my shame, I can't remember who played her, but she seemed far more interesting than any of the others".
"Well yes, perhaps so", said Jack, somewhat irritated that Jane was sending his discussion of the film off into tangential directions. "But I'm thinking here about ethical and moral dilemmas, and she doesn't really relate to these".
"Well I'm not sure about that", came back Jane. "You could argue that there are ethical and moral issues involved in her deciding to run in the election against her own brother, particularly given that her former lover had become the brother's girlfriend".
"OK, I see what you mean, but back to Matthew Broderick", said Jack emphatically. "He is faced with a choice between doing something that is ethical and doing something that is moral. He chooses morality over ethics, and so he tries to rig the election against Reese Witherspoon. But he is caught out. His attempt to do the morally right thing fails, and for his ethical breach he loses his job. The film shows him at the end as a broken man, but to me he is a man who can hold his head up high. He tried to do the right thing. What else can a man do?"
"It might have been better, perhaps, if he had succeeded in doing the right thing", suggested Jane.
"Now that", answered Jack, "is an interesting question. Is it more important to actually do the right thing, or merely to try to do so? I think that is a question that men wiser than us have spent their lives trying to answer, and I think they are still arguing the question over.
"For me, though, the important thing is the conflict between morality and ethics. Where would you see the balance fall here, Jane?"
"I'm not sure that that is a question that can be answered in the abstract", replied Jane, wondering if someone had slipped Jack a copy of Philosophy for Morons. "You would surely need to consider each individual case on its own terms. It would only be when you knew, or thought you knew, the consequences of a choice that you could really be happy with choosing one outcome over another."
"I understand", replied Jack gravely. "I think you are right. In my case, no one knows the consequences more than me. You see, Jane, I myself face a conflict between ethics and morality, one that has had me on the rack all of last night. It is not an easy choice to make".
Jane perked up, wondering if this was some kind of prelude to his telling her that she was getting the sack.
"In my case", he contained, "the choice is between continuing with a case I have taken on, or giving it up". Jane relaxed. No problem. "The ethical course is to continue with the case. In my line of work, it is an article of faith that you continue with a case until it is either resolved or the client agrees to end it. It has to work like that. In a way, we are like lawyers. We cannot pick and choose our clients. Everyone has the right to the best private investigators they can find".
Jane was not entirely convinced that this was a right guaranteed by the Irish constitution or contained in the UN declaration of human rights.
"But in my case, I have discovered that the client who has engaged my services is a monster, a creature of total depravity. I know what you are thinking. He is a guy in a panda suit, how depraved can he be? Well rest assured, underneath that panda suit lurks a heart of darkest night. I cannot go into the details, largely for ethical reasons. Let me just say that if I were to go through with the case then I would be acting as his agent, participating by extension in acts that run totally contrary to any sense whatsoever of morality. I can't do it, Jane. I'm not a good person, I've no pretensions to being some kind of moral paragon. But I like to think that I am not a person of sickening depravity. I don't want through my actions to be party to the most repulsively immoral acts imaginable. I can't go through with the case, Jane. I am going to phone the panda now and tell him that I am dropping the case. I don't know what the consequences for me will be. Once word gets around that I have done this, I may find it hard to get cases and may have to go out of business. I'm sorry, Jane, but I have to do this".
Jane did not really know what to say, but she was not too pleased to be hearing that she might soon be out of a job after all. "I hope you know what you're doing", was all she could manage.
"I do, Jane, I do. Look, don't worry, you're a good girl, you won't find it hard to get another job if it all goes tits up. I'll write you a good reference, that might just be worth something. But I have to do this". He walked on past her into his office.
Jane shut down her web browser, first changing her status on a popular social networking website to "Jane might need to find a new job, preferably not working for an idiot". Then she started work on an update to her CV.
Inside, Jack sat at his desk and dialled the panda's number on his landline. The phone rang a couple of times and then answered.
"This is Mr Chubbytail speaking", said a familiar voice. "Please identify yourself and state your reason for contacting me".
"Chubbytail, it's me, Devlin".
"Ah, Mr Devlin!" said the panda, a tone of evident hope in his voice. "Do you have some good news for me? Have you found my Cuddlebuns?"
"No", replied Jack curtly. "I'll get to the point. I'm dropping the case. I know what you are now, and I cannot be party to anyone falling back into your clutches".
"But Mr Devlin – " began the Panda, before Jack cut him off.
"Sorry Chubbytail, there's nothing you can say. I don't want anything more to do with you. Do not contact me again". With that, Jack hung up the phone.
In the morning, Jack could not say that he was well-rested, but a sense of certainty had come over him. He headed into his office at 9.00 a.m., startling Jane who did not normally have to start pretending to work until much later in the morning. Seeing him, she noticed another set of bruises across his face.
"Morning Jack", she said. "Has someone punched your face in again?"
"I'm a popular man", replied Jack ruefully. "But tell me, Jane, do you understand the difference between morality and ethics?"
"People often think they're the same", continued Jack, not really registering her response. "But they're not. Have you ever seen that film Election? You know, the one with Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick? They talk a bit about it in that. It's a while since I've seen it, but I think they put it like this. Morality, that's to do with having a sense of right and wrong, where you shun what is bad and embrace what is good. Ethics, though, is to do with following rules. These rules are often set up for perfectly good reasons, but an ethical rule is not necessarily a moral one".
Jane thought that Jack might be oversimplifying a bit, but reckoned that it never pays to look like you know more about anything than your boss. So she replied with a questioning "Yeah?"
"I think so. Now, in that film, the characters, particularly the Matthew Broderick character are thrown a number of ethical and moral dilemmas. There's the whole thing where he tries to get it on with that hot woman, can't remember who plays her. I don't think that's an obviously ethical dilemma, but it is obviously a bit immoral, given that he is married to someone else. As, I think, is she.
"The real moral-ethical dilemma in the film concerns the election in the film's title. I'm sure you remember it. The Reese Witherspoon character is plainly the Devil in human form, but this truth is only plain to Matthew Broderick, who is overseeing the counting of the votes. She is about to, narrowly, win the election, but this is largely because the school authorities have disqualified the most popular candidate. This leaves him with a bit of a dilemma. The ethical thing to do is, obviously, to count the votes as they have been cast, and let Reese Witherspoon win the election. But he feels that the moral thing is to rig the votes and stop her winning. Now, you could argue that maybe he is taking an election for head student in school a bit too seriously, but you can see where he is coming from. Imagine if you were counting the votes in Germany, and you could see what would happen if the Nazis came to power – the moral thing to do would surely be to rig the vote against them".
"I found the Matthew Broderick character in that film a bit self-absorbed and annoying", said Jane. "Reese Witherspoon's boundless ambition was a bit terrifying, but at least you knew where you were with her. The real heart of the film for me was the lesbian school girl whose candidacy the school blocked. To my shame, I can't remember who played her, but she seemed far more interesting than any of the others".
"Well yes, perhaps so", said Jack, somewhat irritated that Jane was sending his discussion of the film off into tangential directions. "But I'm thinking here about ethical and moral dilemmas, and she doesn't really relate to these".
"Well I'm not sure about that", came back Jane. "You could argue that there are ethical and moral issues involved in her deciding to run in the election against her own brother, particularly given that her former lover had become the brother's girlfriend".
"OK, I see what you mean, but back to Matthew Broderick", said Jack emphatically. "He is faced with a choice between doing something that is ethical and doing something that is moral. He chooses morality over ethics, and so he tries to rig the election against Reese Witherspoon. But he is caught out. His attempt to do the morally right thing fails, and for his ethical breach he loses his job. The film shows him at the end as a broken man, but to me he is a man who can hold his head up high. He tried to do the right thing. What else can a man do?"
"It might have been better, perhaps, if he had succeeded in doing the right thing", suggested Jane.
"Now that", answered Jack, "is an interesting question. Is it more important to actually do the right thing, or merely to try to do so? I think that is a question that men wiser than us have spent their lives trying to answer, and I think they are still arguing the question over.
"For me, though, the important thing is the conflict between morality and ethics. Where would you see the balance fall here, Jane?"
"I'm not sure that that is a question that can be answered in the abstract", replied Jane, wondering if someone had slipped Jack a copy of Philosophy for Morons. "You would surely need to consider each individual case on its own terms. It would only be when you knew, or thought you knew, the consequences of a choice that you could really be happy with choosing one outcome over another."
"I understand", replied Jack gravely. "I think you are right. In my case, no one knows the consequences more than me. You see, Jane, I myself face a conflict between ethics and morality, one that has had me on the rack all of last night. It is not an easy choice to make".
Jane perked up, wondering if this was some kind of prelude to his telling her that she was getting the sack.
"In my case", he contained, "the choice is between continuing with a case I have taken on, or giving it up". Jane relaxed. No problem. "The ethical course is to continue with the case. In my line of work, it is an article of faith that you continue with a case until it is either resolved or the client agrees to end it. It has to work like that. In a way, we are like lawyers. We cannot pick and choose our clients. Everyone has the right to the best private investigators they can find".
Jane was not entirely convinced that this was a right guaranteed by the Irish constitution or contained in the UN declaration of human rights.
"But in my case, I have discovered that the client who has engaged my services is a monster, a creature of total depravity. I know what you are thinking. He is a guy in a panda suit, how depraved can he be? Well rest assured, underneath that panda suit lurks a heart of darkest night. I cannot go into the details, largely for ethical reasons. Let me just say that if I were to go through with the case then I would be acting as his agent, participating by extension in acts that run totally contrary to any sense whatsoever of morality. I can't do it, Jane. I'm not a good person, I've no pretensions to being some kind of moral paragon. But I like to think that I am not a person of sickening depravity. I don't want through my actions to be party to the most repulsively immoral acts imaginable. I can't go through with the case, Jane. I am going to phone the panda now and tell him that I am dropping the case. I don't know what the consequences for me will be. Once word gets around that I have done this, I may find it hard to get cases and may have to go out of business. I'm sorry, Jane, but I have to do this".
Jane did not really know what to say, but she was not too pleased to be hearing that she might soon be out of a job after all. "I hope you know what you're doing", was all she could manage.
"I do, Jane, I do. Look, don't worry, you're a good girl, you won't find it hard to get another job if it all goes tits up. I'll write you a good reference, that might just be worth something. But I have to do this". He walked on past her into his office.
Jane shut down her web browser, first changing her status on a popular social networking website to "Jane might need to find a new job, preferably not working for an idiot". Then she started work on an update to her CV.
Inside, Jack sat at his desk and dialled the panda's number on his landline. The phone rang a couple of times and then answered.
"This is Mr Chubbytail speaking", said a familiar voice. "Please identify yourself and state your reason for contacting me".
"Chubbytail, it's me, Devlin".
"Ah, Mr Devlin!" said the panda, a tone of evident hope in his voice. "Do you have some good news for me? Have you found my Cuddlebuns?"
"No", replied Jack curtly. "I'll get to the point. I'm dropping the case. I know what you are now, and I cannot be party to anyone falling back into your clutches".
"But Mr Devlin – " began the Panda, before Jack cut him off.
"Sorry Chubbytail, there's nothing you can say. I don't want anything more to do with you. Do not contact me again". With that, Jack hung up the phone.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 14
Jack is checking out the Furry Glen. I don't know what you are thinking, but it is actually a place in Phoenix Park.
Then he spotted that he was not alone – he had come up close behind another guy heading in the same direction as himself. The other, a middle-aged man in a green jacket, seemed not to be aware of his presence, so Jack hung back. He could be just someone who was going for a stroll in the park as it got dark, but it seemed a bit unlikely. Observing his gait, Jack thought he detected a certain nervousness, but this did not translate into anything that made him look like he was keeping an eye out for anyone who might be following him. If anything, it looked like he was keeping his head down and trying to get to where he was going without having to interact with anyone.
They headed deeper into the Furry Glen. Suddenly, a man appeared out of the gathering gloom, headed back the way they had came. There was a certain spring to his step, but also a degree of shiftiness, like he was not too pleased to be seen coming from the Glen. He passed the green-jacketed man without either acknowledging the other. As he passed Jack, he declined eye contact, but Jack noticed that his face was a bit flushed. To see what response he would get, Jack threw a casual "howayeh" at him; the man grunted back non-commitally and was on his way.
He was deep in the Furry Glen now. It was getting dark now, the trees around them masking much of the dying day's remaining light, but it was still bright enough to walk on safely. Just about. It did mean, however, that things changed around Jack quicker than he would like. Ahead, he saw a man in a dog-suit appear from out of the trees. Jack had seen the suit somewhere before, but surprisingly it took him a second or two to realise where. And then it hit him. It was his dog-suit, or one so like it as to be near identical. So were the lifestyle suits mass produced after all? If so he would have a bone to pick with the sleazy guy in the joke shop.
The Furry seemed to be speaking the guy Jack was following. The fragment he caught made clear that this was in fact his dog-suit: "… looking for a good time, buddy?" It was not what was said, but the voice that said it, its American accent and arrogant yet wheedling tone unmistakeable. One of the performance artists had swiped Jack's costume.
Jack kept walking on as Spike (or Butch, or whoever) disappeared off into the woods with the guy in the green jacket. The performance artist walked as matter-of-factly as you can when wearing a dog suit, while the other guy looked both excited and embarrassed.
So this was what went on in the Furry Glen. Jack walked on, thinking with every step that turning back might perhaps be the most sensible option. Then two furries popped out ahead of him, a rabbit and a squirrel.
"Hey there mister", said the rabbit, in the voice of a woman, and not too old a woman at that.
"Looking for some business?" said the squirrel, in a female voice that sounded even younger.
"One or both of us, won't cost you too much" said the rabbit.
"Good time guaranteed" continued the squirrel, and then both squirrel and rabbit turned around and wagged their tails at Jack in a manner obviously meant to be sexually arousing. He in fact found it both frightening and repulsive.
"Sorry girls", Jack replied. "I think you've got the wrong idea, and I think I've taken the wrong turning. I'll just head back the way I came. Good evening to you both".
"Limp dick homo asshole!" one of them shouted after him. He picked up his pace. Where you get prostitution, you usually get pimps, and he did not really fancy encountering a furry pimp angry at his wasting the two ladies' time. He was, therefore, a bit annoyed when some huge-looking man in a bulldog outfit appeared ahead of him, with another furry mountain behind him in a duck suit.
"What's your fucking problem?" inquired the bulldog.
"No problem at all, just out for a walk in the woods, but I seem to have stumbled into something I shouldn't have. So I'll just be going, shall I? Least said, soonest mended".
"Hey!" said the duck, "didn't the boss warn us to watch out for snoopers? Said there might be one along tonight!"
"Yeah, he did", replied the bulldog. And then to Jack: "So what's your game, snooper? Let's check you out". They advanced on Jack menacingly.
Deciding that he did not want to be checked out, Jack jumped off the path into the woods, running as fast as he could in the conditions of near darkness. The noise behind him made clear that the two furry pimps were coming after him. And not just the pimps – from the high-pitched shrieks, it sounded like the rabbit and squirrel were after him too. Like him they were having to balance speed and safety. One of them seemed to have got the balance wrong - he heard a noise that sounded like one of them falling, perhaps tripped on some low-lying vegetation. The sound of expletives suggested that it was one of the males. Good. Any hope that he was getting away from them was dashed when he felt a blow across his face like someone had punched him hard – he had been keeping such an eye out for bushes and shrubs at foot level that he had ran into a branch. He staggered, but was able to keep the momentum of his forward movement. The blow slowed him, however, as he knew that if he suffered another there was a real danger of him going down, and then the furries would be upon him.
He was trying to double around so that he would get back to the path, but be between the furries and his bike. If he could do that then he should be able to reach the bike ahead of them, and then he was away. Unfortunately, his curving route brought him worryingly close to one of his pursuers, and he found himself on a collision course with the guy in the duck suit. The duck of doom was coming straight for him, screaming in incoherent rage. This guy was built like the proverbial brick shit house – if he caught Jack then he would be able to tear him limb from limb. Jack was no judu expert, but he knew enough about physics to be able to turn his enemy's wait against him. Sidestepping the screaming duck at the last moment, he was then able to give him a shove that sent him flying into the trunk of a tree. Crunch.
Jack could not stop to see if the duck was out for the count – the other three were almost upon him. But he was now on the path, and was able to sprint for it like billy-o with far less fear of crashing into a darkness obscured obstacle. Of course, once the furries were out on the path they could run too, but by then he had put a fair bit of distance between them. Looking back, he could just about make out through the dark that the bulldog was rather lagging behind, with the duck somewhere behind him. The squirrel and the rabbit, however, seemed to be adept runners and were gaining on him fast. Jack had no qualms about hitting a woman, if the alternative was receiving a sound thrashing himself. If these two caught up with him, he reckoned he would be able to punch them both out. Unfortunately, any struggle with them would delay him long enough for the bulldog to catch up with him, and then he would be toast. His only chance of escape was to reach the bike before they caught him.
He managed it, but only just. He worried that he might miss the bush where he had left it, but as he came upon it he recognised it. Running off the path, he grabbed the bike and pushed it across the lawn (too wet and muddy to ride on at any speed) towards the path. His mode of escape was almost his undoing, as the slight delay brought the furry prostitutes virtually on top of him, but he got the bike to the path before they could grab him. Then he was on it and away, their cursed goodbyes receding rapidly into the distance behind him.
The journey home was nerve-racking. At the wheel of every car Jack imagined furry paws, with furry eyes behind them looking out for him. Every pedestrian he saw on the streets he saw momentarily as another furry thug out to stop him. But he made it back home in one piece, just about, riding like a maniac fleeing from imaginary pursuers.
In the flat, the Americans were gone. Tadhg was nursing a black eye. As Jack came in, still smarting from the branch he had ran into, Tadhg looked at him and said, "Wow Jack, did those crazy guys get you too?"
"Uh, yeah", said Jack, "yeah, they did".
"They really had it in for Butch and the guys. I don't know why, I don't think any of them ever pissed in their sink".
"Those artist types are bad news", said Jack, like he knew what he was talking about. "They live to feud with each other over things the rest of us cannot begin to understand. But we must try to not let their conflicts affect us. Tadhg, I think it is best if neither of us ever see those performance artists again".
"I think you're right, Jack, I think you're right".
Jack left his flatmate to the inane TV drivel he was watching (some kind of programme about celebrity morons being made to undergo various degrading experiences and perform a series of difficult tasks). After a quick shower, he was thinking of turning in when his phone rang. It was the lion.
"Hello Mr Devlin. Have you been to the Furry Glen?"
"Yes, I have. It's a depressing business. Prostitute furries, what will they think of next".
"And not just any kind of prostitute furries, Mr Devlin. These are furries who degrade themselves by copulating with shavies, pandering to the base lusts and depraved passions of your kind. There is nothing more disgusting to a true furry than to fuck a human being".
"I can well imagine".
"And do you know why those furries allow themselves to be so degraded? They have been enslaved by the one who controls the Furry Glen. He feeds them heroin, and threatens to withdraw it if they do not sell themselves to line his pockets. If that does not do the trick, his thugs will beat any who will not put out for the shavies. It is a sordid and disgusting business".
"I'm sure".
"But Mr Devlin, that is not the limit to he depravity of the Furry Glen's master. What would you think of someone who pimped out his own wife, who forced her to service the lusts of men so that he could live in the style he was accustomed to?"
"You mean…" started Jack, the penny beginning to drop.
"What would you think of someone who forced his wife to prostitute herself, and then when she ran way from him hired a private detective to bring her back to him, so that he could pimp her out some more?"
"Oh Jesus", replied Jack.
"Yes, Mr Devlin. Mr Chubbytail is the criminal mastermind who controls the Furry Glen. He has hired you to find his wife, so that he can put her back to the immoral work that he has decreed for her. This is the panda who wants you to let him debauch his wife once more, with countless men".
"Oh my God".
"I will leave you to decide whether this is a case your conscience will allow you to continue with" said the Lion. Then he ended the call.
Jack sat there, his head in his hands. His client was the very devil, and he was being used to perpetuate a situation of the most repulsive immorality. He was glad that he had not supplied the panda with any information that would allow him to re-enslave his wife, but he was sickened by having had anything to do with such a monster. He could not continue with the case. For all that Jack liked to think that he was cynical and world-weary, he still had his limits. Not working for people who practice sexual slavery was one of them. Yet, he had taken the case. His profession has a reputation that many would describe as sleazy, but it is not without its own code of honour. One of these is that once a case has been taken, it must be seen through.
Jack went to bed, but the conundrum in which he found himself kept satisfying sleep away. If he dropped the case, he would be betraying everything that his profession stood for, but if he continued to pursue it then he would be damned. Jack Devlin was not a religious man, but he knew that if he delivered the panda lady back to the monster who would pimp her out in the Furry Glen, then the price would be his very soul. Other thoughts crowded upon him. That New Yorker prick who had stolen his dog-suit, for one. Various revenge fantasies lurked in his subconscious. The decking he had received at the hands of the McDonalds guy also troubled him. How many other people had he casually wronged in order to protect or advance himself? The puppeteer sprang to mind, but he was sure there others. Were they also waiting to have their revenge on him?
The puppeteer must in particular have been bothering Jack's conscience. When he finally did fall into a fitful sleep, his rest was troubled by a series of disturbing dreams. The one he remembered most vividly on waking was being set upon by the puppeteer, and of being cruelly and savagely beaten when he found himself trapped and unable to escape. But it was not the puppeteer doing the beating, it was his puppet. It had somehow come loose of its strings and now was kicking Jack to within an inch of his life, its blank face seeming to assume a cast of unspeakable malevolence. It was like a furry in that regard – their facial expressions never changed, but in their neutrality (or in the case of some, their cheeriness) they were like blank slates onto which the viewer could project any kind of emotion. Given the extent to which the furries seemed intent on beating up Jack, it was hardly surprising that he was starting to see all non-human faces as embodiments of almost existential evil.
Then he spotted that he was not alone – he had come up close behind another guy heading in the same direction as himself. The other, a middle-aged man in a green jacket, seemed not to be aware of his presence, so Jack hung back. He could be just someone who was going for a stroll in the park as it got dark, but it seemed a bit unlikely. Observing his gait, Jack thought he detected a certain nervousness, but this did not translate into anything that made him look like he was keeping an eye out for anyone who might be following him. If anything, it looked like he was keeping his head down and trying to get to where he was going without having to interact with anyone.
He was deep in the Furry Glen now. It was getting dark now, the trees around them masking much of the dying day's remaining light, but it was still bright enough to walk on safely. Just about. It did mean, however, that things changed around Jack quicker than he would like. Ahead, he saw a man in a dog-suit appear from out of the trees. Jack had seen the suit somewhere before, but surprisingly it took him a second or two to realise where. And then it hit him. It was his dog-suit, or one so like it as to be near identical. So were the lifestyle suits mass produced after all? If so he would have a bone to pick with the sleazy guy in the joke shop.
The Furry seemed to be speaking the guy Jack was following. The fragment he caught made clear that this was in fact his dog-suit: "… looking for a good time, buddy?" It was not what was said, but the voice that said it, its American accent and arrogant yet wheedling tone unmistakeable. One of the performance artists had swiped Jack's costume.
Jack kept walking on as Spike (or Butch, or whoever) disappeared off into the woods with the guy in the green jacket. The performance artist walked as matter-of-factly as you can when wearing a dog suit, while the other guy looked both excited and embarrassed.
So this was what went on in the Furry Glen. Jack walked on, thinking with every step that turning back might perhaps be the most sensible option. Then two furries popped out ahead of him, a rabbit and a squirrel.
"Hey there mister", said the rabbit, in the voice of a woman, and not too old a woman at that.
"Looking for some business?" said the squirrel, in a female voice that sounded even younger.
"One or both of us, won't cost you too much" said the rabbit.
"Good time guaranteed" continued the squirrel, and then both squirrel and rabbit turned around and wagged their tails at Jack in a manner obviously meant to be sexually arousing. He in fact found it both frightening and repulsive.
"Sorry girls", Jack replied. "I think you've got the wrong idea, and I think I've taken the wrong turning. I'll just head back the way I came. Good evening to you both".
"Limp dick homo asshole!" one of them shouted after him. He picked up his pace. Where you get prostitution, you usually get pimps, and he did not really fancy encountering a furry pimp angry at his wasting the two ladies' time. He was, therefore, a bit annoyed when some huge-looking man in a bulldog outfit appeared ahead of him, with another furry mountain behind him in a duck suit.
"What's your fucking problem?" inquired the bulldog.
"No problem at all, just out for a walk in the woods, but I seem to have stumbled into something I shouldn't have. So I'll just be going, shall I? Least said, soonest mended".
"Hey!" said the duck, "didn't the boss warn us to watch out for snoopers? Said there might be one along tonight!"
"Yeah, he did", replied the bulldog. And then to Jack: "So what's your game, snooper? Let's check you out". They advanced on Jack menacingly.
Deciding that he did not want to be checked out, Jack jumped off the path into the woods, running as fast as he could in the conditions of near darkness. The noise behind him made clear that the two furry pimps were coming after him. And not just the pimps – from the high-pitched shrieks, it sounded like the rabbit and squirrel were after him too. Like him they were having to balance speed and safety. One of them seemed to have got the balance wrong - he heard a noise that sounded like one of them falling, perhaps tripped on some low-lying vegetation. The sound of expletives suggested that it was one of the males. Good. Any hope that he was getting away from them was dashed when he felt a blow across his face like someone had punched him hard – he had been keeping such an eye out for bushes and shrubs at foot level that he had ran into a branch. He staggered, but was able to keep the momentum of his forward movement. The blow slowed him, however, as he knew that if he suffered another there was a real danger of him going down, and then the furries would be upon him.
He was trying to double around so that he would get back to the path, but be between the furries and his bike. If he could do that then he should be able to reach the bike ahead of them, and then he was away. Unfortunately, his curving route brought him worryingly close to one of his pursuers, and he found himself on a collision course with the guy in the duck suit. The duck of doom was coming straight for him, screaming in incoherent rage. This guy was built like the proverbial brick shit house – if he caught Jack then he would be able to tear him limb from limb. Jack was no judu expert, but he knew enough about physics to be able to turn his enemy's wait against him. Sidestepping the screaming duck at the last moment, he was then able to give him a shove that sent him flying into the trunk of a tree. Crunch.
Jack could not stop to see if the duck was out for the count – the other three were almost upon him. But he was now on the path, and was able to sprint for it like billy-o with far less fear of crashing into a darkness obscured obstacle. Of course, once the furries were out on the path they could run too, but by then he had put a fair bit of distance between them. Looking back, he could just about make out through the dark that the bulldog was rather lagging behind, with the duck somewhere behind him. The squirrel and the rabbit, however, seemed to be adept runners and were gaining on him fast. Jack had no qualms about hitting a woman, if the alternative was receiving a sound thrashing himself. If these two caught up with him, he reckoned he would be able to punch them both out. Unfortunately, any struggle with them would delay him long enough for the bulldog to catch up with him, and then he would be toast. His only chance of escape was to reach the bike before they caught him.
He managed it, but only just. He worried that he might miss the bush where he had left it, but as he came upon it he recognised it. Running off the path, he grabbed the bike and pushed it across the lawn (too wet and muddy to ride on at any speed) towards the path. His mode of escape was almost his undoing, as the slight delay brought the furry prostitutes virtually on top of him, but he got the bike to the path before they could grab him. Then he was on it and away, their cursed goodbyes receding rapidly into the distance behind him.
The journey home was nerve-racking. At the wheel of every car Jack imagined furry paws, with furry eyes behind them looking out for him. Every pedestrian he saw on the streets he saw momentarily as another furry thug out to stop him. But he made it back home in one piece, just about, riding like a maniac fleeing from imaginary pursuers.
In the flat, the Americans were gone. Tadhg was nursing a black eye. As Jack came in, still smarting from the branch he had ran into, Tadhg looked at him and said, "Wow Jack, did those crazy guys get you too?"
"Uh, yeah", said Jack, "yeah, they did".
"They really had it in for Butch and the guys. I don't know why, I don't think any of them ever pissed in their sink".
"Those artist types are bad news", said Jack, like he knew what he was talking about. "They live to feud with each other over things the rest of us cannot begin to understand. But we must try to not let their conflicts affect us. Tadhg, I think it is best if neither of us ever see those performance artists again".
"I think you're right, Jack, I think you're right".
Jack left his flatmate to the inane TV drivel he was watching (some kind of programme about celebrity morons being made to undergo various degrading experiences and perform a series of difficult tasks). After a quick shower, he was thinking of turning in when his phone rang. It was the lion.
"Hello Mr Devlin. Have you been to the Furry Glen?"
"Yes, I have. It's a depressing business. Prostitute furries, what will they think of next".
"And not just any kind of prostitute furries, Mr Devlin. These are furries who degrade themselves by copulating with shavies, pandering to the base lusts and depraved passions of your kind. There is nothing more disgusting to a true furry than to fuck a human being".
"I can well imagine".
"And do you know why those furries allow themselves to be so degraded? They have been enslaved by the one who controls the Furry Glen. He feeds them heroin, and threatens to withdraw it if they do not sell themselves to line his pockets. If that does not do the trick, his thugs will beat any who will not put out for the shavies. It is a sordid and disgusting business".
"I'm sure".
"But Mr Devlin, that is not the limit to he depravity of the Furry Glen's master. What would you think of someone who pimped out his own wife, who forced her to service the lusts of men so that he could live in the style he was accustomed to?"
"You mean…" started Jack, the penny beginning to drop.
"What would you think of someone who forced his wife to prostitute herself, and then when she ran way from him hired a private detective to bring her back to him, so that he could pimp her out some more?"
"Oh Jesus", replied Jack.
"Yes, Mr Devlin. Mr Chubbytail is the criminal mastermind who controls the Furry Glen. He has hired you to find his wife, so that he can put her back to the immoral work that he has decreed for her. This is the panda who wants you to let him debauch his wife once more, with countless men".
"Oh my God".
"I will leave you to decide whether this is a case your conscience will allow you to continue with" said the Lion. Then he ended the call.
Jack sat there, his head in his hands. His client was the very devil, and he was being used to perpetuate a situation of the most repulsive immorality. He was glad that he had not supplied the panda with any information that would allow him to re-enslave his wife, but he was sickened by having had anything to do with such a monster. He could not continue with the case. For all that Jack liked to think that he was cynical and world-weary, he still had his limits. Not working for people who practice sexual slavery was one of them. Yet, he had taken the case. His profession has a reputation that many would describe as sleazy, but it is not without its own code of honour. One of these is that once a case has been taken, it must be seen through.
Jack went to bed, but the conundrum in which he found himself kept satisfying sleep away. If he dropped the case, he would be betraying everything that his profession stood for, but if he continued to pursue it then he would be damned. Jack Devlin was not a religious man, but he knew that if he delivered the panda lady back to the monster who would pimp her out in the Furry Glen, then the price would be his very soul. Other thoughts crowded upon him. That New Yorker prick who had stolen his dog-suit, for one. Various revenge fantasies lurked in his subconscious. The decking he had received at the hands of the McDonalds guy also troubled him. How many other people had he casually wronged in order to protect or advance himself? The puppeteer sprang to mind, but he was sure there others. Were they also waiting to have their revenge on him?
The puppeteer must in particular have been bothering Jack's conscience. When he finally did fall into a fitful sleep, his rest was troubled by a series of disturbing dreams. The one he remembered most vividly on waking was being set upon by the puppeteer, and of being cruelly and savagely beaten when he found himself trapped and unable to escape. But it was not the puppeteer doing the beating, it was his puppet. It had somehow come loose of its strings and now was kicking Jack to within an inch of his life, its blank face seeming to assume a cast of unspeakable malevolence. It was like a furry in that regard – their facial expressions never changed, but in their neutrality (or in the case of some, their cheeriness) they were like blank slates onto which the viewer could project any kind of emotion. Given the extent to which the furries seemed intent on beating up Jack, it was hardly surprising that he was starting to see all non-human faces as embodiments of almost existential evil.
Furry Folk - Part 13
Jack had been taken prisoner by the Art Defence League, sworn enemies of non representational art. It seemed to make sense at the time. Now they have left him while they go of after the performance artists who had been staying in his flat.
The four from the Art Defence League ran off, leaving Jack alone in his apartment. He toyed with the idea of leaving Tadhg and the performance artists to their fates, but vague altruistic sentiments won out. He took out his mobile and rang Tadhg.
"Jack!" said Tadhg, answering, "What's up?"
"Tadhg, listen! Are you with the New Yorkers?"
"Yes, what's the – "
"Listen! Are you out on the streets? There are these four nutters driving around who want to beat the shite out of the Americans. They might do the same to you if they find you with them".
"Wow, really?"
"Yes! They're looking for you now".
"Wow, it seems a bit outlandish. I can't see how anyone could have it so in for the guys that they'd want to beat them up".
"Sadly, it is true".
"Well, thanks Jack, we'll keep an eye out and – hey, what's happening?"
Tadhg then made a noise consistent with his being punched in the stomach. A kind of scrunching noise came through Jack's earpiece and Tadhg's phone went dead. Oh well, he had tried.
He then rang Tony to fill him in on what had happened. "Sorry about disappearing there, I got kidnapped by a bunch of art critics".
"No problem Jack, I know how it is. See you again soon".
Now Jack had attended to business, he felt that it was time to head back into the city. Perhaps a pint was in order. He decided to cycle in. Locking his bike on George's Street, he made his way to the Stag's Head. There was room in the snug, so he planted himself there with a pint. For a few minutes he contemplated the joys of a quiet afternoon of drinking, but then the atmosphere was spoiled by the arrival of some moronic Trinity students, people who seemed to be involved in some kind of student debating society. Jack had to give the women students credit for a certain physical attractiveness, but their inane patter and grating accents made staying in the Stag's head impossible. So he skulled down his pint and headed out into the world. Where to now? How about the Palace? It had two advantages, being a good wanker-free place for a drink, while also holding out the possibility of his meeting the sweaty-faced guy again. If he caught that fucker off guard he might be able to pump him for more information about the furry freaks.
He had crossed Dame Street and was walking down a back street towards Fleet Street when he heard someone out from behind him. Were they calling him? He turned around, to be greeted by a fist smashing into his nose.
"Hey there, fuck face" said the puncher, an asian gentleman, following up his initial jab with another to the stomach, making Jack double up in agony. "How do you like that? You punched me last night, now I punch you". After giving Jack a desultory kick, his assailant high-tailed it. Jack dimly remembered decking a foreign-looking McDonalds drone, could this be him? He hoped the puppeteer was not also in the vicinity.
He picked himself, dusted himself off, and assured some well-meaning idiots that he was fine. Then he made his way on to the Palace. Joe and a load of his civil servant friends were inside. They seemed to be in fine form.
"Jack! Good to see you. Pull up a pew. You know the lads? This is my old friend Jack Devlin. He's a private detective, so watch what you say around him!"
"Hi Joe, fancy meeting you here. Isn't it a bit early for you lot to be here? I mean, don't you have a country to run?"
"Oh Jack, come on, on this day of all days!" Joe was flying, really flying. "We've been given the afternoon off, practically told to go and celebrate. And we are celebrating, aren't we, boys?" The other civil servants raucously affirmed their agreement.
"Celebrating?" queried Jack.
"Yes, yes! Oh Jack, haven't you heard the news?"
"Not really, I've spend the last few days being beaten up by cockfarmers".
"Come to think of it, you do look like shite", said Joe, noticing for the first time Jack's bruised and battered appearance. "But Jack, if you've not been following the news then you won't have heard about Athlone".
"Athlone… " said Jack, dimly remembering that the awful midlands town had recently assumed a certain significance.
"You remember – the town the rebels were attacking. It turns out the army has given them a good stuffing. The rebel fuckers are running back to Galway with their tails between their legs, our lads in hot pursuit. They're finished, Jack. It's all over, or nearly all over".
"Well, that is good news", said Jack, and then he ordered a pint. He was not really one for politics, but the one thing he did know was that keeping on the right side of drunken civil servants is always a good idea. Jack did a quick scan of the pub for the sweaty-faced guy; no sign. He settled in for the afternoon with Joe and his colleagues.
He had not been there that long when his phone rang. It was a number he did not recognise.
"Hello?"
– Mr Devlin. We have met, though I did not give you my name then. I will do so now. Call me Leo. I entertained you in my home late on Saturday night, though I must apologise for the poor nature of my hospitality. I must also apologise for ringing you on your mobile. Your delightful receptionist gave me the number.
It was the guy in the lion-suit who ran the Zoo club.
"So what do you want?" Jack replied, testily.
– Again, I am sorry for any rough treatment my fellows might have meted out. They can be a bit over-eager. But I did not ring to offer apologies. I've been thinking about you since you left my lair. I'm not sure you realise what you're mixed up in, who you are working for.
"As long as they pay their bills, I don't care".
– Sure, sure, a commendable attitude, usually. But I think if you knew more about your circumstances then you might think again. You like to project the hard-bitten exterior, but I think there is a heart beating in that chest of yours. Do you want to know more about the world you have entered, or are you happy to live in ignorance?
"I never reject knowledge", replied Jack, feeling like he had turned into a character in a French novel.
– That is wise. Now Mr Devlin, listen to what I have to say. If you want to open your eyes, this evening, say around eight o'clock, take yourself over to Phoenix Park.
"To what, hunt deer?"
– No, Jack, no. I have other game in mind for you. And I'm not suggesting that you should wander aimlessly around what is, after all, the largest urban park in Europe. No. If you want to really know what you are mixed up in, go to Phoenix Park this evening, and make your way to the Furry Glen.
With that, the lion hung up.
The Furry Glen. Was this what the others meant as well? Jack felt the hairs at the back of his neck rising – the cards were falling into place, things were advancing, and even though he did not know what he was going to find there, he felt sure that his trip to the Furry Glen would reveal secrets that would blow this case wide open. He did not want to blow this opportunity, he thought, realising that sobriety was now called for. "Sorry lads, something's come up", he said to Joe and his mates, as he exited the pub quickly, leaving behind his unfinished pint.
Jack made his way quickly to Café Irie. This was one of Temple Bar's many coffeeshops, but one with a less wankery clientele than most. There he knocked back a black coffee quickly, before ordering one of their club sandwiches. He needed to get something solid into his stomach to counteract the pint he had thrown into himself in the Stag's Head. After that, he had another coffee. He was now highly energised, but also twitchy and nervous. Every time the door opened he imagined it being one of the many people he was not too keen on meeting. The puppeteer, the the sweaty-faced guy (arriving, perhaps, with some sweaty faced friends), the performance artists, the ADL nutters, Tadhg, the Koala Bear, the list was endless. But no, instead he just saw the same kind of people you always see in such places. Tourists, so-hip alternative types, people who actually are hip, ordinary joes, and so on.
With his body back in something approximating to equilibrium, Jack still had some time to kill before he had to hit the Furry Glen, so he decided to spend it in his office. Jane had knocked off for the evening, but he was able to let himself in with his own key. There he busied himself by accessing the Internet and checking where exactly in Phoenix Park the Furry Glen was to be found. Over in the south west, apparently. That was something of a surprise; for some reason he had always thought of it as being over near the Park Street Gate entrance. Obviously not.
So, how to get over there? He thought of hiring a taxi and getting the driver to wait for him – handy in terms of allowing for a quick getaway. But he also wanted to approach the Glen as quietly as possible. The Lion made it sound like what went on there was well-sketchy, and a car could alert whoever was there that someone was coming to snoop around. He decided in the end that his best bet was to go on the bike.
It was time to move. Jack slipped out of his office, keeping a careful eye out for pursuers or pavement artists keeping an eye on him. He did not spot any. Crossing the river, he found his bike where he had left it, and then he set off west along Dame Street. His route brought him past Christ Church, the Guinness Brewery, James' Hospital, the back end of IMMA, and then across the river at Islandbridge. It was dusk now, with the sun starting to sink below the horizon but still leaving enough light to see with. Past rush hour, the traffic was starting to abate but remained relatively heavy.
He crossed the road and entered the Park at the Islandbridge gate, then cycled on towards the Furry Glen. Getting closer, he decided to approach on foot and to leave the bike hidden but where he could quickly retrieve it and cycle away. A bush behind a park bench made for a most convenient place to stash the bike. From there, he proceeded on foot, nervous and edgy as to what he might find ahead of him.
The four from the Art Defence League ran off, leaving Jack alone in his apartment. He toyed with the idea of leaving Tadhg and the performance artists to their fates, but vague altruistic sentiments won out. He took out his mobile and rang Tadhg.
"Tadhg, listen! Are you with the New Yorkers?"
"Yes, what's the – "
"Listen! Are you out on the streets? There are these four nutters driving around who want to beat the shite out of the Americans. They might do the same to you if they find you with them".
"Wow, really?"
"Yes! They're looking for you now".
"Wow, it seems a bit outlandish. I can't see how anyone could have it so in for the guys that they'd want to beat them up".
"Sadly, it is true".
"Well, thanks Jack, we'll keep an eye out and – hey, what's happening?"
Tadhg then made a noise consistent with his being punched in the stomach. A kind of scrunching noise came through Jack's earpiece and Tadhg's phone went dead. Oh well, he had tried.
He then rang Tony to fill him in on what had happened. "Sorry about disappearing there, I got kidnapped by a bunch of art critics".
"No problem Jack, I know how it is. See you again soon".
Now Jack had attended to business, he felt that it was time to head back into the city. Perhaps a pint was in order. He decided to cycle in. Locking his bike on George's Street, he made his way to the Stag's Head. There was room in the snug, so he planted himself there with a pint. For a few minutes he contemplated the joys of a quiet afternoon of drinking, but then the atmosphere was spoiled by the arrival of some moronic Trinity students, people who seemed to be involved in some kind of student debating society. Jack had to give the women students credit for a certain physical attractiveness, but their inane patter and grating accents made staying in the Stag's head impossible. So he skulled down his pint and headed out into the world. Where to now? How about the Palace? It had two advantages, being a good wanker-free place for a drink, while also holding out the possibility of his meeting the sweaty-faced guy again. If he caught that fucker off guard he might be able to pump him for more information about the furry freaks.
He had crossed Dame Street and was walking down a back street towards Fleet Street when he heard someone out from behind him. Were they calling him? He turned around, to be greeted by a fist smashing into his nose.
"Hey there, fuck face" said the puncher, an asian gentleman, following up his initial jab with another to the stomach, making Jack double up in agony. "How do you like that? You punched me last night, now I punch you". After giving Jack a desultory kick, his assailant high-tailed it. Jack dimly remembered decking a foreign-looking McDonalds drone, could this be him? He hoped the puppeteer was not also in the vicinity.
He picked himself, dusted himself off, and assured some well-meaning idiots that he was fine. Then he made his way on to the Palace. Joe and a load of his civil servant friends were inside. They seemed to be in fine form.
"Jack! Good to see you. Pull up a pew. You know the lads? This is my old friend Jack Devlin. He's a private detective, so watch what you say around him!"
"Hi Joe, fancy meeting you here. Isn't it a bit early for you lot to be here? I mean, don't you have a country to run?"
"Oh Jack, come on, on this day of all days!" Joe was flying, really flying. "We've been given the afternoon off, practically told to go and celebrate. And we are celebrating, aren't we, boys?" The other civil servants raucously affirmed their agreement.
"Celebrating?" queried Jack.
"Yes, yes! Oh Jack, haven't you heard the news?"
"Not really, I've spend the last few days being beaten up by cockfarmers".
"Come to think of it, you do look like shite", said Joe, noticing for the first time Jack's bruised and battered appearance. "But Jack, if you've not been following the news then you won't have heard about Athlone".
"Athlone… " said Jack, dimly remembering that the awful midlands town had recently assumed a certain significance.
"You remember – the town the rebels were attacking. It turns out the army has given them a good stuffing. The rebel fuckers are running back to Galway with their tails between their legs, our lads in hot pursuit. They're finished, Jack. It's all over, or nearly all over".
"Well, that is good news", said Jack, and then he ordered a pint. He was not really one for politics, but the one thing he did know was that keeping on the right side of drunken civil servants is always a good idea. Jack did a quick scan of the pub for the sweaty-faced guy; no sign. He settled in for the afternoon with Joe and his colleagues.
He had not been there that long when his phone rang. It was a number he did not recognise.
"Hello?"
– Mr Devlin. We have met, though I did not give you my name then. I will do so now. Call me Leo. I entertained you in my home late on Saturday night, though I must apologise for the poor nature of my hospitality. I must also apologise for ringing you on your mobile. Your delightful receptionist gave me the number.
It was the guy in the lion-suit who ran the Zoo club.
"So what do you want?" Jack replied, testily.
– Again, I am sorry for any rough treatment my fellows might have meted out. They can be a bit over-eager. But I did not ring to offer apologies. I've been thinking about you since you left my lair. I'm not sure you realise what you're mixed up in, who you are working for.
"As long as they pay their bills, I don't care".
– Sure, sure, a commendable attitude, usually. But I think if you knew more about your circumstances then you might think again. You like to project the hard-bitten exterior, but I think there is a heart beating in that chest of yours. Do you want to know more about the world you have entered, or are you happy to live in ignorance?
"I never reject knowledge", replied Jack, feeling like he had turned into a character in a French novel.
– That is wise. Now Mr Devlin, listen to what I have to say. If you want to open your eyes, this evening, say around eight o'clock, take yourself over to Phoenix Park.
"To what, hunt deer?"
– No, Jack, no. I have other game in mind for you. And I'm not suggesting that you should wander aimlessly around what is, after all, the largest urban park in Europe. No. If you want to really know what you are mixed up in, go to Phoenix Park this evening, and make your way to the Furry Glen.
With that, the lion hung up.
The Furry Glen. Was this what the others meant as well? Jack felt the hairs at the back of his neck rising – the cards were falling into place, things were advancing, and even though he did not know what he was going to find there, he felt sure that his trip to the Furry Glen would reveal secrets that would blow this case wide open. He did not want to blow this opportunity, he thought, realising that sobriety was now called for. "Sorry lads, something's come up", he said to Joe and his mates, as he exited the pub quickly, leaving behind his unfinished pint.
Jack made his way quickly to Café Irie. This was one of Temple Bar's many coffeeshops, but one with a less wankery clientele than most. There he knocked back a black coffee quickly, before ordering one of their club sandwiches. He needed to get something solid into his stomach to counteract the pint he had thrown into himself in the Stag's Head. After that, he had another coffee. He was now highly energised, but also twitchy and nervous. Every time the door opened he imagined it being one of the many people he was not too keen on meeting. The puppeteer, the the sweaty-faced guy (arriving, perhaps, with some sweaty faced friends), the performance artists, the ADL nutters, Tadhg, the Koala Bear, the list was endless. But no, instead he just saw the same kind of people you always see in such places. Tourists, so-hip alternative types, people who actually are hip, ordinary joes, and so on.
With his body back in something approximating to equilibrium, Jack still had some time to kill before he had to hit the Furry Glen, so he decided to spend it in his office. Jane had knocked off for the evening, but he was able to let himself in with his own key. There he busied himself by accessing the Internet and checking where exactly in Phoenix Park the Furry Glen was to be found. Over in the south west, apparently. That was something of a surprise; for some reason he had always thought of it as being over near the Park Street Gate entrance. Obviously not.
So, how to get over there? He thought of hiring a taxi and getting the driver to wait for him – handy in terms of allowing for a quick getaway. But he also wanted to approach the Glen as quietly as possible. The Lion made it sound like what went on there was well-sketchy, and a car could alert whoever was there that someone was coming to snoop around. He decided in the end that his best bet was to go on the bike.
It was time to move. Jack slipped out of his office, keeping a careful eye out for pursuers or pavement artists keeping an eye on him. He did not spot any. Crossing the river, he found his bike where he had left it, and then he set off west along Dame Street. His route brought him past Christ Church, the Guinness Brewery, James' Hospital, the back end of IMMA, and then across the river at Islandbridge. It was dusk now, with the sun starting to sink below the horizon but still leaving enough light to see with. Past rush hour, the traffic was starting to abate but remained relatively heavy.
He crossed the road and entered the Park at the Islandbridge gate, then cycled on towards the Furry Glen. Getting closer, he decided to approach on foot and to leave the bike hidden but where he could quickly retrieve it and cycle away. A bush behind a park bench made for a most convenient place to stash the bike. From there, he proceeded on foot, nervous and edgy as to what he might find ahead of him.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Where were you at the time of the crime?
In other news, the poet Adrian Mitchell appears to have died. I decided years ago that I don't hold with poetry, but I retained a soft spot for the couple of Mitchell's poems that came my way in school. 'Nostalgia - now threepence off' touched a chord with me, with its evocation of the vanished children's culture of yesteryear. He also seems to have adapted the English language version of Peter Weiss' play Marat/Sade. Mitchell's great achievement, for me, was his poem 'Tell Me Lies About Vietnam', apparently first read out at an anti-war demonstration in Trafalgar Square. It is a masterpiece of invective, a work that took on a new lease of life during Bush and Blair's adventure in Iraq. As a tribute to the late Adrian Mitchell, I am now going to post that poem here in its entirety, until such time as his estate track me down and make me remove it:
I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I've walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn't find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames
Made a marble phone book and I carved all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
I smell something burning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women,
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
(poetry and HTML code from here )
I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I've walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn't find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames
Made a marble phone book and I carved all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
I smell something burning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women,
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.
(poetry and HTML code from here )
My Favourite Tunes of 2008
It is once more that time of year, when I find myself compiling a CD of the music from the past year I most enjoyed listening to. I am listing the tracks here for your delectation. As with previous years, a copy of this disc is available to anyone who wants it, though you will have to join a queue that has people ahead of you who are still waiting for their world psych* disc. One thing to bear in mind – these are all tunes that were new to me over the last year. Some of them are from 2008 or late 2007, but many of them are from much earlier.
Here are the tracks:
1. Chrome Hoof 'Circus 9000'
This is from their 2007 album Pre-emptive False Rapture. Chrome Hoof wear shiny capes and play space rocky music, giving good spectacle live. I suspect that this might not be too everyone's taste, but putting them on first is a good way of separating the sheep from the goats.
2. Tinariwen 'Chet Boghassa'
This is from an album called Amassakoul that came out a couple of years ago. As you know, Tinariwen are these fellows who combine the music of their Tuareg heritage with more modern instrumentation, with their frontman being particularly adept in the use of the electrical guitar. They present quite a sight live, carrying guitars and wearing Tuareg robes, but I think they still do the job on record. You may agree.
3. Moondog 'Enough About Human Rights'
This is quite old; iTunes thinks the record it comes from (The Viking of Sixth Avenue) was released in 1978. Moondog is an odd character. He was blinded at an early age but, if I recall the sleevenotes to the album correctly, he took up music while undergoing rehabiliation and then carved out a singular career for himself. He seems also to have spent time dressing as a Viking and busking on the streets of New York, but there is a focus to his music that makes it impossible to think of him as some kind of weirdo outsider artist. The music itself is very percussive, and sounds like it uses a load of that multi-layering stuff that artists like Fursaxa go for. This track is one of the few on the album that has a vocal.
A while ago I was listening to my iPod on shuffle, and what I thought was a Moondog song started playing. But it turned out to be the opening shuffle of a Fun Boy Three / Bananarama tune. So that, maybe, gives an idea what the Viking of Sixth Avenue might sound like. I recommend him highly, and once more salute Lisa & Brian for giving it to me as a birthday present.
4. Nurse With Wound 'Black Teeth'
This is from Huffin' Rag Blues, an ablum iTunes says unconvincingly was released in 2008. I bought the record after NWW's performance at the Dublin Electronic Arts Festival, and remember this tune well from the concert. Love it or hate it, I can see this having to be surgically removed from people's consciousness. It you have not registered this yet, let me just say that this has a very high What Is This Shite? score. I must listen to it closely enough sometime to see what the lyrics are about.
5. Duncan Browne 'Cherry Blossom Fool'
This is from Early Morning Hush, a recent CD reissue of a compilation of British folk music from the late 60s or early 70s. Early Morning Hush has been on heavy rotation since it came into Panda Mansions. I could easily have burned half the album onto my end of year CD, so Duncan Browne's track here should be taken as standing in for all the others.
6. Selda 'Yaz Gazeteci Yaz'
Selda is a Turkish folk singer. Finders Keepers (a kewl English record label) have reissued Selda's untitled debut album (with a few tracks from her second thrown in as a bonus) as part of their Anatolian Invasion series of Turkish psych releases. This record was originally released in 1976, by which point Selda had been on the musical scene for some time (the accompanying pictures reveal her to be a somewhat dumpy mature lady). On the album her folkie tunes (usually protesting against some of the many things in Turkey there are to protest about) are backed by the leading lights of the Turkish rock scene, with some of the tracks (notably this one) even getting a bit of early electronics stuff thrown in. This should make Selda's album a bit of a dog's dinner, but it all works.
I have acquired a lot of Finders Keepers material on vinyl this year, but I love Selda so much that I bought this on CD as well so that I could put it on my end of year compilation. In some respects, she is standing in here for all the weirdo music I have heard through Finders Keepers – Welsh language psych-folk, the big voiced sounds of Sarolta Zalatnay, Ersen (an actual Turkish psych band), and so on. With Finders Keepers you can be pretty certain that anything they release will be worth listening to.
7. Dee Dee Young 'You Haven't Seen Nothing'
This is from Playin' Hard to Get – West Coast Girls, a compilation of music by less well known girl groups from the USA in the 1960s. In this one, Dee Dee Young sings about how you haven't seen nothing till you've seen her new boyfriend. He is really something, unlike that loser she used to go out with.
8. Mahmoud Ahmed 'Mar tèb yelal kafesh'
And this of course comes from Swinging Addis, volume 8 of the Éthiopiques series of music from Ethiopia. I seem to have acquired a lot of discs from that series in 2008, so Mahmoud Ahmed is here standing in for all his fellows. As you know, Addis Ababa had a thriving musical scene in the dying years of the imperial period, largely based on an unusual local iteration of jazz ideas. The scene was shut down by the communist Derg regime that took power in thet mid-1970s, but thanks largely to the efforts of the guy who compiles the Éthiopiques series this music has been rediscovered by a new generation of hipsters.
9. The Kinks 'This Time Tomorrow'
I may be cheating here, in that this tune sounds too good not to have come my way on a compilation previously. This time it came my way on the soundtrack to The Darjeeling Limited, a Wes Anderson film I saw almost exactly a year ago. This song is great, but a lot of its appeal to me is based on its association with that wonderful film.
10. Dengue Fever 'Tiger Phone Card'
This is on Dengue Fever's third album, Venus on Earth, from 2007, the first I managed to track down. Dengue Fever were formed by these two American brothers (one of whom has an incredible beard) who became fascinated by the flourishing pop scene in Cambodia that flourished before the communists took over that country. Deciding to form a band to play this music, they recruited a Cambodian woman who had already made a name for herself on the karaoke circuit and then started recording Khmer pop classics and their own compositions. This track, one of the band's first in English, had a certain resonance for me in the period I spent here in Ireland while my beloved was off in Ethiopia.
11. Caribou 'Melody Day'
The (2007) album this comes from is called Andorra, and it would never have come into my awareness had KevLol not dragged me off to see Caribou play live here in Dublin. I think maybe they are better live than on record, but you do get something of a sense of their drum-led sound from this, the album's opener.
12. The Fiery Furnaces 'Ex-Guru'
This surprisingly straightforward tune from the brother-sister combo appears on their (2007) album Widow City. I salute the Furnaces for allowing people like me who buy their album on vinyl to then download a free copy of it.
13. The Auteurs 'Lenny Valentino'
This is the opening track from the Auteurs' second album, 1994's Now I'm A Cowboy. I never need an excuse to listen to the Auteurs (or any other Luke Haines related band), but I have been on a particular Haines/Auteurs kick lately thanks to my reading of Haineser's excellent memoir of the Britpop years. This song is apparently about Lenny Bruce dying of an overdose but briefly going back in time to find himself inhabiting the corpse of Rudolph Valentino at his funeral. Or something. I do not think you need to know this to enjoy this most excellent tune.
14. The Gresham Flyers 'Shiftwork'
Wow, a track by people I know! This is from Sex With Strangers, the 2008 debut album from this exciting band. I find it difficult to judge the artistic endeavours of people I know, but I have become rather fond of the Flyers' album in general and this song in particular. Hence its inclusion here.
15 David Vorhaus, Igor Stravinsky, & the Fairlight 'ORCH5'
I downloaded this from the Internet. ORCH5 is the VOMP! sound you heard on every record released during a certain period of the 1980s. It is a one second pre-set sample supplied with the Fairlight synthesiser, and people from hip hoppers to Kate Bush used it all over the place. David Vorhaus (himself an electronic music pioneer in the 1960s) recorded what became ORCH5 in the late 1970s. The sound is the transitional bit of Igor Stravinsky's Firebird, the moment when the full orchestra come in and do their stuff.
16. SCOOTER 'Jump That Rock!'
Yeah. This is from Jumping All Over The World, Scooter's number one album from 2008. It is easy to laugh at Scooter's nosebleed rave, shameless appropriation of other people's music, and fuckwitted rapping, but that would be rather missing the point. Yeah.
17. Portishead 'Half Day Closing'
This is not from the album Portishead released in 2008 but their largely overlooked and untitled second album from ten or more years back. I originally had that record down as being a bit disappointing, but this track has really grown on me. I am now starting to re-evaluate the band's second album, wondering if it represents a successful attempt to do something new as opposed to a less than successful iteration of what made the first record so good.
18. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds 'The Singer'
This appears on the excellent covers album Kicking Against The Pricks originally released back in 1986. This track seems to have originally been a Johnny Cash composition.
19. Oneida 'Preteen Weaponry Part 2'
This long brooding tune is from Preteen Weaponry, a 2008 album by Oneida.
20. Sajuro 'Sakura: Cherry Blossoms'
This is from a record called Lullaby for the Moon. iTunes thinks it was released in 1997, though it would not surprise me if actually it is earlier. It combines that funny stringed instrument the Japanese have with that flutey thing of theirs. So it is nice, contemplative and restful music.
21. Some random load of Ethiopian clergymen, possibly accompanied by a congregation of worshippers '[Liturgical music from a religious service of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church]'
This comes from the album Music From Ethiopia, which came into Panda Mansions from Claddagh on the same day as the previously mentioned Lullaby for the Moon and Early Morning Hush. iTunes has this as having been released in 1970. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church is big into the liturgical chanting, and it is not big on musical instruments. The only ones allowed in church services are a strange rattle thing and a big porker of a drum – not the kind of bongo drum people lazily associate with all African music but something that in sound is more like the big drums our friends in the North like to play (see picture).
I find this recording to be quite evocative of the kind of other worldly states of mind the religious like to aspire too. Ethiopian church services reputedly go on for hours at a time, so I reckon you could get really tripped out by listening to that much of this music. I also reckon that some racist people might not be down with the music of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, so I put it here at the end where it can be easily skipped.Panda image source
*I have been calling this my world psych disc even though, as has been helpfully pointed out, some of the songs are more like beat music than proper psychedelia.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Worrying news for Tasmanian Devils
Tasmanian Devils are very fierce animals whose very fierceness has put them in terrible danger. They spend a lot of their time biting and snapping at each other, but unfortunately in so doing they transmit a terrible disease which causes their faces to erupt in repulsive cancerous growths that eventually make them unable to see or eat, leading to their death by starvation. Scientists have projected that their complete extinction in the next five or so years. I have previously mentioned how some hope had emerged following the discovery of Cedric, a Tasmanian Devil who appeared to be immune to the facial cancers decimating his kind. Scientists had hoped that they could discover the secret of his immunity, or use him to repopulate the world with his cancer-immune progeny. Sadly, these hopes have now been dashed. Cedric recently developed some of the tumours on his face. Scientists have tried to excise them, but they do not hold out much hope.
Professor Greg Woods of the University of Tasmania has said that the results are "very deflating, very, very disappointing. There really is only one thing that can save the Tasmanian Devils now - they must stop being so fierce".
More
An astonishing discovery
The popularity of UB40 among the rougher elements in Dublin is a well known and long enduring feature of the city's cultural landscape. Yesterday evening, though, I discovered who is such people's second favourite recording artist. When driving around in stolen cars, they sometimes like to take a break from UB40's reggae stylings to listen to the neo-folk sounds of Tracy Chapman.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 12
Jack is in his office, re-engaging with his missing panda case.
Jack pondered his next step. He was running out of leads in the panda case. The furries were not talking, and he had little or nothing else to go on. He decided to try the Internet – maybe he could find out some more about the furry freaks there. A few minutes on a well-known heavily branded search engine brought him to some bizarre websites. His initial thought was that these were the kinds of websites you get yourself fired for looking at, but then he remembered that he was self-employed. So he buried himself in furryfuckbuddies.com , albeit with little expectation that it would be of any great assistance in tracking down the runaway panda.
Jane, meanwhile, was engrossed in an article critiquing Slavoj Zizek's analysis of 20th century leftist authoritarianism when her mobile phone rang.
"Hi Aine", she said, answering it.
"Hi Jane", said Aine at the other end, in whatever mysterious location she found herself in. "I was just ringing to check you were still on for the special screening of Strange Days in the IFI".
"Oh yes, definitely. I love that film".
"Me too" continued Aine. "It has a depth of characterisation you seldom get in science fictiony films like that".
"Do you reckon that's because it was directed by a women?" pondered Jane.
"It's hard to tell. Still, for all its greatness, it does rather fail the Bechdel test".
"What's that one again?"
"Oh, you know, the thing coined by Alison Bechdel, the comics writer. She has thing where she reckons a book or a film isn't worth bothering with if it doesn't feature a conversation between two women about something other than a man".
"Oh yeah, that one", remembered Jane. "It's a bit problematic for things where the narrative follows one main character, and that character is a man, because you won't get any women-only conversations in that kind of set-up".
"Yeah", replied Aine.
"I'm not really convinced by the validity of a test that Strange Days would fail".
"Too true", agreed Aine.
"Another funny thing about the Bechdel test", continued Jane, "Is that the one thing by her I read failed it. You know that book about her dad? There might be the odd bit in it where someone has a conversation about something else, but the book is all about the man who fathered her".
"Now that is ironic".
"Yes, and not in an Alison Morrisette way".
"I wonder if political correctness might ever go so mad that people would start throwing conversations between two women into books and films that were completely irrelevant to the main plot but enough to barely get the narrative to pass the Bechdel test?"
"That would be pretty weird", agreed Jane. "Hey, do you think the conversation we are having now would be enough for an art work to pass the Bechdel test?"
"You know", said Aine, "I think that it might just".
Jane laughed. "Well, I'll see you this evening. I'd better get back to work before dickface notices that I'm on the phone. See you later!"
"Bye!"
Jack in fact failed to even notice that Jane was not working, so engrossed was he in the world of online furry porn. Then he came too, realising that if he did not get away from this kind of sordid smut then things could go very bad for him. Instead he remembered one line of inquiry he still had open. He took out his phone and keyed in a number. The phone rang and quickly answered.
"Tony! Long time no see. Listen, fancy meeting for lunch today? I think it's my twist. Usual spot, eh? Excellent, see you then".
It was a quick call, but it was enough. Tony would know where to meet him, and would know that he was looking for information, and not the kind of information you can ask about over the phone. With time to kill, Jack slipped back to the furrynet. Aside from the endless pictures of people in furry suits banging away at each other, there seemed to be a terribly large amount of furry contact ads. These ranged from furry dating sites that seemed relatively normal (in so far as anything invoving grown adults dressed up as animals can be so called), to advertisements that seemed downright creepy. In the later category fell ads from furry swingers, where there seemed to be a lot of husbands basically pimping out their wives, to contact ads that were barely disguised advertisements from furry prostitutes. And it did not take Jack long to realise that this kind of depressing awfulness was not confined to the United States or Luxembourg – Dublin seemed to have its own fair share of furry prostitutes looking for his attention. There were also the furry phone sex lines. Jack wondered if he could try calling one of them up – for the purposes of seeking information, of course – and if he would be able to palm the cost off to Mr Chubbytail. But this, surely was the path of madness.
He decided, therefore, to get out of the office and go for a walk. He did not have to meet Tony for a while, and given that Tony worked outside the city centre he could kill the time by walking out there. Brilliant, problem solved. He bade farewell to Jane, who did not really notice his departure, and headed off into the city. His walk took him out through the south city centre and then on towards Ranelagh. A nice place, he thought, somewhere he would love to spend weekdays loafing around in. A shame he had to work. Then he was beyond Ranelagh, past Gonzaga's and beyond through Milltown. A bit less exciting out here, but still an attractive part of the city. And then on, to a bend in the road where a pub called Ashton's overlooked the Dodder. This was where he was meeting Tony. He went in and sat himself down, ordering a pint of Smithwicks while he waited for Tony to come out for his lunch.
He did not have to wait too long. When Tony arrived, they shook hands. As was their accustomed modus operandi, in the handshake Jack slipped Tony a small piece of paper. On that paper was written a mobile phone number, the number that Mr Chubbytail had given him as belonging to his wife. Tony worked for Ireland's largest mobile phone provider, and his job gave him access to the sensitive computer records that made it possible to track what calls had been made from and received by a particular phone. More crucially, they allowed the location of a phone to be tracked to a very narrow location. This kind of information was only meant to be extractable following a request from the Gardaà and the production of a warrant, but Tony knew how to run the reports in such a way that no trace of his having done so would be left. Tony was always willing to help his old friend Jack out by running this kind of report, knowing full well that the private detective would see to it that he was adequately recompensed. Jack hoped that the panda's phone would be on the same network as Tony's company, but even if it was not, Tony would still be able to get some information from its issuing probing requests to their network.
With the number handover out of the way, Jack and Tony chatted away like the old friends they actually were. Jack helped himself to a few more pints, while Tony stuck to the minerals. He did, after all, have a job to go back to. Perhaps it was the alcohol he was consuming that dulled Jack's normally acute sense of danger. Throughout his meal, he failed to spot the four fellows in somewhat militaristic garb who were furtively eating their own lunch over in a corner. And when Jack nipped off to the gents to relieve himself, he did not notice them getting up from their table and following him in. It was only really when he found himself standing at a urinal, in an otherwise deserted gents, surrounded by the same guys who had chased him the night before, that he realised he was in a spot of bother.
"Don't worry, you are not our enemy" said one of them.
"At least, we do not think you are", said another.
"But be careful", said the third. "You do not want to make an enemy of the ADL", said the third.
The ADL? thought Jack. What the hell was that? From the darkest recesses of his mind came the memory of their being some organisation somewhere called the Anti-Defamation League. Could this be them?
"Listen guys, I think you might be mistaking me for someone else", Jack said. "I'm as against libel as anyone else".
"What?" said one of the men surrounding him, obviously confused.
"That man you were with last night", said another, trying to get the situation back on track, "do you know who he is?"
"I know what he is", replied Jack. "A total wanker".
"That is our opinion too. He is what they call a performance artist". He spat out the term. "The Art Defence League has declared war on his kind. We warned him not to come to Ireland. But now he is here. And now we have to teach him a lesson he will never forget, to keep Ireland safe as a land where representational art continues to flourish! Do you understand me?"
"Yeah", replied Jack. "Can I wash my hands?"
"Uh, OK".
Jack washed his hands, hoping to play these nutjobs for time so that someone else might come into the jacks and give him a chance to escape their clutches.
"So where do I fit in, guys?"
"We were going to ask you the same question. What is your link to the performance artist? Are you a performance artist yourself?"
"No way, no way" he replied emphatically. "No, truth be told, my idiot flatmate brought those fuckers home from the airport, and that dickwad followed me out for a drink". Jack had decided to tell the truth, reckoning that at worst the ADL nutters might find the performance artists and beat the shite out of them for him.
"Where are they now?"
"They could be anywhere. I told my flatmate this morning to get them out of the flat. They're probably gone now".
"You could be telling the truth. Or you could be lying. I think you need to take us to your flat and we can check for ourselves. If the performance artists are there, we can deal with them. If there is no sign of their ever having been there, then we can deal with you".
For the first time in his life Jack hoped that Tadhg had not cleaned the bathroom. "OK, I get you, but what about my mate Tony? He's going to be a bit suspicious when he sees me living with you guys without saying a word".
"We'll slip out the back way. Come on! Now! And no funny business. We consider such things non-representational".
Jack decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and allowed himself to be frogmarched out the back and then forced into a car they had parked outside the pub. Two of the ADLers sat on either side of him in the back seat, two in the front. The car roared off.
"Where to now?" one of them asked. Jack replied with his address, and the car made quicktime there through the early afternoon traffic. Parking outside his building, they then made him let them in through the front door and walk up to the flat. With a sinking feeling, he realised that the tuneless music was not playing, meaning that the New Yorkers must have gone. Inside, it seemed also that Tadhg had, like the total arsehole he was, made some cursory efforts to tidy up the place. Crucially, the sink in the bathroom no longer boasted an attractive lack of piss. It looked rather alarmingly like the paramilitary nutters who had brought him here would be forced to deal him out a trashing for wasting their time.
But then one of them called out something: "Look at this!" He was holding up a pair of Y-fronts that had once been white.
"Aha!" said another, and then turning to Jack, he added: "I'm sorry for doubting you. They were here!" He grabbed the Y-fronts from his fellow and sniffed them. "And not long ago either! They can't be far away. To the car! If we patrol the area, we might just catch them".
Jack pondered his next step. He was running out of leads in the panda case. The furries were not talking, and he had little or nothing else to go on. He decided to try the Internet – maybe he could find out some more about the furry freaks there. A few minutes on a well-known heavily branded search engine brought him to some bizarre websites. His initial thought was that these were the kinds of websites you get yourself fired for looking at, but then he remembered that he was self-employed. So he buried himself in furryfuckbuddies.com , albeit with little expectation that it would be of any great assistance in tracking down the runaway panda.
Jane, meanwhile, was engrossed in an article critiquing Slavoj Zizek's analysis of 20th century leftist authoritarianism when her mobile phone rang.
"Hi Jane", said Aine at the other end, in whatever mysterious location she found herself in. "I was just ringing to check you were still on for the special screening of Strange Days in the IFI".
"Oh yes, definitely. I love that film".
"Me too" continued Aine. "It has a depth of characterisation you seldom get in science fictiony films like that".
"Do you reckon that's because it was directed by a women?" pondered Jane.
"It's hard to tell. Still, for all its greatness, it does rather fail the Bechdel test".
"What's that one again?"
"Oh, you know, the thing coined by Alison Bechdel, the comics writer. She has thing where she reckons a book or a film isn't worth bothering with if it doesn't feature a conversation between two women about something other than a man".
"Oh yeah, that one", remembered Jane. "It's a bit problematic for things where the narrative follows one main character, and that character is a man, because you won't get any women-only conversations in that kind of set-up".
"Yeah", replied Aine.
"I'm not really convinced by the validity of a test that Strange Days would fail".
"Too true", agreed Aine.
"Another funny thing about the Bechdel test", continued Jane, "Is that the one thing by her I read failed it. You know that book about her dad? There might be the odd bit in it where someone has a conversation about something else, but the book is all about the man who fathered her".
"Now that is ironic".
"Yes, and not in an Alison Morrisette way".
"I wonder if political correctness might ever go so mad that people would start throwing conversations between two women into books and films that were completely irrelevant to the main plot but enough to barely get the narrative to pass the Bechdel test?"
"That would be pretty weird", agreed Jane. "Hey, do you think the conversation we are having now would be enough for an art work to pass the Bechdel test?"
"You know", said Aine, "I think that it might just".
Jane laughed. "Well, I'll see you this evening. I'd better get back to work before dickface notices that I'm on the phone. See you later!"
"Bye!"
Jack in fact failed to even notice that Jane was not working, so engrossed was he in the world of online furry porn. Then he came too, realising that if he did not get away from this kind of sordid smut then things could go very bad for him. Instead he remembered one line of inquiry he still had open. He took out his phone and keyed in a number. The phone rang and quickly answered.
"Tony! Long time no see. Listen, fancy meeting for lunch today? I think it's my twist. Usual spot, eh? Excellent, see you then".
It was a quick call, but it was enough. Tony would know where to meet him, and would know that he was looking for information, and not the kind of information you can ask about over the phone. With time to kill, Jack slipped back to the furrynet. Aside from the endless pictures of people in furry suits banging away at each other, there seemed to be a terribly large amount of furry contact ads. These ranged from furry dating sites that seemed relatively normal (in so far as anything invoving grown adults dressed up as animals can be so called), to advertisements that seemed downright creepy. In the later category fell ads from furry swingers, where there seemed to be a lot of husbands basically pimping out their wives, to contact ads that were barely disguised advertisements from furry prostitutes. And it did not take Jack long to realise that this kind of depressing awfulness was not confined to the United States or Luxembourg – Dublin seemed to have its own fair share of furry prostitutes looking for his attention. There were also the furry phone sex lines. Jack wondered if he could try calling one of them up – for the purposes of seeking information, of course – and if he would be able to palm the cost off to Mr Chubbytail. But this, surely was the path of madness.
He decided, therefore, to get out of the office and go for a walk. He did not have to meet Tony for a while, and given that Tony worked outside the city centre he could kill the time by walking out there. Brilliant, problem solved. He bade farewell to Jane, who did not really notice his departure, and headed off into the city. His walk took him out through the south city centre and then on towards Ranelagh. A nice place, he thought, somewhere he would love to spend weekdays loafing around in. A shame he had to work. Then he was beyond Ranelagh, past Gonzaga's and beyond through Milltown. A bit less exciting out here, but still an attractive part of the city. And then on, to a bend in the road where a pub called Ashton's overlooked the Dodder. This was where he was meeting Tony. He went in and sat himself down, ordering a pint of Smithwicks while he waited for Tony to come out for his lunch.
He did not have to wait too long. When Tony arrived, they shook hands. As was their accustomed modus operandi, in the handshake Jack slipped Tony a small piece of paper. On that paper was written a mobile phone number, the number that Mr Chubbytail had given him as belonging to his wife. Tony worked for Ireland's largest mobile phone provider, and his job gave him access to the sensitive computer records that made it possible to track what calls had been made from and received by a particular phone. More crucially, they allowed the location of a phone to be tracked to a very narrow location. This kind of information was only meant to be extractable following a request from the Gardaà and the production of a warrant, but Tony knew how to run the reports in such a way that no trace of his having done so would be left. Tony was always willing to help his old friend Jack out by running this kind of report, knowing full well that the private detective would see to it that he was adequately recompensed. Jack hoped that the panda's phone would be on the same network as Tony's company, but even if it was not, Tony would still be able to get some information from its issuing probing requests to their network.
With the number handover out of the way, Jack and Tony chatted away like the old friends they actually were. Jack helped himself to a few more pints, while Tony stuck to the minerals. He did, after all, have a job to go back to. Perhaps it was the alcohol he was consuming that dulled Jack's normally acute sense of danger. Throughout his meal, he failed to spot the four fellows in somewhat militaristic garb who were furtively eating their own lunch over in a corner. And when Jack nipped off to the gents to relieve himself, he did not notice them getting up from their table and following him in. It was only really when he found himself standing at a urinal, in an otherwise deserted gents, surrounded by the same guys who had chased him the night before, that he realised he was in a spot of bother.
"Don't worry, you are not our enemy" said one of them.
"At least, we do not think you are", said another.
"But be careful", said the third. "You do not want to make an enemy of the ADL", said the third.
The ADL? thought Jack. What the hell was that? From the darkest recesses of his mind came the memory of their being some organisation somewhere called the Anti-Defamation League. Could this be them?
"Listen guys, I think you might be mistaking me for someone else", Jack said. "I'm as against libel as anyone else".
"What?" said one of the men surrounding him, obviously confused.
"That man you were with last night", said another, trying to get the situation back on track, "do you know who he is?"
"I know what he is", replied Jack. "A total wanker".
"That is our opinion too. He is what they call a performance artist". He spat out the term. "The Art Defence League has declared war on his kind. We warned him not to come to Ireland. But now he is here. And now we have to teach him a lesson he will never forget, to keep Ireland safe as a land where representational art continues to flourish! Do you understand me?"
"Yeah", replied Jack. "Can I wash my hands?"
"Uh, OK".
Jack washed his hands, hoping to play these nutjobs for time so that someone else might come into the jacks and give him a chance to escape their clutches.
"So where do I fit in, guys?"
"We were going to ask you the same question. What is your link to the performance artist? Are you a performance artist yourself?"
"No way, no way" he replied emphatically. "No, truth be told, my idiot flatmate brought those fuckers home from the airport, and that dickwad followed me out for a drink". Jack had decided to tell the truth, reckoning that at worst the ADL nutters might find the performance artists and beat the shite out of them for him.
"Where are they now?"
"They could be anywhere. I told my flatmate this morning to get them out of the flat. They're probably gone now".
"You could be telling the truth. Or you could be lying. I think you need to take us to your flat and we can check for ourselves. If the performance artists are there, we can deal with them. If there is no sign of their ever having been there, then we can deal with you".
For the first time in his life Jack hoped that Tadhg had not cleaned the bathroom. "OK, I get you, but what about my mate Tony? He's going to be a bit suspicious when he sees me living with you guys without saying a word".
"We'll slip out the back way. Come on! Now! And no funny business. We consider such things non-representational".
Jack decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and allowed himself to be frogmarched out the back and then forced into a car they had parked outside the pub. Two of the ADLers sat on either side of him in the back seat, two in the front. The car roared off.
"Where to now?" one of them asked. Jack replied with his address, and the car made quicktime there through the early afternoon traffic. Parking outside his building, they then made him let them in through the front door and walk up to the flat. With a sinking feeling, he realised that the tuneless music was not playing, meaning that the New Yorkers must have gone. Inside, it seemed also that Tadhg had, like the total arsehole he was, made some cursory efforts to tidy up the place. Crucially, the sink in the bathroom no longer boasted an attractive lack of piss. It looked rather alarmingly like the paramilitary nutters who had brought him here would be forced to deal him out a trashing for wasting their time.
But then one of them called out something: "Look at this!" He was holding up a pair of Y-fronts that had once been white.
"Aha!" said another, and then turning to Jack, he added: "I'm sorry for doubting you. They were here!" He grabbed the Y-fronts from his fellow and sniffed them. "And not long ago either! They can't be far away. To the car! If we patrol the area, we might just catch them".
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 11
In an unlikely sequence of events, private detective Jack Devlin finds himself taking a break from his missing panda case to share a burger with a performance artist from New York.
After finishing his burger, Butch became a bit more talkative. He commiserated with Jack for not getting anywhere with the women of the hen party, and he offered some useful advice for future interaction with the ladies. Jack was standing back too much, when he needed to get in there and show women who was boss. "You gotta tell a woman that you're going to fuck her", Butch sagely opined. Then he changed tack, and started talking about his fellow performance artists. The other two were apparently "talentless fucking assholes" who were holding Butch back, but he was, for the moment, stuck with them. They were also a pair of "fucking homos". Butch then went on to say that while he was no "homo" himself, he was prepared to "go gay" for a man who could afford to pay for his favours. This was something he would only do when he was very short of cash, which he was at present. He inquired of Jack as to whether he knew anyone who might want to pay to have sex with him. The cost would be quite reasonable, apparently.
Jack found this line of inquiry disturbing. He liked to think of himself as no friend of homophobia, but like many heterosexual men he dreaded the thought that people might think he was curious about homosexuality. That, he thought, was what Butch seemed to be implying. He was quite sure of one thing, and that was that if he ever was going to explore the world of Greek Love, it was not going to be with an individual as lacking in human charm as Butch.
"I don't really know anyone into that kind of thing", he replied, as emphatically as possible.
"Suit yourself, man", came back Butch, in a tone implying that it was very much Jack's loss.
Jack was now thinking in terms of suggesting they head back to his flat, though was trying to think of a way to make clear that they were not heading back together like that. Then, however, his eye was caught by four men in somewhat militaristic clothes who had come swaggering into the fast food joint. One of them looked over at Jack and Butch, pointed them out to his fellows and called out "There's that fucker! Get him!"
"Run!" Butch and Jack shouted to each other, both plainly no strangers to the world of fast exits. Jack jumped up and threw the dregs of his ersatz milkshake in the vague direction of the four uniformed guys. Then he set off, directly away from the four, shoving people in front of him out of the way. Butch was, he sensed, just behind him, but at a base level Jack registered that if the pursuers caught the New Yorker then he was probably away.
Jack's path took him to the back of the restaurant, and then into the kitchen. Confused looking McDonalds drones ducked out of his way as best they could. One guy was a bit slow to move, so Jack lamped the foreign fucker in the face. "Out of my fucking way!" he shrieked, to emphasise the point.
Then they were out through the back fire escape store and pegging up the alley way. The four guys were still coming after them. What the fuck was this all about? wondered Jack. Were they after him or after Butch? Or was this just mistaken identity, or a case of being easy targets for four thugs who wanted to beat the shite out of some randomers? These questions were not easy ones to answer, and Jack did not plan to sit down with his pursuers to inquire of their reasons for wanting to beat up him and/or Butch.
The laneway opened onto a side-street, and following it around Jack and Butch found their way onto Grafton Street. Taking a chance, Jack ran up through the street, hoping to lose his pursuers (and, for a bonus, Butch) in the crowds. People ducked out of their way, obviously startled at the sight of people running at such a pace through a street more used to quiet perambulation.
Arse, there was a busker up ahead, and a dense crowd surrounding him. Or maybe this could be turned to their advantage. Jack dived into the crowd, roughly pushing his way through them. In the middle was the performer, some fucker with a puppet. Desperate measures were called for. Jack went straight for him and punched him hard in the stomach. As he doubled up in agony (with the puppet seeming, momentarily, to be standing there of its own volition, stunned at the sudden outbreak of violence), Jack was on, running out the far side of the crowd gurning like a maniac so that no smart cunt would try to stop him. It worked, and glancing over his shoulder he saw that the crowd was now closing in around the performer, to check he was alright but in the process making the street almost impassable to the pursuers. Jack took the opportunity to duck down the laneway beside Bewleys that ran to Clarendon Street, Butch still behind.
They ran on a bit more, and then stopped once it was obvious that they had shaken loose their pursuers.
"What the fuck was that all about?" inquired Jack.
"No idea, man", replied Butch, shiftily.
"You've never seen those guys before?"
"No way, man", said Butch. "I don't know who they are. No way".
Right, thought Jack.
The journey back home was uneventful. On arrival, Jack was was pleased to see that Tadhg had invited some of his stupid friends over to be entertained by the performance artists, their tiresome stories, and the so-called music they had brought with them. The New Yorkers were in mid-anecdote when Jack and Butch came in through the door. This stopped their flow. Turning to Jack and Butch one of them called out: "Hey, where the fuck were you guys?"
"Off walking the dog, man", replied Butch smugly.
"No way, man!" Butch's associate was incredulous.
"Yeah man, it's true. I got me some sweet action".
"I'm afraid he did", confirmed Jack.
"You bring any pussy back for us, man?" inquired the other of Butch's friends.
"No way, man, every man for himself. Man", replied Butch.
"Asshole!"
"Hey guys, come on, let's all be friends!" said Tadhg, like the easy going fucker he was. "Now Spike, what was that you were saying about the time you toured with Sonic Youth?"
"What? Oh yeah, man, those guys were great, man, especially Thurston. And Kim, she was hot for me, you know what I mean. Anyway, there was this one time…"
Jack left them to it. He would have to get back into action with the case tomorrow, so he needed some sleep. He turned in, listening to some music on his iPod for a bit first before conking out. This time he took the precaution of barricading the door to his room shut, to prevent any further uninvited nocturnal visitors.
When he got up in the morning, someone was in the bathroom ahead of him. So he waited in the corridor for what seemed like quite a while. Eventually the door opened and one of the New Yorkers emerged. It was neither Butch nor Spike, but the other one, whose name Jack had not heard yet. He suspected it might be something like Brick, or Speedo. Or maybe Mac. Anyway, whatever his name was, he had a brief message to impart to Jack in a muttering voice.
"Bit of a problem in the bathroom, man".
The performance artist did not stop to wait for any reply. Going into the bathroom with some trepidation, Jack discovered that the sink had somehow become blocked, and now contained a reservoir of fresh urine. I can't deal with this now, he thought. So he left the sink as it was and showered, taking care to flush down the bath carefully before getting in. On retiring to his room he dressed quickly, and then stomped into Tadhg's room, shaking the fucker awake.
"Tadge! Wake the fuck up!"
"Hey, what's up Jack?" Tadhg blearily replied.
"Listen Tadge, I've had it with your American friends. Get them the fuck out of here, and clean the bathroom while you're at it. I want this sorted before I get back this evening, understand?"
"Wow Jack, you seem really annoyed".
"Look, the wash basin is full of piss, of course I'm fucking annoyed. Now sort it out before I shove your face in it".
Jack stormed off. As with yesterday, the front door was blocked by a comatose performance artists, but this time it was the one called Spike. Jack picked him up roughly and threw him aside. As he opened the front door the New Yorker grabbed his arm.
"Hey man, pussy for me too? Butch can't have all the fun".
Jack shook him off, walked out the front door, and slammed it shut behind him.
Jack arrived in his office to find Jane reading the latest issue of Radical Philosophy.
"Nice weekend, Jane?" he inquired.
"Yeah, not too bad", she answered non-committally, reflecting that Jack would probably not be too impressed by an account of what she had actually been up to. "You, though, look you've had a pretty rough time of it".
"Don't get me started. This fucking case. Talking of which, I don't suppose any other furry fuckers have been looking for me this morning?"
"Not that I noticed".
"Right, well, if they do, I'm in my office".
After finishing his burger, Butch became a bit more talkative. He commiserated with Jack for not getting anywhere with the women of the hen party, and he offered some useful advice for future interaction with the ladies. Jack was standing back too much, when he needed to get in there and show women who was boss. "You gotta tell a woman that you're going to fuck her", Butch sagely opined. Then he changed tack, and started talking about his fellow performance artists. The other two were apparently "talentless fucking assholes" who were holding Butch back, but he was, for the moment, stuck with them. They were also a pair of "fucking homos". Butch then went on to say that while he was no "homo" himself, he was prepared to "go gay" for a man who could afford to pay for his favours. This was something he would only do when he was very short of cash, which he was at present. He inquired of Jack as to whether he knew anyone who might want to pay to have sex with him. The cost would be quite reasonable, apparently.
"I don't really know anyone into that kind of thing", he replied, as emphatically as possible.
"Suit yourself, man", came back Butch, in a tone implying that it was very much Jack's loss.
Jack was now thinking in terms of suggesting they head back to his flat, though was trying to think of a way to make clear that they were not heading back together like that. Then, however, his eye was caught by four men in somewhat militaristic clothes who had come swaggering into the fast food joint. One of them looked over at Jack and Butch, pointed them out to his fellows and called out "There's that fucker! Get him!"
"Run!" Butch and Jack shouted to each other, both plainly no strangers to the world of fast exits. Jack jumped up and threw the dregs of his ersatz milkshake in the vague direction of the four uniformed guys. Then he set off, directly away from the four, shoving people in front of him out of the way. Butch was, he sensed, just behind him, but at a base level Jack registered that if the pursuers caught the New Yorker then he was probably away.
Jack's path took him to the back of the restaurant, and then into the kitchen. Confused looking McDonalds drones ducked out of his way as best they could. One guy was a bit slow to move, so Jack lamped the foreign fucker in the face. "Out of my fucking way!" he shrieked, to emphasise the point.
Then they were out through the back fire escape store and pegging up the alley way. The four guys were still coming after them. What the fuck was this all about? wondered Jack. Were they after him or after Butch? Or was this just mistaken identity, or a case of being easy targets for four thugs who wanted to beat the shite out of some randomers? These questions were not easy ones to answer, and Jack did not plan to sit down with his pursuers to inquire of their reasons for wanting to beat up him and/or Butch.
The laneway opened onto a side-street, and following it around Jack and Butch found their way onto Grafton Street. Taking a chance, Jack ran up through the street, hoping to lose his pursuers (and, for a bonus, Butch) in the crowds. People ducked out of their way, obviously startled at the sight of people running at such a pace through a street more used to quiet perambulation.
Arse, there was a busker up ahead, and a dense crowd surrounding him. Or maybe this could be turned to their advantage. Jack dived into the crowd, roughly pushing his way through them. In the middle was the performer, some fucker with a puppet. Desperate measures were called for. Jack went straight for him and punched him hard in the stomach. As he doubled up in agony (with the puppet seeming, momentarily, to be standing there of its own volition, stunned at the sudden outbreak of violence), Jack was on, running out the far side of the crowd gurning like a maniac so that no smart cunt would try to stop him. It worked, and glancing over his shoulder he saw that the crowd was now closing in around the performer, to check he was alright but in the process making the street almost impassable to the pursuers. Jack took the opportunity to duck down the laneway beside Bewleys that ran to Clarendon Street, Butch still behind.
They ran on a bit more, and then stopped once it was obvious that they had shaken loose their pursuers.
"What the fuck was that all about?" inquired Jack.
"No idea, man", replied Butch, shiftily.
"You've never seen those guys before?"
"No way, man", said Butch. "I don't know who they are. No way".
Right, thought Jack.
The journey back home was uneventful. On arrival, Jack was was pleased to see that Tadhg had invited some of his stupid friends over to be entertained by the performance artists, their tiresome stories, and the so-called music they had brought with them. The New Yorkers were in mid-anecdote when Jack and Butch came in through the door. This stopped their flow. Turning to Jack and Butch one of them called out: "Hey, where the fuck were you guys?"
"Off walking the dog, man", replied Butch smugly.
"No way, man!" Butch's associate was incredulous.
"Yeah man, it's true. I got me some sweet action".
"I'm afraid he did", confirmed Jack.
"You bring any pussy back for us, man?" inquired the other of Butch's friends.
"No way, man, every man for himself. Man", replied Butch.
"Asshole!"
"Hey guys, come on, let's all be friends!" said Tadhg, like the easy going fucker he was. "Now Spike, what was that you were saying about the time you toured with Sonic Youth?"
"What? Oh yeah, man, those guys were great, man, especially Thurston. And Kim, she was hot for me, you know what I mean. Anyway, there was this one time…"
Jack left them to it. He would have to get back into action with the case tomorrow, so he needed some sleep. He turned in, listening to some music on his iPod for a bit first before conking out. This time he took the precaution of barricading the door to his room shut, to prevent any further uninvited nocturnal visitors.
When he got up in the morning, someone was in the bathroom ahead of him. So he waited in the corridor for what seemed like quite a while. Eventually the door opened and one of the New Yorkers emerged. It was neither Butch nor Spike, but the other one, whose name Jack had not heard yet. He suspected it might be something like Brick, or Speedo. Or maybe Mac. Anyway, whatever his name was, he had a brief message to impart to Jack in a muttering voice.
"Bit of a problem in the bathroom, man".
The performance artist did not stop to wait for any reply. Going into the bathroom with some trepidation, Jack discovered that the sink had somehow become blocked, and now contained a reservoir of fresh urine. I can't deal with this now, he thought. So he left the sink as it was and showered, taking care to flush down the bath carefully before getting in. On retiring to his room he dressed quickly, and then stomped into Tadhg's room, shaking the fucker awake.
"Tadge! Wake the fuck up!"
"Hey, what's up Jack?" Tadhg blearily replied.
"Listen Tadge, I've had it with your American friends. Get them the fuck out of here, and clean the bathroom while you're at it. I want this sorted before I get back this evening, understand?"
"Wow Jack, you seem really annoyed".
"Look, the wash basin is full of piss, of course I'm fucking annoyed. Now sort it out before I shove your face in it".
Jack stormed off. As with yesterday, the front door was blocked by a comatose performance artists, but this time it was the one called Spike. Jack picked him up roughly and threw him aside. As he opened the front door the New Yorker grabbed his arm.
"Hey man, pussy for me too? Butch can't have all the fun".
Jack shook him off, walked out the front door, and slammed it shut behind him.
Jack arrived in his office to find Jane reading the latest issue of Radical Philosophy.
"Nice weekend, Jane?" he inquired.
"Yeah, not too bad", she answered non-committally, reflecting that Jack would probably not be too impressed by an account of what she had actually been up to. "You, though, look you've had a pretty rough time of it".
"Don't get me started. This fucking case. Talking of which, I don't suppose any other furry fuckers have been looking for me this morning?"
"Not that I noticed".
"Right, well, if they do, I'm in my office".
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 10
Private Detective Jack Devlin has come home to find his flat overrun by performance artists.
Jack's sleep was fitful. His body still ached, there was too much going through his mind, and there was no let up in the music coming from the living room. He was nevertheless able to get some rest. When he later started drifting back into wakefulness, he had that sense of not really knowing where he was, or even who he was. Memory came back to him gradually. He was struck by the smell of sweat and stale alcohol that permeated his immediate environment. He had showered before going to bed, but obviously not well enough.
Then he registered the actual source of the smell. One of the performance artists was in bed beside him.
"Holy fucking Christ!" Jack exclaimed.
The performance artist turned around a groggy, unshaven face to him.
"What's the problem, man?"
"What the fuck are you doing in my bed?"
"Had to get some zees, man", replied the performance artist, matter of factly.
"Well go and get them somewhere else! Get out of my fucking bed!"
"Yeah whatever man", said the performance artist, getting out of bed. His injured tone suggested that he had been doing Jack a favour by inviting himself into his bed. He picked up his clothes (Jack noticed with some dismay that his bedmate had been naked) and vacated the room.
Jack turned over and tried to sleep, but wakefulness would not leave him. It was late now, and the thin curtain of Jack's bedroom could not hide the sunlight streaming in. More particularly, though, it was the performance artist. His presence had disturbed Jack, and his agitation made it hard to sink back into oblivion. And although he had physically left, his aroma lingered on. Jack felt like he was trying to sleep in a pile of dirty socks over which someone had spilt beer (and, possibly, urinated).
"Fuck this", Jack said alloud. He climbed out of bed and dressed quickly. Declining to shower, he threw on some clothes and left his room, making directly for the front door. One of the performance artists was slumped against the front door. Jack thought that this was not the one who had been in his bed, but it was hard to tell. This one was still wearing his sunglasses, but from the waist down he was completely naked. His mouth hung open vacantly, suggesting he was still out for the count.
"Eh, excuse me" he said. No response. So he nudged him, increasingly forcefully. Eventually, the New Yorker came back to something approaching life.
"Hey man" he said.
"You're blocking the door and I need to get out. Could you, eh, move?"
"Sure man, sure". He was now climbing slowly to his feet. Then he grabbed Jack's arm. "Hey man…?" he said, almost beseechingly.
"Eh, yeah?" replied Jack, sorry that he had not backed away fast enough to prevent the guy touching him.
"Hey man", the New Yorker continued, "Where does a guy go in this town to get some action? I need pussy bad, you know what I mean?"
"Well I don't know… there are bars where people go for pick-ups. You might get lucky in one of those".
"I gotta get some, man, it's all building up inside me. No hookers, though, I ain't got the dough. So it's got to be sluts who'll do it for free. Hey man, do any ladies you know want some New York muscle?"
Jack mentally considered every woman he knew, pondering whether any of them might fancy getting it on with the degenerate in front of him.
"I don't really", he replied. "But check out one of the pick-up places. Go down to Temple Bar, even you should be able to find someone there".
"Hey man, you're a real buddy", said the New Yorker, with an air of pathetic gratitude in his voice.
"Sure, yeah, great, but I really need to get going now, so you could you let me go and get out of the way of the door?"
"Sure man, no problem. But hey, I got an idea". A conspiratorial air had crept into the performance artist's voice. "How about you and me head down to the pick-up place together? Always a better chance if you hunt in pairs. And buddy, you look like you could do with some sweet poontang yourself – I don't think you've got yourself some action in a while, eh?"
This, Jack reflected, was only too true, but the idea of going out on the pull with the New Yorker (still naked from the waist down, still clutching Jack's arm) was not even remotely appealing. "No thanks", he replied, "I'm not really in the form for it, I was just going out to get some air – "
"Just you and me, buddy", the performance artist continued. "Don't wake the other assholes, they'll just hold us back. Come on man, you need it, let's go get our dicks some action".
"No, seriously, you go on your own, I'll be grand".
"Pussy, man, sweet pussy. Let Butch get you some. You need it, and I owe you. Come on man!"
"No! No look, let me go! I don't want to go out on the pull with you, I need to go out and clear my head! I've had a tough weekend and I need to get myself together. So please, let go of my arm. I am not going out with you while you try and get yourself laid. That's all there is to it. Let me go now, man!" Jack did his best to pull himself loose and push past him to the door.
* * *
An hour later, Jack and the performance artist (whose name seemed actually to be Butch) were planted in the heaving interior of Fitzsimons of Temple Bar. Butch seemed to be a bit short of cash, and Jack had somehow ended up buying drinks for the two of them. Butch's quest for sexual congress had led him into the orbit of a repulsive hen party from some regional part of England. He was attempting to charm them with name-dropping anecdotes about the performance art and music scene in New York. The ladies seemed not really to recognise the people whose names Butch was trying to impress them with. They also seemed not to have much interest in performance art, or even to understand what it was (something Jack had to admit that the shared with them). None of this prevented them from being all over Butch. Nor did his fairly obvious lack of interest in anything approximating to personal hygiene. Jack was finding it all rather mysterious. The women of the hen party had little or no interest in him. Jack reciprocated the sentiment; any woman who found herself in Fitzsimons was not the kind of woman he was interested in. For all that, he was acquiring some of Butch's magic by association, and Jack realised that, if he wanted to, he probably would be able to pick up some of Butch's leftovers.
A worrying thought started to crystalise in his head. Was there any danger that Butch would want to bring some of these ladies back to his flat? One thing he really did not want was to have the performance artist's love-making going on where he could hear it. And, Jack, reflected, if Butch were to bring back enough of the hen party then his fellow performance artists might be able to create a symphony of sexual repulsiveness. Jesus, even Tadhg might end up getting some. Maybe he could forestall the possibility by slipping out of Fitzsimons and heading home – it was by no means certain that Butch would be able to find his way back out there. One performance artist down, two to go.
Jack's reflections were interrupted by Butch giving him a nudge. "Back in a minute, man, don't go away!" Even with his eyes hidden by the sunglasses, Jack could tell that Butch was winking. Then he headed off in the direction of the toilets, with two of the hens by his side. One of them was wearing L-plates. Nice. With Butch gone, the remaining women turned their attention to Jack, though in a manner that clearly suggested they were taking second or third best.
"Your mate's really something", said one of the more hatchet-faced women.
"Them fellas from New York… oooh, yeah", said another. Her top seemed to be several sizes too small for her.
"Are you from New York yourself?" said a third.
"No, can't say I am", replied Jack. "I'm from here".
"What, you live in Fitzsimons?" said Hatchet Face. "Come on, show us your room! You got a water bed?"
"I mean I'm from Dublin".
"So you don't have a room in Fitzsimons?"
"No".
"Fucking idiot".
"Eh, that's a bit extreme, isn't it?"
"Not from New York, not from Fitzsimons, what's the point of you at all?"
"I really don't know" he replied wearily, wondering if the German bikers over at the bar could be persuaded to take an interest in these terrifying women.
And then Butch was back, a smug smile on his face and a giggling women on each arm. He deposited them back with their friends and grabbed Jack, whispering into his ear: "Man, I needed that. But let's get out of here, I gotta eat – let's get some burgers!" He propelled Jack out the doors of the pub and onto the most riotous streets of Dublin. Butch was insisting on McDonalds, so they made their way to Grafton Street. The transformation in the performance artist was fascinating. His sexual urges satisfied, his earlier volubility vanished. As they munched their burgers down he threw Jack the occasional grunt, but that was it. Jack decided that this was not actually a problem.
Jack's sleep was fitful. His body still ached, there was too much going through his mind, and there was no let up in the music coming from the living room. He was nevertheless able to get some rest. When he later started drifting back into wakefulness, he had that sense of not really knowing where he was, or even who he was. Memory came back to him gradually. He was struck by the smell of sweat and stale alcohol that permeated his immediate environment. He had showered before going to bed, but obviously not well enough.
Then he registered the actual source of the smell. One of the performance artists was in bed beside him.
The performance artist turned around a groggy, unshaven face to him.
"What's the problem, man?"
"What the fuck are you doing in my bed?"
"Had to get some zees, man", replied the performance artist, matter of factly.
"Well go and get them somewhere else! Get out of my fucking bed!"
"Yeah whatever man", said the performance artist, getting out of bed. His injured tone suggested that he had been doing Jack a favour by inviting himself into his bed. He picked up his clothes (Jack noticed with some dismay that his bedmate had been naked) and vacated the room.
Jack turned over and tried to sleep, but wakefulness would not leave him. It was late now, and the thin curtain of Jack's bedroom could not hide the sunlight streaming in. More particularly, though, it was the performance artist. His presence had disturbed Jack, and his agitation made it hard to sink back into oblivion. And although he had physically left, his aroma lingered on. Jack felt like he was trying to sleep in a pile of dirty socks over which someone had spilt beer (and, possibly, urinated).
"Fuck this", Jack said alloud. He climbed out of bed and dressed quickly. Declining to shower, he threw on some clothes and left his room, making directly for the front door. One of the performance artists was slumped against the front door. Jack thought that this was not the one who had been in his bed, but it was hard to tell. This one was still wearing his sunglasses, but from the waist down he was completely naked. His mouth hung open vacantly, suggesting he was still out for the count.
"Eh, excuse me" he said. No response. So he nudged him, increasingly forcefully. Eventually, the New Yorker came back to something approaching life.
"Hey man" he said.
"You're blocking the door and I need to get out. Could you, eh, move?"
"Sure man, sure". He was now climbing slowly to his feet. Then he grabbed Jack's arm. "Hey man…?" he said, almost beseechingly.
"Eh, yeah?" replied Jack, sorry that he had not backed away fast enough to prevent the guy touching him.
"Hey man", the New Yorker continued, "Where does a guy go in this town to get some action? I need pussy bad, you know what I mean?"
"Well I don't know… there are bars where people go for pick-ups. You might get lucky in one of those".
"I gotta get some, man, it's all building up inside me. No hookers, though, I ain't got the dough. So it's got to be sluts who'll do it for free. Hey man, do any ladies you know want some New York muscle?"
Jack mentally considered every woman he knew, pondering whether any of them might fancy getting it on with the degenerate in front of him.
"I don't really", he replied. "But check out one of the pick-up places. Go down to Temple Bar, even you should be able to find someone there".
"Hey man, you're a real buddy", said the New Yorker, with an air of pathetic gratitude in his voice.
"Sure, yeah, great, but I really need to get going now, so you could you let me go and get out of the way of the door?"
"Sure man, no problem. But hey, I got an idea". A conspiratorial air had crept into the performance artist's voice. "How about you and me head down to the pick-up place together? Always a better chance if you hunt in pairs. And buddy, you look like you could do with some sweet poontang yourself – I don't think you've got yourself some action in a while, eh?"
This, Jack reflected, was only too true, but the idea of going out on the pull with the New Yorker (still naked from the waist down, still clutching Jack's arm) was not even remotely appealing. "No thanks", he replied, "I'm not really in the form for it, I was just going out to get some air – "
"Just you and me, buddy", the performance artist continued. "Don't wake the other assholes, they'll just hold us back. Come on man, you need it, let's go get our dicks some action".
"No, seriously, you go on your own, I'll be grand".
"Pussy, man, sweet pussy. Let Butch get you some. You need it, and I owe you. Come on man!"
"No! No look, let me go! I don't want to go out on the pull with you, I need to go out and clear my head! I've had a tough weekend and I need to get myself together. So please, let go of my arm. I am not going out with you while you try and get yourself laid. That's all there is to it. Let me go now, man!" Jack did his best to pull himself loose and push past him to the door.
* * *
An hour later, Jack and the performance artist (whose name seemed actually to be Butch) were planted in the heaving interior of Fitzsimons of Temple Bar. Butch seemed to be a bit short of cash, and Jack had somehow ended up buying drinks for the two of them. Butch's quest for sexual congress had led him into the orbit of a repulsive hen party from some regional part of England. He was attempting to charm them with name-dropping anecdotes about the performance art and music scene in New York. The ladies seemed not really to recognise the people whose names Butch was trying to impress them with. They also seemed not to have much interest in performance art, or even to understand what it was (something Jack had to admit that the shared with them). None of this prevented them from being all over Butch. Nor did his fairly obvious lack of interest in anything approximating to personal hygiene. Jack was finding it all rather mysterious. The women of the hen party had little or no interest in him. Jack reciprocated the sentiment; any woman who found herself in Fitzsimons was not the kind of woman he was interested in. For all that, he was acquiring some of Butch's magic by association, and Jack realised that, if he wanted to, he probably would be able to pick up some of Butch's leftovers.
A worrying thought started to crystalise in his head. Was there any danger that Butch would want to bring some of these ladies back to his flat? One thing he really did not want was to have the performance artist's love-making going on where he could hear it. And, Jack, reflected, if Butch were to bring back enough of the hen party then his fellow performance artists might be able to create a symphony of sexual repulsiveness. Jesus, even Tadhg might end up getting some. Maybe he could forestall the possibility by slipping out of Fitzsimons and heading home – it was by no means certain that Butch would be able to find his way back out there. One performance artist down, two to go.
Jack's reflections were interrupted by Butch giving him a nudge. "Back in a minute, man, don't go away!" Even with his eyes hidden by the sunglasses, Jack could tell that Butch was winking. Then he headed off in the direction of the toilets, with two of the hens by his side. One of them was wearing L-plates. Nice. With Butch gone, the remaining women turned their attention to Jack, though in a manner that clearly suggested they were taking second or third best.
"Your mate's really something", said one of the more hatchet-faced women.
"Them fellas from New York… oooh, yeah", said another. Her top seemed to be several sizes too small for her.
"Are you from New York yourself?" said a third.
"No, can't say I am", replied Jack. "I'm from here".
"What, you live in Fitzsimons?" said Hatchet Face. "Come on, show us your room! You got a water bed?"
"I mean I'm from Dublin".
"So you don't have a room in Fitzsimons?"
"No".
"Fucking idiot".
"Eh, that's a bit extreme, isn't it?"
"Not from New York, not from Fitzsimons, what's the point of you at all?"
"I really don't know" he replied wearily, wondering if the German bikers over at the bar could be persuaded to take an interest in these terrifying women.
And then Butch was back, a smug smile on his face and a giggling women on each arm. He deposited them back with their friends and grabbed Jack, whispering into his ear: "Man, I needed that. But let's get out of here, I gotta eat – let's get some burgers!" He propelled Jack out the doors of the pub and onto the most riotous streets of Dublin. Butch was insisting on McDonalds, so they made their way to Grafton Street. The transformation in the performance artist was fascinating. His sexual urges satisfied, his earlier volubility vanished. As they munched their burgers down he threw Jack the occasional grunt, but that was it. Jack decided that this was not actually a problem.
Ice Volcanoes???
I remember years ago reading about some olde Doctor Who, probably PLANET OF THE DALEKS, in which an ice volcano featured, this being some kind of volcano that splurged out ice rather than molten rock. I took this to be yet another occasion on which the Doctor Who science advisor had been smoking the crack, but now it turns out that today's scientists think there might be ice volcanoes on Titan, the enormous moon of Saturn, the well-known ringed planet.
It is not believed that the Daleks are building a secret base on Titan.
More
It is not believed that the Daleks are building a secret base on Titan.
More
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 9
Jack has been hauled in by the Guards. Having failed to cut a deal with the normal cops, he has fallen into the paws of the Furry Squad.
With barely concealed ill-grace, the sergeant and inspector who had been interviewing Jack vacated the room, leaving him to the tender mercies of their furry replacements. They seated themselves across from him. The Pig fumbled with some papers in a dossier while the pig just stared at Jack.
"So… Mr Devlin, is it?" inquired the Pig.
"That's right", replied Jack.
"Well Mr Devlin, I am Inspector Scratcher, and my colleague here is Sergeant Daisy". He indicated the cow, who nodded slightly.
"Pleased to meet you", said Jack, drily.
"There's no need for that, Mr Devlin", said the Inspector. "I know our reputation. Very few people are ever pleased to meet the Furry Squad. Now, to business. I have been appraised of the details of your case. You were found just off O'Connell Street, in a dog suit. Your circumstances indicated clearly that a crime of kidnapping had taken place – your arms were tied behind your back, you had a sack over your head, and there was no way that you could have done this and brought yourself there yourself. A cursory examination revealed cuts and bruises, indicating that another crime has been committed – assault causing actual bodily harm. Are you with me so far?"
"Yes, but – "
"Let me continue, please. Now, as my colleagues may already have exclaimed, your wearing the dog-suit pushes this into our jurisdiction. Contrary to what some media figures may claim, Mr Devlin, the Garda SÃochána takes furry crime very seriously. Your case suggests to me one of two possible options. The first is that the perpetrators of these crimes against you may have been shavies – I mean, they may have been people who are not of the furry persuasion. Such crimes are not uncommon. As you no doubt are aware, those of us who prefer to live all or some of their lives as animals are subject to considerable prejudice and hostility from many in the wider community, and this general ill-will can sometimes spill over into violence".
The Inspector paused meaningfully. Jack wondered whether some kind of reply was expected from him, but without a direct question to answer he reckoned that silence would be the best option.
"The other possibility", the Inspector then continued, "of course, is that these injuries were inflicted on you by members of the furry community. We in the Furry Squad are not so naïve as to believe that our furry fellows are creatures of such innocence that their time is entirely passed in care-free gambolling and playful activities. No, far from it. My work shows, sadly, that furries are as flawed as members of the wider community, and that the vices and crimes of society at large are mirrored in the society of furry folk. So it would not surprise me, Mr Devlin, to learn that you had suffered at the hands of furries. Perhaps a love affair had turned bad, or a business venture had failed acrimoniously, or a casual glance at a squirrel's nuts had been misinterpreted.
"Either way, I can assure you that we will pursue the perpetrators of the crimes against you in the most uncompromising manner. We will not in any sense tolerate crime permitted by non-furries against us – if it was some of them that did this to you then we will drag them through the courts and throw them into the darkest depths of Mountjoy. And if the crimes were committed by other furries, then we will have no qualms whatsoever about sending them off to the farm. I cannot abide furries who have gone bad. They discredit us all, and are a cancer that must be clearly excised lest the wider community start tarring us all with the same brush.
"So, Mr Devlin, who did this to you? Shavies or Furries?"
"I'm not sure what happened to me really fits what you are talking about", replied Jack haltingly. "I was at a fancy dress party, and some people had had a bit too much to drink, and a fight broke out. Some blows were thrown, but I wouldn't want to make too much of it".
"And your being trussed up and dumped on O'Connell Street?"
"Oh, just a bit of a practical joke, nothing to get too excited about".
"You might see it as a joke. To me it is a crime. I want to put these criminals away, Mr Devlin. Do you know the names of these people?"
"I can't say I do".
"Where did this party take place? Do you have the address?"
"Eh, no".
"Really?"
"Yes, I went with some people I met in the pub. I didn't know them before. We got a taxi, and I didn't catch where the cab brought us".
"I see. And what pub did you meet these fellows in?"
"I don't remember. I had had a lot to drink yesterday evening and was on a bit of a pub crawl".
"You were on a bit of pub crawl in a dog suit?"
"Yes, yes I was. Is that a crime?"
"Oh no, Mr Devlin, certainly not. Look, I will be frank. Your story is plainly nonsense. It is an insult to my intelligence, and to that of Sergeant Daisy here". His colleague nodded, indicating that she too registered the insult. "I'm sure you are aware that wasting police time is a crime. I'm sure you are aware also that your license to practice as a private investigator can be quickly revoked, should the Gardaà feel that your character is such that you are not of a fit character to practice in your profession. That would be rather inconvenient, would it not?"
"I suppose it would", replied Jack. He tried to sound as rueful as possible, but he knew they had nothing on him.
"But I don't think it need come to that. I understand what it's like to be a victim of crime, and I know that people often find it impossible to bear witness against those who have attacked them. Here, Mr Devlin, take this". He handed Jack a card. "I'm going to let you go now. Think about your situation, think about the need to get these thugs behind bars. If you remember anything more about them, or if you find yourself able to tell me more about then, then ring me at that time. Any time, night or day. I will be waiting".
"Can I get my dog suit back? Or any other clothes. I don't fancy making my way home wrapped in blankets".
"Of course". The Inspector looked at Sergeant Daisy, who got up silently, left the room and came back with Jack's dog-suit. She handed it to him. As he dressed himself, the two furry Guards stared at him, their plush faces conveying no emotion. Then they got up and beckoned him towards the door of the interview room. The furry inspector bade him farewell in the reception area of the station.
"Goodbye, Mr Devlin. I hope to hear from you soon".
"Yeah thanks. If I think of anything I'll let you know". And then he was gone.
* * *
Jack hailed a cab in the street. He barked ferociously when the driver started trying to engage him on the dog-suit; the rest of the journey passed in silence. Jack thought a bit about his encounter with the Furry Squad. All things considered, they had let him off rather easily. OK, so they did not have enough on him to charge him or even to complicate his license situation, but they could still have made things a bit more difficult for him – held him all day, given him the full third degree, maybe even slapped him around a bit (he was already cut and bruised on arrival, who would notice a few more?). They plainly did not believe his story, but they were letting him away with it. Then he decided to stop being so self-absorbed. One duffed-up guy in a dog-suit is hardly a national emergency, and the cops no doubt have bigger fish to fry. Even if they don't, they're not going to let one insignificant case keep them from their doughnuts. And if they reckoned that there was something bigger going on with him than the frankly incredible tale he span them suggested then they could always haul him in again.
It crossed Jack's mind that he could always just tell Inspector Scratcher the truth. This option had a certain appeal, as it might just lead to the Koala and his pals having their collars felt (not that their furry suits had collars). And it is not as though Jack was engaging in any kind of legally or morally dubious behaviour – once it's OK for the cops themselves to have a squad who dress up like the furry freaks, it's hardly inappropriate for a P.I. to do the same. But Jack knew that getting the Guards involved in a case that was still active was always more trouble than it was worth. If he had those idiots tramping all over things and bringing their ever-so-subtle modus operandi to bear then he could kiss goodbye to ever tracking down Miss Cuddlebuns. While he was still unconvinced that Miss Cuddlebuns could even be located, he wanted to exhaust all lines of inquiry himself rather than have the case killed for him by the cops.
Jack thought about something else – his client. He had assumed that Mr Chubbytail had been some kind of crazy eccentric, an oddball but ultimately harmless. The reaction of the furries in the Zoo, and of the Lion, suggested something else. Mr Chubbytail was now looking like some kind of player in the furry community, someone that the other furries seemed wary of crossing. Why else did the furry clubbers stonewall him once he started asking questions about Mr & Mrs Panda? Likewise with the Lion's sending him on his way at the merest mention of Chubbytail's name. Jack now found himself thinking that it might be worth seeing what he could find out about the Panda. It would not, on the face of it, tell him anything that would help him close the case. Jack knew, however, from experience that it is always worth finding out what it is that the client is hiding.
Another thing was preying on Jack's mind, this being the references he had heard over the night to the Furry Glen. The term meant two things to Jack – the valley of that name in Phoenix Park, and a slang term for women's genitalia. Was it either of these that they were referring to? Jack was not sure. For the Garda sergeant it seemed to denote something of unspeakable depravity. Further investigation was required.
Jack's reveries were halted by the taxi's arrival at his door. He paid the driver and made his way into his apartment building. As he came out onto his floor, he noticed that someone was playing loud tuneless music. With a sinking feeling, he realised that it was coming from his flat. This could only mean one thing – his arsehole flatmate must be back.
Unlocking the door, Jack was confronted by a wall of noise and a cloud of cigarette smoke. The flatmate and some hairy looking guys in sunglasses, leather jackets and stained looking vests were knocking back cans of beer in the living room. At 9.00 AM on a Sunday morning.
"Jack? Is that you?" said the flatmate.
"What's with the dog suit, man?" said one of the others.
"Hi Tadhg, it's me", said Jack. "Having a bit of a party?"
"Yeah, we sure are! Fancy a beer?" replied the flatmate. "I'll introduce you to the guys – they're performance artists from New York, I met them in the airport. I said they could stay here for a while, until they find a place of their own".
Performance artists, thought Jack. That explains the sunglasses. Staying here. Great. "I'll pass on the beer", he said, wearily. "I've had a bit of a rough night, so I'm going to turn in. Eh, any chance you could turn the music down a bit?"
"No problem!" said Tadhg, adjusting the treble but not obviously doing anything to the overall volume of the tuneless shite blaring out of the speakers.
"What's with the dog suit, man?" repeated the performance artist, in the same tone as before. It was not obvious whether or not he was irritated by Jack's previous non-reply.
"Fancy dress party", Jack said, backing out of the room.
"Awesome, man".
Jack went to his room, changed from the dog-suit and went for a quick shower before hitting the sack. The bathroom already had the atmosphere of a stale urinal, suggesting to him that the performance artists were not to clear on the distinction between toilet, sink, and bath (or indeed floor). These fuckers would have to go, but he was not up to the confrontation now.
Just after getting into bed, the door to his room opened and one of the performance artists stuck his head in. "Hey buddy", he said. "I gotta ask ya – you got any smack?"
"What?"
"You know, smack, H, golden brown. You know what I mean?"
"I know what smack is. No, I don't have any".
"You want some? I got good stuff with me, straight in from New York. It's my own stash, brought it in up my ass, but you can have a hit, seeing as how you're our buddy".
"Eh, no thanks, you're grand".
"No problem, man". He shut the door and back to the others.
After that Jack drifted quickly off to sleep.
With barely concealed ill-grace, the sergeant and inspector who had been interviewing Jack vacated the room, leaving him to the tender mercies of their furry replacements. They seated themselves across from him. The Pig fumbled with some papers in a dossier while the pig just stared at Jack.
"That's right", replied Jack.
"Well Mr Devlin, I am Inspector Scratcher, and my colleague here is Sergeant Daisy". He indicated the cow, who nodded slightly.
"Pleased to meet you", said Jack, drily.
"There's no need for that, Mr Devlin", said the Inspector. "I know our reputation. Very few people are ever pleased to meet the Furry Squad. Now, to business. I have been appraised of the details of your case. You were found just off O'Connell Street, in a dog suit. Your circumstances indicated clearly that a crime of kidnapping had taken place – your arms were tied behind your back, you had a sack over your head, and there was no way that you could have done this and brought yourself there yourself. A cursory examination revealed cuts and bruises, indicating that another crime has been committed – assault causing actual bodily harm. Are you with me so far?"
"Yes, but – "
"Let me continue, please. Now, as my colleagues may already have exclaimed, your wearing the dog-suit pushes this into our jurisdiction. Contrary to what some media figures may claim, Mr Devlin, the Garda SÃochána takes furry crime very seriously. Your case suggests to me one of two possible options. The first is that the perpetrators of these crimes against you may have been shavies – I mean, they may have been people who are not of the furry persuasion. Such crimes are not uncommon. As you no doubt are aware, those of us who prefer to live all or some of their lives as animals are subject to considerable prejudice and hostility from many in the wider community, and this general ill-will can sometimes spill over into violence".
The Inspector paused meaningfully. Jack wondered whether some kind of reply was expected from him, but without a direct question to answer he reckoned that silence would be the best option.
"The other possibility", the Inspector then continued, "of course, is that these injuries were inflicted on you by members of the furry community. We in the Furry Squad are not so naïve as to believe that our furry fellows are creatures of such innocence that their time is entirely passed in care-free gambolling and playful activities. No, far from it. My work shows, sadly, that furries are as flawed as members of the wider community, and that the vices and crimes of society at large are mirrored in the society of furry folk. So it would not surprise me, Mr Devlin, to learn that you had suffered at the hands of furries. Perhaps a love affair had turned bad, or a business venture had failed acrimoniously, or a casual glance at a squirrel's nuts had been misinterpreted.
"Either way, I can assure you that we will pursue the perpetrators of the crimes against you in the most uncompromising manner. We will not in any sense tolerate crime permitted by non-furries against us – if it was some of them that did this to you then we will drag them through the courts and throw them into the darkest depths of Mountjoy. And if the crimes were committed by other furries, then we will have no qualms whatsoever about sending them off to the farm. I cannot abide furries who have gone bad. They discredit us all, and are a cancer that must be clearly excised lest the wider community start tarring us all with the same brush.
"So, Mr Devlin, who did this to you? Shavies or Furries?"
"I'm not sure what happened to me really fits what you are talking about", replied Jack haltingly. "I was at a fancy dress party, and some people had had a bit too much to drink, and a fight broke out. Some blows were thrown, but I wouldn't want to make too much of it".
"And your being trussed up and dumped on O'Connell Street?"
"Oh, just a bit of a practical joke, nothing to get too excited about".
"You might see it as a joke. To me it is a crime. I want to put these criminals away, Mr Devlin. Do you know the names of these people?"
"I can't say I do".
"Where did this party take place? Do you have the address?"
"Eh, no".
"Really?"
"Yes, I went with some people I met in the pub. I didn't know them before. We got a taxi, and I didn't catch where the cab brought us".
"I see. And what pub did you meet these fellows in?"
"I don't remember. I had had a lot to drink yesterday evening and was on a bit of a pub crawl".
"You were on a bit of pub crawl in a dog suit?"
"Yes, yes I was. Is that a crime?"
"Oh no, Mr Devlin, certainly not. Look, I will be frank. Your story is plainly nonsense. It is an insult to my intelligence, and to that of Sergeant Daisy here". His colleague nodded, indicating that she too registered the insult. "I'm sure you are aware that wasting police time is a crime. I'm sure you are aware also that your license to practice as a private investigator can be quickly revoked, should the Gardaà feel that your character is such that you are not of a fit character to practice in your profession. That would be rather inconvenient, would it not?"
"I suppose it would", replied Jack. He tried to sound as rueful as possible, but he knew they had nothing on him.
"But I don't think it need come to that. I understand what it's like to be a victim of crime, and I know that people often find it impossible to bear witness against those who have attacked them. Here, Mr Devlin, take this". He handed Jack a card. "I'm going to let you go now. Think about your situation, think about the need to get these thugs behind bars. If you remember anything more about them, or if you find yourself able to tell me more about then, then ring me at that time. Any time, night or day. I will be waiting".
"Can I get my dog suit back? Or any other clothes. I don't fancy making my way home wrapped in blankets".
"Of course". The Inspector looked at Sergeant Daisy, who got up silently, left the room and came back with Jack's dog-suit. She handed it to him. As he dressed himself, the two furry Guards stared at him, their plush faces conveying no emotion. Then they got up and beckoned him towards the door of the interview room. The furry inspector bade him farewell in the reception area of the station.
"Goodbye, Mr Devlin. I hope to hear from you soon".
"Yeah thanks. If I think of anything I'll let you know". And then he was gone.
* * *
Jack hailed a cab in the street. He barked ferociously when the driver started trying to engage him on the dog-suit; the rest of the journey passed in silence. Jack thought a bit about his encounter with the Furry Squad. All things considered, they had let him off rather easily. OK, so they did not have enough on him to charge him or even to complicate his license situation, but they could still have made things a bit more difficult for him – held him all day, given him the full third degree, maybe even slapped him around a bit (he was already cut and bruised on arrival, who would notice a few more?). They plainly did not believe his story, but they were letting him away with it. Then he decided to stop being so self-absorbed. One duffed-up guy in a dog-suit is hardly a national emergency, and the cops no doubt have bigger fish to fry. Even if they don't, they're not going to let one insignificant case keep them from their doughnuts. And if they reckoned that there was something bigger going on with him than the frankly incredible tale he span them suggested then they could always haul him in again.
It crossed Jack's mind that he could always just tell Inspector Scratcher the truth. This option had a certain appeal, as it might just lead to the Koala and his pals having their collars felt (not that their furry suits had collars). And it is not as though Jack was engaging in any kind of legally or morally dubious behaviour – once it's OK for the cops themselves to have a squad who dress up like the furry freaks, it's hardly inappropriate for a P.I. to do the same. But Jack knew that getting the Guards involved in a case that was still active was always more trouble than it was worth. If he had those idiots tramping all over things and bringing their ever-so-subtle modus operandi to bear then he could kiss goodbye to ever tracking down Miss Cuddlebuns. While he was still unconvinced that Miss Cuddlebuns could even be located, he wanted to exhaust all lines of inquiry himself rather than have the case killed for him by the cops.
Jack thought about something else – his client. He had assumed that Mr Chubbytail had been some kind of crazy eccentric, an oddball but ultimately harmless. The reaction of the furries in the Zoo, and of the Lion, suggested something else. Mr Chubbytail was now looking like some kind of player in the furry community, someone that the other furries seemed wary of crossing. Why else did the furry clubbers stonewall him once he started asking questions about Mr & Mrs Panda? Likewise with the Lion's sending him on his way at the merest mention of Chubbytail's name. Jack now found himself thinking that it might be worth seeing what he could find out about the Panda. It would not, on the face of it, tell him anything that would help him close the case. Jack knew, however, from experience that it is always worth finding out what it is that the client is hiding.
Another thing was preying on Jack's mind, this being the references he had heard over the night to the Furry Glen. The term meant two things to Jack – the valley of that name in Phoenix Park, and a slang term for women's genitalia. Was it either of these that they were referring to? Jack was not sure. For the Garda sergeant it seemed to denote something of unspeakable depravity. Further investigation was required.
Jack's reveries were halted by the taxi's arrival at his door. He paid the driver and made his way into his apartment building. As he came out onto his floor, he noticed that someone was playing loud tuneless music. With a sinking feeling, he realised that it was coming from his flat. This could only mean one thing – his arsehole flatmate must be back.
Unlocking the door, Jack was confronted by a wall of noise and a cloud of cigarette smoke. The flatmate and some hairy looking guys in sunglasses, leather jackets and stained looking vests were knocking back cans of beer in the living room. At 9.00 AM on a Sunday morning.
"Jack? Is that you?" said the flatmate.
"What's with the dog suit, man?" said one of the others.
"Hi Tadhg, it's me", said Jack. "Having a bit of a party?"
"Yeah, we sure are! Fancy a beer?" replied the flatmate. "I'll introduce you to the guys – they're performance artists from New York, I met them in the airport. I said they could stay here for a while, until they find a place of their own".
Performance artists, thought Jack. That explains the sunglasses. Staying here. Great. "I'll pass on the beer", he said, wearily. "I've had a bit of a rough night, so I'm going to turn in. Eh, any chance you could turn the music down a bit?"
"No problem!" said Tadhg, adjusting the treble but not obviously doing anything to the overall volume of the tuneless shite blaring out of the speakers.
"What's with the dog suit, man?" repeated the performance artist, in the same tone as before. It was not obvious whether or not he was irritated by Jack's previous non-reply.
"Fancy dress party", Jack said, backing out of the room.
"Awesome, man".
Jack went to his room, changed from the dog-suit and went for a quick shower before hitting the sack. The bathroom already had the atmosphere of a stale urinal, suggesting to him that the performance artists were not to clear on the distinction between toilet, sink, and bath (or indeed floor). These fuckers would have to go, but he was not up to the confrontation now.
Just after getting into bed, the door to his room opened and one of the performance artists stuck his head in. "Hey buddy", he said. "I gotta ask ya – you got any smack?"
"What?"
"You know, smack, H, golden brown. You know what I mean?"
"I know what smack is. No, I don't have any".
"You want some? I got good stuff with me, straight in from New York. It's my own stash, brought it in up my ass, but you can have a hit, seeing as how you're our buddy".
"Eh, no thanks, you're grand".
"No problem, man". He shut the door and back to the others.
After that Jack drifted quickly off to sleep.
What is this shite?
I'm having fun making an end of year compilation, with music new to me from last year (so some of it is much older, while some of it was actually released in 2008). It is packed full of totally awesome sounds - or sounds people like me consider totally awesome. I'm not sure what earth people will make of it (not that my tastes are actually *that* out there - some of people who hear my disc will no doubt deride it for being too pedestrian).
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Games!
My pal Carsmile Steve is giving away his old role playing games (and Warhammer stuff) to make way for more grown up items. If you fancy some RPGs, click here
I'm hoping to pick up some of these myself, so if you are one of my Dublin pals or someone who will be in Dublin in the near future (i.e. Myles) then it might make sense if we got them all together and pooled postage.
I'm hoping to pick up some of these myself, so if you are one of my Dublin pals or someone who will be in Dublin in the near future (i.e. Myles) then it might make sense if we got them all together and pooled postage.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Clever Dog Learns Sign Language
This dog is deaf. Her name is Zoe, and she has had problems communicating with humans as they typically use speech to interact with dogs. As a result, staff in the RSPCA Little Valley Animal Shelter in Exeter feared that she might be overlooked by humans who adopt orphaned animals. To get around this, they have taught Zoe a number of key sign language terms, including ones for "sit", "stay", and "lie down". Zoe has reportedly found it very easy to learn these commands, because she is a very clever dog.More
Furry Folk - Part 8
For those only joining us now, this is part 8 of my NaNoWriMo novel. The main character is looking for a missing panda. For asking the wrong questions in the wrong places he was abducted, but mentioning who he is working for has seen his captors decide to let him go.
Jack's position was slightly more comfortable than it had been on the journey to the lion's den. For all that his hands were tied behind his back and a sack thrown over his head, for all that he was covered in bruises, for all that he was heading into the kind of hangover that only one two many brandy alexanders can give you, for all that he did not have one of the furry thugs sitting on him. The darkness and the movement of the van lulled him to sleep. The people with him said nothing.
He therefore had no idea how long he had been travelling when he was shaken awake. "Wake up, pal, we're here", said a voice Jack reckoned was the Koala's.
"Where's here?" he replied groggily.
"As far as we're taking you". With that, the van came to a halt. Jack heard the backdoors being unlatched and opened, and then rough paws grabbed him and pushed him out.
"Hey! Hey! Wait a minute! Aren't you going to untie me first?"
"No. Goodbye Fucko. For your sake, I hope we never see you again".
Jack was deposited out of the van, standing on his feet but still trussed and unable to see anything. And in a dog suit. The van door slammed shut, the van drove off. He had no idea where he was, but he could at least here the sound of traffic coming from nearby. So he was somewhere urban. Gingerly he tried to walk, hoping that he would find something that would allow him to get the sack off his head. Then maybe, just maybe, he would be able to free his arms and then he would be away.
Then he heard the voices.
"Jaysus, look at yer man!"
"Do you think he's alright?"
"He doesn't look alright".
"We'd better give him a hand".
"Come on, let's get the bag off his head".
"I'll call the Guards".
Jesus no! thought Jack, don't get those idiots involved. But it was already too late.
"Here now, what's going on? What are you up to with that fella?"
"Nothing, Garda, nothing! We just saw him ourselves. We were going to take the thing off his head and see if he is alright".
"I was going to call the Guards".
Jack decided it was his turn to say something. "Hi everyone, I can assure you, I'm quite alright, but I would be very grateful if someone would untie my hands and get this sack off my head".
"Stand back now, I'll see to this", said the Garda's voice. Then the sack was suddenly pulled off Jack's head. He was on what looked like a side street of O'Connell Street, and as he blinked in the unaccostumed light he saw that the sun had just risen and it was the early hours of the morning. A confused member of the Garda SÃochána stared into his face while a gaggle of young people in clubbers' clothes stood behind him.
"Well holy God, a dog!" said the Guard.
"I'm not actually a dog", clarified Jack, "I was at a fancy dress party. Things got a bit out of hand, and now I'm here. Now, eh, if you'd just untie my hands I'll be on my way".
"Oh now, I don't know about that at all", said the Guard. "You'll have to come down to the station with me".
"Oh surely not", said Jack. "No need for that, it was all just a bit of a prank, no harm meant. I can make my own way home, nothing to worry about".
"Sorry sir", said the Guard, now getting more determined that his proposed course of action could not be altered. "The way I see it, there's been a crime, and you're going to have to give a statement about it, so we'll have to get a statement out of you so we can bring whoever's responsible to justice. I don't want to hear anything more about it".
"But surely – " began Jack.
"Now listen, that's enough!" snapped the Guard. "I don't want to have to charge you with being an accessory after the fact, but if I have to I will! Now come on, this way!" He grabbed Jack's arm, only barely less aggressively than the Koala had, and shoved off down the street. The ravers looked on, aghast. Jack thought of mentioning such petty things as his civil rights and the fact that he was basically being arrested illegally. He decided not to bother, though, because that would just earn him another beating and a possible charge for resisting arrest. Also, if he gave the Guards any stick then they could say a few words and have his private investigator's license revoked in no time.
So Jack found himself seated in an interview room in store street, now thankfully with his arms untied. The Guards had, not unsurprisingly, insisted on seeing his face while they talked to him, and this necessitated his getting out of the dog suit (it was designed in such a way that he could only get his head out of it by taking the whole thing off). They threw him some blankets to wrap himself in, making Jack feel like an extra from the H-Blocks, though at least the room was not wall-papered with his shite.
The Guards had rapidly identified him as the private detective he was. This, coupled with the cuts and bruises over his upper body, made them immediately sceptical of the fancy-dress-party-gone-wrong story he was making up as he went along.
"So give it to me again, Devlin – you were at a fancy dress party, you don't quite no where, and a fight started, and you somehow ended up getting the shite kicked out of you".
"That's about the size of it, Inspector".
"So, how did you end up just off O'Connell Street?"
"Some of the guys thought it would be a laugh to bring me in and tip me out there. You know how people are".
"I think he's talking bollocks, Sir", said the uniformed sergeant assisting the inspector with the interview. "This little fucker was trying to make a few bob on the side down the Furry Glen, and he ended up with a bit more than he could handle".
The Furry Glen? thought Jack. This was not the first time he had heard the term mentioned. He still did not know what they meant by it.
"Is that it Jack?" said the Inspector. "I wouldn't have thought you were the type".
"I don't know what you're talking about" said Jack, glad that he could say something that was not a lie.
"You little dirty bollocks", said the Sergeant, apropos of nothing.
"I'm not so sure, Barry", said the Inspector, thoughtfully. "I've heard Devlin here does pretty well for himself. He'd have no need to make more money for himself like that".
"Maybe the dirty fucker likes it like that" said the Sergeant to the Inspector, as though Jack was not even present. "You know the type. Sick dirty fuckers, there's nothing they like more than to – "
Jack was actually curious as to what it was that the Sergeant reckoned sick dirty fuckers liked to do, but the Inspector silenced him with a gesture.
"Leave it, Barry", he said firmly. He turned back to Jack. "Now, Devlin, I don't like being fed bullshit, and I think that's what you're doing. Your party story, it is nonsense. You know it, I know it, and Barry here certainly knows it, even if he is jumping to his own crazy conclusions. Now, we all know your line of business, Jack. You're not the kind of guy who heads out in an access-all-areas dog-suit on a Saturday night just for a bit of fun. You're on a case. Your professional life is, of course, your own business. But now you've had the shite knocked out you this is clearly a bit more serious than the kind of insurance scam investigations you spend your time in. So tell me what's going on, and I can make the call on whether this all needs to become a Garda matter".
"Like I was telling you, Inspector, I was at this fancy dress party –"
"Look Jack!" interrupted the Inspector, a sudden sense of urgency in his voice, "For fuck's sake, we need to get this wrapped up. You were in a dog suit when we brought you in. You know what that means? Technically this is all in the jurisdiction of the Furry Squad. We've had to put a call into those fuckers already, and they'll have someone over for you any minute. Now, if you can give me an even remotely convincing statement we can get you to sign a few forms and let you on your way. Otherwise the Furry Squad will be getting their tender paws on you. Do you hear what I'm saying?"
"Furry Squad? What the fuck is the Furry Squad?"
"You dirty shite munching fuck bag!" exclaimed the Sergeant.
The Inspector looked at Jack with with an expression indicating that he was has shocked by the outburst as Jack was. And then he continued to Jack: "You know, the Guards who deal with crimes and investigations involving the furry fuckers. They're a law unto themselves, Jack. You really don't want them to be asking you the questions. Now Jack, one more time – what happened to you?"
Jack hesitated. Maybe the time had come to tell the truth. But it was too late. Before he could say anything, the door behind the two Guards opened and a man in a pig suit (of course) walked in, followed by what Jack reckoned was a woman in a cow suit. Both were wearing Garda caps on their heads.
"Thank you, gentlemen", said the Pig. "We can handle this from here".
Jack's position was slightly more comfortable than it had been on the journey to the lion's den. For all that his hands were tied behind his back and a sack thrown over his head, for all that he was covered in bruises, for all that he was heading into the kind of hangover that only one two many brandy alexanders can give you, for all that he did not have one of the furry thugs sitting on him. The darkness and the movement of the van lulled him to sleep. The people with him said nothing.
"Where's here?" he replied groggily.
"As far as we're taking you". With that, the van came to a halt. Jack heard the backdoors being unlatched and opened, and then rough paws grabbed him and pushed him out.
"Hey! Hey! Wait a minute! Aren't you going to untie me first?"
"No. Goodbye Fucko. For your sake, I hope we never see you again".
Jack was deposited out of the van, standing on his feet but still trussed and unable to see anything. And in a dog suit. The van door slammed shut, the van drove off. He had no idea where he was, but he could at least here the sound of traffic coming from nearby. So he was somewhere urban. Gingerly he tried to walk, hoping that he would find something that would allow him to get the sack off his head. Then maybe, just maybe, he would be able to free his arms and then he would be away.
Then he heard the voices.
"Jaysus, look at yer man!"
"Do you think he's alright?"
"He doesn't look alright".
"We'd better give him a hand".
"Come on, let's get the bag off his head".
"I'll call the Guards".
Jesus no! thought Jack, don't get those idiots involved. But it was already too late.
"Here now, what's going on? What are you up to with that fella?"
"Nothing, Garda, nothing! We just saw him ourselves. We were going to take the thing off his head and see if he is alright".
"I was going to call the Guards".
Jack decided it was his turn to say something. "Hi everyone, I can assure you, I'm quite alright, but I would be very grateful if someone would untie my hands and get this sack off my head".
"Stand back now, I'll see to this", said the Garda's voice. Then the sack was suddenly pulled off Jack's head. He was on what looked like a side street of O'Connell Street, and as he blinked in the unaccostumed light he saw that the sun had just risen and it was the early hours of the morning. A confused member of the Garda SÃochána stared into his face while a gaggle of young people in clubbers' clothes stood behind him.
"Well holy God, a dog!" said the Guard.
"I'm not actually a dog", clarified Jack, "I was at a fancy dress party. Things got a bit out of hand, and now I'm here. Now, eh, if you'd just untie my hands I'll be on my way".
"Oh now, I don't know about that at all", said the Guard. "You'll have to come down to the station with me".
"Oh surely not", said Jack. "No need for that, it was all just a bit of a prank, no harm meant. I can make my own way home, nothing to worry about".
"Sorry sir", said the Guard, now getting more determined that his proposed course of action could not be altered. "The way I see it, there's been a crime, and you're going to have to give a statement about it, so we'll have to get a statement out of you so we can bring whoever's responsible to justice. I don't want to hear anything more about it".
"But surely – " began Jack.
"Now listen, that's enough!" snapped the Guard. "I don't want to have to charge you with being an accessory after the fact, but if I have to I will! Now come on, this way!" He grabbed Jack's arm, only barely less aggressively than the Koala had, and shoved off down the street. The ravers looked on, aghast. Jack thought of mentioning such petty things as his civil rights and the fact that he was basically being arrested illegally. He decided not to bother, though, because that would just earn him another beating and a possible charge for resisting arrest. Also, if he gave the Guards any stick then they could say a few words and have his private investigator's license revoked in no time.
So Jack found himself seated in an interview room in store street, now thankfully with his arms untied. The Guards had, not unsurprisingly, insisted on seeing his face while they talked to him, and this necessitated his getting out of the dog suit (it was designed in such a way that he could only get his head out of it by taking the whole thing off). They threw him some blankets to wrap himself in, making Jack feel like an extra from the H-Blocks, though at least the room was not wall-papered with his shite.
The Guards had rapidly identified him as the private detective he was. This, coupled with the cuts and bruises over his upper body, made them immediately sceptical of the fancy-dress-party-gone-wrong story he was making up as he went along.
"So give it to me again, Devlin – you were at a fancy dress party, you don't quite no where, and a fight started, and you somehow ended up getting the shite kicked out of you".
"That's about the size of it, Inspector".
"So, how did you end up just off O'Connell Street?"
"Some of the guys thought it would be a laugh to bring me in and tip me out there. You know how people are".
"I think he's talking bollocks, Sir", said the uniformed sergeant assisting the inspector with the interview. "This little fucker was trying to make a few bob on the side down the Furry Glen, and he ended up with a bit more than he could handle".
The Furry Glen? thought Jack. This was not the first time he had heard the term mentioned. He still did not know what they meant by it.
"Is that it Jack?" said the Inspector. "I wouldn't have thought you were the type".
"I don't know what you're talking about" said Jack, glad that he could say something that was not a lie.
"You little dirty bollocks", said the Sergeant, apropos of nothing.
"I'm not so sure, Barry", said the Inspector, thoughtfully. "I've heard Devlin here does pretty well for himself. He'd have no need to make more money for himself like that".
"Maybe the dirty fucker likes it like that" said the Sergeant to the Inspector, as though Jack was not even present. "You know the type. Sick dirty fuckers, there's nothing they like more than to – "
Jack was actually curious as to what it was that the Sergeant reckoned sick dirty fuckers liked to do, but the Inspector silenced him with a gesture.
"Leave it, Barry", he said firmly. He turned back to Jack. "Now, Devlin, I don't like being fed bullshit, and I think that's what you're doing. Your party story, it is nonsense. You know it, I know it, and Barry here certainly knows it, even if he is jumping to his own crazy conclusions. Now, we all know your line of business, Jack. You're not the kind of guy who heads out in an access-all-areas dog-suit on a Saturday night just for a bit of fun. You're on a case. Your professional life is, of course, your own business. But now you've had the shite knocked out you this is clearly a bit more serious than the kind of insurance scam investigations you spend your time in. So tell me what's going on, and I can make the call on whether this all needs to become a Garda matter".
"Like I was telling you, Inspector, I was at this fancy dress party –"
"Look Jack!" interrupted the Inspector, a sudden sense of urgency in his voice, "For fuck's sake, we need to get this wrapped up. You were in a dog suit when we brought you in. You know what that means? Technically this is all in the jurisdiction of the Furry Squad. We've had to put a call into those fuckers already, and they'll have someone over for you any minute. Now, if you can give me an even remotely convincing statement we can get you to sign a few forms and let you on your way. Otherwise the Furry Squad will be getting their tender paws on you. Do you hear what I'm saying?"
"Furry Squad? What the fuck is the Furry Squad?"
"You dirty shite munching fuck bag!" exclaimed the Sergeant.
The Inspector looked at Jack with with an expression indicating that he was has shocked by the outburst as Jack was. And then he continued to Jack: "You know, the Guards who deal with crimes and investigations involving the furry fuckers. They're a law unto themselves, Jack. You really don't want them to be asking you the questions. Now Jack, one more time – what happened to you?"
Jack hesitated. Maybe the time had come to tell the truth. But it was too late. Before he could say anything, the door behind the two Guards opened and a man in a pig suit (of course) walked in, followed by what Jack reckoned was a woman in a cow suit. Both were wearing Garda caps on their heads.
"Thank you, gentlemen", said the Pig. "We can handle this from here".
Front load the future
I've scheduled all my NaNoWriMo episodes to appear here, exactly a month after teach one was written. Nothing in the world can stop me now - even if I were to fall under a bus tonight, the episodes of Furry Folk will keep coming.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Film: "Waltz With Bashir"
This is only a quick note on this animated film. I am basically writing to encourage everyone reading to go and see this while it is still in the cinema. The film is a semi-documentary in which the (Israeli) film-maker tries to remember what he did during his country's 1982 invasion of Lebanon. He knows he was there, he understands that he was near to the massacres of Palestinians in the Sabra & Shatila refugee camps, but he does not remember anything of it. In the course of the film he talks to a number of other people who also invaded Lebanon, trying to jog his own memory.
The animation technique is very striking, but not in such a way that this starts turning into a tricksy film where you marvel at the style. You never lose track of this being a real film about real, terrible events. There is a bit at the end which has attracted some controversy, where the film suddenly switches from the animation to news footage from the time of wailing women and scattered corpses. Other people are less fond of bit of the film, but I found it very effective. If I had witnessed such events, or, like the film maker, played a part in them, I think my memory would try to bury them for me. It is also useful to include the news footage to remind viewers that the events in the film actually occurred - younger viewers or those who do not actively follow Middle Eastern affairs may have never heard of the massacres before.
As you know, I holidayed in Lebanon in 2002. This was 20 years after the events it describes, but I was struck by how familiar the Beirut scenes looked. Even in 2002 you would still get the occasional poster of Bashir Gemayel* in East Beirut. And that brings me to an odd thing, only tangentially related to whether the film is any good or not. The titular waltz with Bashir is a scene where an Israeli soldier takes a heavy machine gun and dances in the open, blasting away at mystery assailants, underneath a huge poster of Bashir Gemayel. But the film is very specific about where this event takes place - at the junction of Hamra Street with the Corniche, at the heart of West Beirut. There is no way in hell there was ever a giant poster of Bashir Gemayel in that part of West Beirut**; it would be like British soldiers meeting a giant poster of Ian Paisley on the Falls Road. I find it oddly appropriate that a film about the vagaries of memory would include a scene like this that could not have happened where and when the guy in the film remembers it***.
*the Phalangist leader whose murder, by still unidentified assailants, triggered the Sabra & Shatila massacre
**Bashir Gemayel led the Phalange, a militia-party popular with Maronite Christians. In Beirut, the Christians live in the East while Muslims live in the West.
***I look forward to some "I think you'll find - " comments documenting how it is well known that when the Israelis finally moved into West Beirut they were surprised to find giant posters of Bashir waiting for them.
Furry Folk - Part 7
Someone wants to know why Jack has been asking so many questions
For a second or two, his predicament left Jack in a state of stunned astonishment. Then he tried to grab the badger-suited cunt who was driving him to God knows where. No good, the seat belt was unusually tight and completely unyielding – there was no way he could reach him. He tried to unclip it, but no, it would not open. Of course.
"Don't bother to struggle", said the Badger, helpfully. "Sit back and enjoy the ride. We'll get there soon enough".
"And where is 'there', you stripey backed prick?" Jack said, venomously.
"You'll find out in due course", replied the Badger. His voice was ominously level. "And there's no need for bad language".
"I'll give you bad fucking language, you badger-suited sack of shit! Let me out of this seat or I'll kick your cunting face so far up your arse hole you'll turn inside fucking out!" Jack continued in this manner for a few minutes. The Badger made no response. Then, exhausted by his stream of expletives, Jack fell silent. He looked out the window, trying to work out where he was. He saw a sign. The Naul? They were bringing him to the fucking Naul?
But then the car pulled in off the road into what seemed like the forecourt of a closed down garage, coming to a halt beside a white van. Three more furries were standing around, clearly waiting for him. With a sinking feeling he registered that one of them was a koala bear, another a leopard, while the third was a bear of some sort. The koala bear opened the door beside Jack and addressed him in a rather rough accent.
"Now Fucko, here's how it's gonna be. Our friend Mr Brock here is going to unfasten your harness. We are going to take you over here to the van, and then we are going to take you to meet someone. Don't try to be a smart cunt – we're all out well past our bedtime, and when we get tired we get a bit cranky. Don't give us a reason to get annoyed. Do you hear me, Fucko?"
Devlin tried to be a smart cunt. A click signalled that the seat belt had unfastened, and the Koala pulled him out of the car. Jack then gave him a sudden punch to the face. Even with the suits' padding, the Koala clearly felt the impact, and his momentary discomfiture allowed Jack to break free of his grip. He made a break for the road, not sure where he was going but certain that he was not getting in the white van if he could even remotely help it.
His run was over almost as soon as it began. The Badger had leaped out of the car, barring Jack's way. He tried to push past, but the delay allowed one of the others to catch him from behind and push him to the ground. Then they were all on him, raining kicks and blows on him until he was one furry mass of pain. He was almost unconscious when they pulled him to his feet and dragged him over toward the van. Before they tossed him into the back one of them quickly threw an opaque sackcloth over his head. His arms were pulled behind his back and tied tightly together. Only then was he roughly manhandled into the van, with his furry friends making sure he landed face first.
"I told you not to act the smart cunt", said a voice Jack took to be that of the Koala.
The van screeched off, with one of the furries sitting on Jack. There was no way out of this: he was going where they wanted to take him, whether he liked it or not.
* * *
Time moves differently when you hurt all over, cannot see, and have an overweight furry thug using you as a sofa. Jack tried to keep track of time passing, so that he might have a rough idea of where they were bringing him to, but it was impossible. For him there was no longer any sense of temporal progression. He was in an eternal now of searing pain. The jolt that accompanied the van coming to a halt and the furry fucker getting off him was therefore metaphorical as well as physical – he had basically stopped believing that his hellish journey would ever end.
His captors pushed him out of the van and onto his feet, slightly less roughly than before. Now they were making him walk, shoving him along if he showed any sign of slacking. Have you ever walked along, blindfolded and with your hands tied behing your back? It is not easy. Jack expected every step to be the one that would bring him over the edge a precipice – it was kind of cheap shot he reckoned would amuse his captors.
But no. He tripped, not at a drop but at a step up. His silent captors caught him before he could fall, and lifted him up onto the step, and then pushed him on his way once more. Now he was inside, and he became slightly more confident that they were not planning to kill him straight away. He tried to banish from his mind the idea that they might have worse things in mind for him.
He heard music from up ahead. Not good music, but the kind of shitey chart music that is so painfully bad that it gives shitey chart music a bad name. "What is this awful fucking music?" he exclaimed out loud. And then the penny dropped. "Westlife? Fucking Westlife? Oh for fuck's sake!" This caused one of his captors to grab him and bring him to a halt.
"Listen fucko", a familiar voice hissed. "I'm saying this for your own good. Westlife might not be everyone's cup of tea, but this is one place where you don't want to start playing the music critic. Don't badmouth Westlife to the boss, unless you fancy having your mouth stuffed with your bollocks".
Jack decided that Westlife were not quite so bad after all. A shove set him going again. A door opened ahead of him and he was pushed through into room where Westlife (or, Jack hoped, a recording thereof) was singing some anodyne pop hit.
"Here he is, boss. He's a bit the worse for wear. He tried to get away, and we had to give him a few slaps".
– Not too many, I hope? The voice was that of a man used to things going his way.
"Just enough, no more", lied the Koala.
– So. What does our visitor have to say for himself?
Jack reckoned he was being addressed. "Look, what the fuck is going on? What have you brought me here for?"
– So many questions, so many questions. Maybe you be should telling me what this is all about, eh Mr Devlin?
How did they know his name? "I don't know what you mean… I'm the one who has been beaten up and abducted".
– Ah yes, the sense of indignation. It is most becoming, Mr Devlin. You almost have me believing that none of this results from any actions on your part. But I forget my manners. Fuzzy, untie our guest and take that most fetching sack off his head. Show him to his seat, but be ready to give him a few more slaps, should the situation warrant it.
Jack's hands were freed, the bag pulled off his head, and he was shoved into an armchair. He took in his surroundings. He was in the kind of plush living room beloved of people who have more money than taste. He was sitting opposite a sofa on which a man in a lion suit lounged between two well-proportioned women in very tight lioness suits. At the feet of the lion sat two humans of restricted growth, a man and a woman. They were wearing leotards, and dog collars, and the lion had them both on leashes. The dwarfs glowered at Jack malevolently, as though their objectification was somehow his fault. Behind the sofa stood another man in a dog-suit; he looked like a hound of some sort, and his posture was one that suggested a commitment to servitude. The scene was rounded out by the three amigos from the white van, strategically situated around Jack so as to prevent him either making a getaway or trying to assault the lion.
"Nice place", said Jack. "Great sound system".
– I did not bring you here for flattery, Mr Devlin.
"No, that's what you have these clowns for. So what did you bring me here for?"
– I'll ask the questions, Mr Devlin. Did you enjoy your evening at the Zoo?
"It's the best furry club I've ever been to, I'll tell you that for nothing".
– Did you know that it was my club?
"I can't say that I did".
– Well it is. I don't go there myself as much as I used to. I'm more inclined to enjoy my own private parties here. Saying this, he indicated his two lionesses with a gesture of his paw. They purred lasciviously. But even if I am not there in spirit, Mr Devlin, he continued, I am there in spirit. I like to know what goes on in my club, and when I hear that an inquisitive dog has been sniffing around and asking all kinds of questions, I get curious. That's what I heard this evening, and I wondered just who this dog might be and what had him so keen to find out things that were really none of his business. That, Mr Devlin, is the reason for your little detour.
"Hey pal, that's hardly fair!" Jack protested, affecting such a tone of injured innocence that he almost had himself convinced. "It's my first night out in a furry club. I'm only finding my feet, my paws. It's only to be expected that I'd be asking a few questions. I bet all first-timers do it, we just want to get to know the ropes. Do you get these fuckers to bring them all up here for the third degree?"
– I do not, Mr Devlin, but they do not answer the questions you were asking. And they are not private investigators. So, Mr Devlin, perhaps you might care to explain your interest in pandas?
"Pandas?" replied Jack, playing for time. What did they know?
– I think you know what I mean. This old friend of yours you are looking for, the lady panda, and her husband. What is your interest in all of this?
"I was just trying to get in touch with an old friend" said Jack, unconvincingly.
– Please, Mr Devlin, spare me the games. It is late. I think we all want to go to bed, don't we girls?
The lionesses purred again. One of them rubbed herself against the lion while the other ran a paw through his mane.
– I think you can see very clearly that I have much much better things to be doing than sitting here listening to you trying to play me for a fool. I'm not a great man for fiction, Mr Devlin, so if I were you I would start telling the truth now, before I ask Fuzzy and his friends to give you a few more slaps.
Jack took stock of his situation. The three thugs who had brought him here were plainly itching to give him another beating. There was no way he could make a break for it and stand any chance of getting away. The lion was not going to be taken in by his patter, and the dwarfs (the only people in the room whose faces were not hidden) were clearly hoping that he did try something, just so that they could watch him having the shite kicked out of him. |t looked worryingly like his only option might be to tell the truth.
"OK, fair enough", he said wearily. "I am a private detective. I was not in your club because I am a furry freak – eh, no offence – but because I am on a case"
– And for whom are you working?
"The Panda. Mr Chubbytail. He hired me to find his wife, Miss Cuddlebuns. She's done a bunk, left behind her panda suit. Chubbytail wants me to find her for him".
Jack's comments had an electrifying effect on the room. Even without his face being visible, the lion's discomfiture was plain. The lionesses shuffled uncomfortably, and the poise and assurance of the three thugs was suddenly lost. The two dwarfs had lost their hostile facial expressions, and now looked merely bewildered. Only the hound seemed unperturbed by his comments.
– Is this true? You are really working for Mr Chubbytail? The lion no longer sounded like someone used to things going his way.
"Sure it is, true as I am sitting here listening to fucking Westlife", said Jack, deciding to chance his arm. "Have you got a problem with that?"
– I hope you know just what you are dealing with, Mr Devlin. I think it is time you left us. I'm not going to get in the way of the Panda, but I'm damned if I am going to help him. Boys, can I rely on you to help our guest on his way?
The Koala bear slapped the sack back over Devlin's head and prodded him to his feet. His hands were once more tied behind his back, and then they were pushing him along and out of the room. Devlin was manhandled back into the van once more, and then it roared off. No one was sitting on him this time, which he reckoned was something of a result.
For a second or two, his predicament left Jack in a state of stunned astonishment. Then he tried to grab the badger-suited cunt who was driving him to God knows where. No good, the seat belt was unusually tight and completely unyielding – there was no way he could reach him. He tried to unclip it, but no, it would not open. Of course.
"Don't bother to struggle", said the Badger, helpfully. "Sit back and enjoy the ride. We'll get there soon enough".
"And where is 'there', you stripey backed prick?" Jack said, venomously.
"You'll find out in due course", replied the Badger. His voice was ominously level. "And there's no need for bad language".
But then the car pulled in off the road into what seemed like the forecourt of a closed down garage, coming to a halt beside a white van. Three more furries were standing around, clearly waiting for him. With a sinking feeling he registered that one of them was a koala bear, another a leopard, while the third was a bear of some sort. The koala bear opened the door beside Jack and addressed him in a rather rough accent.
"Now Fucko, here's how it's gonna be. Our friend Mr Brock here is going to unfasten your harness. We are going to take you over here to the van, and then we are going to take you to meet someone. Don't try to be a smart cunt – we're all out well past our bedtime, and when we get tired we get a bit cranky. Don't give us a reason to get annoyed. Do you hear me, Fucko?"
Devlin tried to be a smart cunt. A click signalled that the seat belt had unfastened, and the Koala pulled him out of the car. Jack then gave him a sudden punch to the face. Even with the suits' padding, the Koala clearly felt the impact, and his momentary discomfiture allowed Jack to break free of his grip. He made a break for the road, not sure where he was going but certain that he was not getting in the white van if he could even remotely help it.
His run was over almost as soon as it began. The Badger had leaped out of the car, barring Jack's way. He tried to push past, but the delay allowed one of the others to catch him from behind and push him to the ground. Then they were all on him, raining kicks and blows on him until he was one furry mass of pain. He was almost unconscious when they pulled him to his feet and dragged him over toward the van. Before they tossed him into the back one of them quickly threw an opaque sackcloth over his head. His arms were pulled behind his back and tied tightly together. Only then was he roughly manhandled into the van, with his furry friends making sure he landed face first.
"I told you not to act the smart cunt", said a voice Jack took to be that of the Koala.
The van screeched off, with one of the furries sitting on Jack. There was no way out of this: he was going where they wanted to take him, whether he liked it or not.
* * *
Time moves differently when you hurt all over, cannot see, and have an overweight furry thug using you as a sofa. Jack tried to keep track of time passing, so that he might have a rough idea of where they were bringing him to, but it was impossible. For him there was no longer any sense of temporal progression. He was in an eternal now of searing pain. The jolt that accompanied the van coming to a halt and the furry fucker getting off him was therefore metaphorical as well as physical – he had basically stopped believing that his hellish journey would ever end.
His captors pushed him out of the van and onto his feet, slightly less roughly than before. Now they were making him walk, shoving him along if he showed any sign of slacking. Have you ever walked along, blindfolded and with your hands tied behing your back? It is not easy. Jack expected every step to be the one that would bring him over the edge a precipice – it was kind of cheap shot he reckoned would amuse his captors.
But no. He tripped, not at a drop but at a step up. His silent captors caught him before he could fall, and lifted him up onto the step, and then pushed him on his way once more. Now he was inside, and he became slightly more confident that they were not planning to kill him straight away. He tried to banish from his mind the idea that they might have worse things in mind for him.
He heard music from up ahead. Not good music, but the kind of shitey chart music that is so painfully bad that it gives shitey chart music a bad name. "What is this awful fucking music?" he exclaimed out loud. And then the penny dropped. "Westlife? Fucking Westlife? Oh for fuck's sake!" This caused one of his captors to grab him and bring him to a halt.
"Listen fucko", a familiar voice hissed. "I'm saying this for your own good. Westlife might not be everyone's cup of tea, but this is one place where you don't want to start playing the music critic. Don't badmouth Westlife to the boss, unless you fancy having your mouth stuffed with your bollocks".
Jack decided that Westlife were not quite so bad after all. A shove set him going again. A door opened ahead of him and he was pushed through into room where Westlife (or, Jack hoped, a recording thereof) was singing some anodyne pop hit.
"Here he is, boss. He's a bit the worse for wear. He tried to get away, and we had to give him a few slaps".
– Not too many, I hope? The voice was that of a man used to things going his way.
"Just enough, no more", lied the Koala.
– So. What does our visitor have to say for himself?
Jack reckoned he was being addressed. "Look, what the fuck is going on? What have you brought me here for?"
– So many questions, so many questions. Maybe you be should telling me what this is all about, eh Mr Devlin?
How did they know his name? "I don't know what you mean… I'm the one who has been beaten up and abducted".
– Ah yes, the sense of indignation. It is most becoming, Mr Devlin. You almost have me believing that none of this results from any actions on your part. But I forget my manners. Fuzzy, untie our guest and take that most fetching sack off his head. Show him to his seat, but be ready to give him a few more slaps, should the situation warrant it.
Jack's hands were freed, the bag pulled off his head, and he was shoved into an armchair. He took in his surroundings. He was in the kind of plush living room beloved of people who have more money than taste. He was sitting opposite a sofa on which a man in a lion suit lounged between two well-proportioned women in very tight lioness suits. At the feet of the lion sat two humans of restricted growth, a man and a woman. They were wearing leotards, and dog collars, and the lion had them both on leashes. The dwarfs glowered at Jack malevolently, as though their objectification was somehow his fault. Behind the sofa stood another man in a dog-suit; he looked like a hound of some sort, and his posture was one that suggested a commitment to servitude. The scene was rounded out by the three amigos from the white van, strategically situated around Jack so as to prevent him either making a getaway or trying to assault the lion.
"Nice place", said Jack. "Great sound system".
– I did not bring you here for flattery, Mr Devlin.
"No, that's what you have these clowns for. So what did you bring me here for?"
– I'll ask the questions, Mr Devlin. Did you enjoy your evening at the Zoo?
"It's the best furry club I've ever been to, I'll tell you that for nothing".
– Did you know that it was my club?
"I can't say that I did".
– Well it is. I don't go there myself as much as I used to. I'm more inclined to enjoy my own private parties here. Saying this, he indicated his two lionesses with a gesture of his paw. They purred lasciviously. But even if I am not there in spirit, Mr Devlin, he continued, I am there in spirit. I like to know what goes on in my club, and when I hear that an inquisitive dog has been sniffing around and asking all kinds of questions, I get curious. That's what I heard this evening, and I wondered just who this dog might be and what had him so keen to find out things that were really none of his business. That, Mr Devlin, is the reason for your little detour.
"Hey pal, that's hardly fair!" Jack protested, affecting such a tone of injured innocence that he almost had himself convinced. "It's my first night out in a furry club. I'm only finding my feet, my paws. It's only to be expected that I'd be asking a few questions. I bet all first-timers do it, we just want to get to know the ropes. Do you get these fuckers to bring them all up here for the third degree?"
– I do not, Mr Devlin, but they do not answer the questions you were asking. And they are not private investigators. So, Mr Devlin, perhaps you might care to explain your interest in pandas?
"Pandas?" replied Jack, playing for time. What did they know?
– I think you know what I mean. This old friend of yours you are looking for, the lady panda, and her husband. What is your interest in all of this?
"I was just trying to get in touch with an old friend" said Jack, unconvincingly.
– Please, Mr Devlin, spare me the games. It is late. I think we all want to go to bed, don't we girls?
The lionesses purred again. One of them rubbed herself against the lion while the other ran a paw through his mane.
– I think you can see very clearly that I have much much better things to be doing than sitting here listening to you trying to play me for a fool. I'm not a great man for fiction, Mr Devlin, so if I were you I would start telling the truth now, before I ask Fuzzy and his friends to give you a few more slaps.
Jack took stock of his situation. The three thugs who had brought him here were plainly itching to give him another beating. There was no way he could make a break for it and stand any chance of getting away. The lion was not going to be taken in by his patter, and the dwarfs (the only people in the room whose faces were not hidden) were clearly hoping that he did try something, just so that they could watch him having the shite kicked out of him. |t looked worryingly like his only option might be to tell the truth.
"OK, fair enough", he said wearily. "I am a private detective. I was not in your club because I am a furry freak – eh, no offence – but because I am on a case"
– And for whom are you working?
"The Panda. Mr Chubbytail. He hired me to find his wife, Miss Cuddlebuns. She's done a bunk, left behind her panda suit. Chubbytail wants me to find her for him".
Jack's comments had an electrifying effect on the room. Even without his face being visible, the lion's discomfiture was plain. The lionesses shuffled uncomfortably, and the poise and assurance of the three thugs was suddenly lost. The two dwarfs had lost their hostile facial expressions, and now looked merely bewildered. Only the hound seemed unperturbed by his comments.
– Is this true? You are really working for Mr Chubbytail? The lion no longer sounded like someone used to things going his way.
"Sure it is, true as I am sitting here listening to fucking Westlife", said Jack, deciding to chance his arm. "Have you got a problem with that?"
– I hope you know just what you are dealing with, Mr Devlin. I think it is time you left us. I'm not going to get in the way of the Panda, but I'm damned if I am going to help him. Boys, can I rely on you to help our guest on his way?
The Koala bear slapped the sack back over Devlin's head and prodded him to his feet. His hands were once more tied behind his back, and then they were pushing him along and out of the room. Devlin was manhandled back into the van once more, and then it roared off. No one was sitting on him this time, which he reckoned was something of a result.
Art in Cork
Yes, it exists. On my trip to the Southern Capital last week, I paid a visit to the Glucksmann Gallery. This lies in the grounds of University College Course, in an imposing neo-brutalist edifice that somehow manages to look closed even when it is open. There was some great stuff inside. The exhibit of artworks relating to the Irish troubles was interesting, with Robert Ballagh's picture of the Miami Showband* (a photograph of the band overlaid with glass made to look like bullets have been fired into it) being eerily evocative of one of Northern Ireland's more unpleasant events. Another impressive piece is the much older Men of the West by Sean Keating, a picture from the early 20th century of some men from the West of Ireland who are clearly ready to answer Ireland's call. Sean Keating (an associate of William Orpen) is a fascinating artist, kind of like an Irish Socialist Realist in the iconic and propagandistic nature of his work. Another great work by him is Men of the South (veterans of the war of independence pose heroically shortly thereafter) and The Dockers, with the latter visible to Dublin readers in the Hugh Lane Gallery.
It was the foreign art, unrelated to the Troubles, that ultimately proved the most memorable.. One favourite was this video installation by Carey Young where the artist, dressed in a smart suit, went to Speakers Corner and delivered a well-prepared speech on public speaking techniques, while around her people milled around and various nutters ranted away about stuff in an over-excitable manner.
Another piece of complete genius was the Mao-Hope march, a film recording of a march through New York by some Öyvind Fahlström fellow in the late 1960s. They were carrying giant photographs of Bob Hope and Mao Tse-Tung, and asking passers by if they were happy. The responses they received can be read here (that's also the image source). I particularly liked the guy who thought that it was a sign that Bob Hope was going to become US president, or the various people who got very defensive when asked whether they were happy.
*younger readers may not heard of these fellows. They were one of those showbands you hear about, and their career was cut tragically short by the Ulster Volunteer Force, who stopped their van and massacred them in the mid-1970s.
It was the foreign art, unrelated to the Troubles, that ultimately proved the most memorable.. One favourite was this video installation by Carey Young where the artist, dressed in a smart suit, went to Speakers Corner and delivered a well-prepared speech on public speaking techniques, while around her people milled around and various nutters ranted away about stuff in an over-excitable manner.
Another piece of complete genius was the Mao-Hope march, a film recording of a march through New York by some Öyvind Fahlström fellow in the late 1960s. They were carrying giant photographs of Bob Hope and Mao Tse-Tung, and asking passers by if they were happy. The responses they received can be read here (that's also the image source). I particularly liked the guy who thought that it was a sign that Bob Hope was going to become US president, or the various people who got very defensive when asked whether they were happy.*younger readers may not heard of these fellows. They were one of those showbands you hear about, and their career was cut tragically short by the Ulster Volunteer Force, who stopped their van and massacred them in the mid-1970s.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Dog chases rabbits, gets in trouble
More dog news: late last month, Riley (a collie-cross) was chasing a rabbit when he became entangled in brambles 15 feet down into a quarry near the town of Portland in Dorset. Personnel from the fire department and the coastguard were able to cut Riley free and reunite him with his owner, but a coastguard spokesman warned that the naughty dog had had a "lucky escape". A source close to Riley has revealed that he came very close to catching the rabbit and that Riley hopes to have better luck next time.
Furry Folk - Part 6
Jack hits a wall of silence, and makes a terrible mistake.
Jack looked around the club. There was no sign of the cat lady anywhere. Oh well, he thought, easy come, easy go. Cats love to tease dogs. He decided to go back to the quiet room. Maybe she would be there, and if she was not then perhaps he could find out something about the runaway Panda. There was no point staying in the dancing room, the noise was too loud for conversation.
The corridor between the two rooms also boasted doors into the ladies' and gents' toilets. With the various drinks he had already consumed now working their way through him, Jack felt the need to relieve himself. Standing at a urinal beside two other men in furry animal suits, he found himself reflecting once more on the strange world in which he had found himself. The impression was enhanced by the sounds of coupling coming from behind one of the closed doors of the stalls – the noises seemed like they were being made by creatures distinctly less than human, like the people making them had genuinely regressed to a bestial state. Jack tried to take pride in his not having sunk so low just yet, but his mind was still on the cat lady. With a sinking feeling, he realised that for her he could be entirely animal.
The plush room was more animated now, with the seats mostly full of furries engaging in what looked like the most fascinating discussions. Others stood around, chatting away, or perhaps they were flirting. It was hard to tell. Devlin was at least glad that the furries were not all staring at him anymore. Perhaps the cocktails they all seemed to be drinking were making them less interested in eyeing up the new dog in the pack. But there was no sign of the cat-lady.
He made his way to the bar, and ordered another brandy alexander. In for a penny he thought, all thoughts of the terrible effects such a rich drink might have on his digestive system banished to the back of his mind.
"You're new here, aren't you?" said a man in a horse-suit – no, a donkey suit – who had come up to bar to order drinks while he watched the raccoon throw his drink together.
"I am, yes", replied Jack. "Is it that obvious?"
"Well, I couldn't help but see you order that pint. No one drinks pints here, It's not the done thing".
"I see that now. And you, you're a regular?"
"Oh yes, very much so. You never get a night in the Zoo without Old Ned".
"How long have you been coming here?"
"Ah now, that would be telling! But come now, my friend, why not join my table over here? I'll introduce you to the gang".
Why not? thought Jack, walking with the donkey as he carried a tray of cocktails over to a table around which a group of furries were ranged. Two women in what he thought might be guinea-pig suits sitting on a sofa insisted that he squeeze in between them. Their costumes were far less figure-hugging than the cat-lady's (or, at least, he hoped they weren't).
The donkey ran through the names of the two guinea pigs, a cow (who, confusingly, seemed to be male), a rabbit, a horse, another dog, and a man in a rather different catsuit to the cat-lady's. Jack immediately forget all their names, just as he was asked for his. "Fido", he replied. The other dog guffawed. "What a common name!"
Devlin was trying to think of a response more cutting then "Up your lad" when the horse riposted "You can hardly talk, every second dog here is called Bob or Bobby".
"With me Bob is just an abbreviation", retorted the dog, "For I am Bramshaw Bob, gold medal winner at Crufts!" He looked very pleased with himself.
"It's not the quality of your name that counts", interjected the cow sonorously, "but how you build a reputation for yourself. That is something that can only be achieved through continuous hard work and application, something that I am no stranger to. Thus I am well known throughout our circle as a cow of great discernment and wisdom"
"Oh he is a one!" said the Guinea Pig to Jack's right, while the other chuckled in a worrying manner.
"So", said Jack, trying to steer the conversation in directions that he hoped would prove more profitable, "You have all been on the scene a long time? It's my first night here"
"Oh we all know that!" said Bramshaw Bob, "We saw you drinking Guinness!" He said it like it was urine or some other equally foul liquid that no right thinking person would drink in public. Jack found himself taking a real shine to this mutt.
"And we saw you talking to Tiddles", said the horse, with what Jack thought might be an air of innuendo in his voice. "She likes the new ones". This provoked some mirth among the animals.
"So you know her as well?" said Jack.
"Oh we all know her" chipped in Bob. The guinea pigs were in such paroxyms of laughter that Jack felt like he was being put through a mangle.
"I see. I was asking her about an old friend of mine, someone who had first introduced me to… to this whole thing, you know what I mean. Maybe you know her too? She used to tell me about how she would come here, and made it all sound so magical. I used to dream about coming here myself, but wondered if I would ever pluck up the courage to reveal myself as the… as the dog I really am. But now, yes, I have plucked up the courage, and here I am".
"Well done, sir, well done", said the cat, whose accent sounded English. "And is she here, this inspirational old friend of yours?"
"I haven't seen her yet. I don't know if she comes to the club much. It's a long time since we've talked, but I heard she got married – to another of her kind. I think they may spend a lot of time at home together, you know what I mean".
"When I'm at home I like to eat my carrots", the rabbit pipped in helpfully.
"We all have our favourite domestic pursuits", the cow declared, "but the noblest of all activities is industrious labour. I can tell you in a most unequivocal manner, that that is how I spend my time at home – in ceaseless toil, for as the Roman once said, laborare est orare. Not that I am particularly religious, of course, but you will understand the improving nature of my labours".
"I often find that I have to tidy up after you because you've left a terrible mess everywhere" said the rabbit. The cow turned his expressionless face towards his floppy eared friend, and the latter somehow sensed that it was time to be quiet.
"This friend of yours, Fido", said Old Ned, "it is possible we know her, both her and her husband. We animals are a gregarious bunch, mostly, and weddings are a great social occasion for us. What was your friend's name, and do you know what kind of animal she is?"
"Why yes", said Jack, "Her real… her human name is Laura, but I think she said that here she calls herself Miss Cuddlebuns. She's a panda, and I think her husband is called Mr Chubbytail. He's a panda… too".
Jack trailed off in what he was saying, because it seemed to be getting something of a reaction. With the animal suits, he could not read facial expressions, but from body language it was clear that what he had said had caused some upset. The animals went silent, and their plush faces turned blankly to each other. Jack sensed also that some of the furries at the neighbouring tables had gone silent.
"Do you know her? Or her husband?" he gamely continued.
"No, Fido, I can't say I do", replied Old Ned, deliberately. "I know no pandas", concurred the cat. The others seemed uncertain whether it was necessary for them to also confirm their lack of panda acquintance, but then the rabbit threw in a somewhat contrary position.
"I knew a panda once – " he began, before being unsubtly given a dig by the horse. The rabbit lapsed into silence, lowered his head and looked at the ground.
"So, no one knows any pandas?" Jack queried, again.
"We do not know the pandas", replied Bob emphatically. "Let us trouble ourselves no more with this subject. You there, Raccoon!" he called to the bar. "Fetch us more drinks, can't you see we are dying of thirst!"
After that the animals resumed their conversation, largely ignoring Jack and preventing him from questioning them or the rabbit again about the pandas. They did at least throw him another brandy alexander, which he sipped while wondering what it was about the pandas that had made them clam. They knew something, it was obvious, but they were not going to talk. Apart from the rabbit – Jack felt certain that if he got him away from the others he could worm something out of him. But there was no real chance of this happening. At one point the rabbit had to visit the toilet, and Jack took his chance to nip off after him, but the cat and the horse sprang to his side and more or less escorted him too and from the urinal.
The animals did at least keep plying him with drinks, but he knew his investigation waw going nowhere. And there was only so much of the furries' inane converstational one-upmanship that he could take. So he decided to call it quits.
"Well guys", he said, butting into an argument over whether Bob or the horse was the best read of the animals present, "it's been a lovely evening but I am getting a bit puppy tired. I'm heading home to my, eh, kennel. It's been great meeting you all, and I'm sure I'll see you again here real soon".
By this stage, he had had quite a bit too drink, a quantity of alcohol that could only really be identified as too much. He rather staggered towards the door, waving to the animals, missing the rather half-hearted farewells they threw back at him. The bear in the kiosk was still at his honey and did not seem to be aware of him going. Outside, there were some taxis parked in the hotel courtyard. Brilliant. The gorilla-suited bouncers helped him into the back-seat of one and generously buckled up his seatbelt for him. He barked out his address to the driver and the car sped off.
Devlin had a lot to think about. The marked reluctance of the furries to discuss the panda lady or even acknowledge her existence. The cat-lady and her sudden disappearence. In his drunken semi-stupor the events of the evening and the day before all started to merge into each other, and he started imagining the cat-lady showing up in a panda suit in his office, with all the other furries close behind.
He looked out the window, expecting to see the familiar landmarks of the city centre. But he was mistaken, and with a sickening mental thud he was jolted back into semi-sobriety by the realisation that the cab was not heading south into the city, but north – out into the wilds of north county Dublin.
"Hey! This isn’t the way to Rathgar!"
"No, Mr Devlin, it is not" replied the taxi driver, inclining his head slightly so that Jack could see him better. Oh my God, he thought, I'm a fool! Why didn't I see it until now? The taxi driver did not have a human head, or not one that Jack could see - the cab was being driven by a man in a badger suit .
Jack looked around the club. There was no sign of the cat lady anywhere. Oh well, he thought, easy come, easy go. Cats love to tease dogs. He decided to go back to the quiet room. Maybe she would be there, and if she was not then perhaps he could find out something about the runaway Panda. There was no point staying in the dancing room, the noise was too loud for conversation.
The plush room was more animated now, with the seats mostly full of furries engaging in what looked like the most fascinating discussions. Others stood around, chatting away, or perhaps they were flirting. It was hard to tell. Devlin was at least glad that the furries were not all staring at him anymore. Perhaps the cocktails they all seemed to be drinking were making them less interested in eyeing up the new dog in the pack. But there was no sign of the cat-lady.
He made his way to the bar, and ordered another brandy alexander. In for a penny he thought, all thoughts of the terrible effects such a rich drink might have on his digestive system banished to the back of his mind.
"You're new here, aren't you?" said a man in a horse-suit – no, a donkey suit – who had come up to bar to order drinks while he watched the raccoon throw his drink together.
"I am, yes", replied Jack. "Is it that obvious?"
"Well, I couldn't help but see you order that pint. No one drinks pints here, It's not the done thing".
"I see that now. And you, you're a regular?"
"Oh yes, very much so. You never get a night in the Zoo without Old Ned".
"How long have you been coming here?"
"Ah now, that would be telling! But come now, my friend, why not join my table over here? I'll introduce you to the gang".
Why not? thought Jack, walking with the donkey as he carried a tray of cocktails over to a table around which a group of furries were ranged. Two women in what he thought might be guinea-pig suits sitting on a sofa insisted that he squeeze in between them. Their costumes were far less figure-hugging than the cat-lady's (or, at least, he hoped they weren't).
The donkey ran through the names of the two guinea pigs, a cow (who, confusingly, seemed to be male), a rabbit, a horse, another dog, and a man in a rather different catsuit to the cat-lady's. Jack immediately forget all their names, just as he was asked for his. "Fido", he replied. The other dog guffawed. "What a common name!"
Devlin was trying to think of a response more cutting then "Up your lad" when the horse riposted "You can hardly talk, every second dog here is called Bob or Bobby".
"With me Bob is just an abbreviation", retorted the dog, "For I am Bramshaw Bob, gold medal winner at Crufts!" He looked very pleased with himself.
"It's not the quality of your name that counts", interjected the cow sonorously, "but how you build a reputation for yourself. That is something that can only be achieved through continuous hard work and application, something that I am no stranger to. Thus I am well known throughout our circle as a cow of great discernment and wisdom"
"Oh he is a one!" said the Guinea Pig to Jack's right, while the other chuckled in a worrying manner.
"So", said Jack, trying to steer the conversation in directions that he hoped would prove more profitable, "You have all been on the scene a long time? It's my first night here"
"Oh we all know that!" said Bramshaw Bob, "We saw you drinking Guinness!" He said it like it was urine or some other equally foul liquid that no right thinking person would drink in public. Jack found himself taking a real shine to this mutt.
"And we saw you talking to Tiddles", said the horse, with what Jack thought might be an air of innuendo in his voice. "She likes the new ones". This provoked some mirth among the animals.
"So you know her as well?" said Jack.
"Oh we all know her" chipped in Bob. The guinea pigs were in such paroxyms of laughter that Jack felt like he was being put through a mangle.
"I see. I was asking her about an old friend of mine, someone who had first introduced me to… to this whole thing, you know what I mean. Maybe you know her too? She used to tell me about how she would come here, and made it all sound so magical. I used to dream about coming here myself, but wondered if I would ever pluck up the courage to reveal myself as the… as the dog I really am. But now, yes, I have plucked up the courage, and here I am".
"Well done, sir, well done", said the cat, whose accent sounded English. "And is she here, this inspirational old friend of yours?"
"I haven't seen her yet. I don't know if she comes to the club much. It's a long time since we've talked, but I heard she got married – to another of her kind. I think they may spend a lot of time at home together, you know what I mean".
"When I'm at home I like to eat my carrots", the rabbit pipped in helpfully.
"We all have our favourite domestic pursuits", the cow declared, "but the noblest of all activities is industrious labour. I can tell you in a most unequivocal manner, that that is how I spend my time at home – in ceaseless toil, for as the Roman once said, laborare est orare. Not that I am particularly religious, of course, but you will understand the improving nature of my labours".
"I often find that I have to tidy up after you because you've left a terrible mess everywhere" said the rabbit. The cow turned his expressionless face towards his floppy eared friend, and the latter somehow sensed that it was time to be quiet.
"This friend of yours, Fido", said Old Ned, "it is possible we know her, both her and her husband. We animals are a gregarious bunch, mostly, and weddings are a great social occasion for us. What was your friend's name, and do you know what kind of animal she is?"
"Why yes", said Jack, "Her real… her human name is Laura, but I think she said that here she calls herself Miss Cuddlebuns. She's a panda, and I think her husband is called Mr Chubbytail. He's a panda… too".
Jack trailed off in what he was saying, because it seemed to be getting something of a reaction. With the animal suits, he could not read facial expressions, but from body language it was clear that what he had said had caused some upset. The animals went silent, and their plush faces turned blankly to each other. Jack sensed also that some of the furries at the neighbouring tables had gone silent.
"Do you know her? Or her husband?" he gamely continued.
"No, Fido, I can't say I do", replied Old Ned, deliberately. "I know no pandas", concurred the cat. The others seemed uncertain whether it was necessary for them to also confirm their lack of panda acquintance, but then the rabbit threw in a somewhat contrary position.
"I knew a panda once – " he began, before being unsubtly given a dig by the horse. The rabbit lapsed into silence, lowered his head and looked at the ground.
"So, no one knows any pandas?" Jack queried, again.
"We do not know the pandas", replied Bob emphatically. "Let us trouble ourselves no more with this subject. You there, Raccoon!" he called to the bar. "Fetch us more drinks, can't you see we are dying of thirst!"
After that the animals resumed their conversation, largely ignoring Jack and preventing him from questioning them or the rabbit again about the pandas. They did at least throw him another brandy alexander, which he sipped while wondering what it was about the pandas that had made them clam. They knew something, it was obvious, but they were not going to talk. Apart from the rabbit – Jack felt certain that if he got him away from the others he could worm something out of him. But there was no real chance of this happening. At one point the rabbit had to visit the toilet, and Jack took his chance to nip off after him, but the cat and the horse sprang to his side and more or less escorted him too and from the urinal.
The animals did at least keep plying him with drinks, but he knew his investigation waw going nowhere. And there was only so much of the furries' inane converstational one-upmanship that he could take. So he decided to call it quits.
"Well guys", he said, butting into an argument over whether Bob or the horse was the best read of the animals present, "it's been a lovely evening but I am getting a bit puppy tired. I'm heading home to my, eh, kennel. It's been great meeting you all, and I'm sure I'll see you again here real soon".
By this stage, he had had quite a bit too drink, a quantity of alcohol that could only really be identified as too much. He rather staggered towards the door, waving to the animals, missing the rather half-hearted farewells they threw back at him. The bear in the kiosk was still at his honey and did not seem to be aware of him going. Outside, there were some taxis parked in the hotel courtyard. Brilliant. The gorilla-suited bouncers helped him into the back-seat of one and generously buckled up his seatbelt for him. He barked out his address to the driver and the car sped off.
Devlin had a lot to think about. The marked reluctance of the furries to discuss the panda lady or even acknowledge her existence. The cat-lady and her sudden disappearence. In his drunken semi-stupor the events of the evening and the day before all started to merge into each other, and he started imagining the cat-lady showing up in a panda suit in his office, with all the other furries close behind.
He looked out the window, expecting to see the familiar landmarks of the city centre. But he was mistaken, and with a sickening mental thud he was jolted back into semi-sobriety by the realisation that the cab was not heading south into the city, but north – out into the wilds of north county Dublin.
"Hey! This isn’t the way to Rathgar!"
"No, Mr Devlin, it is not" replied the taxi driver, inclining his head slightly so that Jack could see him better. Oh my God, he thought, I'm a fool! Why didn't I see it until now? The taxi driver did not have a human head, or not one that Jack could see - the cab was being driven by a man in a badger suit
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Good Dog Wins Award
Simba (a Leonberger) has won an award. This good dog has been chosen as the dog of the year by Pets As Therapists, an organisation with which he volunteers. Simba works with people who are depressed or who have other problems by letting them talk to and hug him.More
Furry Folk - Part 5
Jack discovers what music Furries like.
Jack ordered the cat lady her brandy alexander and did his best to make conversation. "Apparently that was Liberace's favourite drink", he threw out as an opening gambit. "Not that I am saying you are anything like Liberace, of course".
"Oh no, you should hear me play piano!" she replied, somehow making tinkling the ivories sound like the lewdest thing imaginable. "But you're not drinking cocktails yourself?"
"Not really my thing. Do people drink a lot of cocktails here?"
"Look around you".
Jack glanced around. The room was full of furry-suited people holding oddly shaped glasses holding violently coloured liquids, from which projected all kinds of straws and umbrellas. And all of these furry-suited people were looking at him.
"So that's why the pint tasted so foul. I should have known that Guinness would not be so big here. I guess", he said, trying to inject an endearingly ingenuous tone into his voice, "that I must really stand out as a first-timer".
"I was thinking I hadn't seen you here before!" purred the cat lady. "So what do you call yourself?"
"Jack", he replied, wondering almost immediately if he should have given a false name. "Jack Devlin".
"Now that's not a very doggy name" she said, with an air of disappointment.
"Eh, I suppose not". Bollocks, he thought, what should I have said?
"If you're going to be a dog, you need a doggy name. That's the way it works here".
"OK" he thought, scrambling around for dog names in his head. "Call me… call me Fido!"
"Good boy!" she purred back at him, patting him on his head. He barked again. Oh my god, he thought, I'm turning into one of them.
"So this is your first time here? Have you ever been to any of the other clubs, or the parties?"
"No", said Jack. "But I've wanted to for a long time. I… I've been living a lie, going about doing human things, when all I really wanted to do is put on a dog-suit, put on my dog skin, and bark unashamedly!" He did his best to sound like someone coming out of the furry closet.
"Oh I know, I know. It's not easy". She was holding his hand now. Or her paw was holding his.
"It's been building up in me the last few years. I'd have gone mad if I hadn't taken the plunge". And then he turned to barman, pushing away his half drunk Guinness. "Here, get me a brandy alexander too. And another for the cat here!" The racoon nodded enigmatically.
Devlin turned back to the cat. "So, for you, how long have you been, you know?"
"In human years or cat years?" she laughed coquettishly. "I started young, Fido. I've been on the scene for a couple of years now". Great, thought Devlin, remembering why he was there, maybe she will know something about the panda lady.
"So tell me," he began, intending to spin some story about the Mr Chubbytail's runaway wife being an old friend, but she interrupted him.
"No, Fido, you tell me – have you ever mated with another animal?"
"Eh, you mean like doing it wearing the furry outfits? Eh, no, can't say I have".
"You've never even been to the Furry Glen?"
"No," answered Jack, reckoning that if he had not idea what she was asking then he probably had not done it.
"Well, we might have to do something about that! But first things first. What say we dance a little? This room is a bit staid for my liking. Let's check out the music!"
She grabbed her drink and jumped up, beckoning him to follow, which he did. She led him to a door out of the room. He was conscious that all eyes were on him as he went through after her. They were now in a corridor, with a door ahead of them, through which he could hear music. Going through it they were in an environment more like a normal nightclub. There was a dance floor, on which a few furries were dancing expressively to music a DJ was playing. The song sounded familiar but it took Devlin a few seconds to realise that it was 'What's New Pussycat?' by Tom Jones. Jesus, he thought. Other furries were standing around the dancefloor, drinking a variety of cocktails, and a few were propping up a bar at one end of the space, where another raccoon was serving drinks.
"Great tunes, huh?" said the cat lady. Or at least that's what he thought she said, the music was pretty loud. Tom Jones was followed by Elvis, with 'Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear' proving popular with the many people present who were in bearsuits. Devlin and the cat lady drank their brandy alexanders.
Devlin decided to advance his investigation. 'A couple of years ago I didn't even know this kind of thing existed. I always knew I wanted something different to other people, but I didn't know what. But I had a friend who opened my eyes to this world, and since then I've been trying to pluck up the courage to jump in. And here I am! I lost contact with my friend over the years, but I would love to meet her again. Oh, don't worry, it's not like that, there's nothing between us, but it would mean a lot to me if I could get in touch with her again. Maybe you know her? Her real… her human name is Laura, but I think on the scene she was a Panda. She said that she called herself – "
"Come on Fido!" said the cat lady, "They're playing my song!" She had finished her drink and was pulling him onto the dance floor. It was not clear whether or not she had actually heard anything of what he had said. Either way, the DJ's playing of The Cure's 'Love Cats' made dancing imperative for her. So they danced. The Cure were followed by some other tunes, all of them featuring animals. A slow song came on (something about a baboon climbing a mountain?), and he took the chance to hold her close to him. Or close to the padding in his dog suit. She said something to him. He could not quite make it out, so she said it again. "Call me Tiddles, Fido". "Oh I will", he rejoined.
And now they were playing 'White Rabbit'. It was not what Devlin would have considered a slow set classic, but it did the job. But as Grace Slick started screaming at them to remember what the dormouse had said, Jack found himself increasingly struck by the limitations of the furry suit slow set – you can't really try for a snog or cop a feel when you're wearing an animal suit. Before he could dwell too deeply on the subject, though, the DJ (a handsome looking stag) had killed the mood completely by putting on a Chas 'n' Dave song about rabbits. He and the cat lady were suddenly surrounded by furry suited mentalists bouncing around like maniacs, only a small minority of who were in rabbit suits. Tiddles joined in, and Jack felt obliged to follow suit.
Jack was thinking of pulling the cat off the dance floor, perhaps for another drink, after which he might suggest a sojourn to his place (the investigation could wait), when the rabbit song was abruptly cut off by a screaming wall of guitar noise, followed by a rumbling rhythm that built up into a riff from hell. Holy shit, they're playing 'I Wanna Be Your Dog'. The animals stood, momentarily stupefied, and then all hell broke loose. The ones on the floor started to slam into each other with a demented abandon, while the ones who had been standing around hurled themselves into the maelstrom. Where once had been a dance floor was now a flailing bouncing mass of fur. Devlin was engulfed in the most violent moshing he had ever seen, with the furries using their costume's padding as protection against the body blows they were raining on each other. Jack wanted to protect the cat, to escort her from the floor, but doing anything other than be thrown around by the crowd was impossible.
Devlin found himself eventually disgorged by the heaving mass, thrown out against one of the walls. He hung onto it for dear life, and scanned the crowd for the cat. No sign of her! He was getting worried now. Her costume wasn't padded like the others – if she fell over in that crowd they might trample her to death. And then no furry action for him! Realising that a big part of his concern was driven lust, he shook himself and tried to think wholesome empathic thoughts. I am not a bad person, he insisted to himself.
And then the crowd cleared, as the DJ followed the Stooges with 'My Lovely Horse'. Some moved to the walls, the rest took up a dance that managed to suggest a carefree gambol through sunny fields. But where was his cat lady? He could not see her anywhere.
Jack ordered the cat lady her brandy alexander and did his best to make conversation. "Apparently that was Liberace's favourite drink", he threw out as an opening gambit. "Not that I am saying you are anything like Liberace, of course".
"Not really my thing. Do people drink a lot of cocktails here?"
"Look around you".
Jack glanced around. The room was full of furry-suited people holding oddly shaped glasses holding violently coloured liquids, from which projected all kinds of straws and umbrellas. And all of these furry-suited people were looking at him.
"So that's why the pint tasted so foul. I should have known that Guinness would not be so big here. I guess", he said, trying to inject an endearingly ingenuous tone into his voice, "that I must really stand out as a first-timer".
"I was thinking I hadn't seen you here before!" purred the cat lady. "So what do you call yourself?"
"Jack", he replied, wondering almost immediately if he should have given a false name. "Jack Devlin".
"Now that's not a very doggy name" she said, with an air of disappointment.
"Eh, I suppose not". Bollocks, he thought, what should I have said?
"If you're going to be a dog, you need a doggy name. That's the way it works here".
"OK" he thought, scrambling around for dog names in his head. "Call me… call me Fido!"
"Good boy!" she purred back at him, patting him on his head. He barked again. Oh my god, he thought, I'm turning into one of them.
"So this is your first time here? Have you ever been to any of the other clubs, or the parties?"
"No", said Jack. "But I've wanted to for a long time. I… I've been living a lie, going about doing human things, when all I really wanted to do is put on a dog-suit, put on my dog skin, and bark unashamedly!" He did his best to sound like someone coming out of the furry closet.
"Oh I know, I know. It's not easy". She was holding his hand now. Or her paw was holding his.
"It's been building up in me the last few years. I'd have gone mad if I hadn't taken the plunge". And then he turned to barman, pushing away his half drunk Guinness. "Here, get me a brandy alexander too. And another for the cat here!" The racoon nodded enigmatically.
Devlin turned back to the cat. "So, for you, how long have you been, you know?"
"In human years or cat years?" she laughed coquettishly. "I started young, Fido. I've been on the scene for a couple of years now". Great, thought Devlin, remembering why he was there, maybe she will know something about the panda lady.
"So tell me," he began, intending to spin some story about the Mr Chubbytail's runaway wife being an old friend, but she interrupted him.
"No, Fido, you tell me – have you ever mated with another animal?"
"Eh, you mean like doing it wearing the furry outfits? Eh, no, can't say I have".
"You've never even been to the Furry Glen?"
"No," answered Jack, reckoning that if he had not idea what she was asking then he probably had not done it.
"Well, we might have to do something about that! But first things first. What say we dance a little? This room is a bit staid for my liking. Let's check out the music!"
She grabbed her drink and jumped up, beckoning him to follow, which he did. She led him to a door out of the room. He was conscious that all eyes were on him as he went through after her. They were now in a corridor, with a door ahead of them, through which he could hear music. Going through it they were in an environment more like a normal nightclub. There was a dance floor, on which a few furries were dancing expressively to music a DJ was playing. The song sounded familiar but it took Devlin a few seconds to realise that it was 'What's New Pussycat?' by Tom Jones. Jesus, he thought. Other furries were standing around the dancefloor, drinking a variety of cocktails, and a few were propping up a bar at one end of the space, where another raccoon was serving drinks.
"Great tunes, huh?" said the cat lady. Or at least that's what he thought she said, the music was pretty loud. Tom Jones was followed by Elvis, with 'Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear' proving popular with the many people present who were in bearsuits. Devlin and the cat lady drank their brandy alexanders.
Devlin decided to advance his investigation. 'A couple of years ago I didn't even know this kind of thing existed. I always knew I wanted something different to other people, but I didn't know what. But I had a friend who opened my eyes to this world, and since then I've been trying to pluck up the courage to jump in. And here I am! I lost contact with my friend over the years, but I would love to meet her again. Oh, don't worry, it's not like that, there's nothing between us, but it would mean a lot to me if I could get in touch with her again. Maybe you know her? Her real… her human name is Laura, but I think on the scene she was a Panda. She said that she called herself – "
"Come on Fido!" said the cat lady, "They're playing my song!" She had finished her drink and was pulling him onto the dance floor. It was not clear whether or not she had actually heard anything of what he had said. Either way, the DJ's playing of The Cure's 'Love Cats' made dancing imperative for her. So they danced. The Cure were followed by some other tunes, all of them featuring animals. A slow song came on (something about a baboon climbing a mountain?), and he took the chance to hold her close to him. Or close to the padding in his dog suit. She said something to him. He could not quite make it out, so she said it again. "Call me Tiddles, Fido". "Oh I will", he rejoined.
And now they were playing 'White Rabbit'. It was not what Devlin would have considered a slow set classic, but it did the job. But as Grace Slick started screaming at them to remember what the dormouse had said, Jack found himself increasingly struck by the limitations of the furry suit slow set – you can't really try for a snog or cop a feel when you're wearing an animal suit. Before he could dwell too deeply on the subject, though, the DJ (a handsome looking stag) had killed the mood completely by putting on a Chas 'n' Dave song about rabbits. He and the cat lady were suddenly surrounded by furry suited mentalists bouncing around like maniacs, only a small minority of who were in rabbit suits. Tiddles joined in, and Jack felt obliged to follow suit.
Jack was thinking of pulling the cat off the dance floor, perhaps for another drink, after which he might suggest a sojourn to his place (the investigation could wait), when the rabbit song was abruptly cut off by a screaming wall of guitar noise, followed by a rumbling rhythm that built up into a riff from hell. Holy shit, they're playing 'I Wanna Be Your Dog'. The animals stood, momentarily stupefied, and then all hell broke loose. The ones on the floor started to slam into each other with a demented abandon, while the ones who had been standing around hurled themselves into the maelstrom. Where once had been a dance floor was now a flailing bouncing mass of fur. Devlin was engulfed in the most violent moshing he had ever seen, with the furries using their costume's padding as protection against the body blows they were raining on each other. Jack wanted to protect the cat, to escort her from the floor, but doing anything other than be thrown around by the crowd was impossible.
Devlin found himself eventually disgorged by the heaving mass, thrown out against one of the walls. He hung onto it for dear life, and scanned the crowd for the cat. No sign of her! He was getting worried now. Her costume wasn't padded like the others – if she fell over in that crowd they might trample her to death. And then no furry action for him! Realising that a big part of his concern was driven lust, he shook himself and tried to think wholesome empathic thoughts. I am not a bad person, he insisted to himself.
And then the crowd cleared, as the DJ followed the Stooges with 'My Lovely Horse'. Some moved to the walls, the rest took up a dance that managed to suggest a carefree gambol through sunny fields. But where was his cat lady? He could not see her anywhere.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Canine Science Latest
Scientists have made some important discoveries concerning the nature of dogs. They discovered that if you get two dogs it is easy to train them to give the paw if you reward them with a treat.
But there's more. If you then stop rewarding one of the dogs but keep rewarding the other, the dog you are not rewarding will become agitated, and will soon stop giving the paw when requested to do so.
The BBC has more on this ground-breaking research.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Ian's World of Incisive Theatre Criticism" "The Resistable Rise of Artutro Ui"
The Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui in the Abbey is very good. I was Jimmy Fay's last go at directing Brecht's classic, back in 1987 or something. This was different, more, eh, theatrey. I think they went for it more with the American gangster accents as well this time.
People talk a lot about Tom Vaughan Lawlor, the chap who plays Ui. And he is very good, but the rest of the cast rock too. Karl Shiels as Givola, of course, but also the rest. I had a particular fondness for Des Cave, who plays a hammy old Shakespearean actor hauled in to give Ui some lessons in deportment and public speaking; he had played Ui himself in the last Abbey production, in 1974*.
As you know, the play tells the story of the rise of Adolf Hitler, only resituated so that it is about a Chicago gangster who is trying to ingratiate himself with the city's cauliflower suppliers. In our time of economic meltdown he play has a certain resonance, and you do find yourself worrying about what the crisis will bring us.
One funny textual thing - the last line of the play is a warning, telling us that we cannot assume that with Hitler's defeat the threat of fascism is gone, with the narrator saying that the woman that gave birth to him is still fertile (or something like that). Apparently this is more usually rendered in English as the more graphic "The bitch that bore him is still in heat". I wonder why the change.
*there is a great picture from this in the programme, featuring two guys who appear to have read Michael Green's "The Art of Coarse Acting"
People talk a lot about Tom Vaughan Lawlor, the chap who plays Ui. And he is very good, but the rest of the cast rock too. Karl Shiels as Givola, of course, but also the rest. I had a particular fondness for Des Cave, who plays a hammy old Shakespearean actor hauled in to give Ui some lessons in deportment and public speaking; he had played Ui himself in the last Abbey production, in 1974*.
As you know, the play tells the story of the rise of Adolf Hitler, only resituated so that it is about a Chicago gangster who is trying to ingratiate himself with the city's cauliflower suppliers. In our time of economic meltdown he play has a certain resonance, and you do find yourself worrying about what the crisis will bring us.
One funny textual thing - the last line of the play is a warning, telling us that we cannot assume that with Hitler's defeat the threat of fascism is gone, with the narrator saying that the woman that gave birth to him is still fertile (or something like that). Apparently this is more usually rendered in English as the more graphic "The bitch that bore him is still in heat". I wonder why the change.
*there is a great picture from this in the programme, featuring two guys who appear to have read Michael Green's "The Art of Coarse Acting"
Friday, December 05, 2008
Scary TV
One of the scariest TV programmes I have ever seen was the BBC serialisation of John Wyndham's The Day of the Triffids. The first episode begins with this guy waking up in hospital to discover that i) everyone else in Britain has gone blind and ii) the place is over run with walking carnivorous plants. Even the title sequence was terrifying - creepy 20th century classical music playing over images of newly blind people looking a bit pathetic, before one of them is hit in the face by what turns out to be a stinger from a walking plant.
There is an interesting piece on it today on the BBC, prompted by the fact that some fuckwit has decided that the programme needs to be remade: Why the love affair with man-eating plants? The article situates the Wyndham's book in the great genre of global disaster fiction, pointing out that it came out shortly before Richard Matheson's I Am Legend. Take that Yanks. For real creepiness, though, scroll on to the reader comments, and check out what one G Ben of London, UK has to say.
There is an interesting piece on it today on the BBC, prompted by the fact that some fuckwit has decided that the programme needs to be remade: Why the love affair with man-eating plants? The article situates the Wyndham's book in the great genre of global disaster fiction, pointing out that it came out shortly before Richard Matheson's I Am Legend. Take that Yanks. For real creepiness, though, scroll on to the reader comments, and check out what one G Ben of London, UK has to say.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
This is not a test
Actually it is.
What does this look like in LiveJournalLand? Is it what they call a "cut"?
Furry Folk - Part 4
In search of leads, Jack goes clubbing, in a dog suit
Back home he tried on the outfit again. Yes, it fit him. Like a glove. He looked in the mirror, practicing cocking his head to one side in that idiotic way dogs do when they pretend to half-understand what you are saying to them. He looked like a total moron. Then he practiced walking around his flat, so that he would be able to blend in a bit more in the club – he did not want to look like someone who had never worn one of these suits before. He was happy with the idea of looking a bit wet around the gills, like someone a bit new to the whole animal suit thing, but he did not want to look like what he was – someone who would rather be wearing anything than a fucking dog costume.
To get a more natural sense of how to wear the dog suit, Jack spent the afternoon loafing around his flat in it, watching TV, listening to music, surfing the internet and so on. He had a few beers in the fridge, and he helped himself to a couple of them, to relax himself into the idea of wearing a dog suit. He did not feel like cooking – and feared getting food stains on the suit – so he phoned out for a pizza. By now he was so used to wearing the costume that he opened the door to the delivery boy wearing it; the young lad's startled reaction reminded him of what an idiot he must look.
After fortifying himself with a couple more beers he phoned for the cab to pick him up at ten. As he got into the back seat, he could hear the driver's suppressed sniggers. "So pal, off to the Zoo are ye?" he said, in a tone that suggested a degree of contempt.
"I suppose I am", replied Jack, somewhat forlornly.
"Well to the Zoo we shall go. It was an easy guess, pal. You don't look like you're off to Coppers".
"I suppose not", said Jack, in a tone he hoped suggested that he was not in the mood for further conversation. The driver, however, was having none of it.
"Don't take this the wrong way, you'd never catch me in one of those places. The Zoo, I mean. Well you wouldn't get me in Coppers either, fucking bunjos, you know what I mean. But the Zoo, na, not my style at all". Devlin made no reply, but the taxi driver kept going. "You'd have to be a bit soft to go looking for your jollies in a place like that. I mean, you don't know what you'd end up. Underneath that bunny suit there could be anything – she might say she's a nineteen year old nursing student, but you could end up with yer granny's ugly sister, or worse – a man".
Devlin considered telling the man that he would pay him extra if he shut his stupid face.
"Nah, none of that animal costume stuff for me. I know where to go if I want me hole – Fitzsimons! The place is full of foreign gee, and they're all over ye if you buy them a drink or two. I tell you pal, that's where you should be going, not to that furry club of yours. Though you wouldn't want to be wearing the dog suit, the girls in Fitzsimons wouldn't really go for that", he added, helpfully. Jack was, in a way grateful, for mentioning Fitzsimons had made him realise that there were places worse than the animal suit club he was heading off to.
"But you know, I often don't have to go out of me to get me shag," the driver suddenly continued. "You know that place Barcode? Ah, you probably wouldn't, it's on the north side, but the young ones that go there, they don't have too many euros to throw around, and when I pick them up in me cab I usually find they'll do anything to get out of paying the fare". He then laughed salaciously, in a manner that would have made the late Sid James seem demure and virginal. He followed this by telling Jack in great detail what exactly the young ladies who frequent Barcode would do to get out of paying their taxi fare; this lengthy exposition took up the rest of the drive to the Zoo. Devlin was aghast. The thought of the repulsive individual driving his cab engaging in sexual acts with anyone was something too awful to contemplate. Having the sordid details spelled out at length led to Jack reaching the grudging conclusion that the furry freaks may be weird, but compared to some people they were positively angelic.
The Zoo was located in the part of Cabra that abuts the Phoenix Park, in a back building of a seedy hotel that allowed taxis to drive right up to its entrance. This meant, crucially, that Jack did not have to get out in the street. Having paid his charming driver he got out of the cab. The two bouncers (dressed, obviously, in gorilla suits) looked him over suspiciously, and gestured him inside. "Have a good night, Sir" one of them grunted, with an air of barely suppressed malevolence. Jack was in. Or at least he was into the foyer, where some clown in a bear suit was manning a ticket booth, though he seemed a bit more interested in the contents of a Boyne Valley jar that he was helping himself to than in relieving Jack of his entrance fee.
"Oh sorry, didn't see you there, I got a bit distracted" said the bear, the paw-gloves and maw of his costume a sticky mass of honey. "You want to come in, do you? Well that will be forty euro".
Devlin handed over the notes and pushed on into the club. For all Joe's protestation to the contrary, he was expecting a load of sad fuckers in animal suits going at it like billy-o, but this all seemed a bit different. There were a lot of people in animal suits, as you would expect, but it all seemed surprisingly sedate and genteel. The room he came into was rather plush (perhaps to match the clientele), with the furnishings consisting of a lot of armchairs and sofas on which a menagerie of different furries had spread themselves. Quickly surveying the scene, Devlin saw bears, dogs, a horse, some tigers, a guy who looked like he was meant to be a hedgehog, a cow, a couple of rabbits, a pig, two hippos and a rhino. And that was just for starters.
Devlin realised that quite a few of the animals were looking his way, eyeing up the new boy on the block. Their faces were covered by their costumes, but he could not help but think that at least some of them were leering at him. It was a rather uncomfortable situation, so he dealt with his awkwardness in his usual way – by walking over to the bar and asking the racoon who was serving to get him a pint and a ball of malt, fast.
"Well hello, who's a good boy?" came a sexually charged woman's voice from behind him. Turning around, Jack was confronted by a woman in a skin-tight cat-suit, one that showed off her slinky yet voluptuous form in a most appealing manner. "Woof woof!" he replied, almost involuntarily. After all, he thought, aren't dogs meant to chase cats? This lady was something of a pleasant surprise. Jack had assumed that the furry suit brigade would all be overweight munters too ugly even for the swinger circuit. Why else the costumes? But the vision he was confronted with suggested a whole other world of possibilities. "Can I get you a drink?" he said, determined to do his best to mix business with pleasure.
"They don't do catnip, so how about a brandy alexander? I fancy being the cat who got the cream". She purred in anticipation.
Back home he tried on the outfit again. Yes, it fit him. Like a glove. He looked in the mirror, practicing cocking his head to one side in that idiotic way dogs do when they pretend to half-understand what you are saying to them. He looked like a total moron. Then he practiced walking around his flat, so that he would be able to blend in a bit more in the club – he did not want to look like someone who had never worn one of these suits before. He was happy with the idea of looking a bit wet around the gills, like someone a bit new to the whole animal suit thing, but he did not want to look like what he was – someone who would rather be wearing anything than a fucking dog costume.
To get a more natural sense of how to wear the dog suit, Jack spent the afternoon loafing around his flat in it, watching TV, listening to music, surfing the internet and so on. He had a few beers in the fridge, and he helped himself to a couple of them, to relax himself into the idea of wearing a dog suit. He did not feel like cooking – and feared getting food stains on the suit – so he phoned out for a pizza. By now he was so used to wearing the costume that he opened the door to the delivery boy wearing it; the young lad's startled reaction reminded him of what an idiot he must look.
After fortifying himself with a couple more beers he phoned for the cab to pick him up at ten. As he got into the back seat, he could hear the driver's suppressed sniggers. "So pal, off to the Zoo are ye?" he said, in a tone that suggested a degree of contempt.
"I suppose I am", replied Jack, somewhat forlornly.
"Well to the Zoo we shall go. It was an easy guess, pal. You don't look like you're off to Coppers".
"I suppose not", said Jack, in a tone he hoped suggested that he was not in the mood for further conversation. The driver, however, was having none of it.
"Don't take this the wrong way, you'd never catch me in one of those places. The Zoo, I mean. Well you wouldn't get me in Coppers either, fucking bunjos, you know what I mean. But the Zoo, na, not my style at all". Devlin made no reply, but the taxi driver kept going. "You'd have to be a bit soft to go looking for your jollies in a place like that. I mean, you don't know what you'd end up. Underneath that bunny suit there could be anything – she might say she's a nineteen year old nursing student, but you could end up with yer granny's ugly sister, or worse – a man".
Devlin considered telling the man that he would pay him extra if he shut his stupid face.
"Nah, none of that animal costume stuff for me. I know where to go if I want me hole – Fitzsimons! The place is full of foreign gee, and they're all over ye if you buy them a drink or two. I tell you pal, that's where you should be going, not to that furry club of yours. Though you wouldn't want to be wearing the dog suit, the girls in Fitzsimons wouldn't really go for that", he added, helpfully. Jack was, in a way grateful, for mentioning Fitzsimons had made him realise that there were places worse than the animal suit club he was heading off to.
"But you know, I often don't have to go out of me to get me shag," the driver suddenly continued. "You know that place Barcode? Ah, you probably wouldn't, it's on the north side, but the young ones that go there, they don't have too many euros to throw around, and when I pick them up in me cab I usually find they'll do anything to get out of paying the fare". He then laughed salaciously, in a manner that would have made the late Sid James seem demure and virginal. He followed this by telling Jack in great detail what exactly the young ladies who frequent Barcode would do to get out of paying their taxi fare; this lengthy exposition took up the rest of the drive to the Zoo. Devlin was aghast. The thought of the repulsive individual driving his cab engaging in sexual acts with anyone was something too awful to contemplate. Having the sordid details spelled out at length led to Jack reaching the grudging conclusion that the furry freaks may be weird, but compared to some people they were positively angelic.
The Zoo was located in the part of Cabra that abuts the Phoenix Park, in a back building of a seedy hotel that allowed taxis to drive right up to its entrance. This meant, crucially, that Jack did not have to get out in the street. Having paid his charming driver he got out of the cab. The two bouncers (dressed, obviously, in gorilla suits) looked him over suspiciously, and gestured him inside. "Have a good night, Sir" one of them grunted, with an air of barely suppressed malevolence. Jack was in. Or at least he was into the foyer, where some clown in a bear suit was manning a ticket booth, though he seemed a bit more interested in the contents of a Boyne Valley jar that he was helping himself to than in relieving Jack of his entrance fee.
"Oh sorry, didn't see you there, I got a bit distracted" said the bear, the paw-gloves and maw of his costume a sticky mass of honey. "You want to come in, do you? Well that will be forty euro".
Devlin handed over the notes and pushed on into the club. For all Joe's protestation to the contrary, he was expecting a load of sad fuckers in animal suits going at it like billy-o, but this all seemed a bit different. There were a lot of people in animal suits, as you would expect, but it all seemed surprisingly sedate and genteel. The room he came into was rather plush (perhaps to match the clientele), with the furnishings consisting of a lot of armchairs and sofas on which a menagerie of different furries had spread themselves. Quickly surveying the scene, Devlin saw bears, dogs, a horse, some tigers, a guy who looked like he was meant to be a hedgehog, a cow, a couple of rabbits, a pig, two hippos and a rhino. And that was just for starters.
Devlin realised that quite a few of the animals were looking his way, eyeing up the new boy on the block. Their faces were covered by their costumes, but he could not help but think that at least some of them were leering at him. It was a rather uncomfortable situation, so he dealt with his awkwardness in his usual way – by walking over to the bar and asking the racoon who was serving to get him a pint and a ball of malt, fast.
"Well hello, who's a good boy?" came a sexually charged woman's voice from behind him. Turning around, Jack was confronted by a woman in a skin-tight cat-suit, one that showed off her slinky yet voluptuous form in a most appealing manner. "Woof woof!" he replied, almost involuntarily. After all, he thought, aren't dogs meant to chase cats? This lady was something of a pleasant surprise. Jack had assumed that the furry suit brigade would all be overweight munters too ugly even for the swinger circuit. Why else the costumes? But the vision he was confronted with suggested a whole other world of possibilities. "Can I get you a drink?" he said, determined to do his best to mix business with pleasure.
"They don't do catnip, so how about a brandy alexander? I fancy being the cat who got the cream". She purred in anticipation.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 3
Jack buys himself a dog suit.
Something has gone very wrong with your life if, on a Saturday night, you find yourself heading out in dog suit. That is what Jack Devlin found himself thinking as he stepped into cab in a costume that made him look like an overgrown and mutated West Highland Terrier (one of the white ones, in case you are wondering). This was not going to be his idea of a fun night out, he assured himself. Still, Mr Chubbytail was paying, and it beat sitting in watching whatever shite was on TV with a few six packs. Devlin liked to think of himself as a bit of a bon viveur, but in his heart he knew that solitary drinking and some inane chat show was for him a typical Saturday night.
Earlier that day he had made a desultory attempt to ring his client's estranged wife on her mobile. As expected, it went straight to voicemail, so he left a message he assumed she would never reply to, were she to ever hear it. He gave her the usual spiel about her husband needing to get in touch with her and how he would be willing to act as a go-between and could she at least ring him so that he could tell Mr Chubbytail that she was alright. Total bollocks, in other words. The wife had not customised the voicemail, so no "you're through to Miss Cuddlebuns, leave a message after the rarrrr" crap to put up with, just the default phone company message. Devlin wondered if this was significant. Maybe he should ask Mr Chubbytail if she had previously had a personalised voicemail message. But why? What would that tell him?
It also occurred to him that he had never heard a recording of the runaway panda-lady's voice. If such a thing existed, it could be invaluable. It's not like he would recognise her on sight should he see her. So he rang Mr Chubbytail and asked if he had any recording of the wife's voice. And he did not. No picture, no voice recording, no nothing. Devlin pondered the futility of life – he could walk past the runaway wife on the street and hear her shouting into a phone but he would not know it was her. Unless he walked past a woman telling the person at the other end of the phone that she had just left her husband, a nutcase who liked to dress up as a panda. Still, Mr Chubbytail was paying, and until the case appeared definitively hopeless Jack was happy to take his money.
To cover all bases, Jack also sent a text message to panda-lady, but he knew that was also going to draw no response. Still, there was form to cover. He would feel like a right tool if after weeks of effort he were to track down the runaway wife, only to find that she was one of those people who never listens to her voicemail but was already thinking of going back to her idiot of a husband but thought he did not love her because he had not hired a private detective to send her a text. It had been known to happen. Actually no, it had not been known to happen, but Devlin did not want to be the first investigator it happened to.
After that he thought a bit more about the case. He did not really have anything to go on. Now, there are certain ways that people in his position go about tracking down people who do not want to be found, but usually they have some concrete information on the person they are looking for – their name, a picture of them, something like that. With Mrs Panda he had nothing. Devlin started thinking that to really get to the bottom of all this he would have to dip his toes into the crazy world of the furry people. Partly, he thought, he might have a better chance of tracking down the woman if he had more interaction with the animal-suiters. Who knows, maybe they would all have the same crazy mannerisms? Devlin reckoned that if they were all as demented as Mr Chubbytail then the wife would stand out like a sore thumb, even if she were dressed like some generic slapper from one of Dublin's less salubrious suburbs. It was worth a try, though with a sinking feeling Devlin found himself thinking that the furry folk were probably all as different from each other as normal people were.
The other thing, of course, was that maybe someone on the animal suit circuit might know where the runaway wife was. Or at least there might be gossip and tittle-tattle that would point him in her direction. At this stage of the game, Devlin was keeping an open mind on what the wife was up to, but it struck him that maybe she was not telling all in her note, and that she might have been playing away from home with another of the animal suits. That kind of thing is hard to keep quiet, especially in what Devlin still reckoned must be the relatively small world of the furry freaks. Someone would know. If Miss Snugglebuns had left behind panda-hood to be with another one of the animal weirdos then Devlin reckoned he would be able to smoke her out.
It had also occurred to him that one thing about the animal-suit brigade was how easy it is to take off one suit and put another. Panda-lady's note had said that she was putting furriness behind her, but again, there was only her word for this. She might have just changed her skin – goodbye Miss Snugglebuns, hello Miss Floppyears. Devlin had enough trust in his craft to be sure of one thing – despite having nothing to go on and no means of recognising her, he knew that if she was still on the scene then he would get her.
He decided that he would have to check out some of these furry clubs. The Zoo – that was the one they had met at, so he decided to try there first. It was unlikely, of course, that she would return to such an obvious haunt, but then people do the most stupid things imaginable, and the kind of people who get their jollies by dressing up as animals must surely be a bit dimmer than most. And in any case, if it was where the pandas had met each other then there was the possibility that some of the other patrons would know them – and, in particular, that they would know her, and have known her before Mr Chubbytail set eyes on her. So the Zoo it would have to be.
Obviously, he could not show up as he was if he wanted to blend in with the freaks, so he would have to get himself an animal-suit. He thought a bit about how to go about this, and decided to phone a joke shop. "I'm looking for an animal suit", he helpfully informed the guy who answered the phone.
"Certainly sir, what kind of animal were you thinking of?"
"Eh, what do you have?"
"Well it all depends, sir. Are you looking for a suit to wear to a fancy dress party, or are you" (he continued in a manner that dripped sleaze down the phonelines) "getting it for… lifestyle reasons?"
"Eh, what's the difference?"
"Well sir, the fancy dress suits are a bit generic. But the other type of suits need to be more individual, and are consequently more expensive. You don't want to have a suit the same as someone else, do you sir?"
"No, I wouldn't want that at all".
"And of course, if you are pursuing that kind of lifestyle, then you will want a suit that delivers certain kinds of functionality".
"I'm not sure I get you".
"I think you do, sir. I mean that the suit must be designed to provide for access – access in all areas".
Shortly afterwards Devlin found himself trying on his special dog-suit in the backroom of the joke shop.
"Most becoming, sir", said the sales assistant, who then pointed out, in a somewhat over-familiar fashion, how easy it was to unbutton the flaps at the crotch that allowed one to perform all kinds of bodily functions while still wearing the costume.
"I hope it gives you much enjoyment", he smarmed to Devlin as he, now back in his normal clothes, handed over the exorbitant payment for the outfit.
"I'll need a receipt", snapped Devlin, reminding himself that the Panda was going to be paying for all of this.
Something has gone very wrong with your life if, on a Saturday night, you find yourself heading out in dog suit. That is what Jack Devlin found himself thinking as he stepped into cab in a costume that made him look like an overgrown and mutated West Highland Terrier (one of the white ones, in case you are wondering). This was not going to be his idea of a fun night out, he assured himself. Still, Mr Chubbytail was paying, and it beat sitting in watching whatever shite was on TV with a few six packs. Devlin liked to think of himself as a bit of a bon viveur, but in his heart he knew that solitary drinking and some inane chat show was for him a typical Saturday night.
Earlier that day he had made a desultory attempt to ring his client's estranged wife on her mobile. As expected, it went straight to voicemail, so he left a message he assumed she would never reply to, were she to ever hear it. He gave her the usual spiel about her husband needing to get in touch with her and how he would be willing to act as a go-between and could she at least ring him so that he could tell Mr Chubbytail that she was alright. Total bollocks, in other words. The wife had not customised the voicemail, so no "you're through to Miss Cuddlebuns, leave a message after the rarrrr" crap to put up with, just the default phone company message. Devlin wondered if this was significant. Maybe he should ask Mr Chubbytail if she had previously had a personalised voicemail message. But why? What would that tell him?
It also occurred to him that he had never heard a recording of the runaway panda-lady's voice. If such a thing existed, it could be invaluable. It's not like he would recognise her on sight should he see her. So he rang Mr Chubbytail and asked if he had any recording of the wife's voice. And he did not. No picture, no voice recording, no nothing. Devlin pondered the futility of life – he could walk past the runaway wife on the street and hear her shouting into a phone but he would not know it was her. Unless he walked past a woman telling the person at the other end of the phone that she had just left her husband, a nutcase who liked to dress up as a panda. Still, Mr Chubbytail was paying, and until the case appeared definitively hopeless Jack was happy to take his money.
To cover all bases, Jack also sent a text message to panda-lady, but he knew that was also going to draw no response. Still, there was form to cover. He would feel like a right tool if after weeks of effort he were to track down the runaway wife, only to find that she was one of those people who never listens to her voicemail but was already thinking of going back to her idiot of a husband but thought he did not love her because he had not hired a private detective to send her a text. It had been known to happen. Actually no, it had not been known to happen, but Devlin did not want to be the first investigator it happened to.
After that he thought a bit more about the case. He did not really have anything to go on. Now, there are certain ways that people in his position go about tracking down people who do not want to be found, but usually they have some concrete information on the person they are looking for – their name, a picture of them, something like that. With Mrs Panda he had nothing. Devlin started thinking that to really get to the bottom of all this he would have to dip his toes into the crazy world of the furry people. Partly, he thought, he might have a better chance of tracking down the woman if he had more interaction with the animal-suiters. Who knows, maybe they would all have the same crazy mannerisms? Devlin reckoned that if they were all as demented as Mr Chubbytail then the wife would stand out like a sore thumb, even if she were dressed like some generic slapper from one of Dublin's less salubrious suburbs. It was worth a try, though with a sinking feeling Devlin found himself thinking that the furry folk were probably all as different from each other as normal people were.
The other thing, of course, was that maybe someone on the animal suit circuit might know where the runaway wife was. Or at least there might be gossip and tittle-tattle that would point him in her direction. At this stage of the game, Devlin was keeping an open mind on what the wife was up to, but it struck him that maybe she was not telling all in her note, and that she might have been playing away from home with another of the animal suits. That kind of thing is hard to keep quiet, especially in what Devlin still reckoned must be the relatively small world of the furry freaks. Someone would know. If Miss Snugglebuns had left behind panda-hood to be with another one of the animal weirdos then Devlin reckoned he would be able to smoke her out.
It had also occurred to him that one thing about the animal-suit brigade was how easy it is to take off one suit and put another. Panda-lady's note had said that she was putting furriness behind her, but again, there was only her word for this. She might have just changed her skin – goodbye Miss Snugglebuns, hello Miss Floppyears. Devlin had enough trust in his craft to be sure of one thing – despite having nothing to go on and no means of recognising her, he knew that if she was still on the scene then he would get her.
He decided that he would have to check out some of these furry clubs. The Zoo – that was the one they had met at, so he decided to try there first. It was unlikely, of course, that she would return to such an obvious haunt, but then people do the most stupid things imaginable, and the kind of people who get their jollies by dressing up as animals must surely be a bit dimmer than most. And in any case, if it was where the pandas had met each other then there was the possibility that some of the other patrons would know them – and, in particular, that they would know her, and have known her before Mr Chubbytail set eyes on her. So the Zoo it would have to be.
Obviously, he could not show up as he was if he wanted to blend in with the freaks, so he would have to get himself an animal-suit. He thought a bit about how to go about this, and decided to phone a joke shop. "I'm looking for an animal suit", he helpfully informed the guy who answered the phone.
"Certainly sir, what kind of animal were you thinking of?"
"Eh, what do you have?"
"Well it all depends, sir. Are you looking for a suit to wear to a fancy dress party, or are you" (he continued in a manner that dripped sleaze down the phonelines) "getting it for… lifestyle reasons?"
"Eh, what's the difference?"
"Well sir, the fancy dress suits are a bit generic. But the other type of suits need to be more individual, and are consequently more expensive. You don't want to have a suit the same as someone else, do you sir?"
"No, I wouldn't want that at all".
"And of course, if you are pursuing that kind of lifestyle, then you will want a suit that delivers certain kinds of functionality".
"I'm not sure I get you".
"I think you do, sir. I mean that the suit must be designed to provide for access – access in all areas".
Shortly afterwards Devlin found himself trying on his special dog-suit in the backroom of the joke shop.
"Most becoming, sir", said the sales assistant, who then pointed out, in a somewhat over-familiar fashion, how easy it was to unbutton the flaps at the crotch that allowed one to perform all kinds of bodily functions while still wearing the costume.
"I hope it gives you much enjoyment", he smarmed to Devlin as he, now back in his normal clothes, handed over the exorbitant payment for the outfit.
"I'll need a receipt", snapped Devlin, reminding himself that the Panda was going to be paying for all of this.
Hawkwind "Epocheclipse: The Ultimate Best of"
Again, Oxfam have a lot to answer for. This time, though, I have hit paydirt, with a collection of fab tunes by everyone's favourite space-rockers. I reckon if charged with the job of compiling their greatest tunes onto one CD, I would pick a slightly different selection to this, but for people who want an easy introduction to this great band then this would be a great way to go. I'm particularly struck by how enjoyable the late-1980s track 'Night of the Hawks' sounds, this being the one where Lemmy played with the band for the first time since chemical differences forced him out of the line-up.
Out of curiosity, is there any interest out there in an introduction to Hawkwind CD-R?
Out of curiosity, is there any interest out there in an introduction to Hawkwind CD-R?
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
After the cut
So, does anyone know if Blogger blogs have an easy way of doing those cut things that they love so much on Live Journal?
Furry Folk - Part 2
Private detective Jack Devlin has been hired by a man in a panda suit to find his missing wife. Now he is off to the pub.
Devlin's office was on Capel Street, but whenever he felt the call of an early pint he made the trip over to the Palace on Fleet Street. He had tried the Capel Street pubs, but they were not to his taste – they were all either full of skangers or trend people. The Palace was somewhere he found far more congenial. As he came in, he spotted one of his associates drinking on his own at the bar.
"Joe! Story? Pint?" he said, by way of greeting.
"Pint, yeah sure", came the morose reply. "Why not live while we can".
"So, Joe", said Devlin, after placing the order, what has you in the pub so early? Shouldn't you be at work, looking after the administration of the country?"
"Ah, it's all gone to shit, I might as well be here as there".
"Yeah?"
"Jesus Jack, don't you watch the news? The rebels are attacking Athlone. If they take there we're all fucked".
"Athlone? That's a shithole, they're welcome to it".
"That's not really the point – if they take Athlone, there's nowhere else to stop them. They'll be here within the week, and then – ". He made a gesture indicative of a man being hung by his neck until dead.
"Ah now, maybe it won't be that bad. I mean," he continued in an undertone, "they might even be an improvement on the current lot".
"Oh come on, you've seen the pictures from Limerick!"
"Well, yeah, but that's another shithole".
"Well they might think Dublin is another shithole and do the same here! Then we're all fucked! Or at least I am!"
"Well, yeah. So what are you going to do about? Sit here moaning? Wouldn't you be better off, I don't know, signing up with the FCA to do your bit or something?"
Joe paused to take a sip from his newly arrived pint before continuing. "No way, Jack, those poor fuckers won't last a minute, and they'll be the first up against the wall if the rebels get here. No, if Athlone falls, I'm getting the fuck out of here – first train to Belfast".
"I doubt you'll be the only one".
"Jesus, I hadn't thought of it like that! What the fuck am I going to do?"
"Ah, you'll sort something out. Anyway, I've got bigger fish to fry. An interesting case came my way today, you might be able to give me a dig out with it. It all started when this guy in a panda-suit came into my office, and – "
"What's this got to do with me?" interrupted Joe, suspiciously.
"Nothing! Jesus, I just thought that as a man of the world you might have heard something about this kind of thing".
"Well okay, as long as we're clear on one thing, I'm not one of those freaks who dress up in animal costumes. Those people make me sick!"
"I wasn't saying you were".
"Well it sounded to me like you were implying it, and I couldn't let you get away with that. I'm a man, not some perv who likes to dress up as a dog and go round sniffing other people's arses".
"Let it go, Joe, you're protesting too much".
Joe shuffled uncomfortably on his stool. "OK Jack, this Panda, what did he want?"
"His wife had left him. Seemed like she was another panda-suit weirdo too, but she had turned her back on all that. Left her suit behind and everything. He wants me to track her down, so he can give her the big speech, make her come back to him and all that shite".
"I see".
"So, Joe, you are something of a man of the world, and have heard about all kinds of things. I am not for a second suggesting that you are one of these animal suit fruits, but have you ever heard anything about this lot? It's all new to me".
"Well… from what I have heard, they are typically people who live a normal life – what society calls normal anyway – by day, but by night they seize any opportunity to get together with other people who, like them, like to dress up as animals and do animal stuff together".
"What is this all about, Joe? Not that you would have any personal experience, obviously, but from what you have heard, is it all some kind of sex thing? I am having unpleasant visions of a lot of fat middle aged people in animal suits porking away at each other". He shuddered.
"Bring everything down to smut, that's always your way. No, Joe, it's not like that. Or so I have heard. It's a total lifestyle. They engage in the full gamut of interaction with each other. Now, that might include sex, but it's not like it's the central part of what they do, any more than it is in normal life".
"Speak for yourself!", Jack responded, and then wondered if something a bit less flippant would have worked better. "Anyway, from what you are saying, this animal-suit stuff seems to be like, I don't know, fancy dress or something. But this panda-suit guy, he seemed to be living it twenty four seven".
"That, Jack, is the dream of every Furry – that's what they call themselves. Many would live the furry life at home, especially if their spouse is another Furry – it makes it all so much more of a way of life, not just something that people do out in clubs or at parties".
"A pretty weird way of life", retorted Jack, his pint glass now heading for empty.
"Ah yes, of course," replied Joe, before nodding to the bar man for two more pints. "But who are we to judge? Anyway, this Panda fellow you had in your office, he has achieved what so many of his furry friends would dream of – he has the guts to wear his skin wherever he goes, to say to everyone he meets 'I'm a Panda! Have you got a problem with that?'. That would be the greatest thing imaginable… to another Furry, of course".
"Though his wife left him, so maybe it's not that all that great".
"Feh", said Joe, dismissively, "She sounds like a false Furry, some gold digging slut who put on a panda-skin just to leech money off a vulnerable man! Such people are the lowest of the low, Jack. Don't you forget it!"
"Sure, but if it weren't for people like that I'd be out of a job. Anyway, these furry people, where do they get together? Would you have heard this?"
"Well, a lot of it would be at parties in people's houses, but there are some clubs that cater to people of that persuasion. The Pet Shop, the Zoo, Reynard's, they'd be the big ones, and I suppose the Cage would also count. It's for Furries who are into, you know, S & M".
"Bondage Furries, now I've heard it all".
"Oh come on Jack, don't be so narrow-minded! Just as there are normal people who like to be tied over a barrel and mercilessly flogged by women dressed as Ann Doyle, so there are Furries who enjoy being forced to run around mazes or to take part in strange medical experiments. Don't let the minority colour your perception of the whole community!"
"No way, that's not my style Joe, you know it", he replied. And then, in an undertone: "Joe, keep your voice down, walls have ears, you know? This isn't the kind of thing you want too many people to hear you talking about". Jack had started to wonder if the guy in the corner with the sweaty face was only pretending to read his Irish Times. He had the air of someone who liked to earwig on pub conversations, and he seemed to be nursing his pint a bit too much to be the kind of serious drinker you find in a pub in the later part of the afternoon.
"Sure Jack, I get you", Joe responded, in what passed for a whisper.
"One more thing, Joe. From what you're saying, this animal-suit scene seems to be pretty big. From talking to the Panda, I thought it was only a dozen or so fruits getting together once a month or something".
"No Jack, you're wrong. The scene is huge! Furries are everywhere. Anyone you look at, they could be one too! That's the thing with the suits, you never know who that dog or squirrel you're talking to might be in 'real' life. And you never know who might have a furry suit hidden at home".
Jack glanced around the bar, looking at the barmen, the other patrons, and at Mr Sweatyface, imagining them all as people who might like to put on animal suits and secretly get together to do whatever the furry people did. It was a most disturbing thought, and one that made him suddenly feel the need to get out and clear his head.
"Cheers Joe", he said, before knocking back his pint. "Thanks for filling me in on all these furry freaks. I've got to go now, but I'll see you again soon. If you haven't run away to Belfast, obviously".
With that hurried goodbye, he made his way out into the street and started moving through the crowds. It was late on Friday afternoon now, and Temple Bar was already filling up with wankers. He pushed his way through them, determined to punch the face in of any fool who tried to start something. No one was obliging enough to give him an excuse. Devlin continued drifting through the crowds, not really going anywhere in particular. But then that alertness that goes with his profession kicked in, and he realised with a start that the sweaty-faced guy from the Palace was following him. Or at least, he seemed to be following him. It could just be coincidence, of course. Time to check this guy out, thought Devlin.
Trying to look as though he was unaware of his tail, Jack took a roundabout route up to Dame Street and then crossed over and made his way into the maze of side-streets that fill the space between Grafton Street and George's Street. Sweatface was still coming along afterwards, trying far too obviously to look as unobtrusive as possible. Maybe he's the one I'm meant to see, thought Devlin, wondering if maybe there were more subtle tails marking his course through the city. Somewhat unlikely, he reckoned, but there was only one way to find out. Devlin ducked up Andrew's Lane, and past the theatre and hid in the bend of the roadway there. No one around, good. He pretended to fiddle with his mobile phone, so he would look that bit less suspicious to anyone who spotted him.
Soon enough he heard footsteps coming along the way he had just travelled, and then Sweatface came round the corner, his faux nonchalance turning into dismay when he realised that his target was right there in front of him. His dismay multiplied when Devlin grabbed his jacket and slammed him roughly against the theatre's wall.
"Right, fucko, what's going on here? Why are you following me?"
"I don't know what you're talking about – ow!"
Devlin had slammed him against the wall again. "Cut the crap! Don't try to play me for a fool!" He shook Sweatface roughly one more time, realising that this guy was plainly not used to rough stuff.
"Ow! Stop hurting me! Alright, I was following you… I wanted to warn you! I heard you in the Palace, and you need to be careful – you are getting involved with things you don't understand!"
"Stop giving me the conspiracy theory bollocks and tell me what you're on about!" Devlin slammed the increasingly sweat-faced man against the wall, one more time, not so much because he reckoned it would make him talk, but because it was fun.
"Ow! It's the Furries! I heard you talking about them. They're dangerous – they don't like outsiders poking around in their business, and they'll do anything to stop their secrets getting out. Be careful, for the love of God!"
"So you're saying I should watch out for a load of freaks in bunny costumes?"
"Yes! yes! Believe me – I know what I'm talking about!"
"And how would that be?" said Devlin, getting ready to slam the sweat-faced sap against the wall again. But before he could do so, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps from around the corner and a distinctive broad accent calling out:
"What's goin' on there now?"
The Guards! The last thing Devlin needed was trouble from those clowns. He flung the snivelling wretch down to the ground and sprinted off as fast as he could, hoping that the man he had been questioning would not feel like telling tales, and that if he did he hadn't caught his name in the Palace.
There is an art to running away, especially from people who have not seen you and do not know what you look like. Devlin was practiced in that art. Once he had rounded another corner he ducked down into another alleyway, came out onto another street, and then assumed the kind of ambling pace that someone out for an after-work stroll might adopt. He became the very picture of innocence. He walked around aimlessly for a bit, stopping in a shop for a packet of crisps, and then when the coast seemed definitely clear he made his way home.
There was a thick, hand-delivered envelope waiting for him in his post-box. He opened it up, to find a couple of wads of money – €50 bills, no less – and a note.
"Dear Mr Devlin. Today you can expect a man in a panda-suit to visit your office, attempting to engage your services. He is not what he seems. Do not take him on as a client. Let Laura have her freedom. As compensation for losing this business, please accept the enclosed monies as a token of our appreciation."
Devlin had not checked the post-box on the way out, so the note could have been there this morning. Reflecting that they had not left a return address, Devlin scrunched the note into his pocket and trousered the cash. He did not count the money, but it had to be a couple of grand's worth. The case was becoming even more bizarre than it had appeared when Mr Chubbytail walked into his office, but whatever happened, he had taken on the case and was bound to the Panda by a commercial relationship. He could not back out now.
Devlin's office was on Capel Street, but whenever he felt the call of an early pint he made the trip over to the Palace on Fleet Street. He had tried the Capel Street pubs, but they were not to his taste – they were all either full of skangers or trend people. The Palace was somewhere he found far more congenial. As he came in, he spotted one of his associates drinking on his own at the bar.
"Joe! Story? Pint?" he said, by way of greeting.
"Pint, yeah sure", came the morose reply. "Why not live while we can".
"So, Joe", said Devlin, after placing the order, what has you in the pub so early? Shouldn't you be at work, looking after the administration of the country?"
"Ah, it's all gone to shit, I might as well be here as there".
"Yeah?"
"Jesus Jack, don't you watch the news? The rebels are attacking Athlone. If they take there we're all fucked".
"Athlone? That's a shithole, they're welcome to it".
"That's not really the point – if they take Athlone, there's nowhere else to stop them. They'll be here within the week, and then – ". He made a gesture indicative of a man being hung by his neck until dead.
"Ah now, maybe it won't be that bad. I mean," he continued in an undertone, "they might even be an improvement on the current lot".
"Oh come on, you've seen the pictures from Limerick!"
"Well, yeah, but that's another shithole".
"Well they might think Dublin is another shithole and do the same here! Then we're all fucked! Or at least I am!"
"Well, yeah. So what are you going to do about? Sit here moaning? Wouldn't you be better off, I don't know, signing up with the FCA to do your bit or something?"
Joe paused to take a sip from his newly arrived pint before continuing. "No way, Jack, those poor fuckers won't last a minute, and they'll be the first up against the wall if the rebels get here. No, if Athlone falls, I'm getting the fuck out of here – first train to Belfast".
"I doubt you'll be the only one".
"Jesus, I hadn't thought of it like that! What the fuck am I going to do?"
"Ah, you'll sort something out. Anyway, I've got bigger fish to fry. An interesting case came my way today, you might be able to give me a dig out with it. It all started when this guy in a panda-suit came into my office, and – "
"What's this got to do with me?" interrupted Joe, suspiciously.
"Nothing! Jesus, I just thought that as a man of the world you might have heard something about this kind of thing".
"Well okay, as long as we're clear on one thing, I'm not one of those freaks who dress up in animal costumes. Those people make me sick!"
"I wasn't saying you were".
"Well it sounded to me like you were implying it, and I couldn't let you get away with that. I'm a man, not some perv who likes to dress up as a dog and go round sniffing other people's arses".
"Let it go, Joe, you're protesting too much".
Joe shuffled uncomfortably on his stool. "OK Jack, this Panda, what did he want?"
"His wife had left him. Seemed like she was another panda-suit weirdo too, but she had turned her back on all that. Left her suit behind and everything. He wants me to track her down, so he can give her the big speech, make her come back to him and all that shite".
"I see".
"So, Joe, you are something of a man of the world, and have heard about all kinds of things. I am not for a second suggesting that you are one of these animal suit fruits, but have you ever heard anything about this lot? It's all new to me".
"Well… from what I have heard, they are typically people who live a normal life – what society calls normal anyway – by day, but by night they seize any opportunity to get together with other people who, like them, like to dress up as animals and do animal stuff together".
"What is this all about, Joe? Not that you would have any personal experience, obviously, but from what you have heard, is it all some kind of sex thing? I am having unpleasant visions of a lot of fat middle aged people in animal suits porking away at each other". He shuddered.
"Bring everything down to smut, that's always your way. No, Joe, it's not like that. Or so I have heard. It's a total lifestyle. They engage in the full gamut of interaction with each other. Now, that might include sex, but it's not like it's the central part of what they do, any more than it is in normal life".
"Speak for yourself!", Jack responded, and then wondered if something a bit less flippant would have worked better. "Anyway, from what you are saying, this animal-suit stuff seems to be like, I don't know, fancy dress or something. But this panda-suit guy, he seemed to be living it twenty four seven".
"That, Jack, is the dream of every Furry – that's what they call themselves. Many would live the furry life at home, especially if their spouse is another Furry – it makes it all so much more of a way of life, not just something that people do out in clubs or at parties".
"A pretty weird way of life", retorted Jack, his pint glass now heading for empty.
"Ah yes, of course," replied Joe, before nodding to the bar man for two more pints. "But who are we to judge? Anyway, this Panda fellow you had in your office, he has achieved what so many of his furry friends would dream of – he has the guts to wear his skin wherever he goes, to say to everyone he meets 'I'm a Panda! Have you got a problem with that?'. That would be the greatest thing imaginable… to another Furry, of course".
"Though his wife left him, so maybe it's not that all that great".
"Feh", said Joe, dismissively, "She sounds like a false Furry, some gold digging slut who put on a panda-skin just to leech money off a vulnerable man! Such people are the lowest of the low, Jack. Don't you forget it!"
"Sure, but if it weren't for people like that I'd be out of a job. Anyway, these furry people, where do they get together? Would you have heard this?"
"Well, a lot of it would be at parties in people's houses, but there are some clubs that cater to people of that persuasion. The Pet Shop, the Zoo, Reynard's, they'd be the big ones, and I suppose the Cage would also count. It's for Furries who are into, you know, S & M".
"Bondage Furries, now I've heard it all".
"Oh come on Jack, don't be so narrow-minded! Just as there are normal people who like to be tied over a barrel and mercilessly flogged by women dressed as Ann Doyle, so there are Furries who enjoy being forced to run around mazes or to take part in strange medical experiments. Don't let the minority colour your perception of the whole community!"
"No way, that's not my style Joe, you know it", he replied. And then, in an undertone: "Joe, keep your voice down, walls have ears, you know? This isn't the kind of thing you want too many people to hear you talking about". Jack had started to wonder if the guy in the corner with the sweaty face was only pretending to read his Irish Times. He had the air of someone who liked to earwig on pub conversations, and he seemed to be nursing his pint a bit too much to be the kind of serious drinker you find in a pub in the later part of the afternoon.
"Sure Jack, I get you", Joe responded, in what passed for a whisper.
"One more thing, Joe. From what you're saying, this animal-suit scene seems to be pretty big. From talking to the Panda, I thought it was only a dozen or so fruits getting together once a month or something".
"No Jack, you're wrong. The scene is huge! Furries are everywhere. Anyone you look at, they could be one too! That's the thing with the suits, you never know who that dog or squirrel you're talking to might be in 'real' life. And you never know who might have a furry suit hidden at home".
Jack glanced around the bar, looking at the barmen, the other patrons, and at Mr Sweatyface, imagining them all as people who might like to put on animal suits and secretly get together to do whatever the furry people did. It was a most disturbing thought, and one that made him suddenly feel the need to get out and clear his head.
"Cheers Joe", he said, before knocking back his pint. "Thanks for filling me in on all these furry freaks. I've got to go now, but I'll see you again soon. If you haven't run away to Belfast, obviously".
With that hurried goodbye, he made his way out into the street and started moving through the crowds. It was late on Friday afternoon now, and Temple Bar was already filling up with wankers. He pushed his way through them, determined to punch the face in of any fool who tried to start something. No one was obliging enough to give him an excuse. Devlin continued drifting through the crowds, not really going anywhere in particular. But then that alertness that goes with his profession kicked in, and he realised with a start that the sweaty-faced guy from the Palace was following him. Or at least, he seemed to be following him. It could just be coincidence, of course. Time to check this guy out, thought Devlin.
Trying to look as though he was unaware of his tail, Jack took a roundabout route up to Dame Street and then crossed over and made his way into the maze of side-streets that fill the space between Grafton Street and George's Street. Sweatface was still coming along afterwards, trying far too obviously to look as unobtrusive as possible. Maybe he's the one I'm meant to see, thought Devlin, wondering if maybe there were more subtle tails marking his course through the city. Somewhat unlikely, he reckoned, but there was only one way to find out. Devlin ducked up Andrew's Lane, and past the theatre and hid in the bend of the roadway there. No one around, good. He pretended to fiddle with his mobile phone, so he would look that bit less suspicious to anyone who spotted him.
Soon enough he heard footsteps coming along the way he had just travelled, and then Sweatface came round the corner, his faux nonchalance turning into dismay when he realised that his target was right there in front of him. His dismay multiplied when Devlin grabbed his jacket and slammed him roughly against the theatre's wall.
"Right, fucko, what's going on here? Why are you following me?"
"I don't know what you're talking about – ow!"
Devlin had slammed him against the wall again. "Cut the crap! Don't try to play me for a fool!" He shook Sweatface roughly one more time, realising that this guy was plainly not used to rough stuff.
"Ow! Stop hurting me! Alright, I was following you… I wanted to warn you! I heard you in the Palace, and you need to be careful – you are getting involved with things you don't understand!"
"Stop giving me the conspiracy theory bollocks and tell me what you're on about!" Devlin slammed the increasingly sweat-faced man against the wall, one more time, not so much because he reckoned it would make him talk, but because it was fun.
"Ow! It's the Furries! I heard you talking about them. They're dangerous – they don't like outsiders poking around in their business, and they'll do anything to stop their secrets getting out. Be careful, for the love of God!"
"So you're saying I should watch out for a load of freaks in bunny costumes?"
"Yes! yes! Believe me – I know what I'm talking about!"
"And how would that be?" said Devlin, getting ready to slam the sweat-faced sap against the wall again. But before he could do so, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps from around the corner and a distinctive broad accent calling out:
"What's goin' on there now?"
The Guards! The last thing Devlin needed was trouble from those clowns. He flung the snivelling wretch down to the ground and sprinted off as fast as he could, hoping that the man he had been questioning would not feel like telling tales, and that if he did he hadn't caught his name in the Palace.
There is an art to running away, especially from people who have not seen you and do not know what you look like. Devlin was practiced in that art. Once he had rounded another corner he ducked down into another alleyway, came out onto another street, and then assumed the kind of ambling pace that someone out for an after-work stroll might adopt. He became the very picture of innocence. He walked around aimlessly for a bit, stopping in a shop for a packet of crisps, and then when the coast seemed definitely clear he made his way home.
There was a thick, hand-delivered envelope waiting for him in his post-box. He opened it up, to find a couple of wads of money – €50 bills, no less – and a note.
"Dear Mr Devlin. Today you can expect a man in a panda-suit to visit your office, attempting to engage your services. He is not what he seems. Do not take him on as a client. Let Laura have her freedom. As compensation for losing this business, please accept the enclosed monies as a token of our appreciation."
Devlin had not checked the post-box on the way out, so the note could have been there this morning. Reflecting that they had not left a return address, Devlin scrunched the note into his pocket and trousered the cash. He did not count the money, but it had to be a couple of grand's worth. The case was becoming even more bizarre than it had appeared when Mr Chubbytail walked into his office, but whatever happened, he had taken on the case and was bound to the Panda by a commercial relationship. He could not back out now.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Furry Folk - Part 1
What the hell. I have decided to post my NaNoWriMo thing here, in instalments. The worst that can happen is public humiliation. Anyway, it is going to appear here at the same rate I wrote it, typos and all, but only for a limited period of time.
Here's part one, written on the 1st of November.
Jack Devlin was drunk. When some people get drunk, they become violent, combative, and argumentative. Jack, though, just became talkative and over-friendly.
"So yeah, how is business going for you at the moment?"
"It has been better", replied his taxi driver. "People do not take so many cab trips now".
"Yeah yeah, the economic situation. It's not holding me back! I've just closed a big case. I'm a private investigator, you know? It's not as exciting as it sounds, all insurance scams and taking money from saps whose wife is getting it on with their best friend. It was a bit of that this time. This guy, he thought his wife was seeing someone else… turned out she was seeing half of Dublin. Jesus, I might be in with a chance with her myself. She's a really fine looking woman… great pair of tubridies… ". He trailed off in silent contemplation. And then: "Maybe I should give her a ring – I've got her number!"
The taxi driver made no reply while Devlin fumbled for his mobile and keyed in the numbers. The phone went straight to voicemail, unsurprisingly given the lateness of the hour.
"Hi! Yeah, how are you? Listen, you don't know me, but I was wondering if you might fancy meeting up for a meal or a drink or something, taking it from there, you know, seeing where it goes. The Korean places on Parnell Street, they're good crack, not too expensive, and you can do a it of karaoke afterwards, puts you in an excitable frame of mind, see what happens… what do you – ".
The voicemail's closing beep cut him off. Devlin started to imagine the woman disrobing in front of him, but then he remembered where he was and started to engage the taxi driver again.
"Hey, have you ever seen Taxi Driver? I've always wondered whether you guys watch it".
"Oh yes, it is very good. That Danny De Vito, he is a very funny man".
"I think that's the TV series you're thinking of. I mean the film, with Robet De Niro. You know, 'Are you talkin' to me?' and all that".
"Is Marilou Henner in it? She is very beautiful lady".
"No, but they had yer one from Moonlighting. But the film isn't the same, it's about this guy who drives taxis, and he is a Vietnam vet, and he turns into a bit of a psycho".
"That does not sound as good as the TV programme. It was very popular in my country. Seeing it made me decide to come here and become a taxi driver".
"But it's set in New York…"
"It's all the same".
Devlin looked out the window. Where was he? How long had he been in this cab? Where was he going?
"Eh, is this the way to Rathgar?"
"Ah yes, short cut, avoiding congestion".
A few minutes later Devlin was outside his apartment building. Thirty five Euro seemed a bit steep for the fare, though he was not really in a position to argue.
There was a guy in a white tracksuit and a shifty looking moustache loitering near the front door of Devlin's apartment, who now started trying to engage him in conversation. Devlin ignored him, opening the door as quickly as he could, tense in case he would suddenly have to fight for his life. "Here bud! Come here! I got something for you, Mr Devlin", but the slamming of the door drowned out his words. Devlin found himself wondering how the skanger knew his name, but did not dwell on this mystery. His bed was calling him, and that is where he soon found himself.
Devlin slept late the next day. After a leisurely breakfast he rolled into the office, said hello to his floor's receptionist and buried himself in some of the paperwork he needed to catch up on. Distraction soon set in, and he found himself checking webmail and reigniting a frank online discussion on the relative merits of the different Indiana Jones films. And then his phone rang, he answered a call from his receptionist, and his day changed course alarmingly.
"Mr Devlin, there's a… a Panda here to see you", said his receptionist.
"A Panda, Jane?"
"Well, not an actual Panda. That would be weird. What I mean is, there is a guy in a panda-suit here to see you."
"OK, it takes all sorts, show the fucker in".
And so Devlin found himself ushering a somewhat chubby looking man in a panda-suit into his office. "Please do not take offense, Mr Devlin, if I decline to shake your hand", began the visitor, speaking in a deliberate and distinguished voice that suggested time spent studying art history in Trinity College Dublin. "Incorrect assumptions about pandas abound in this age of debased culture, and one of the most pernicious is that pandas crave nothing more than physical contact with complete strangers. Hence the propensity for people to try to give me hugs" (at this he shuddered) "when we have barely been introduced. The truth is, Mr Devlin, that I loathe physical contact of any sort with any but my own kind, and even then only after a long and extensive courtship. Even a touch of the hand is something that I find rather disgusting, especially with a – with a person such as yourself".
"Sure, sure, no hand-shakes, I get the idea", said Devlin as he ushered the Panda into a seat into which he was barely able to squeeze. "So, what can I do for you, Mr…? Someone been at your bamboo?"
"Very droll, Mr Devlin, I see your reputation as something of a humorist is well deserved. I am not, however, in a situation where jokes are of much assistance. And you can call me Mr Chubbytail".
"I take it that's not the name on your birth cert?"
"No sir, it is not, but if you are asking whether it is my real name then I can assure you that it is. I changed my name by deed poll five years ago when I adopted this persona. Mr Chubbytail is the only name by which I am known".
"No first name?"
"I have no need of such a thing. In formal situations Mr Chubbytail is perfectly appropriate, while in more intimate company the mister can be dropped and I become simply Chubbytail. But, Mr Devlin, this is not an intimate encounter, and all this talk is taking time away from more important matters".
"Sure, you'll have to forgive me if my normal professionalism lapses. I've never had a guy in a panda-suit in my office before, so – "
"Mr Devlin", interrupted Mr Chubbytail icily, "Please do not under any circumstances ever refer to my skin as a panda-suit. It is not something I take off and put on at will, but an intrinsic part of what I am".
"Sorry! Jesus, look, this is all new to me, don't take it the wrong way if I make a wrong step. Let's start again. What has led to you requiring the services of a private investigator, and what has brought you to me?"
"Well Mr Devlin, I can answer the second part first. I was given your name by an associate, who recommended you as someone who can deal with the most sensitive matters with the necessary tact and discretion. He warned me of your less appealing personal qualities, but he made clear that you were the kind of fellow who can accomplish wonders, and all at a highly competitive price".
"I aim to please".
"And as to what brings me here – well surely you can guess. I mentioned that I loathe physical contact with any save my own kind, and even then a courtship that your sort would find unacceptably lengthy is necessary. Now, after years of disappointment, I had found a mate, a most delightful lady Panda called Miss Cuddlebuns. The more we came to know each other, the more in love we grew. Last year we took the logical next step – Miss Cuddlebuns became Mrs Chubbytail. Yes, Mr Devlin, we got married. Marriage is not just for your kind, but for ours as well".
"Well, I've no problem with that, take love where you find it and all that".
"My mate and I set up home together. Our life was one of unremitting joy. We looked forward to the day when we would be blessed with offspring, when our house would echo to the sounds of little Panda cubs gambolling around. But that… that was then. Things are different now". A hesitation crept into his voice, but he forced himself to continue.
"Last Tuesday, I arrived home from the office to find that my wife had gone. She had left me a note – and her skin. Mr Devlin, she is a Panda no more".
"I see. Do you have the note with you?"
Mr Chubbytail's suit seemed to come equipped with pockets, and from one of these he produced a piece of paper and began to read. "'My dear husband. This is the hardest letter I will ever have to write. I love you, and I always will, but all this time I have been with you, I have been living a lie. I have tried to deny it, but I can do so no longer. Chubbytail, I am not really a Panda'", and at this a choking quality came into the Panda's voice, as his black-eared head slouched forward. "'I am a human being. I belong with my own kind. I must leave you now. We must never see each other again. I hope one day you will find yourself a good lady Panda, god knows you deserve it. Yours with eternal affection, Laura'. Do you see Mr Devlin, she didn't even sign the letter with her real name?"
At this Mr Chubbytail broke down into tears, sobs causing his black and white frame to convulse. Devlin jumped up and was about to give him a reassuring hug when he remembered Mr Chubbytail's aversion to physical contact. Another tack was called for, so he ran over to the filing cabinet and produced bottle of cheap Irish whisky. "There there Mr Chubbytail, how about a glass of Paddy to cheer you up?"
"Thank you Mr Devlin, you are too kind", sobbed Mr Chubbytail. "But I never drink alcoholic beverages".
"Come on, just this once, it's not every day a man, eh a Panda loses his wife" he said, forcing a well-filled glass into Mr Chubbytail's paw, albeit with the minimum possible amount of skin-fur contact. "Look, I'm going to have one myself, don't make me look like the kind of guy who drinks on his own like a sad alcoholic".
"Alright Mr Devlin, I will take a couple of sips", said Mr Chubbytail, bringing the glass up to the suit's mouth, where a small aperture allowed it access to the human mouth behind.
"Now Mr Chubbytail, tell me, where do I come into all this?"
"Well Mr Devlin", he said, with composure returning to his voice, "I want you to find my Cuddlebuns. I need to talk to her again. If I can speak to her one more time, then I am sure that I can persuade her of the error of her ways. Mr Devlin, what she said in that note is just not true – she is a Panda, through and through. She can never be happy in the human world".
"Mr Chubbytail, I am happy to take this job, but I have to warn you – you are probably setting yourself up for a big disappointment. You may be the first Panda to come into this office, but I've seen a lot of husbands whose wives have done a bunk, and they always think they can make them come back. They can't. When a woman walks, she's gone".
"But my Cuddlebuns is not a woman, Mr Devlin – she's a Panda".
"I'm not sure if that makes a big difference, but look, I've tried telling you, my ethical duty is done. So now let's get on with things. Have you any idea where your wife might have gone?"
"No, Mr Devlin. She is in the world of humans now. Your world. That is why I am hiring you to find her".
"I see. Well, can you tell me anything about her background, or even her real name – I mean her name before she became Miss Cuddlebuns?"
"I cannot, Mr Devlin, save that the note reveals that her former first name was Laura. She was already Miss Cuddlebuns when we met".
"Is that the name on her marriage certificate?"
"Mr Devlin, we did not marry in one of your churches, or in a registry office for your kind. We married in a ceremony before those who share our persuasion, and yes, I can assure that Miss Cuddlebuns was recorded there as her name before marriage".
"I see. But can you tell me where and when did you meet?"
"Five years ago, Mr Devlin. We met at the Zoological Club, known somewhat more informally as the Zoo. It is a convivial environment where our kind meet and relax together, away from… your sort. I say that without meaning to give offence, Mr Devlin. I am sure your kind are happy in their own way, but we are always happier without the snide glances of the furless. That is why we seek out our own exclusive company, wherever and whenever possible".
"So, a whole club full of Pandas?"
"Not all Pandas, Mr Devlin, not all Pandas. All kinds of furry creatures frequent the Zoological Club. The venue opens its doors to all who are blessed with a body covered completely in thick hair".
Devlin wondered if his ex-girlfriend had heard of this place, she would fit right in. "I see, Mr Chubbytail. I think this is going to be a bit difficult. But tell me, do you have any pictures of your wife?"
"Why yes, of course", said Mr Chubbytail as he produced some photographs from another of his pockets.
"Ah, I meant photos of her not wearing the, ah skin, whatever you call it".
"Mr Devlin, what do you take me for?" replied the Panda, with a hurt expression. "I am not the kind of person who is interested in taking obscene photographs of his loved ones. That kind of sordid smuttiness disgusts me". He shuddered.
"Fair enough", said Devlin. "I thought maybe she could have some photos from before she had become a Panda, or… whatever. This is not giving me much to go on. Does she have a mobile phone?"
The Panda wrote down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Devlin. "I have tried telephoning her, but the phone seems to be switched off".
"Well I don't know, Mr Chubbytail, this all does not give me much to go on. I will see what I can find and come back to you in a week. If the trail is cold, I won't take your money any further, but if the leads are going somewhere you can decide how you want to play it. Speaking of money, there is the small matter of my remuneration…"
That led to a brief discussion of payment rates and expenses, after which a short document was signed. Devlin then walked the Panda back to the lift, promising to do his best to find his wife.
"I have complete faith in you, Mr Devlin. You cannot fail. I must speak to my wife again. Deep down inside I know one thing – that Miss Cuddlebuns misses her Chubbytail".
"I'm sure she does", replied Devlin waving his client into the lift. Strolling back into the reception area he came across Jane reading some celebrity scandal sheet. "It takes all sorts, eh Jane?" he said by way of a conversational opener.
"Yeah? Oh you mean the panda? Yeah, I suppose it does".
Devlin went left her to her reading and went back into his office. How the hell was he going to get anywhere with this case? While helping himself to another whisky, he checked his mobile for messages. Someone he didn't know had texted him.
"SCREW U ASSHOL U TINK U R BIG MAN HOW BIG U B WHEN I CUT UR DICK OF N FEED 2 UR DOG?"
"Charming", thought Devlin. Then he remembered that he didn't have a dog. What was this all about? Probably one of the lads playing some kind of prank.
"FUKC YOPU CNUTY UR GAY" he texted back. That made him feel better. Then he decided he had been in work for long enough and headed out to the pub.
Here's part one, written on the 1st of November.
Jack Devlin was drunk. When some people get drunk, they become violent, combative, and argumentative. Jack, though, just became talkative and over-friendly.
"So yeah, how is business going for you at the moment?"
"It has been better", replied his taxi driver. "People do not take so many cab trips now".
"Yeah yeah, the economic situation. It's not holding me back! I've just closed a big case. I'm a private investigator, you know? It's not as exciting as it sounds, all insurance scams and taking money from saps whose wife is getting it on with their best friend. It was a bit of that this time. This guy, he thought his wife was seeing someone else… turned out she was seeing half of Dublin. Jesus, I might be in with a chance with her myself. She's a really fine looking woman… great pair of tubridies… ". He trailed off in silent contemplation. And then: "Maybe I should give her a ring – I've got her number!"
The taxi driver made no reply while Devlin fumbled for his mobile and keyed in the numbers. The phone went straight to voicemail, unsurprisingly given the lateness of the hour.
"Hi! Yeah, how are you? Listen, you don't know me, but I was wondering if you might fancy meeting up for a meal or a drink or something, taking it from there, you know, seeing where it goes. The Korean places on Parnell Street, they're good crack, not too expensive, and you can do a it of karaoke afterwards, puts you in an excitable frame of mind, see what happens… what do you – ".
The voicemail's closing beep cut him off. Devlin started to imagine the woman disrobing in front of him, but then he remembered where he was and started to engage the taxi driver again.
"Hey, have you ever seen Taxi Driver? I've always wondered whether you guys watch it".
"Oh yes, it is very good. That Danny De Vito, he is a very funny man".
"I think that's the TV series you're thinking of. I mean the film, with Robet De Niro. You know, 'Are you talkin' to me?' and all that".
"Is Marilou Henner in it? She is very beautiful lady".
"No, but they had yer one from Moonlighting. But the film isn't the same, it's about this guy who drives taxis, and he is a Vietnam vet, and he turns into a bit of a psycho".
"That does not sound as good as the TV programme. It was very popular in my country. Seeing it made me decide to come here and become a taxi driver".
"But it's set in New York…"
"It's all the same".
Devlin looked out the window. Where was he? How long had he been in this cab? Where was he going?
"Eh, is this the way to Rathgar?"
"Ah yes, short cut, avoiding congestion".
A few minutes later Devlin was outside his apartment building. Thirty five Euro seemed a bit steep for the fare, though he was not really in a position to argue.
There was a guy in a white tracksuit and a shifty looking moustache loitering near the front door of Devlin's apartment, who now started trying to engage him in conversation. Devlin ignored him, opening the door as quickly as he could, tense in case he would suddenly have to fight for his life. "Here bud! Come here! I got something for you, Mr Devlin", but the slamming of the door drowned out his words. Devlin found himself wondering how the skanger knew his name, but did not dwell on this mystery. His bed was calling him, and that is where he soon found himself.
Devlin slept late the next day. After a leisurely breakfast he rolled into the office, said hello to his floor's receptionist and buried himself in some of the paperwork he needed to catch up on. Distraction soon set in, and he found himself checking webmail and reigniting a frank online discussion on the relative merits of the different Indiana Jones films. And then his phone rang, he answered a call from his receptionist, and his day changed course alarmingly.
"Mr Devlin, there's a… a Panda here to see you", said his receptionist.
"A Panda, Jane?"
"Well, not an actual Panda. That would be weird. What I mean is, there is a guy in a panda-suit here to see you."
"OK, it takes all sorts, show the fucker in".
And so Devlin found himself ushering a somewhat chubby looking man in a panda-suit into his office. "Please do not take offense, Mr Devlin, if I decline to shake your hand", began the visitor, speaking in a deliberate and distinguished voice that suggested time spent studying art history in Trinity College Dublin. "Incorrect assumptions about pandas abound in this age of debased culture, and one of the most pernicious is that pandas crave nothing more than physical contact with complete strangers. Hence the propensity for people to try to give me hugs" (at this he shuddered) "when we have barely been introduced. The truth is, Mr Devlin, that I loathe physical contact of any sort with any but my own kind, and even then only after a long and extensive courtship. Even a touch of the hand is something that I find rather disgusting, especially with a – with a person such as yourself".
"Sure, sure, no hand-shakes, I get the idea", said Devlin as he ushered the Panda into a seat into which he was barely able to squeeze. "So, what can I do for you, Mr…? Someone been at your bamboo?"
"Very droll, Mr Devlin, I see your reputation as something of a humorist is well deserved. I am not, however, in a situation where jokes are of much assistance. And you can call me Mr Chubbytail".
"I take it that's not the name on your birth cert?"
"No sir, it is not, but if you are asking whether it is my real name then I can assure you that it is. I changed my name by deed poll five years ago when I adopted this persona. Mr Chubbytail is the only name by which I am known".
"No first name?"
"I have no need of such a thing. In formal situations Mr Chubbytail is perfectly appropriate, while in more intimate company the mister can be dropped and I become simply Chubbytail. But, Mr Devlin, this is not an intimate encounter, and all this talk is taking time away from more important matters".
"Sure, you'll have to forgive me if my normal professionalism lapses. I've never had a guy in a panda-suit in my office before, so – "
"Mr Devlin", interrupted Mr Chubbytail icily, "Please do not under any circumstances ever refer to my skin as a panda-suit. It is not something I take off and put on at will, but an intrinsic part of what I am".
"Sorry! Jesus, look, this is all new to me, don't take it the wrong way if I make a wrong step. Let's start again. What has led to you requiring the services of a private investigator, and what has brought you to me?"
"Well Mr Devlin, I can answer the second part first. I was given your name by an associate, who recommended you as someone who can deal with the most sensitive matters with the necessary tact and discretion. He warned me of your less appealing personal qualities, but he made clear that you were the kind of fellow who can accomplish wonders, and all at a highly competitive price".
"I aim to please".
"And as to what brings me here – well surely you can guess. I mentioned that I loathe physical contact with any save my own kind, and even then a courtship that your sort would find unacceptably lengthy is necessary. Now, after years of disappointment, I had found a mate, a most delightful lady Panda called Miss Cuddlebuns. The more we came to know each other, the more in love we grew. Last year we took the logical next step – Miss Cuddlebuns became Mrs Chubbytail. Yes, Mr Devlin, we got married. Marriage is not just for your kind, but for ours as well".
"Well, I've no problem with that, take love where you find it and all that".
"My mate and I set up home together. Our life was one of unremitting joy. We looked forward to the day when we would be blessed with offspring, when our house would echo to the sounds of little Panda cubs gambolling around. But that… that was then. Things are different now". A hesitation crept into his voice, but he forced himself to continue.
"Last Tuesday, I arrived home from the office to find that my wife had gone. She had left me a note – and her skin. Mr Devlin, she is a Panda no more".
"I see. Do you have the note with you?"
Mr Chubbytail's suit seemed to come equipped with pockets, and from one of these he produced a piece of paper and began to read. "'My dear husband. This is the hardest letter I will ever have to write. I love you, and I always will, but all this time I have been with you, I have been living a lie. I have tried to deny it, but I can do so no longer. Chubbytail, I am not really a Panda'", and at this a choking quality came into the Panda's voice, as his black-eared head slouched forward. "'I am a human being. I belong with my own kind. I must leave you now. We must never see each other again. I hope one day you will find yourself a good lady Panda, god knows you deserve it. Yours with eternal affection, Laura'. Do you see Mr Devlin, she didn't even sign the letter with her real name?"
At this Mr Chubbytail broke down into tears, sobs causing his black and white frame to convulse. Devlin jumped up and was about to give him a reassuring hug when he remembered Mr Chubbytail's aversion to physical contact. Another tack was called for, so he ran over to the filing cabinet and produced bottle of cheap Irish whisky. "There there Mr Chubbytail, how about a glass of Paddy to cheer you up?"
"Thank you Mr Devlin, you are too kind", sobbed Mr Chubbytail. "But I never drink alcoholic beverages".
"Come on, just this once, it's not every day a man, eh a Panda loses his wife" he said, forcing a well-filled glass into Mr Chubbytail's paw, albeit with the minimum possible amount of skin-fur contact. "Look, I'm going to have one myself, don't make me look like the kind of guy who drinks on his own like a sad alcoholic".
"Alright Mr Devlin, I will take a couple of sips", said Mr Chubbytail, bringing the glass up to the suit's mouth, where a small aperture allowed it access to the human mouth behind.
"Now Mr Chubbytail, tell me, where do I come into all this?"
"Well Mr Devlin", he said, with composure returning to his voice, "I want you to find my Cuddlebuns. I need to talk to her again. If I can speak to her one more time, then I am sure that I can persuade her of the error of her ways. Mr Devlin, what she said in that note is just not true – she is a Panda, through and through. She can never be happy in the human world".
"Mr Chubbytail, I am happy to take this job, but I have to warn you – you are probably setting yourself up for a big disappointment. You may be the first Panda to come into this office, but I've seen a lot of husbands whose wives have done a bunk, and they always think they can make them come back. They can't. When a woman walks, she's gone".
"But my Cuddlebuns is not a woman, Mr Devlin – she's a Panda".
"I'm not sure if that makes a big difference, but look, I've tried telling you, my ethical duty is done. So now let's get on with things. Have you any idea where your wife might have gone?"
"No, Mr Devlin. She is in the world of humans now. Your world. That is why I am hiring you to find her".
"I see. Well, can you tell me anything about her background, or even her real name – I mean her name before she became Miss Cuddlebuns?"
"I cannot, Mr Devlin, save that the note reveals that her former first name was Laura. She was already Miss Cuddlebuns when we met".
"Is that the name on her marriage certificate?"
"Mr Devlin, we did not marry in one of your churches, or in a registry office for your kind. We married in a ceremony before those who share our persuasion, and yes, I can assure that Miss Cuddlebuns was recorded there as her name before marriage".
"I see. But can you tell me where and when did you meet?"
"Five years ago, Mr Devlin. We met at the Zoological Club, known somewhat more informally as the Zoo. It is a convivial environment where our kind meet and relax together, away from… your sort. I say that without meaning to give offence, Mr Devlin. I am sure your kind are happy in their own way, but we are always happier without the snide glances of the furless. That is why we seek out our own exclusive company, wherever and whenever possible".
"So, a whole club full of Pandas?"
"Not all Pandas, Mr Devlin, not all Pandas. All kinds of furry creatures frequent the Zoological Club. The venue opens its doors to all who are blessed with a body covered completely in thick hair".
Devlin wondered if his ex-girlfriend had heard of this place, she would fit right in. "I see, Mr Chubbytail. I think this is going to be a bit difficult. But tell me, do you have any pictures of your wife?"
"Why yes, of course", said Mr Chubbytail as he produced some photographs from another of his pockets.
"Ah, I meant photos of her not wearing the, ah skin, whatever you call it".
"Mr Devlin, what do you take me for?" replied the Panda, with a hurt expression. "I am not the kind of person who is interested in taking obscene photographs of his loved ones. That kind of sordid smuttiness disgusts me". He shuddered.
"Fair enough", said Devlin. "I thought maybe she could have some photos from before she had become a Panda, or… whatever. This is not giving me much to go on. Does she have a mobile phone?"
The Panda wrote down a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Devlin. "I have tried telephoning her, but the phone seems to be switched off".
"Well I don't know, Mr Chubbytail, this all does not give me much to go on. I will see what I can find and come back to you in a week. If the trail is cold, I won't take your money any further, but if the leads are going somewhere you can decide how you want to play it. Speaking of money, there is the small matter of my remuneration…"
That led to a brief discussion of payment rates and expenses, after which a short document was signed. Devlin then walked the Panda back to the lift, promising to do his best to find his wife.
"I have complete faith in you, Mr Devlin. You cannot fail. I must speak to my wife again. Deep down inside I know one thing – that Miss Cuddlebuns misses her Chubbytail".
"I'm sure she does", replied Devlin waving his client into the lift. Strolling back into the reception area he came across Jane reading some celebrity scandal sheet. "It takes all sorts, eh Jane?" he said by way of a conversational opener.
"Yeah? Oh you mean the panda? Yeah, I suppose it does".
Devlin went left her to her reading and went back into his office. How the hell was he going to get anywhere with this case? While helping himself to another whisky, he checked his mobile for messages. Someone he didn't know had texted him.
"SCREW U ASSHOL U TINK U R BIG MAN HOW BIG U B WHEN I CUT UR DICK OF N FEED 2 UR DOG?"
"Charming", thought Devlin. Then he remembered that he didn't have a dog. What was this all about? Probably one of the lads playing some kind of prank.
"FUKC YOPU CNUTY UR GAY" he texted back. That made him feel better. Then he decided he had been in work for long enough and headed out to the pub.
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