Foodge’s War by Big M

Foodge, O’Hoo and Merv had little else to do but wait, so watched some cricket, a one day match between MNU (no-one knew what this stood for)  and the OPs. It was a replay and seemed like a universe away. “Y’know we’ll be in a shitload of trouble if it all kicks off?” Mumbled Merv, his eye on a batsman wearing a clerical collar. “lambrettists are the some of the fiercest fighters in this town.”

“Pppppfffft,” O’Hoo sprayed beer, lettuce and egg across the room, hitting the brass and timber ship’s wheel, hung on the wall for effect. “Packa Pooftas, that lot. Couldn’t fight their way outova wet paper doily.”

“No, Merv’s right.” Foodge chipped in, “Look at motor scooter riders. No one respects ‘em. Gotta push their way through heavy traffic, precipitates a bituv road rage. They gotta know how to fight.” Foodge still carried a scar from an altercation. “Lookit the Angles. They all look tough, ride big bikes, everyone gets outov their way. Never fight, they’re all blubber. Lookit Hedgie.” Hedgie was still there, too frightened to go into the streets until he was with the gang. “We need more people.”

The Bowling Lady’s production line was still in full swing. Merv leaned to the side and whispered into Janet’s delicately formed ear. She quickly jerked her head back, fixing him with that one eyed stare. “No, go on Love, we need’em.” Janet removed her apron and took off through the front doors like a male nurse trying to avoid emptying a bedpan.

Ten minutes elapsed then Janet sidled up next to Merv, nodded and winked, while he watched the TV, stoney-faced as the priest-cricketer got knockded out. She must have slipped in through the yard, where Granny was stacking kegs, sorting brown bottles from clear, and so on.

A sound split the air like a thousand deep throated, twin cylinder gnats, roaring up the main street. All assumed it must’ve been the Angles, on their charlies. The main door was opened by a short, rotund fellow, dressed in chauffer’s livery. He stepped to one side to allow the most ravishing creature on God’s earth to step through. It was none other than the very aromatic Ms Ann Thropy. “Thankyou, Gregor, you may wait in the car.” She walked toward Foodge, careful not to snag her stiletti in the fraying carpet. “I pay you good money to look for my ex-husband, and instead I find you here drinking with buffoons.” Her eyes wandered to O’Hoos hunched form as she pronounced the word, ‘buffoon.”

Foodge was flummoxed. “Well, ‘er, ah, you, ah, never gave me a , er, description of your, ah, husband, er, ex, er, ah, husband.”

“His name’s Rocky de Sastri, he’s 186 cm tall, well hung, I mean, built, and drives a black Lambretta. Is that all? With that she turned on her heel, forgetting the fraying carpet, tripped over her own feet, and collapsed on the floor. O’Hoo was all over her like a fat kid on a Smartie. The more he tried to help, the worse it got, especially with his best Police Association ink still wet on his filthy paws. Eventually Janet stepped in, helped her to her feet, wiped as much ink from Ms Ann’s shoulder as possible with a beer soaked rag, then helped her out the door to her waiting Wolseley Six.

Both Foodge and O’Hoo were about to have a eureka moment. Wait for it. Wait for it. “Rocky’s disappearance must have something to do with the Angle’s trouble with the Lambrettists,” both chimed together. “Find Rocky, and we’ll find the answer to our dilemma,” continued Foodge, just as the doors burst open and in strutted Rosie, her chief tattooist, BB and their bodyguard, Jail (because he’d been in there, and his initials are JL, get it?). Each carried a couple of shot guns, and each was adorned with ammunition belts criss-crossed over their chests, Zapata style.

“Oh, no, not shooters!” Foodge exclaimed, who’d developed hoplophobia in another life.

“Can’t win war without guns, Mister Foodge,” grimaced Rosie. “How did you think we won the Great Tattoo war of ’58?”  Merv moved out from behind the bar, took the guns ( a lovely Purdey Over and Under shotgun and one of which proved to be an old blunderbuss, for which Rosie hand-loaded ammunition) and stowed them in the office. Beryl poured the trio cups of tea, as they were all teetotallers.  Psycho killers, but teetotal, none-the-less.

“Look, thanks for your help, but we’re almost on the cusp of….” Foodge’s words were cut short by the arrival of the Angles, led by the Professor, who stepped up to Foodge, and embraced him like a brother (a sibling, not a bikey gang member), then walked over to Hedgie, and embraced him.

“I see you’ve assembled a formidable army!” said the Professor to no one in particular, as he removed his John Lennon style glasses. “We shall crush them like little beetles.”

“Well, wait a minute, that might not be necessary.” Began Foodge, who was immediately interrupted by O’Hoo, who was till enjoying the eureka moment, or, in his case, the eureka ten minutes.

“We should try to find Rocky.” Burst O’Hoo. “He’s the key.”

The Prof looked quizzical. “de Sastri’s missing, well, so is Gez. He went away on a water colour weekend in the Southern Highlands, and hasn’t been heard from since. Normally he calls every other day, just to inform us of his progress.”

“Water colour weekends, progress, what are you smoking, Prof?” Foodge was exasperated.

“Oh, well that’s easy, Gez goes away for a couple of days a month, paints his little heart out, then sells the paintings at a little art gallery in Paddington. Easy money for a great artist, and brilliant geometrician.” The Prof enthused. “ He’s been gone about five or six days.”

“So has Rocky.” nodded Foodge.

“I know, they’ve eloped. No, they’ve gone camping, no, they’ve joined the Mormons.” O’Hoo could barely contain himself. “I’ll get Fern to check the Registry Office, and the Mormons, and all of the camping grounds.”

Merv gave O’Hoo a clip around the back of the head. “You’re becoming hysterical, like a potato peeler. The same person has probably abducted them both.”