Story by Big M
Foodge’s visit to the ‘medic’ had given him pause to think. Think about his relationship with O’Hoo, think about where those dragon tattoos came from, and think about what had happened between him and Granny. He was perched uncomfortably on a bar stool, with the, recently injected, butt cheek, hanging orff for comfort. He tried to stand up, but his leg had fallen asleep so stumbled, his hand thrust forward, spilling a pint of Pigs Arms Pink Drink across the bar. O’Hoo was immediately at his side. “Are you OK there, Foodge, old mate?”
O’Hoo had dragged Foodge back up onto the stool, then started wiping the pink fluid with Merv’s best dirty rag. “Thanks, O’Hoo, just stop that for a minute, er…mate. We’ve been friends for a long time…I…er thought I should apologise.”
O’Hoo cut him off. “It’s me who should apologise, Foodge, I shouldna told the patrons about you ‘n’ Granny, but, I have to admit, I’ve always been a bit jealous of you, with your career, your expensive suits, and shoes, always bin able to pull a bird, then, here you are with Granny…I mean, she’s so hot, and those taught abs…”
“Yes, she’s pretty taught.” Foodge remarked. “Probably self taught!” Foodge was hoping for another Pink Drink, or, perhaps a Trotter’s Best. “Anyway, O’Hoo, how did I end up in her boudoir?”
“You don’t remember? Buying her champagne, slow dancing until midnight, escorting her upstairs after, ‘Time, please gentlemen’?” O’Hoo threw the rag into the sink.
“Not exactly, and, by the way, how did you end up in there?” Foodge took a sip from his replacement Pink Drink that was provided by a very surly Merv.
“Shit, I dunno, had a few schooies, then a coupla Scotches after ‘Time Gentlemen’, then musta stumbled in there!”
Granny’s discordant humming could be heard in close proximity. She had been reading about computer viruses and decided that no one was about to get sick at the Arms, so had begun a virus eradication programme that involved aggressive cleaning of all computers and accessories with alcohol wipes.
Foodge leant forward. “Quick change of subject, mate. Where did we get these tatt….”
“Feckin’ terrorist bastards.” Ejaculated Merv, as he thumped on the bar, suddenly interrupting the tete e tete. He had been reading the Inner Western Cyberia Standard, looking through the funeral notices to make sure that Granny wasn’t dead. “Listen to this, ‘The Church of Isis invites all to our inaugural service to thank the Goddess in the traditional Egyptian manner.’ Feckin’ Gippoes!” He had the ancient Bakelite handset on the bar and had dialled the Pleece. “’allo, pleece, ‘ave you seen the paper, Gippoes under yer noses buildin’ up a terrorist cell…what..no…I’m feckin serious….” “Bastards ‘ung up”
Merv turned his attention to the assembled patrons. “Time to be alarmed, not alerted, boys an’ girls. Terror cells just up the road, an’ Russian ships orff the coast. Time to get some weapons ready. Granny, what have you got?”
Granny pulled a small; snub nosed, 38 from her pocket. “This is all I’ve got since you gave me shotty to the pleece.”
“Manne, you carryin’?”
“Just this little Walther PPK, to frighten raffle thieves.” Which is ironic, as Manne himself used to dip his hand into the raffle winnings.
“Just me snake killin’ shotty.” Hedgie replied. “It’s in the ute.”
“O’Hoo, you must have your pleece pistol?”
O’Hoo pulled a nine millimetre Glock from his shoulder holster, and a 32 from his ankle holster.
“Foodge, I don’t s’pose you’re carryin’?”
“Well Mr Merv, even though the life of a Very Private Dick is a dangerous one, I don’t usually carry a heater,, but today I’ve got these,” Foodge removed a 45 calibre Smith and Wesson from his shoulder holster, a 357 Magnum from the back of his bellt, and a snub nosed 32 from his jacket pocket.
“What’s all this for, Foodge?”
“In case I see that bloody doctor!” Foodge’s face was red with rage. “Oh, and a hunting rifle in the car, with telescopic sight!”
“Merv clapped his hands together with delight. “Alright friends, let’s get ready for war!”