But in the Pig's Arms, the gloves are off.
Story as told to Big M by Foodge
Editor’s note: When I visited the Continuity Department, there was a note on the door. It read “The Continuity Department will be closed yesterday due to an upcoming death in the family. In the event that readers have difficulty following the thread, tell them that this is a flash – back, forward or sideways. We’ll get back to you – unless we already have.”
Merv stood at his usual post behind the chipped and stained timber bar, absent mindedly polishing a glass canoe with a dirty rag. He had given up struggling to open his left eye against the bruised eyelids, and, he’d realised would have gone cross-eyed looking over the plaster on his nose. He wore a self-satisfied grin, in spite of the obvious discomfort. Foodge sat opposite, his Fedora sitting brim side up on the bar, a pair of aluminium crutches at his side, and a pint of Trotter’s Best at his elbow. He couldn’t stop grinning. The silence was broken by main door slamming shut, and the bounding steps of one of the fattest men in Cyberia. Both men were shocked to see the shapeless figure of ‘Little’ Jack Stanley, Senior (and only) Sports Editor for the Inner Western Cyberian Bugle, resplendent in his battered grey Fedora with ‘Press’ pass stuck in the hatband. “Gidday, dyouz mind if I interview youz fur the Bugle?”
Merv’s self satisfied grin disappeared, and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly, as any more vigorous movement set the bell ringers to work in the back of his scone. Foodge, however, tried to snap to attention, forgetting the cast on his left leg, which caught the bottom of the stool sending him reeling forward, into Jack’s arms. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, Mr Foodge?” Jack struggled to push Foodge back into his natural position on the barstool.
Foodge took a few moments to settle back into the barstool, took a long swig at his glass canoe, then gestured to Merv for another. Merv complied then mumbled something about kegs ‘n’ pipes, then disappeared into the cellar. “You know why’m ‘ere, son, you got the inside dirt on Mauler v. Merv, aintcha?”
Foodge nodded enthusiastically. “Well, I must say at the outset that I was the catalyst for the match, you see, I had put myself forward as the light-heavy contender for the Police vs PI’s, that is short for Private Eye, or Investigator, one of which I am, currently, and, I’m not ashamed, quite successfully.” Jack was taking all of this down in shorthand with a stubby pencil, the tip of which he seemed to lick more than seemed necessary. “Unfortunately, I drew The Mauler as my opponent for the first match. This seemed to coincide with a sprain…I mean, crushate ligament, necessitating the urgent application of plaster to said leg..I mean knee.’ Foodge took a moment to nod at the affected leg, as if Jack hadn’t noticed the plaster cast and accompanying crutches. “Mr Merv heard about my plight, and, being a card carrying member of the PI fraternity, offered to step in.”
“ ‘ang on mate, I thought Merv was expleece?” Jack interjected. Merv had re-appeared, happy that Foodge had taken over the telling of the tale. He pushed a canoe across the bar to Little Jack.
A Little Jack goes a long way ...
“Yes, indeed, Mr Merv IS ex-police, and, that is where the enmity with the Mauler…I mean Senior Constable Frank Malleson began. You see, Mr Merv, in spite of his size and pugilistic prowess is a gentlemen. Senior Constable Malleson, on the other hand is a brute, who regularly seems to manage to extract a confession from suspects just before they are transferred from holding cell to Emergency Department. Anyhoo, Mr Merv left the police service some years back and, for a while, toyed with the idea of Private Detection, hence the PI licence. Anyway, I’m sure your readers don’t need to know the history of Mr Merv, except that he was a contender for the aforementioned boxing contest. Foodge stopped to take a long pull at his canoe, realised it was empty, and motioned Merv for a refill.
“ So Merv was subbed in only five weeks out from the match?” Jack pushed his Fedora all the way back on his noggin, pausing to scratch his bald pate. Merv couldn’t help noticing some particles of food had lodged in the creases between chins.
“Yes, I’d suffered a sprain, I mean subluxation of the..er…anterior…crushate… anyway. Mr Merv threw his hat into the ring, and, with myself as Manager, and Granny as trainer…” Foodge was interrupted by Little Jack.
“ ‘ang on mate, ‘oo’s Granny, an’ wots ‘er real name?” Jack paused to inspect the tip of his pencil.
Foodge looked at Merv, and Merv looked at Foodge. “Granny.” Retorted Foodge. “Everyone knows Granny!”
“Not everybody in the readership knows Granny, besides, this could go viral, you know, David and Goliath story, readers world wide will want to know the facts!” Jack was sweating profusely, and the old Fedora was now tipped beyond forty-five degrees.
“Facts never seem to be a problem for you journalistic types, but, if ya just cool yer ‘eals there for a minute I’ll slip upstairs ‘an arx ‘er, she’s mindin’ the twins while me missus gets ‘er eyebrow waxed.” This wasn’t all she was getting waxed, but, Merv, ever the gentleman didn’t want to broadcast Janet’s level of hirsuitism across the country. Merv bolted up the steps, past the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom/Cinema Compex, past the Kristina Keneally Memorial Powder Room, up another flight of stairs to his apartment above.
Foodge had taken on board some of Merv’s suggestions for promoting his business, so, after a couple of awkward minutes, cleared his throat. “I suppose you report on subjects aside from sport?”
“Nup.” Jack had loosened his antique tie, and was sipping at the iced water that Merv had thoughtfully shoved in front of him, in response to his apparent diaphoresis.
“So, some of your colleagues must have an interest in crime and detecting?” Foodge was already struggling.
“Yep, but they get all they can write about from the courts and the Plee..” Jack’s sentence was interrupted by screams.
“After all I’ve done for you, you ungrateful bastard, picked you up, dried you out, given you a job, and you repay me by tryna publish me name in all the papers” There was a thump, then a door slammed, followed by the creaking of stairs.
“Listen, Foodge, old mate, I’ve just remembered an appointment, ‘ow about I drop back ‘ere tomorra, when things have quietened down?” With that Little jack was gone
To be continued.
