Pig’s Arms Bumper Christmas Edition – Dreamland Hotel

24 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Travels

Well beyond Reuben's wildest dreams.....

By Reuben Brand

Walking out of the airport in Dubai was like walking into a hot cup of tea – hot, sticky and a tad uncomfortable. It was late, I was tired and all I wanted was a shower and a decent bed to rest my weary head, so I jumped into the nearest cab and was on my way.

As we pulled up the taxi driver assured me that this was the ONLY hotel in Dubai with vacancies, “sure of course it is” I said, too tired to dispute the blatant lie.

“Dreamland Hotel… This place seems OK” I thought as I checked in. Despite the name reminding me of a dodgy mini golf centre, or a David Lynch film – I was just thankful I had found somewhere to stay. It wasn’t the Hilton but it had clean sheets, hot water, TV with movies in English (bonus) and super cold aircon.

A quick wash and I was ready for a walk around the neighbourhood.

As I walked the streets beneath the giant skyscrapers a voice, now quickly approaching me from behind, darted out of the darkness, “Hello, what’s your name?” I turned to find a young man smiling and smoking a cigarette. “My name is Ahmed, are you lost? Let me show you around” he said.

I walked with Ahmed for a while; he was from Lebanon and seemed strangely interested in just about everything, it was a tad creepy and the conversation soon degenerated. “So, are you circumcised? It’s much better when you’re making sexing to be circumcised,” he said, completely out of the blue.

Slightly taken a back I tried to steer the conversation away from my nether regions, “what an odd thing to ask” I said. “What about when you’re alone… do you…” continued Ahmed. My God! Where the hell was this guy from? I had a fair idea of where he was headed with these questions and really didn’t want to go there. We turned a corner and I was just about to use the nearest shop as an excuse to end our charming chat, but to my dismay it was a darkish empty street.

Ahmed’s voice suddenly went up a few octaves and became a camp, nasal twang, his hand gesture became overtly animated and he giggled like a school girl as he flamboyantly strutted alongside me.

“So, you look tired, do you want a massage? Let’s party, I studied special massage techniques you know… Just come back to my place, it’s so relaxing, do you like partying? I love partying, it’s so much fun, do you want a massage? I’m really good.” He said in almost one breath.

Oh great… The last thing I needed was to be hit on by a sexually frustrated Lebanese guy who wanted to prod me in all the wrong places. OK, strange city, extremely creepy guy, dark alley, very bad mix. Had to think of something to say and fast… “I have to re-arrange my sock draw, go watch paint dry, cut myself and bathe in vinegar, learn the Dewy Decimal system” Anything! Sheesh, quickly Reuben think of something! “Oh wow, look at the time, I really must go check my emails… Thanks but no thanks mate.”

“I really must go check my emails?” That was my great escape sentence? Oh brother, I must have been tired – but it worked a treat and I was off like a Jewish foreskin. (I was going to say “off like a bride’s nighty.” Or “off like a bucket of prawns in the hot Aussie sun,” but this, untasteful as it is, seemed to fit the previous paragraphs perfectly.)

It can’t get much worse than that I thought, as I scampered unscathed back to the safety of Dreamland Hotel.

The first few days at Dreamland were nice and quite as it was still Ramadan, everyone was lovely, I even got to know the girls at the front desk, “hello Mr Reuben” they would say as I clambered through the door, in a sweaty mess after a long day in the hot sun.

Finally I could get some work done – or so I thought.

On the last day of Ramadan one of the porters came and asked if I was ready to disco, “all the discos start tonight, Ramadan is over so we can party,” he said with a grin.

“That’s nice” I thought, “good for you.” Little did I realise that what he was trying to tell me was that the hotel had its very own nightclub. Not one but three. And my room just happened to be above two of them. Fantastic, there goes my peaceful sleep.

The first club was called “Wild Indian Girls” Presumably for the Indian clientele, the second was an Arabic club “Arabic Dreams” or some such name and the third, which was right under my room, was for Pakistanis. I can’t remember what it was called; only that it was extremely loud. That night was like trying to sleep in a bad Bollywood flick, as the distorted bass rattled everything in my room, including my now frayed nerves.

On the second night curiosity got the better of me and I just had to see what all the fuss was about.

I tentatively ventured into the Pakistani club – I was half expecting to find a dimly lit room, perhaps a smoke machine and disco ball and of course some badly dressed Pakistanis wearing their jeans pulled right up under their armpits, pressed cotton shirts (unbuttoned half way) and bouffant hairdos all busting a “Bollywood meets disco fever” move on the dance floor. Oh how I was wrong.

To my surprise the room was full of tables and chairs, no dance floor, no disco ball and only a few bad hairdos. In the centre of the room was a stage, on the stage was a long bench and on the long bench sat a row of thoroughly unimpressed young girls. “Something is very wrong with this picture” I thought to myself. The room was packed with incredibly drunk men sitting around the tables, all shouting and cheering – having a great old time. Then the music started and one of the girls got up and did a total Bollywood dance number, then another song and another girl. It seemed they all had particular songs that they would mime away to as they flitted nimbly around the stage.

It was all very cute and amusing until I noticed some of the girls on the bench having what looked to me like an elaborate conversation in sign language with some of the patrons. Hand signals were flying all over the shop, numbers, thumbs up, thumbs down, the international rubbing of thumb and pointer together “money, money, money” waving fingers back and forth in a “No! No! No! I don’t think so” kind of way, pointing upstairs and giggling all the while – “are they bargaining for something? What on earth is going on?”

My suspicions were confirmed as I watched these covert transactions take place and one or two girls silently slipped away only to reappear some time later looking slightly ruffled.

After just about as much bad Bollywood music as I could bear I made for the sanctuary of my room, stuffed napkins in my ears and tried to get some sleep.

The next morning on my way out I was stopped by the man who sat at the door. “So… Did you have some fun last night?” He asked. “Did you like… the girls? You can take them up to your room you know…” He was an elderly Pakistani man, very pleasant in appearance, if not a tad strange in manner. “But don’t bother with these girls, they’re too expensive,” he continued, as he looked at me through his 70’s style glasses (original vintage) with his thick locks of grey hair blowing in the warm breeze. He was 65 years old, but didn’t look a day over 40, “what’s his secret?” I wondered.

“I will take you to a place where there are good cheap girls…very, very cheap… But they’re only available in the mornings.” He said with a slightly disturbing grin. What is this? A red spot special at woolies? Early bird gets the worm I guess…

“Oh gee… that’s um, well that’s… good, great, yeah thanks… that’s ah, good to know… very informative… thanks it’s a very ah… kind offer, I’ll um… I’ll… yeah thanks.” I spluttered.

If “very, very cheap” prostitutes was this guy’s secret to staying youthful, I think I’ll just have to age gracefully.

That night I had a quick peek through the door of “Wild Indian Girls.” It was much the same as the Pakistani club, although more subdued – Pakistanis really know how to let loose and party. I wasn’t too sure about the name though, as the girls didn’t look all that wild – possibly “uninterested, depressed Indian girls” would have been more fitting.

They say that curiosity killed the cat – but mine had died years ago, so my next port of call was definitely the Arabic club. I was informed that just to enter the club there was an exuberant cover charge, “try before you buy” was my excuse and so I slipped in for a minute or two. As far as dodgy clubs in even dodgier hotels go, this was not so bad – plates of hummus and nibbles were being served, the air was filled with the sweet smell of flavoured tobacco, as just about everyone in the room hubble bubbled away on their sheesha pipes whilst three or four largish Arabic woman all performed some kind of pseudo belly dance come two step shuffle on stage. I didn’t stay long enough to see if any covert hand signals were being given as I’d had just about enough Twin Peaks entertainment for one night.

The same rules applied for all three clubs – a few hand signals and it’s into the express elevator to the elusive “upstairs.” So I was staying in an illegal brothel – out of all the hotels in Dubai I ended up at Dreamland or “Wet-dreamland” as it should be renamed. There has to be a first for everything I guess.

I decided to take a quick stroll to the shops – I had only made it to the end of the street when a young black girl approached me. “You looking for some brown sugar?” she said in a tired voice. “I have a place we can go to.” “No thank you – just looking for some cigarettes” I said in as polite a voice as possible and decided to take a short cut through a nearby car park. I had apparently now stumbled into the African girls pick up section – girls, young and old were hanging around under dimly lit street lights, all waiting for a John Doe to take them home.

Nervous young men pretending to talk on their mobiles stalked the car park, all waiting for a quiet moment to make their move and pounce on their prey. I almost expected to hear David Attenborough start narrating as this national geographic style dance was performed.

Quickly leaving the shadows of the car park I headed straight for the shops, only to be faced with a giant Russian lady who looked like Vladimir Putin’s sparring partner. Bright blue eye liner, thick red lipstick that looked like it had been applied by a blind man with Parkinson’s and a horrendously short skirt displaying thighs that would have made Phar Lap whimper – she looked me up and down in a very menacing way, turned and continued smoking her cigarette.

“Phew!” I obviously didn’t look worth it, which was great as no amount of polite “no thank you” would have appeased this giant lady of the night, who more than likely ate baby kittens, little children and dolphins for breakfast.

I was nearly there, just a few more metres and that packet of $1.50 cigarettes was mine!

All of a sudden a slim arm slipped itself around my waist and a young Asian girl made herself quite comfortable by my side. “Do you want massage? Special price for you…” What on earth is going on? I quickly checked to make sure there wasn’t a huge flashing neon sign above my head that said “Young white male: Quick, offer him unusual sexual services!”

Well at least she wasn’t a hairy Lebanese guy, but never the less, the answer remained the same. “No thanks – I just want a packet of cigarettes.” I thought choosing cancer over possible herpes or HIV was a rather good move.

Finally I had made it to the shops – their glowing fluorescent lights were like a beacon of hope, a sanctuary of safety. I stepped into the light and took refuge in the isles of frozen goods and cleaning products, but it wasn’t long until I had to brave the elements once more.

I sat, smoking a much needed cigarette, on a nearby bench pondering the bizarre nature of the past few days when a voice quietly whispered something in my ear that would make your average lady of the night blush like a school girl – I turned to find another Asian lady sitting beside me. “Where on earth am I?” I wondered – it was like I had somehow crossed into a parallel universe where Kings Cross, minus the toothless junkies and crack whores, was having a really bad Arabian Nights theme party.

As flattering as it all was, the only thing I really wanted to do was watch daggy 80’s re runs on the movie channel in the comfort of my room.

I returned to the hotel and as I walked up the stairs to my room I stopped to chat to the security guard standing at the door of the Pakistani club – he was from Ethiopia and always had a tale to tell. “Tomorrow you should go to the Ethiopian section of town, they have special cafes where you can take part in a traditional coffee ceremony,” he said. Hallelujah! Finally, someone was talking about something that didn’t involve cheap prostitutes or massages! What a lovely idea, good coffee, a new experience, should be fantastic. “The ceremony is performed by beautiful Ethiopian woman,” he continued, “and afterwards, you can have all kinds of fun with them, if you know what I mean – Ethiopian woman are the best in the world…” Oh God… I just can’t escape.

Pig’s Arms Bumper Christmas Edition – The Adventures of Mongrel and The Runt

24 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 18 Comments

Author! Author ! Warrigal - Santa's Little Helper and his Big Sister (as a Dolly in a Box)

By Warrigal Mirriyuula

1. Two Dogs.

Mongrel and The Runt were two dogs about town. Well known to all, they had their rounds of the place. A regular morning stop at the back of MacCafferty’s Butchery for the offcuts, then down to the creek for a good chew on the bones happily supplied by the old butcher; then up to the Central School to mess about with the kids at playlunch, always a chunk of sausage roll to be had or on really good days a sugar biscuit; and then a rest in the cool under the decaying concrete loading dock at the abandoned ice-works, snoozing out the heat of the day.

Their afternoons were less structured and usually involved a quick burst of speed up the lane behind the commercial precinct on Bank Street where they had taken to hassling the guard dogs chained up behind a few of the stores. They both enjoyed the excitement of the wind flapping their lips and jowls, supercharging all the smells and odours of the town up their nostrils. It was their daily news and told them all they needed to know about what was going down in town, whether old MacCafferty was butchering that day and what. Whether the timber mill was cutting boards or raw logs, whether the hospital on the hill was incinerating waste; and what was being cooked in the kitchens all over town. And then there was the risk that one day one of the bruisers wouldn’t be chained up. That added the thrill of the possibility of big dog action. They barked and yapped their silly heads off, stopping here and there to scratch vigorously on the paling or corrugated iron fences. That always seemed to get the guard dogs going. They’d bark up a storm, slavering at the mouth and nearly strangling themselves on their choker chains, silly buggers! What did they know of the life of two free dogs, two dogs about town.

Mongrel and The Runt had been there own crew of two for a few years now and like other colourful locals they were known at all the well patronised spots, the front bar at The Freemasons Hotel, the pavement outside Jimmy Hang Sing’s Takeaway, the forecourt of Perks’ Motor Garage, in fact anywhere where there was action and some fun for two dogs about town.

They were an odd couple, Mongrel and The Runt. Mongrel was a big dog with the conformation of a Kelpie, but somehow bigger and more powerful. His coat, generally short, had an undercoat of softer hair like a heeler. This undercoat of grey white gave the coarse black overcoat a slightly peppered appearance, which gave way to the tan and yellow of his legs and his blue spotted white “socks”. Big-chested, he had a blaze of thick “true blue” around his neck and chest that also covered his belly and reached up to the top of his head where it merged with the smooth black again, offset by dark tan eyebrows and tan and yellow round his snout. He was one handsome hound.

The Runt on the other hand was a dog only a bitch could love. Mostly Jack Russel Terrier, but with maybe some Fox Terrier too, and a few after thoughts for good measure, The Runt had never been certain whether he was a “plain” or a “wire haired” dog. Bits of him were one, bits the other, and some bits didn’t have any hair at all. What hair he did have seemed unable to make up its mind what colour to be, so it had settled for a kind of non colour, somewhere between off white and dirty grey brown. He was small and could, and often did, take shelter under Mongrel’s belly. He’d lost the best part of an ear before he teamed up with Mongrel and his tail was a mess of poorly healed breaks that gave it the appearance of a furry lightning bolt as The Runt ran after Mongrel on their daily adventures.

They’d first met up after Mongrel escaped from the local pet store where he’d been dumped by his aesthetically challenged human. Mongrel had been the biggest of his litter and the most variably coloured; traits that apparently didn’t fit the “lifestyle” of that owner.

He’d been very lonely at first but the girl in the pet store had liked his colour well enough and the puppy had ingratiated himself with her in the hope that one day she might leave his pen open and he could get away. And he did. One day shortly after Mongrel had treated the shop assistant to his best “wide eyed puppy” shtick, she lifted him out of the wood shavings and shredded newspaper that lined his pen and put him down on the floor. Before she had time to turn and pick up the chew toy she thought the puppy would enjoy, he was out the door and up Bank Street, flying as fast as his little puppy legs would carry him. He ran right into The Runt who, seeing the young shop assistant running after Mongrel, had clamped his jaws round the thick fur of the pup’s neck and dragged him quick smart up a convenient lane and under a shed. The pup was excited and frightened all at once and as soon as The Runt relinquished his grip Mongrel turned on The Runt and began to yip and yap at him in the cool gloom, dropping at the front, his little backside twisting, his tail wagging fit to bust. The Runt having rescued the pup now had no idea what to do with him.

This haven amongst the brick piers holding up the shed was obviously a regular resort for The Runt, maybe even home. There was an accumulation of old bones in various states of denudation and crunchedness. There was a large piece of tattered green tarpaulin and a number of shredded old jumpers and a blanket all wadded into a very comfortable nest. The pup shut up and gave himself a distracted scratch behind the ear, a quick spot of attention to his pizzle and then he got up and went over to give The Runt a good introductory smelling. The Runt did the same. There must have been something in the air that morning. They were instant, inseparable companions from that moment on.

In time the pup grew larger and stronger on the tucker they scavenged about for. It wasn’t exactly a good life, living on human garbage and scraps, but they were their own dogs and their own company was enough for each of them.

Late one spring day they’d found a dead lamb on the outskirts of town. The crows and maggots had already had the best of it but there was still plenty of good left. They crunched on it a bit, really enjoying the sweet fragrance of decay. They chewed on the woolly carcase until after dusk. There was still a sizeable chunk of the lamb left and they’d decided to drag it home so they could enjoy the smell later. Perhaps even have a roll in it. It hadn’t worked out for them though. The very next day while Mongrel and The Runt were pursuing their morning rounds the owner of the shed had come out the back to get something he’d stored there. Opening the door had been assaulted by the gorge raising stench of animal corruption and death seeping up through the ill-fitting boards of the floor. He soon discovered the malodorous carcase and the detritus of the dogs’ lives under the shed. Holding his breath and pulling all manner of disagreeable faces, he’d cleared the whole lot out. By the time the dogs got back that evening the shed’s owner had installed chicken wire between all the outside piers. The dogs couldn’t get in. They hung around a while, half-heartedly scratching and chewing on the chicken wire, but it was no good. They’d have to move on.

It was Mongrel who had found their new home at the ice-works. He’d been bounding after a big rat that had disappeared under the tangle of bent and rusted rebar and broken concrete that was the remains of the loading dock. Once out of the sun Mongrel lost interest in the rat as he looked around in the dark cool where the collapsed front of the dock created a commodious and weatherproof space. Mongrel clambered back outside to bark The Runt over so he could give it his approval. Both satisfied, they’d taken to searching out some new bedding for a nest and within a few days they were as right as rain. Nobody would disturb them here. This was a place abandoned by humans.

Humans are odd things. Sometimes Mongrel thought they were better off without them and other days, when he saw house dogs playing with their human companions, he wished he and The Runt had someone to throw the ball and play Frisbee with, a basket and a blanket by the fire to go home to. The Runt didn’t like people at all. He’d been cruelly treated as a pup and would often draw close to Mongrel and growl if a person took an interest in them. He could carry off a very forbidding act of aggressive posturing with all the attendant growling and barking, but he was only a little more than a handful so no-one was fooled no matter how good a performance The Runt gave.

It was one of the humans that regularly gathered in the front bar at The Freemasons Hotel that confirmed the two canine companions in their names. Mongrel was just returning to The Runt from a little way up the street where he had run after a cattle-truck on its way out to Wellington. He’d given it a great deal of barking and lunging at the tyres of the speeding, clattering, rattling monster right up to the turn by the Baths. The Heeler in the dog box under the trailer had said “g’day”; just one bark before being obscured by the dust as the semi turned the corner.

It was quiet in the front bar at The Freemasons. The radio was playing the races at Towac Park. Truant smoke from the neglected durries hanging from every drinker’s lip lazily filled the afternoon air. The barman, cleaning glasses and looking out through the street doors had opined, “That silly mongrel’ll get himself run over one of these days.” It was just for something to say while they all waited for the next race on 2GZ. “Not that mongrel. He’s too bloody smart.” another drinker had responded. “Too bloody smart by half. Have you ever seen a more fit pair of strays than that mongrel and the runt he has for an oppo?” He turned the page on his form guide and made a few notations for upcoming races. “They get around like they own the place. Old MacCafferty’s feedin’ ’em most mornin’s.” The other drinkers nodded as though that explained and settled the matter. It seemed that in no time at all the dogs were known around town as that Mongrel and The Runt, and being officially named seemed to give the dogs a legitimacy and license not vouchsafed to other canines in the small central western town. Molong really was their town.

(Come back next week when out two intrepid hounds play cat and mouse with the dogcatcher and Old MacCafferty goes to hospital, creating a kerfuffle when Mongrel and The Runt come to visit.)

Foodge 4

24 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 5 Comments

I might not be a famous sleuthing Lothario, but if Manne does the wisecrack about being a lethargio one more time, I’m going to have to stop fixing up his Vespa.

I could feel her approaching. I didn’t need to turn around. I could see her form reflected in the “DA – for those Special Moments” painted poster screwed to the pub-yellow tiles. She had the kind of figure that not even the Romans had a numeral for[1]. They’re always blonde. This one was sometimes blonde too. Like now. She was blonde now. She had the kind of eyes that sold a million bedroom blinds and they were focused on me. The eyes. Not the blinds. The blinds, with any luck, might come later.

Right now, I had enough trouble on my plate. And experience was having quite a lot more than a quiet whisper in my shell-like that this one was way more fish than I had tackle to land.

She stopped comfortably within my personal space and steadying on her heels, formed a shapely exclamation point. I’m looking for a Foodge, she announced to no-one in particular. The no-one in question was Manne, who was returning to the bar with a stack of dirty glasses.

That’s him, right there, Miss, Manne obliged, narrowly avoiding stepping on his own tongue.

She proffered her hand. It looked more like a vague indication than a long-term commitment. I hesitated for a moment and gestured towards a vacant table in the opposite corner of the bar to the other blonde. “Can I get you a drink ?” “Please”. Merv poured an iced pink and Manne delivered it as though he had a regal appointment.

I have a tiny problem, Mr Foodge. I’m told that you’re a useful person when it comes to solving problems. My alarm bells began to ring up a storm. No wait, I think the aspirin might have been wearing off. Either way, time to slip on the asbestos gloves and take out the barbecue tongs . This one looked suddenly way too hot to handle.

I’m a little busy just now, Miss, I lied. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie. I had a dead copper in a tenement room with a tattoo on his arse cheek that matched a fresh one on mine. And I had a headache that had previously belonged to Keith Richards. What I lacked was actual paid work. I hesitated just long enough to hand her the initiative.

“I’m offering a grand a day plus expenses.” I started to feel far less busy. But I’m no cheap gumshoe. Usually top dollar work comes with a hefty slice of risk. I handed her my card. Noon tomorrow. My office. “I’m not chaining myself to your problem just yet, Miss ~”. ”Anthropy”, she rejoined. “ We have a few details to discuss first”. She placed the card in her purse, closed the hasp, clasped my hand like I’d just cured her brother’s leprosy, rose and evaporated in a processional exit from the bar. Without touching a drop of the pink drink. If my nose had been working, I’d have said that she smelt nice. It was a fair bet that it was the smell of anticipation, danger and folding money.

The other blonde fidgeted and looked expectantly out of the door as Miss Anthropy made her departure.

I motioned to Merv that a JW chaser was the order of the day.

There was a crunching and a small shower of gravel as a burbling V8 propped and ground to a halt in the car park.

[1] OK, I admit I couldn’t resist, I stole this one from a Carter Brown novella “The Hoodlum Was a Honey”, Cumberland Press, Parramatta – A Railway Publication, sorry I haven’t got the date, but you’ll be really hard up to find a copy if another one still exists….

Foodge 3

23 Wednesday Dec 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 11 Comments

…… “and Maison de Pain” …… read the small fragment of a business card in O’Hoo’s rapidly cooling top pocket. Something about a baguette, maybe. But as crusty as I was, the second last thing on my mind, after sharing a room with a deceased copper was breakfast. The first and last thing on my mind was the diminishing effect of a couple of aspirins. Pretty soon I’d be Bayering at the moon.

I had to think fast and act. I thought I’d quite like a cigarette. Since Merv had banned them inside and since the car park was a no-mans land of low-life dealers and netball players, it had been a long drawn-out time without a Lucky Strike. No smoke detectors? Nope. Bliss.

I needed a hirsute canine to steady myself. The flask of JW…. was empty. Some of the panel beating in my head came from the aircraft, busy leaving tyre prints on the roof. I figured that O’Hoo and I were somewhere in the Inner West. I was more there than he was, though. He was previously in the Inner West. That meant I was not far from the Pig’s Arms, a pint of Trotters and a JW chaser.

I thought about moving O’Hoo, but how ? There was a blue Zephyr parked outside across the street. A notoriously hot-wirable chariot, with a boot just big enough to accommodate the former charlie. But a supine former dick the size of O’Hoo was not an easy lift and I figured that I had best get my sorry arse over to the pub climb into a glass canoe and see if the great amber god gave me some inspiration.

The first gift of the day was a set of keys in the ignition. Someone had been in a hurry. Someone who had left sticky traces on the leather bench seat and a Barry White tape in the 8 track.

I turned the key. The Zeph considered the suggestion and reluctantly coughed into life. I wheeled the beast out into the traffic and headed in the same direction as the aircraft until the familiar porcine sign drifted into view. Into the driveway and around the back of the car park next to two 44 gallon drums full of what looked suspiciously like waxed eyebrows.

The carpark was deserted except for the local kids shooting butterflies with a slug gun. I found my Ray Ban clip ons, donned the Trilby and with a sound louder than the 10:30 mongrel overhead, I crunched my way across the gravel and pushed open the side door of the pub.

Without so much as raising his eyebrows, Merv wordlessly reached for a pint glass and with the care of a cardiac surgeon, poured a delightful foamy vat of Trotter’s Ale and placed it on a coaster on the bar. I sat down with all the care of a recent post-pile patient, raised the glass – nodding to Merv and enjoyed the luxurious flow across my parched palate.

I scanned the bar. There were two old alkies – Wal and Danny from the rice shed on the Rozelle goods line. Danny was studying the form guide and nursing his middy like he expected it to gather interest if he kept it long enough. And Wal was bullshitting his way through retelling (to no-one in particular) blow by blow detail of his successful score with the tea lady at the RSL prawn night the week before.

There was a blonde bloke with a lived-in face in a cheap Hawaiian shirt, beige chinos and white shoes sitting in the corner with a Trotter’s, pretending to read the sports pages. He looked like a copper to me. He seemed to be waiting for something.

A New Liberal Monster

21 Monday Dec 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Politics in the Pig's Arms

≈ 12 Comments

Electro Therapy by Warrigal

“Now that the dust has settled on the recent Liberal leadership contest the Liberal Media Communications Unit has released intimate images of the work that went on behind the scenes to bring about this glorious rebirth. In this shot we see Nick “Doc. Frankenstein” Minchin ably assisted by his midwife Igor…, sorry that should read, Wilson “Testicle Electrodes” Tuckey, as they make the final adjustments to the neck bolts of their shiny new monster. The original monster watches on.

NB: (Though dead Ming is by tradition always present at nodal moments, and it is a condition of acceptance into the modern Liberal Party that the applicant agree with the 61 year old political theories of Ming “The Original Liberal” Monster.)”

Foodge 2

21 Monday Dec 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 25 Comments

Vinh Ordinaire Rouge had never forgiven her parents for her middle name. She was a tough and irascible homicide inspector and she had a reputation for assisting her enemies to enjoy the big sleep when business was a little slow. Her business.

She could rely on her pack to fail to solve the appropriate crimes and to do what they were told.

Rouge had an abiding distaste for the festive season. It was the time of year where all the loose change of society fell through the holes in the pockets of the rich and powerful. It was the time for the inconvenience of a slow news week. It was time for pressmen with little on their plate to come sniffing.

Her second cup of java had gone as cold as an ASIC One-Tel case and she grew impatient waiting for her left-hand man – the usually reliable O’Hoo to breeze in with his copy of the Racing Times – and bore her witless with his predictions for the night’s offing at Dapto dogs. A good man, O’Hoo was usually reliable and seldom had any weaknesses, notwithstanding his surprising lack of judgement – investing in “the Leichhardt flash”. Flash, like his namesake, went off just once. For a third at Wentworth Park, but he continued to consume prodigious amounts of Pal and routinely stole George and Tash’s cat food.

Rouge punched the intercom. “Has anyone seen O’Hoo”. “O’Hoo’s on first”, came the usual reply. It was Jail. Jail was Julian Lapin. Jail was an office ornament, who had allegedly retired but continued to come to work, or more accurately came into the station to keep warm on cold days. And it gave him an alternative to his part-time job of preparing the sweets at the Coogee Bay Hotel. Rouge and the rest of the squad turned a blind eye because Jail had useful connections in the music industry and by extension in the recreational horticulture business. He was used to hedging O’Hoo’s bets.

“Piss off, Jail! I’m serious. This is not like O’Hoo.” “He was drinking pints with one of his old private dick mates at the Leichhardt Wanderer’s Christmas do last night, boss. I left when they started playing ‘Truth or Dare’”.

Rouge left just enough coffee in the cup to start a new biology experiment for the boys in the lab, rose from her chair, grabbed her beret and the keys to the Falcon and gave Jail the unnecessary instruction to mind the shop.

Jail turned on the PC and fired up Firefox. From the car park downstairs, he could hear the thunk of the Falcon’s door and the low burble as Rouge kicked her old 351 into life. He clicked on his favourites list, scrolled down to the Pig’s Arms and pulled up a stool in the front bar of the pub before Rouge had time to cross the footpath and cut into the traffic on City Road.

“I’ll have a pint of Trotter’s, thanks Merv” he said, and flipping the pages of his copy of Rolling Stone, he couldn’t help wondering why they were featuring a piece on genetically modified wah-wah pedals.

CYRUS Ch 15 pt 2

20 Sunday Dec 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 15 Comments

"I am Cyrus, King of the World" - Marduk victory speech

Theseustoo

As Harpagus predicted, the battle opened with a cavalry charge from Croesus’ heavy lancers. But Cyrus had seized the initiative and moved first, thus forcing the Lydian lancers to move before they were quite ready and this upset their timing; thus their battle-line was fairly ragged even at the start of their charge, so it was unable to gain the momentum a massed charge really needs for maximum impact. Then, as the two armies closed together at the gallop, the Lydians were thrown into confusion as the horses neared the enemy and caught sight of the camels. As these ugly beasts now charged towards them, many of Croesus’ cavalrymen were thrown to the ground by their horses as they panicked and reared in their frenzied attempts to escape. As soon as the Lydian cavalrymen were thus thrown to the ground they were swiftly dispatched by Persian spearmen, who followed the camels very closely.

Confusion increased to absolute chaos as the armies drew close enough for the horses to smell these alien and terrifyingly ugly quadrupeds which were even now bearing down on them. Even those Lydian horses which had not thrown off their riders turned round and galloped away as fast as they could the moment they caught sight or smell of Cyrus’ camels, heedless of both their riders’ commands and their whips as they wielded them furiously in their futile efforts to restrain their steeds. The wisest of the horsemen among them gave their mounts their head and just hung on for dear life, until their mounts ran out of breath.

However the best of Croesus’ cavalrymen instantly understood what was happening and quickly leaped off their horses before they too were thrown, and engaged with the Persians on foot. But it was too late; on foot they had lost all impetus and the riders on Cyrus’ camels bore heavily down on them with their long, bronze-tipped lances; and, since most of their comrades had either been thrown from their horses and killed, or else had given their steeds their head and fled, they were far too few; all semblance of battle formation had been lost in an instant and they were easily slaughtered. Harpagus’ stratagem had been very effective, completely neutralizing the impact of Croesus’ cavalry charge; and when the rest of Croesus’ forces saw the slaughter that was now being done to the fleeing remnants of the scattered cavalry, they immediately fled back to the safety of Sardis’ high city walls, while the Persian host encircled the town well beyond bowshot, and prepared themselves to lay siege to the city.

*** ***** ***

Croesus took off his heavily-mailed leather gauntlets and threw them onto the table as he strode into the war-room with Sandanis and his other officers in tow. The gates of Sardis had been firmly barred behind them and archers had been stationed at the walls to keep the enemy at a distance. Croesus looked tired and weary as he spoke to his officers: “Sandanis, we must send more heralds to all of our allies; especially to the Spartans; they are to inform them that we are already besieged; and that they are not to wait for spring, as we had planned, but to come immediately!”

“At once Lord!” Sandanis responded immediately, as he gestured briefly towards a herald, who, having already heard and memorized the king’s message, immediately ran off to obey him. Sandanis was worried to see a hint of desperation had appeared in his king’s manner; his second encounter with these Persians had taken its toll on his nerves. Even so, thought Sandanis, his actions were sound; after the terrible defeat of his cavalry, there was nothing for it but to retreat within the city’s impregnable walls and sit out the siege until help could arrive.

“How long do you think we can hold out?” the king now demanded. “Your majesty,” Sandanis responded reassuringly, “we’ve plenty of supplies; enough to last several years. As long as we keep the walls well manned by guards and archers, we can hold out almost indefinitely…” Croesus looked only slightly relieved, although he seemed satisfied enough with his general’s response. Though he had been severely shaken by the ferocity of the Persians, he was most certainly not beaten yet! As soon as his allies arrived he was determined to have his revenge on these Persian barbarians.

*** ***** ***

The Lydian herald soon arrived in Laconia, the capital city of the Spartan state of Lacedaemonia, to find the Spartans grieving sorely for the loss of three hundred of their best warriors in a recent dispute with Argos over the territory of Thyrea, whose ownership they both claimed. Even so the Archon greeted him warmly, although he didn’t quite know what to make of this unexpected visit:

“This is indeed a surprise, herald!” The Archon said, “We had not thought to hear from you again until we go to meet your master in Sardis in spring…”

As he spoke, the Archon could not help noticing that the herald seemed to be having a hard time keeping tears from his eyes as he answered, “Alas my lord, the gods did not will it so; our city of Sardis is already besieged by Cyrus; my master bids you to honour our alliance and come at once!”

“And the siege?” the Archon demanded, needing to know more details of Croesus’ situation before he would commit his troops to an ocean voyage, especially at this stormy time of year, “Is Sardis likely to hold out long enough for us to relieve her?”

“Yes lord!” The herald replied stoutly, “Our walls are strong and high and the city is well-supplied…”

The Archon thought deeply for several moments before he spoke again, “We are at present engaged in a dispute with Argos over Thyrea; the mourning you see is for three hundred of our best warriors, who have died already in the dispute.” Now, the herald thought to himself, he finally understood the reason for all the weeping and lamentation which he had observed on his arrival, as he looked around at the huge crowd of mourners, who had now ceased their wailing while they waited to hear whatever news this Lydian had brought with him.

When he saw the extent of the Spartans’ grief however, he couldn’t help but wonder if the Lacedaemonians would even be able to help. He need not have worried on that score, however. The Spartans felt that a man was only as good as his word; if Lacedaemonia had made an agreement to help Lydia, then whatever the cost to her in either men or materials she would honour it; all the more so as Sparta was indebted to Croesus for many kindnesses.

When the Archon saw and understood the distressed look which had appeared on the Lydian’s face, he continued, “We are obliged to avenge their deaths, yet we will not dishonour our treaty with Croesus; tell your master that as much of our forces as can be spared will be assembled at once; we will sail for Sardis as soon as the ships can be provisioned.”

“Thank you, my lord Archon.” The herald replied gratefully, nodding his thanks. However, privately he could not help but wonder whether the Spartans would in fact be able to send enough men to turn the tide of this war against the Persians. Having just lost three hundred of their finest warriors in their dispute with the Argives over Tegea, they would, he thought, undoubtedly lose many more men avenging their deaths. Who, he asked himself, could possibly know how many troops Lacedaemonia would be able to send to Lydia after they had revenged themselves on the Argives?

Even so, the herald thought to himself with grim resignation, a little help is better than none. Negotiations now being at an end, he gave the Archon a farewell salute and said, “I shall return immediately and let Croesus know that help is on the way…”

*** ***** ***

Foodge 1

18 Friday Dec 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 18 Comments

I’m usually more careful than that.

I could sense the sickly smell of blood. My hand was in a wet pool. Too soon to open the eyes.

A small panel beater was hammering out the dents on the inside of my eyeballs and my mouth felt like a camel train had camped there overnight.

Whatever was out there on the other side of my eyelids was going to have to wait until the hammering eased up a little.

But the headache was not the main problem. Beyond the headache, the right cheek of my arse was screaming louder than my head. I decided to feel it. Mistake. It was wet. It was wet with my blood.

I had taken one in the backside for the good guys.

But there was no wound. There was a welt though. I could feel that well enough. I crawled across the threadbare Axminster into the bathroom and prepared for the worst. Opening my right eye, I caught a glimpse in the mirror of my naked backside. Curious. There was no blood. But it was wet alright. And swimming in a fresh coat of straw coloured plasma, was a tattoo. A zodiac tattoo. It was one half of the sign of Gemini. It was one half of a pair of twins.

Wash hands. Two aspirin from the medicine cupboard behind the mirror. And the taste of ironed water from rusty pipes. No, wait. It was the same colour as scotch. An understandable mistake. Two asprin and a shot of Johnny Walker Red. Or branch water – from a lazy anabranch. Open the other eye. Swimming into long focus in the room behind me was a figure. A man lying still on the bed, facing the wall. He was the kind of still not associated with hooch; he was pegged out more like the repose of the deceased. His problem was clearly more serious than my smarting arse.

The bald patch was familiar. The pale blue shirt was familiar. The tattoo on the left buttock was fresh and also familiar. Dave Gerard O’Hoo was a latter day detective with the Met. He was my drinking partner years ago, on an exchange case with the Inner West dicks of 21 Division. He was famous for busting the Hells Angles for growing and selling Marrickville gold hedge. In the carpark. From the boot of an old blue Zephyr.

O’Hoo was on the case because he looked like a cross between a leprechaun and a crime boss. I had my suspicions that he looked like a crime boss because he had more skeletons in his closet than a Greek mausoleum at Rookwood. And the word was that some were home made and not exactly related. It was just an escaped word, but the word’s life was clearly at risk and this old upstairs pub room was something far from what could be called a safe house.

This was going to be a tough one to explain. It required another thoughtful of hip flask, so I sat next to O’Hoo previous on my intact left cheek and fingered my chin a bit.