By Big M

Tuesday afternoon saw very little progress in the Local Member case. Foodge had started a file, which consisted of, the photos, and Mrs FitzPatrick’s business card, which Merv had managed to secure the previous morning. Foodge struggled to get comfortable, as the patrons had all been moved to the Ladies Lounge while Granny and Manne pressure cleaned “The Gents’. Evidently Merv had come across a full, automatic Fouler Wear stainless steel standuppery for an undisclosed amount. Granny was adamant that the entire room should be cleaned and repainted before installation.

Foodge had the photos fanned out like playing cards on the bar. He still struggled to make sense of the angle of the dangle, turning his head this way, and then that. He was sitting, wondering what the hell photoshopped meant when Merv piped up. “Well done, aren’t they?”

“Yes, lovely photos.”

“No, the photoshopping, beautifully blended, colour matches nicely, shadows fall the same way.”

Foodge suddenly realised that ‘photshopping’ had nothing to do with buying photos, but something to do with altering photos. “That’s if they are, indeed, photoshopped!” He retorted, thinking that he may have left the legal fraternity a little too early in life.

“Fair cop, you should get’em analysed. Waz is pretty good at this sorta thing.” Merv pushed another canoe across the bar. “I’ll point ‘im out next time he’s in.”

They both braced themselves for Janet’s ritual afternoon screaming session, but it never came. She was still in the grip of morning sickness, which lasted all day. Instead the pub was overwhelmed by the sound of big Vee twins. It was the Hell’s Angles, on their Charlies. Both Merv and Foodge visibly relaxed. The Angles started to wander in. Foodge was surprised to see Emmjay and FM, as they’d always rubbished American bikes. The last to enter the Ladies Lounge was The Professor, accompanied by Detective Chief Inspector Rouge, as well as Detective Inspector O’Hoo, who, thanks to Rouge’s influence, was still maintaining some semblance to a human

“Having a meeting, are we?”  Foodge was still a little hurt that his efforts in the de Sastri case had been overlooked.

“No, Foodge, not a meeting, a presentation.” The Professor intoned. “For services to the Hell’s Angles Motor Cycle Club, we hereby invite you to become an Associate, that is, non-geometric, member.” The Professor stepped forward and pinned a badge to Foodge’s lapel, shaking him vigorously by the hand. Each club member stepped forward, some shaking his hand, others embracing him, weeping openly.

DCI Rouge then took the floor. “I have been asked by the New South Wales Pleece Commishnar to thank you for you efforts in the aforementioned case, and am empowered to appoint you as a Special Deputy to the Pleece Force.” Rouge stepped forward, shook Foodge’s hand, and then hugged him tightly, whispering. “Thanks for looking after my little Gerald.” She had tears in her eyes. O’Hoo hugged him, grinning away. “There’s a big surprise.” O’Hoo, was, after all, a big child.

The Professor grabbed Foodge by the arm, taking him to the car park, the gang followed. “We’ve managed to find an old friend.”

There, parked in her usual spot, was Foodge’s Zephyr, idling as smoothly as when she came off the production line. Now it was his turn for tears. ”How…when…err.” He stammered.

“Surprisingly enough, Foodge, some of our members are mechanical engineers, and damned good mechanics.” Beamed the Professor. “Now, I think it’s time to party. Foodge was led back inside to the sounds of the Burnside Refugees, with guest bass player O’Hoo, and Emmjay on lead guitar. Merv had moved the pie warmer to the Ladies Lounge, and had stocked it with Fresh, Country Baked frozen pies and sausage rolls. Granny had hung up the water blaster for the day, and was busy cutting potatoes for her wedges. The Bowling Ladies had arrived with ham and tomato sandwiches, with thick margarine, on day old white bread, and had started to brew their trademark acrid tea.

Janet waddled down the stairs, convinced that this was the way a future mother of twins was supposed walk in the ninth week of pregnancy. DCI Rouge danced seductively in front of the bass player, whilst Emmjay’s First Mate attempted to teach the bongo player some musical concepts regarding cadence and rhythm. Merv was flat out behind the bar pulling pints of Trotters and Granny’s Best, whilst Granny was working her magic on the wedges. Even Manne was trying to be useful, by working as the bar useful.

The Pigs Arms was rocking. Angles danced with Bowling Ladies, whilst beer, wedges, pastries and sangers were consumed at a frenetic pace. Foodge was overwhelmed with the constant pats on the back, shouts of Trotters and smiles from well-wishers. Unfortunately, this just wasn’t his scene, and, ever the professional, he found his way up to the Nathan Rees Memorial Cinema, where, for the umpteenth time this week, he spread out the photos, staring whilst sipping a cleansing ale. The scruffiest, most unkempt fellow he’d ever seen soon joined him. “Gidday, I’m Waz.” As the newcomer thrust out a hand. “Believe you’ve got some photos need analysing?”

‘Waz’ set up a laptop, and his fingers were soon flurrying across the keyboard.  “So, you’re going to scan the photos into the computer to analyse them?” Foodge queried.

“No, I’m checking the comments on my various graphics and articles that I publish on-line.” Waz sneered at some of the text that flashed across the scree. “I only need to eyeball the photos.” He stopped typing, and looked at each photo. “Not photoshopped, mate.”

“So, they’re real?” Foodge was quick on the uptake.

Waz already had the laptop folded away. “Yep, see you.” Then wandered off.

Foodge sat and wondered how he’d break the news to Mrs FitzPatrick that the photos of the Local Member really were of his member.  Janet waddled into the cinema, supporting her non-bulging belly with two hands. Pregnancy suited her, Foodge reflected, even her crazy wandering eye seemed to make some effort to work in concert with the good one.

“You must be tempted.” Janet winked.

“Oh…er…um…a mate’s wife ‘n’ pregnant ‘n’ all.” Foodge’s cheeks coloured.

“No, you dill.” It was Janet’s turn to be embarrassed. “The photos. You could flog ‘em to one of the better papers, say, The Terrorgraph or Lewisham Bugle, for thousands. It’s a pity the Mirror’s gone. They’d pay tens of thousands.”

This had never crossed Foodge’s mind, not because he was a dill, no, he was honest, another personality trait that prevented him from re-entering The Law. “I’ve never thought about it. Thousands you reckon?”

“Yep, knew you wouldna thorduvvit, that’s why I suggested it.” Janet winked again, then waddled off in the direction of the flat over the pub. Pregnancy was really taking it out of her, besides ‘Mastercook’ was about to start.

Foodge realised that Janet was trying to give him a clue, but try as he might, he just couldn’t get it. Slowly, like dawn light filtering in through the high window of The Gents, where he’d woken many a fine morning, it dawned on him. Big Red had set him up to sell the photos to a paper. Foodge had been taken for a stooge.

photo borrowed from http://www.wtfoodge.com – a parallel universe – I suspect they borrowed it too……