Dastardly Doings - Part 7

At last this turgid tale is beginning to develop a form of sorts. Let’s re-cap.

Arjy and Sean are private detectives who started to investigate possible price fixing by Woodies and Cols. They are side tracked by a spate of killings that seemed more interesting to investigate but now appear to be linked to the ‘Big Two’ supermarkets. The supermarkets were paying protection money to the local constabulary but then welshed on the deal and the killings started. So – are the killings actually moves in a power play between police and the retail food industry? Maybe, but don’t forget the Incontinental link! The Incontinental Retirement Home also seems to be involved in this farrago but quite how, is anyone’s guess including mine. And now, for some inexplicable reason, the managers of the supermarkets appear to be a couple of almost famous - almost international comedians we know as Billy Colony and Robbin Millions. Arjy is dragging her investigation – kicking and screaming – toward a conclusion. And it can’t come soon enough. Now read on, if you can be bothered. Let me know when you’ve finished.

(The car park outside Woodies is deserted. No people, no cars, not a bird in the sky and the sky is a featureless lightness verging on blueness. Not even a whisper of breeze disturbs the stasis of the atmosphere; the scene is totally and unrelentingly lifeless. The day is not cold nor is it hot and despite the clear sky there are no shadows, but that may be because the sun seems to be missing. Eventually a single figure creeps in from unknown, outlying regions and, treading warily, moves to the centre of the car park. It is Sean Bean.)

Sean: Hello?…….. Hello?

(No movement. No sound. Not a fucking thing but then, Sean has never been the one to inspire enthusiastic welcome.)

Sean: Aaaah shit – not again! ……….. HOUSE MEETING! HOUSE MEETING! ….Come on, everybody out! HOUSE MEETING!

(Slowly, hesitantly, others appear at the edges of the deserted expanse of bitumen and begin to move in towards Sean Bean. A small crowd - consisting of the entire cast of Dastardly Doings - gathers.)

Arjy: What’s going on?

Sean: It’s Yuteman. He’s going to bail.

Iris Pessary: Where’s Bail?

Sean: Bail OUT. He’s going to bail out.

Senior Sergeant Slideback: What do you mean - bail out? How – bail out?

Sean: Just bail out! Withdraw! Cut and run! Dump us! Axe the series! The prick is bored with it!

Arjy: How do you know that?

Sean: I’ve seen it before. I recognise the signs. Believe me, he’s going to chuck it in.

Arjy: He can’t fucking do that, the decrepit old cunt. Who the fuck does he think he is?

Sean: If he goes – we go. That’s the way of it.

Arjy: No! The bastard said he was going to give me a chance. He said he was! I could feel my character gaining sympathy. He could do the same for me as he did for that cow Porker in The Comedy of Errors. She ended up almost human in that. It’s not sodding fair! Where is he?

Constable Gruff: He’s gone up the paddock at the back of his place. The three-year-old granddaughter is annoying the shit out of the plovers up there.

Iris Pessary: She’s going to lose a piece of her arse to those plovers if she doesn’t watch out. They’ve got eggs I think.

Constable Gruff: That’s why he’s chased off after her. Uh-oh, now she’s chucking rocks at the bull ant mound. There’s going to be tears before the day is out.

Arjy: Will you just shut up about bull ants and bleeding plovers! What are we going to do about Yuteman?

Gladys De Weekent: We must be able to do something. I was starting to enjoy my part. I felt it had room for more development, you know? It’s obvious that Incontinental has a big part to play in this story – what about the teeth for one thing? And I am, after all, nominally in charge at Incontinental even if I did start off as a sort of lowly Activities Officer. My role developed, didn’t it? Yuteman does that doesn’t he? He forgets things and things get changed for no apparent reason and so on. Well, I feel my character is going to come on leaps and bounds in …….

Sean: Shuddup for fucks sake!

Comical Killer: What about me? I haven’t managed to get a line to say yet but my part must be important.

Senior Sergeant Slideback: I thought the Comical Killer was going to turn out to be Billy Colony or Robbin Millions who were bumping off coppers to embarrass the police because they were staging supermarket customers suicides because Cols and Woodies weren’t paying out ……. or something like that.

Comical Killer: Oh. Right ….. I’ll just …um … push off then, shall I?

Arjy: Too fucking right you will! Bloody bit players! Give them a costume, a dab of make-up and a lunch voucher and they think they’re part of the cast. Go on – fuck off!

Sean: I don’t know why you want to talk about this. It will all just end you know. Like a light going off. Click! That’s it. Look, just face it; Yuteman has decided the story isn’t getting anywhere interesting, he thinks it’s humdrum. You know what he’s like. He likes weird shit, twists and turns, change of pace, fast – slow – fast – slow – manic – boom. That kind of thing.

Senior Sergeant Slideback: We can do manic. Why doesn’t he give us a go? Ok, the story is a bit boring at the moment but stories do that, don’t they? All of them have slow bits where you might feel like flicking over the page till you get to a good bit. What does Yuteman expect?

Arjy: Billy, Robbin – you’re experienced artists. You must have something to say about this?

Billy Colony: Och! Don’t ask me. I’m just a guest artiste under contract. I get paid the same if it finishes or not. I don’t want tae get involved and I don’t give a fuck which way it goes.

Robbin Millions: Well I DO care! FUCKING ‘A’! Know what I’m sayin’? This whole shit’s gotta come down brother – know what I’m sayin’? FUCKING ‘A’. Who’s your Daddy now? Who does this asshole think he is? Martin Gimsholde? Yeah! Yeah! Know what I’m sayin’? I might look like a French Jew but I talk like a Brother and if that aint kosher, who gives a fuck. FUCK YOU SENATOR BRADSHAW! Yeah! Yeah! Who’s your Daddy now? This aint Arkansas. Know what I’m SAYIN’? Yeah!

Billy Colony: Fuck me, I see what you mean, Arjy. Am I as crap as that?

Robbin Millions: Oh, sorry, sorry. I forgot one. RIGHT ON MOTHERFUCKER! Sorry about that, please carry on.

Arjy: Jesus! There must be something we can do.

Bistro Waiters: Why don’t we write it ourselves?

Arjy: What?

Bistro Waiters: Do the story ourselves! Who needs Yuteman? We could write the thing the way we want to. Develop our own parts. We can be whatever we want to be and do whatever we like.

Constable Gruff: Hey, that’s not a bad idea.

Gladys De Weekent: Yes, I could be an international mogul in the aged care industry advocating compulsory institutional care for everyone over the age of 35!

Arjy: I could be President of the new Feminist Republic of Australia.

Sean: Well, supposing that was possible, how are we going to agree on the characters and story line? I mean – half the time we can’t agree on the date let alone something like this.

Bistro Waiters: Easy – we each get to write an episode. The next person follows on as best they can and develops his or her own story in their own way – and so on. One episode each until the story ends.

Arjy: Brilliant! And if Yuteman tries to interfere we crash his spell checker - the sod couldn’t write his own name without that. Ok, so who’s going first?

Bistro Waiters: Well, I do have a little experience, being something of a professional writist as you might say so perhaps …..

Senior Sergeant Slideback: Hang on! Hang on! Whoever starts is going to set the tone of this thing. I think we should …..

Sean: Heads up! Yuteman’s back! He’s sitting down at the keyboard, probably going to write a simpering apology to his “public” then bin the lot of us.

Arjy: Quick! Disable the spell-checker!

Ron Yuteman: It is with sinsere regret that I mus tel yoo all that Iam considaling doin away with this hole seereez. It hav cum to me that this is not alot of good and yoo mus not be disupoynted if yoo….. Ang on, wot the fuk iz goin on heer? This iss all rong I think. Why do not the spelin and the gramer get fixt for me? Hav yoo bin fidlin with Grampys conputar, sweathart?

Grandawter: No Grampy. I wont to see the birdiz agen. Wont to cownt the egs.

Ron Yootmun: Not now sweathart. Grampy is havin a bit of bother with his smel-fuker program and the wurds is all cokt up.

Grandawter: Nanny, Grampy wont take me to see birdiz becos he say his smel-fuker is cokt.

Missis Yootmun: RONULD! HAV YOO BIN SWERRIN IN FRUNT OF OUR LITUL GURL? GET OWT HEER. NOW!!!!

Arjy: Has he gone? Sean, can you see where he is?

Sean: Yes. Hiz wife is givin him a rite bollikin. Ill activat the spel-cheker agen. That’s better. Oh, he’s getting a really good going over; we won’t see him again for a few days.

Arjy: Where were we? Ok, we have to work out who gets to write the first of the new episodes.

Iris Pessary: I think we should have a running race down the car park to decide who goes first.

Arjy: That seems fair enough. All those in favour?

Constable Gruff: Just a moment, giraffe jeans! Who put you in charge? I suppose you think you’ll romp home on those seven league legs of yours?

Arjy: Fuck you, Gruff!

Iris Pessary: I’m at a bit of a disadvantage in a wheelchair of course and, what with the arthritis, I can’t turn the wheels properly. Does anyone object if I use my little motorised wheelchair?

Arjy: That’ll be fine, Iris. Ok everyone, back here in ten minutes. One hundred-metre dash and the winner writes the first episode.

TEN MINUTES LATER.

(The cast are lined up half way down the ramp from the upper car park. They are impatiently waiting for Iris Pessary. Arjy is quietly confident, certain that her freaky legs will carry her down the course in only a few strides. Bistro Waiters is equally confident and has the sprint medals to back him up. The others know they are along for the ride but Sean still thinks he might be able to trip and cheat his way through.

A horrendous roar interrupts their thoughts and they duck in unison as a screaming machine bursts from the blackness of the undercover car park above them. It takes off as it breasts the top of the ramp and hurtles through the air, flames jetting from the quad exhaust pipes spearing like rocket motors from the back of the machine. It soars over the terrified cast and lands twenty metres down the track in a crash of steel and bellowing power. In a moment the driver, crouched in a black roll cage, has the contraption spun around and gurgling back to the starting line. A blip on the throttle sends it into a violent 180 that has the machine facing back down the track and ready to race.

The machine is black steel gripping a V8 motor. Specially made Goodyear slicks bulge beside the engine that is ticking over like the beat of a gigantic heart from some ancient mythical beast. The side panels are custom painted with bronze cloud formations and electric blue lightning overlaid with a name painted in a red, jagged font – ‘Greased Batshit’.

The driver is secondary to this brutal monster but still seems part of the machine. A gloved hand flips up the black tinted visor on the helmet that is laminated with mother of pearl set with emeralds. Behind the visor, like a toad emerging from a Faberge egg, a hideous face leers out at the rest of the cast.)

Iris Pessary: Meet my little motorised wheelchair, losers. Get ready to choke on rubber!

TO BE CONTINUED.