Dastardly Doings - Part 8

By Iris Pessary.

The power behind the throne would be one way to describe Iris Pessary. She is fast approaching 90 years young and her mind is as sharp as a skinning knife. Iris has dominated The Incontinental Luxury Retirement Home for over twenty years, ever since her useless clown of a husband died and left her with no one to make the coffee. At least he left her a fabulously wealthy woman, mainly because he slavishly followed her instructions thereby ensuring the success of their castration clinic known as ‘Had A Ball Pty Ltd.’

(The clinic had been started to service the horse and beef industries in the Beaudesert region but due to a fortunate error in some state government office the business had branched into the treatment of habitual sex offenders. The style of treatment and the seemingly permanent benefits to the recipients had been so successful that ‘Had A Ball’ soon became the service of choice, in matters of sexual deviant treatment, for the entire Australian justice system, particularly the Department of Criminal Remedial Care based in Canberra. They also did a substantial amount of under the counter business with the Australian Feminist movement. It has been said that the phenomenal success of the Sydney Gay Mardi Gras during the last 20 years may be partly due to the efforts of Iris Pessary and her clinic, and quite a few of her ex-customers may be seen at this event cavorting in exceptionally streamlined body stockings.

Even though Iris has retired she continues to provide pro bono services to the local community and has earned many community care awards. If the local branch of Australian Feminists locate a possible rapist or even a vaguely potential ‘watcher with intent’ then Iris will be there to help. Her only stipulations being that the subject must be at or over the age of twelve and have at least one female accuser. Iris prides herself on her skill, even at the age of 89, and she claims to still be able to crash two house bricks together with the best of them.

But it was a chance meeting at the Gold Coast Jupiter’s High Roller Lounge that led to a powerful partnership between Iris and the retired billionaire Terrence Pucker. This unholy alliance brought chaos and rich pickings Iris Pessary’s way. Terrence had intended to spend his last years in peaceful anonymity. He had faked his own death to get the privacy he had secretly longed for but even though he was heavily disguised when he first saw Iris, she saw through him and Terrence realised this was an exceptional woman.

To Iris, Pucker’s disguise was totally transparent. He had shaved his head and grown a moustache but, on his fearful mug, the moustache looked like anal hair bursting from a warthog’s arse. Iris knew there was only one man on the planet who could be that ugly without being arrested for traumatising the young. She greeted him as one grotesque to another and the bond was forged.

Now, Iris has ventured out of Jimboomba for a meeting with Pucker. He is a permanent resident (and secret owner) of the Frill Necked Lizard restaurant and hotel standing in the shadow of Mount Tamborine. Iris and Terrence sit in the warm spring sunshine at a secluded garden table reserved only for them.)

Iris: It’s starting to heat up.

Pucker: I expected it to. The scheme won’t work without a little heat. Are those amateur sleuths giving you trouble?

Iris: Not really. Bean is too stupid and the girl is so wrapped up in herself she can’t see past her ego.

Pucker: Then how did they manage to follow you here? It’s not like you to underestimate people, Iris.

Iris: Where? Where?

Pucker: They’re sitting on the veranda, behind the Casling bush.

Iris: How, for goodness sake? I was careful. I didn’t see a thing.

Pucker: You didn’t see them because they were ten minutes behind you and as for ‘how’ – that may have been an anonymous tip they received this morning.

Iris: You told them they would find me here? Why?

Pucker: They are an unnecessary risk and need to be dealt with, Iris. But don’t worry about them for now. Our little friend has finally arrived.

Iris: You’ve got it? How marvellous.

Pucker: Marvellous is right. Four years of research, two years in the making and 100 million dollars – it had better be marvellous.

Iris: You’re doing God’s work, Terry.

Pucker: Very funny. You can take it back with you and give it to Slideback; he knows what to do with it.

Iris: And what about Barjy and Bean?

Pucker: Take the long way home, up over the mountain. Slideback has a team in place at the Thunderbird Park turn-off.

Iris: You’re sure you want to do this?

Pucker: It was your idea to do this at some stage, Iris, and I’ve learned to trust your judgement. Come on, I’ll push you to your little go-kart – our friend is already strapped on and waiting.

(Pucker pushes Iris in her wheelchair to the car park. Behind them, two figures scuttle to the battered old Jeep parked in the shadows. Iris presses a button on a tiny remote and the side panel of Greased Batshit swings out and down forming a platform beside the vehicle. Pucker positions the wheelchair carefully on the platform and, with an electronic hum, the wheelchair is drawn into the driving position and clamped. Iris pulls on her gloves and helmet and fires up the V8 as Pucker checks that the perforated steel box strapped to the roll cage is secure.)

Pucker: Don’t damage our baby. Keep just ahead of those clowns until you pass the Thunderbird turn-off then gun it. Slideback’s crew will do the rest. I’ll be in touch.

(In a spray of gravel, Greased Batshit slews out of the hotel car park and heads for Mount Tamborine. The battered Jeep is 400 metres behind and Iris keeps it in sight as she idles up the snaking mountain road. The V8 engine thuds effortlessly until they finally reach the Thunderbird Park junction. As Iris drops her right foot she glimpses a bulky truck begin to move out of the side road behind her, then Greased Batshit lashes its rear end and streaks away trailing fire and the crackling roar of a receding jet fighter.

The truck is a nondescript Japanese model and has a dingy yellow dozer, complete with hooded driver, in the back tray. The truck whips around a hairpin bend and begins to tip its tray until the dozer rolls off and crashes to the bitumen its engine roaring and sparks kicking from the bucket as it hits the road. Moments later the Jeep carrying Arjy and Sean races around the bend trying to catch up with Iris. The Jeep smashes into the bulldozer without any apparent effect on the powerful machine other than a slight backward shudder. The dozer seems to hunch and its caterpillar tracks bite as the huge diesel engine goes to maximum power. Slowly but inexorably the mangled Jeep and its stunned passengers are thrust to the edge of the road and the 300 metre drop-off to the valley floor. Arjy wakes and groggily looks around her. She doesn’t even have time to scream as the Jeep is pushed into space and into its final chaotic plunge to the bottom of the mountain.

Iris slows down and takes time to enjoy her roundabout trip back to Jimboomba. On the way she stops off at the police station and hands over her special passenger to Senior Sergeant Slideback before continuing to Incontinental Retirement Home. At the door of the home she is greeted by Gladys De Weekent who appears to be agitated.)

Gladys De Weekent: Oh, Mrs Pessary, that dreadful man is up to his tricks again.

Iris Pessary: Ambrose Jockscent?

(Ambrose Jockscent, the Octogenarian Ram and long-time resident of Incontinental, has devoted his lifetime to pleasuring the ladies wherever he can find them and he has found rather a lot during his 84 years, some of them in damned peculiar places too. He often dwells on army days and the fond memory of a Bedouin girl with an arse like a camel’s hump who breathlessly declared Ambrose to be far more satisfying than the donkey that usually figured with her in the photos sold in Baghdad bazaars. That pretty compliment had cost him several weeks of treatment but it had been worth it. In more recent years ‘rumpy-pumpy’ has been difficult to find but it doesn’t stop him from snatching at every chance he gets.)

Gladys De Weekent: Yes, Iris. This time he tried it on with the Duty RN. He might even have succeeded if his pyjama cord hadn’t been tied in a double bow. He’d managed to get her stuck in his clothes cupboard and had her bent over a laundry basket with her head trapped under the bottom shelf. I’m sure she will leave this time and good staff are so difficult to come by.

Iris Pessary: I’ll have a word with him, Gladys. Give me five minutes and send him along.

Gladys De Weekent: Thank you, Mrs. Pessary. He’s really gone too far this time.

**********************************

(Ambrose tootles happily down Billion Row toward Iris Pessary’s chambers. He has been summoned and, unless he has missed his wistful guess, his luck is in. It is true that Ambrose considers Iris to be quite the ugliest old crone in this abode of wrinkled flesh but any flesh is better than none at all in Ambrose’ view, so tootle he must when the devil drives.

It has been about a year since Ambrose last scored but he is not at all sure if the catatonic counted. Never the less, today is the day – he can feel it in his jammys as he arrives at Iris’ door. Setting his face with his most unctuous grin, he knocks.)

Iris Pessary: Come in.

Ambrose: Ahh, Iris. You look more beautiful than a desert rose which ……

Iris Pessary: Which is what the British troops called the latrines they dug in North Africa. Don’t try your ridiculous charm on me, Ambrose, we both know you left any vague semblance of charm you might have had with the remains of your testicles in the last knocking shop you managed to drag your feeble backside into.

Ambrose: What? You smelly old bitch! Did you think for one minute that I was interested in your dried up offal tube? Why, it would be like thrusting my magnificent lance through a cheese grater. Think again, madam, you are of no interest to me!

Iris Pessary: Oh, Ambrose, I have misjudged you so much. I thought you would take me in your strong arms and …. treat me dreadfully. I admit that the thought excited me in a way, but I was so afraid.

Ambrose: Really? Well, in that case - never mind my dear, no harm done. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. It’s true that I sometimes have impure thoughts about you but never let it be said that Ambrose Jockscent is no gentleman. However, I must refute your suggestion that my testicles are not in order. Why, they were once described as being not unlike a Bedouin’s goatskin water bags. Would you like to see them?

Iris Pessary: Yes please.

(The fun is over and, as Ambrose scrabbles with his pyjama cord, Iris slides her hands deep into the sides of her wheelchair and takes a firm grip on her favourite number nine house bricks. A short back swing and a good, sharp chop out of the rough, she rather thinks would be the go.)

Iris Pessary: My gosh, Ambrose, they are magnificent! They are somewhat like that swinging ball executive toy that powerful men have on their desks. Would you mind if I gave them a little tap?

(Ambrose shudders with pleasure. Here is the praise he longs for and his scrawny chest lifts with pride. His eyes close in near ecstasy. He still has what it takes to be the sex god he sees in his mirror, even at 84.)

Ambrose: Of course my little pretty one – tap away.

TO BE CONTINUED.