Syd Soyley is a True Blue outback backpacker, licenced professional adventurer, and genteel vagabond. He travels the world bringing his readers the grundiest travel log and extreme vacation guide on the Net.
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII
Part IX
Adventures in Dirt Cove, Part V
I followed Father O' Lecher 'round back of the bottle shop. A dim, buzzing porchlight revealed a crooked veranda and a rusted steel firedoor. A lone patron stood back-on to us, having a piss over the side. At the sound of our approach, the bloke turned around quickly, nearly spraying us.
"How ya gettin' on, Fadder!?" he shouted enthusiatically.
"Mind yerself with that thing, lad!" the priest said, angrily. "I did nay bring another cossack with me!"
"What ya got in dem boxes?" asked the man loudly, still dribbling. He was a skinny bloke, sporting a ball cap and a few crappy pen ink tattoos that were almost certainly self-inflicted.
"Never you mind, lad," said O'Lecher. "Run
along, now."
"Who's dis fella?" inquired the boofhead, absent-mindedly tucking his donger back in.
"Syd Soyley," I said. "Professional Adventurer."
"Hi, I'm Garland," he said, extending his hand. Given its recent whereabouts, I elected to forgo a handshake.
"No offense, mate, but, er ... me mitts are full with these boxes."
"Are you b'ys goin' into da bar?" said Garland.
"Garland, do you want to go to Heaven?" asked Father O'Lecher.
"Yes, Fadder."
"Do you want to go tonight?"
Garland thought about it for a moment. "No, Fadder."
"Then run along before I feed ye yer own arse ye half-witted beer monkey!" thundered the Priest, sending the drongo scrambling off the veranda and back towards the car park like a frightened sandgroper.
Cursing under his breath, the priest gave the back door a couple of swift kicks with a rubber booted foot. A few moments later, a slot at eye level slid open. "Who's dere?" said a muffled voice.
"It's the friggin' Holy Spirit," said Father O'Lecher. "Is himself there, Cecil?"
"Uncle Wally? He's in the crawlspace under the bar. He says we got another leak down there again. He's been down twice tonight already tryin' to patch it up."
"A leak," said the priest, rolling his eyes. "Yes, I'll bet. Open up, now, we got a special delivery," he said with a wink.
"Wha?" Cecil didn't pick up on the first ring.
"I've got some business of a spiritual nature to discuss." This time O'Lecher added a nod to his wink.
"Wha?"
"Let's just say that if you've been prayin' for an end to all this dry weather ... your prayers have been answered, boy-o!" Two winks, a nod and a twist of the head -- if Cecil didn't clue in soon, O'Lecher was going to end up in a neck brace.
"You wants to come in through da back door?" said Cecil.
No, I thought, my arms saddled with enough booze to make a gazelle try to root a mountain lion, we're just here to watch patrons whizz off the back step.
"Open the bleedin' door and let us in, ye dullard! We've got yer bloody booze here, b'y!" shouted O'Lecher.
A pause. The eyes in the slot narrowed. "How do I know you're not a cop?"
Father O'Lecher dropped the boxes he was carrying and proceeded to name every Saint he could muster and a few Unholy activities for them to engage in.
"Because ye've seen me be arrested a half dozen times right here at this friggin' bar!"
Good point, that. Cecil then explained that he was not to receive any more shipments of contraband booze, liquor or foodstuffs from anyone not knowing the secret knock.
"Jumpin' Jehovah on a pogo stick!" cried Father O'Lecher. He pounded on the door with religous -- and somewhat intoxicated -- zeal, sending flakes of rust flying and Cecil recoiling.
Boom-ba-ba-boom-boom-knock-knock. It seemed the secret knock was "Shave and a Haircut."
The door creaked open and a sawed-off little runt of man with a bad comb-over stood there, looking sheepish. He must've stood on a chair to see out the slot. Father O'Lecher picked up his boxes and pushed past him into the kitchen, glowering.
From the look of the place, no Health Inspector ever made it out this far. I pitched in with Cecil to drag the last of the stubbies into the freezer when I noticed that Father O'Lecher was gone.
"He's probably out at da Swingin' Bells," said Cecil, looking concerned. I followed the small man down a short hallway into the smoky, dingy bar area. "He takes dem machines awfully seriously."
A handful of locals were about, relaxing in the ratty furniture, alone or in pairs. Judging from the empties, some of 'em had been there for a while. Our friend Garland was sitting at a battered table in the corner. He waved cheerily. I did my best to ignore him, and took a seat at the bar.
"Stick in me arse!" came a shout from across the room, where Father O'Lecher sat at a small row of video lotto terminals. The screens of a couple of the machines were shattered and dark. He pounded on the console with a meaty fist. "Crap! Syd, spot me a fifty 'til Wally shows up, will ye? Cecil! Get Syd a couple rolls o' loonies!" he yelled back over his shoulder.
"Umm ...Uncle Wally told me you can't play dem no more after what you done da last time, Father," Cecil said, his voice trembling.
"Oh, did he now?" the priest asked sweetly, slowly rising from his stool, outlined in the garish colours of flashing bells and cherries. "Well, thanks for telling me ... because it's the last thing you'll ever say!"
With lightning speed for a man that intoxicated, the priest flew from his perch at the machines, and leaped over the bar, robes fluttering. Grabbing poor Cecil by the throat, he thrust him headfirst into a display of potato crisps. The little man went down in a heap.
O'Lecher towered over him. "You tell that alkie boss of yours that he wouldn't have any bottles to suckle 'neath the floorboards if it weren't for Father Peter O-friggin-Lecher!" He emphasized his point with a couple sharp kicks to the ribs.
It was then that I detected a strong smell of liqour behind me. I swiveled to find a gray haired man in a dumpy brown suit, chugging the contents of a large mug shaped like the head of a Newfoundland dog. He looked like he'd had a rough night. "Cecil", he said. "When yer done with dat customer give me a refill on me coffee, willya?" Apparently coffee in Dirt Cove was at least eighty proof.
"Ah, there's the worm now," said Father O'Lecher, administering a final boot to the semi-conscious bartender. "Monkey boy here just told me that we have a problem, Uncle Wally."
So
this then was the man himself, Mayor "Uncle Wally"
Pippy.
"Good to see you back, Father. We got no problems here, now. Cecil, get up and get the Father a few loonies, willya?" Cecil struggled to his feet, dazed, then abruptly fell face first into a pile of empties. He was down for the count.
"Christ! Er, excuse me Father," blushed the mayor. "I'll get me own coffee and your loonies, too. Nuddin' but a piece of shite in me own bloody pub," he muttered.
"I'll take a mug o' what's on tap," I said. Might as well jump in while someone conscious was behing the bar, I reckoned.
Uncle Wally stared at me like I was a two-headed 'roo. "You a cop?" he inquired. "Cause I called in to a radio show and buddy from da RCMP said if I asks you then you got to tell me if yer a cop. Dem's da rules and if we're not playin' by the rules then you can't charge me wit' nuddin'. Nuddin', you hear me?"
"Ach, the wee girl's with me," said the priest, fetching a couple handfuls of dollar coins from the till. "He's no copper, he's a tourist from Australia. I got him out of Old Woman Hick's place. He's alright. He even gave me a hand carryin' up the delivery from the Sweet Jeezus."
"He never answered me," Uncle Wally said, fixing me with a bloodshot stare. "You a cop or not?"
I assured the Mayor that I was indeed not an officer of the law. This proved to be small comfort to the rorter, though -- he seemed none too pleased with Father O'Lecher letting me in on their transaction.
"Bloody machine!" cursed the priest, having resumed his gambling.
I watched as Wally refilled his "coffee" mug. Apparently he had cleverly diguised his coffer maker in the rum bottle hanging over the bar. The man took his java a shot at a time.
Truth be told, adventurers, I was feeling drier than a dead dingo's donger myself. I fancied a pint of Guiness and several more to keep the first pint company. Too right!
"We don't got none," Uncle Wally informed me.
"God damn ye!" said Father O'Lecher, kicking a terminal.
"A pint of Caffrey's?" I asked, indicating the line of taps at the end of the bar.
"Don't got none of dat, neither," said Uncle Wally.
"A pox on yer electronic innards!" shouted O'Lecher.
I inquired as to what, if anything, they did have.
"Don't got nuddin' on tap, here," admitted Wally. "I just likes the look of 'em. I collects taps. I don't drink, see? I had to stop drinkin' now that I'm the Mayor," he sighed, exhaling boozily.
"The Devil take ye, cursed machine!"
"Wouldn't be right, the Mayor drinkin' all the time," he continued. "One day at a time, I always says. I don't touch the stuff no more. Can't handle it. But I figures surrounding myself with it is da best way to keep it off me mind, see? If it's all around me, then I won't be thinking of it, right?" Wally reasoned, drinking out of the severed ceramic head of a dog. "T'ink you could send me a tap from Australia? They must have some dandy friggin' beers over there, wha?"
Bloody oath -- the bar with no beer. I settled for a bottle of Wally's Own. "Made with the thick, refreshing water of Dirt Cove," bragged the handwritten label.
"May ye burn in hell, spawn of Satan!" yelled Father O'Lecher.
I was reluctantly raising the stubbie to my lips when the gunshot rang out.
The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of a few plaintive electronic bleeps as the entire bar turned to see Father Peter O'Lecher standing in front of a mortally wounded video lotto terminal, a smoking chrome-plated revolver in his hand. A brief shower of sparks and a puff of smoke erupted from the bullet hole dead center in the now-darkened screen.
"Could I have another roll o' loonies?" asked the priest.
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