Friday, September 30, 2005

Da Blankenship Code - Part II

And the tale continues:

Chapter 5 (D'Arcy)

The man servant Schmuck (so called because of his diminutive member - an unfortunate accident due to the near-sighted local rabbi having used pinking shears) slouches out to the barn where Tank keeps his collection of fine automobiles. From a peg board he selects the ignition keys to the most impressive one - a rusted 1976 Dodge Dart. He climbs in and drives it, windshield wipers flapping, around to the front of the house.

Inside, meanwhile, an anxious Mrs. Tank hands the dazed and prostate albino something else to drink. "Take this", she says. "It appears that your system was not ready for the toxic strength of Keith’s Pale Ale. This should water it down a tad."

The albino reads the label: Budweiser. Yes, the Teacher did tell me of this North American potable; 'cat piss', I believe he called it. He gulps it down and is immediately sober.

Schmuck enters the living room and announces: "Sire and Siress, your car awaits. But what of our visitor?"

Chapter 6 (Tank)

With his arms and ego inflated Tank, Schmuck and the vivacious Mrs. Tank climb in the spacious 70's vintage iron. The engine roared to life and the bubble headed hula girl on the back window ledge rocked in unison to the staccato beat of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Dance to the music” 8 track selection, side one. With the mysterious chalice comfortably loaded in his the front of his tightly packed jeans, Tank exclaims, “no time for tom foolery Mrs. Tank, we have to get to Oak Island before the hour of twelve”.

Behind the cherry red seat cover, in the trunk, the albino could be heard sputtering the last of his tavern house songs and now was in a crying jag. “Master” Schmuck groans, “ I think he is coming to”. Ever the watchful one, Mrs. Tank suggests a quick stop at the Black Pearl to re fuel the trapped man. They pull into the parking lot with a screech of the 60 series white lettered tires and through the haze of swinging orange dingle balls, he notices that the place is quite full.

They open the trunk, un fetter the assassin, and the Albino clutches at Schmuck declaring his never ending love for him and everyone else. Inside the Black Pearl and group of people sit huddled at a stained table surrounding a man with a large white skull beer mug, listening intently to his story of his navy days. Every one of them wore an eye patch and one even had a dangerous looking Harley tattoo on his arm. “Tough crowd” exclaimed Tank as they drug their sloppy charge to the bar. “Tarbender” Tank hollered over the din, “fetch us a flagon of your finest ale”.

A dark figure lurches forward clomping on a wooden leg that is too long, yet short. “The name be Long Cerris Silver, this ‘ere is a respectable establishment sire, what be yer pleasure, Keith’s light or regular”? “A drink of full on Keith’s, and make sure it is in a dirty glass with a chip out of it, I’m feeling lucky”. With that, the crowd stops talking and all eyes are on the bar, silence sweeps the room. Long Cerris Silver clomps over with a frothy mug, slopped with a day’s worth of heavy drinking and a big chip out of one side. In a gravelly voice tainted with years of life on the high seas, rum, women and song, and too much personal conversation with pet parrots, Long Cerris Silver grunts, “We doesn’t wants any trouble ere tonight, call this one on the house and then don’t let the door hit yer arse on the way out”. The albino in his stupor finds the will from deep inside, he straightens up, pulls back his hood and prepares to speak.


Belay that ya swab, we don't have dirty habbits in eyer. Drink yer fill and be wellcome, the challice from the pallace has the brew that is true.

Eyer be e won o them Knights Temperance I erd tell of, then answer this riddle carved on an ancient stone discovered deep in the Catacombs of the Chateau De Plonk. "What is green and white and hops", give up? a frog sandwich.

Chapter 7 (D'Arcy)

The Albino, his back pressed to the bar, takes the flagon of frothy ale from Long Cerris Silver and surveys the motley crew. "Be prepared," the Teacher had warned him, "when confronted by the riff-raff of Western Shore and those from away who frequent the Black Pearl pub, you shall be faced with the lowest forms of life that our Creator brought forth on the Seventh Day - a genetic error exceeded only by His creation of Alfred. E. Newman and the current grand potentate of the U.S. of A."

He recognizes some of the faces from the briefing he’d attended and photos he’d seen last week at the French chateau just outside of Paris. At one table sits the man known as Enforen, vainly trying to elicit his comrades’ interest in a bunch of ersatz beer-splattered charts that he’d pulled from inside his naval tunic. At another is the hulking tattooed individual in a loud shirt who had just driven his Harley Heritage Softail through the saloon’s swinging doors, and was now daring anyone to a bout of arm wrestling. At yet another is that California guy who, armed with documents to prove it, is telling anyone who’d listen that his father wasn’t really serious when he proposed nuking the goddamn island as a surefire way to bring up the treasure. Sitting alone is that bespectacled guy from Toronto, trying to teach his ratty-looking mutt how to stuff beer peanuts into his nostrils. At another table, surrounded by a pack of wet shivering dogs, is the gentleman with the southern accent, collecting florins in his tin can from anyone he can convince that his canines, with some mustard and relish, would make delicious eating. And then there's that natty Nova Scotian, doodling on a piece of paper, trying to interpret Templar codices that even the albino knew were totally fraudulent. Lastly, there was the innocent-looking wench from Britain. "She’s one to keep your eye on, Silas," the Teacher had advised him. "For it is she who masterminds their entire communications network."

A bolt of lightning courses through Silas’s brain as he downs the Nova Scotia elixir. But he manages to remain standing.

"Hey girlie girlie," guffaws one drunken lout in the room. "Where’d you find that nice dress. You got pink panties under it?" The other cretins roar with laughter at the lout’s clever put-down.

The albino, ignoring the barbarians, raises his cloak-clad arms for silence. "Gentlemen, and lady," he intones, "by the kind generosity of my new-found friends here (nodding to Mr. and Mrs. Tank at the bar beside him), your mugs shall know no limit of fullness. Drink hearty me boys!"(a bit of pirate-talk that Silas had learned from the Teacher).

Mrs. Tank, a worried frown on her face, releases her grip from her husband’s ‘chalice’ and gropes instead for his wallet. "Tankie Wankie," she simpers. "Are you sure this is a good idea, considering how much these Western Shore cretins can put away? I mean, we do have to consider our daughter’s education fund."

Tank pats her condescendingly on the head. "Not to worry, my little fluffy-wuffy. We can afford it. In any case, our darling daughter Godzilla, should Harvard or Yale or Dalhousie prove too expensive, can always get a job at the Looneyburg fish plant. And there are new openings at McDonalds in the Bilgewater Mall." With that he whips out his wallet, extracts a handful of greasy twenty-dollar bills, and slaps them on the bar in front of Cerris Silver. "Set 'em up barkeep, for as often and as long as you can!"

A cheer rises up as full jugs of Keith’s are distributed among the patrons by sluttish Britney Spears look-alike waitresses who giggle girlishly each time their bottoms are pinched, and as nickels or dimes (and sometimes even quarters) are thrust down their ample cleavages.

The albino sees that it is now time to make his move. Again with upraised arms, he addresses the crowd. "Patrons of this fine establishment, my three friends (nodding once more to Mr. and Mrs. Tank, and blowing a kiss in the direction of their man servant Schmuck) and I have stopped here on our way to a mission; one that we shall be pursuing post haste. We are on our way west of here to Oak Island to visit a certain gentleman known in these parts as 'The Mayor'."

A hush of abhorrent fear settles over the crowd; and within seconds they are murmuring excitedly among one another.

Suddenly, a pistol shot rings out.

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