Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

  It seems the Smoke relocation has allowed Bum’s enterprise the luxury of diversification.

  We’re introduced, and though most of these dudes are older than us we’re warmly received; Bum’s a real ‘any friend of his …’ type.

  We do a round of handshakes, and, basking in my status as a favourite of Bum’s, I even find the gumption to approach the chick. Grinning false assurance: ‘Howyadoen? I’m Gator.’

  She leans forward a little to take my hand and her cool touch gives me an instant rod-on. I’m stricken by a vision of her stubby fingers wrapped about my prick, squeezing …

  She offers a dreamy half-smile. ‘“Gator”, eh? I’m Sally. If I get too close will you eat me?’

  Me, typically flummoxed: ‘Only if you’re in season.’ And twig to the chance innuendo as soon as the words are gone. For fuck’s sake, man, what the hell was that? What kind of a pervert would say such a thing?

  I back away blushing, but she only chuckles softly, settling back again, and it’s a good few seconds before I calm enough to realise that, given the company, my line was actually a sound, flirtatious reply. Had someone else come up with the exchange I’d have been in admiration.

  Fuck, I’m a lame cunt sometimes.

  Bum ‘forgets’ to present Lefty, but Lefty’s more than used to penning his own intros. ‘How y’all doing? I’m Bum’s brother.’

  Ten sets of eyes canvass him. It seems reputation precedes. ‘So you’re the infamous Lefty?’

  Somewhat deflated: ‘Ah … well … yeah, I s’pose.’

  In an instant, Sally’s attention has zoomed and focused on him, her tongue flicking unconsciously.

  Pickling me in the green stuff.

  Sally, to Lefty, breathy: ‘Bum’s told me alllll about you.’

  And with that his aplomb is restored. He seems to gain several inches. Tossing his forelock rakishly, drawling through perfect teeth: ‘Don’t believe a word of it.’

  The damp smile she offers him seems as reflexive as a poodle showing throat to the timber wolf.

  A creature I would cheerfully have shot right now.

  Instead I resolve to drop masturbation insinuations wherever possible.

  She’s way below his standard anyway — unless, of course, he cracked a fat and nothing tidier was at hand, or if he felt he stood to gain something deeper by dorking her, and as Bum lays on the hospitality (‘Pull up a floor, chaps. What’s your poison? Speights or Speights?’) Lefty drops her hungry stare.

  Settling to the carpet, I snatch a tossed can of piss from the air, careful not to shake it. Lift the lid.

  Crossing to the table, Lefty seems not to notice as the whole house except him soon have cold beer at hand and Bum shuts the fridge. ‘Just use ya blower for a tick, Bum.’

  Bum, terse: ‘Yeah? Well leave your spondolees on the table if you’re gonna ring outta town, like last time.’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  Bum, taking the seat across from Steve and myself, alongside the bimbo: ‘Don’t give me that “course” shit, pal. You never fucking have before.’

  Mick and Baz settle into pleasantries with a couple of dudes, ritualised stuff. ‘So what do you guys do?’

  ‘On top of weed? Mostly acid and speed. Tried some Es the other night, but for what ya get — unless you’re well into that dance shit — it’s not worth the expense, eh. What brings you dudes to the Smoke, anyway?’

  Mick: ‘Vegas is sold outta the Paul Holmes CD. Thought we’d try our luck up here.’

  Bum, to Steve: ‘How was the trip up?’

  Steve: ‘Pretty decent, really. Mick noes ’ow t’ get the most out of an old six: build up a head of steam and forget yu got a brake pedal. Fucks yu orf, though, when sum tool in a fuel-injected eight flies past yu on the straight then gets in the way cornering. Mind yu, we’d still’ve bin ’ere a lot earlier if Gator ’adn’t’a wanted t’ stop and cut fence every few clicks.’

  Rick, a goateed crew-cut: ‘“Cut fence”? What the fuck for?’

  Bum, eyes swirling: ‘He sees farm sabotage as his vegetarian duty.’

  Rick, frowning: ‘His what?’

  ‘My vegetarian duty.’

  Rick: ‘How so?’

  All eyes are on me … but there’s no space for awkwardness on soapboxes. ‘Well, my vegetarianism stems solely from my detestation of modern man’s keeping of “livestock”; the way he strips animals of all natural autonomy, perverting their life-cycles, reducing a thinking entity to a number to be squeezed, subjected to whatever atrocity might turn a profit. Few farms can’t easily be labelled torture centres, tributaries to extermination plants.’

  One of the Shore Boys, bemused: ‘So you cut Farmer Joe’s fences?’

  ‘That’s right. Even minor spanners can postpone mechanised murder.’

  Rick: ‘So you believe it’s wrong for man to eat meat?’

  ‘Not at all. Natural selection intended man to be omnivore. What I object to is the way progress has created a system where man’s predation takes place in a farm the predator never sees, a ‘factory’ to make the predator weep, a supermarket where flesh is equated with pasta and toothpaste. If one must rob another of life to survive, so be it. But he who uses faceless executioners forgets what killing is, thus trivialising the taking of life … and this is true evil.’

  A grinning Bum: ‘Don’t listen to him, Rick. He’ll have a rifle in ya hands in no time.’

  Rick doesn’t seem to hear him; stares into space with the mildly shocked expression I live to inflict on people. It’s a look that says, Don’t speak to me for a while. This bastard’s just thrown my accommodation with existence; I’d like a little time to reconcile.

  Sally, frowning: ‘Well, if that’s what cuts ya cake, good luck to ya, but I hope you don’t go snipping fences anywhere near main roads.’

  Me, nodding agreement: ‘Yeah, given the current orthodoxy, almost any act of sedition must be perpetrated beyond the eyes of the great unwashed.’

  Her frown deepens. ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m worried about your “freed livestock” wandering in front of cars.’

  I give this a moment’s thought. Can muster no concern. ‘Ah, fuck that; there’s too many cars in the world anyway.’

  Sally, shrill: ‘Screw the bloody cars! What about the people inside them?’

  Pausing. Shrugging: ‘Too many of them, too, really, isn’t there?’

  Barry: ‘Fucking oath there is.’

  Bum, still grinning: ‘On that note, Gator, how’s your “Final Solution” coming along?

  This is enough to startle Rick back to the ‘here’. Aghast: ‘What Final fucking Solution?’

  Me, muffled, embarrassed by this turn: ‘Soul patrol.’ Can’t remember sharing this particular slice of Fantasia with Bum. Must have been during one of our many benders.

  Barry, proud as punch: ‘He’s gonna go online and propagandise to the impressionable.’

  Bum to Rick, winking: ‘Yeah, so if the SIS smash the door down tonight, just go back to sleep … it won’t concern us.’

  (Lefty, wheedling in background: ‘Hi, Ang’. What are ya up to?’)

  Me, eager to change the subject: ‘So, Bum, that scapel-like mind of yours conceived any decent murders lately?’

  Fondly: ‘As a matter of fact …’

  (Lefty: ‘Yeah, listen, honey, I won’t be able to make it tonight … Na, it’s nothing like that. Just have to be there for some friends of mine, sort of thing, ya know what I mean?’)

  Bum: ‘… me and Rick drafted one out the other night. Eh, Rick? Rick!’

  Rick, snapping back to focus: ‘What’s that, chief?’

  Bum: ‘That hit we came up with?’

  Rick: ‘Oh, yeah. The Lightning Tree. That’s a fucking ripper.’

  Bum, eyes giggling: ‘If you’ll pardon the pun.’

  (Lefty: ‘I know. The other night meant the world to me as well. I’ve seldom felt so … so comfortable with another person. I felt I could say anything to you; it was
almost eerie.’)

  Mick: ‘What’s the drill with the hit?’

  Bum, happily intent: ‘There’s a few variables involved. First, you’ve gotta have your own crib. Second, you’ve gotta wait for a decent lightning storm, at night, and then be able to get the subject to your place. You also need a park or field where you can be sure no cunt’s gonna surprise you in the earlies.’

  (Lefty: ‘Yeah, babe, I miss you already too … I’ve gotta go now … I don’t want to but I have to … OK … Yeah, I promise.’ He looks at his watch, as if counting seconds; keeps an eye on it. ‘Hang up the phone, hon … No, you hang up … I did it last time … OK, count of three: one, two, three … Ahahahaaaa … You didn’t either! Ahaha …’

  Tony, a long haired Maori near the phone: ‘This is making me fuckin’ sick.’

  (Eyes still counting, Lefty hangs up of a sudden, foolish smile dying with the connection.)

  Rick: ‘Yeah, then on the night of the storm you get the subject round to your crib somehow, immobilise them, tie and gag them, place them in a full bath-tub, amp up an old radio or something, hiff that in the drink with them, then wait till they stop hissing.’

  (Lefty makes a note in a fat little book — his ‘chicktionary’. Dials again.)

  Bum: ‘All you do then is transfer the subject to the boot of your car, drive to the said field — preferably somewhere near the subject’s abode — dump subject beneath a tree, and fuck right off. Coroner’s verdict: Death by lightning conduction.’

  All who’re paying attention: ‘Hahahahahahaha.’

  (Lefty into the phone, deeply penitent. ‘Hi, Tracy, it’s me. Listen, baby, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just get right to the point. With all that’s going on at the moment I think we should have a break in our relationship … I want you to understand that this has got nothing to do with you … it’s all about me. I’m just such a mixed-up cunt right now and I wanna spare you all the baggage … I guess what I really need is a little time, a little space …’ Abruptly, he jerks the phone from his ear. Whining: ‘Shit.’

  Tony, gloating: ‘She ’ang up on yu, beau?’

  ‘Na, the fucking answer-machine ran outta tape.’)

  Some stocky dude labelled Andrew: ‘I got a good murder.’

  Me: ‘Whadaya call it?’

  ‘The Ice Arrow.’

  Jackson, one of the Shore Boys: ‘The Ice Arrow?’

  ‘Yeah. The way I see it, most murderers’re busted by way of the murder weapon, right?’

  Bum: ‘I’d have to say the body plays a larger role.’

  Andrew: ‘There’s no need to be quoting from The Book of Hairspliticus, Bum.’

  Smiling, nodding: ‘Fair call.’

  Andrew. ‘OK, now you work out where your subject lives, then rent the house opposite. It’s gotta be summer, though. Then you develop a mould for an arrow, fill it with water, and freeze it. Late one night then, you ring the subject from a prepaid mobile and convince him to step into his front yard. From the shadows of your own front yard you then take your arrow, fit it to a bow, wait for the subject to turn away, then spit the cunt from behind. By the time the feds get around to viewing the now deceased subject, the arrow’s completely melted. Coroner’s report: Murder by fuck knows what.’

  ‘Ahahahahaha!’

  Rick, at last, contradictory: ‘Too many variables, boss. First, you’ve gotta be a shit-hot archer: could be a little embarrassing if ya feathered the joker through the calf. Second, you’ve gotta trust to luck no bastard witnesses the hit.’

  Mick: ‘You’d improve the odds a hell of a lot if you used a big, fuck-off crossbow.’

  Sally: ‘But just waiting for the house opposite to become available could take bloody years.’

  Andrew: ‘Well, maybe it needs a little fine-tuning, but aside from that it’s the perfect murder, right?’

  Barry: ‘I don’t know about that, mate, but I’ll tell you dudes one thing: The Ice Hammer? Now, that’s worth looking into.’

  Sally: ‘Anyway, all this perfect murder shit’s a waste of time: none of ya’s are ever gonna actually use one.’

  Barry: ‘What’s the bet?’

  He gains some endorsement on this, and Sally brands us all wankers.

  Soon, Bum’s throwing more beers around; appointing rolling duties to Sally, handing her a big bud.

  Shore Boy One: ‘I’m heading down the shop. Anyone want anything?’

  Lefty: ‘Yeah, dude, I do.’

  ‘What are ya after?’

  Me, interjecting loudly: ‘He’ll have a bottle of tequila, a copy of Big Uns, a box of Kleenex and a packet of Winnie Reds.’

  ‘Hahahahahahahahaha!’

  Later, a tap at the door and another chick is ushered in — some mousy little thing in tight shorts, looks barely fifteen, built like a hat-rack with nipples, hickies dotting her neck — and I feel room-wide suspense fall on her.

  Sally: ‘Vanessa! Did you do it?’

  Vanessa milks the moment, her mock disappointment prompting a few grimaces. She soon grins, though, and the house sighs relief.

  Rick: ‘Fucking beauty!’

  Tony, rubbing hands together: ‘That’s what I like t’ see, Nessie, my girl.’

  From a small backpack she takes out a plastic bag, removes from it several A4-sized sheets done up in glad-wrap, hands them to Bum.

  His gaze thanks her profusely. ‘Onya, baby.’

  Me: ‘What are they?’

  ‘Snowflakes.’

  It seems I’m abruptly in the presence of enough acid to put the fun back into fundamentalism.

  Shore Boy Two, rubbing his hands together: ‘Let the good — times — roll.’

  Mindful of touching as little of the sheet’s undersides as possible, Bum begins scissoring trips loose. ‘Fucking A. But don’t think you cunts can come round here and trip for free till the shit’s gone, like last time. I’ve got buyers for almost all of this just waiting for the stuff.’

  Barry, salivating: ‘Good trips, Bum?’

  Bum merely looks at him.

  He then hands a chunk of at least twenty trips to Vanessa. ‘Far yar foine sarvice, moi lass. Sell, loan or swaller, whatever playsus ya.’

  Rick: ‘How did my car go, Ness?’

  Vanessa, stowing her wage: ‘Like a bag full’a hairy dogs.’

  Sally, lighting a joint: ‘I knew you’d pulled it off. I just got that feeling that something sweet had gone down, ya know?’

  Vanessa, conspiratorial: ‘Yeah, I know. I knew it’d be cool before I even turned down the last street.’

  Bum, eyes chuckling ambiguity: ‘Of course you knew: you’re a bitch.’

  Sally, passing the joint: ‘What’s that s’posed to mean?’

  Bum, to the wider audience, scissoring merrily: ‘Have any of you’s ever met a chick who didn’t claim to some manner of affinity with the supernatural?’

  I give this some real thought … and draw mostly blanks.

  As do the others.

  Mick: ‘You’re bang on there, Bum, my man. Almost every bird ya come across “believes” in something like: the Tarot, fate; astral travel …’

  Andrew: ‘Reincarnation, karma …’

  Steve: ‘’Oroscopes, telepathy …’

  Jackson: ‘Hauntings, seances …’

  Rick: ‘Tea-leaf readings, ouija boards, palmistry …’

  Barry can’t help himself. ‘Spontaneous human combustion.’

  Neither can Lefty. ‘Multiple male orgasm.’

  Naturally, the girls are feeling a little victimised, but they’re still smiling: the prospect of head-food keeps spirits artificially high.

  Vanessa: ‘It’s just that you male arseholes are so obsessed with the physical world you’ve totally lost touch with the spiritual.’

  Massing my nerve: ‘I dunno ’bout that. What do ya reckon, lads? Those who believe in telekinesis, raise my right hand.’

  ‘Hahahahahaha!’

  Bum completes his task; caches most of the gea
r somewhere in a closet. Declares: ‘All right, ladies and gents, queue here for the express to Lucy’s Diamond Skies.’

  General rejoicing.

  Baz, to me quietly: ‘What are we doing later?’

  ‘Didn’t we say we’d head out to a pub or something?’

  ‘Yeah. We still on for it?’

  ‘I’m well keen.’

  ‘Sweet as. What’s the time now?’

  ‘Sevenish.’

  Barry takes a quiet moment and I watch indecision mauling at him. Finally, his shoulders sag and he settles again, staring at Bum allotting acid with regret that seems almost anger.

  When the whole house bar us are sucking on LSD — most merrily, though two or three are obvious slow starters, eyes a touch apprehensive; What happens now? expressions flashing — Bum asks us with a frown: ‘You dudes sitting this round out?’

  Mick: ‘Yeah. We’re gonna hit town in an hour or two.’

  ‘So?’ Bum’s been dropping acid so long he could probably dock the Space Shuttle on the stuff.

  Me: ‘Wanna stay sharp as poss, bro.’

  In a controlled environment — unless you’re unlucky, and/or mentally unsound — LSD’s a barrel of laughs. When you’re well away from home turf, however, wonder and hilarity can easily become paranoia, disorientation, melancholy. Externals can become a hazard too, especially in a town like this. The fashion with which acid warps your thought processes through different dimensions can often leave you reading situations with almost sorcerous perception, but at the same time it can leave you blinkered to more immediate factors. And in a dark ARC heaving with a cocktail more dangerous by far — booze and testosterone — this vulnerability should not be borne lightly.

  Bum: ‘Fair enough. Just us dudes’ll make another pilgrimage tomorrow, if ya’s are keen.’

  Baz: ‘Amen to that.’

  Me: ‘Tell ya what, though, Bum, what are the chances of us scoring a little nose-candy off ya? For tonight?’

  Even for the connected, down in Vegas good powder’s only slightly less difficult to procure than tiger-penis soup. We’re all well up for a toot or three.

  Bum, regretful: ‘Not strong, man. Not strong at all.’