A Word About The Authors...

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Jim Grime was born and raised in Freeport, the jewel of the tri-island area. He received his early education at the prestigious Freeport School before moving on to the newly-opened Islands Consolidated for his high school years. Grime was always ruggedly handsome in that devil-may-care way that had the girlies all aglow. His natural shyness and modesty were the only things that kept him from being the kind of teen idol that you see on the covers of magazines.

The son of a successful grocery magnate, Grime’s good looks and winning personality were matched only by his keen intellect and perfect physique. His jet black curly hair provided the perfect accessory to his sublime face. Upon graduating from ICS, Grime was voted “Most Likely to do Something Pretty Good.”

Grime had known Gurrey Ben since they first joined the Cub Scouts. Because Freeport was and is the social centre of the region, the Cub meetings were held there, every Thursday night. Due to the severe isolation and pitiable lack of reliable overnight transport across the metaphoric River Styxx that is Grand Passage, Ben’s father, also a noted grocery magnate, albeit of the smaller, less favored isle, arranged to have his son stay with the Grimes on Cub night. It was here that Ben learned the rudimentary lessons of life: how to use and hold utensils, basic hygiene, and so on.

***

Despite growing up with the distinct disadvantage of having to look across the harbour every day at the demoralizing scene presented by the village of Freeport, “Gurrey Ben” Robichini nonetheless was able to overcome this unfortunate handicap and go on to have the type of idyllic childhood that only growing up on the “Eden of the Fundy” known as Brier Island could make possible.

In his early teens, cruel fate struck Robichini a staggering blow when unfortunate circumstances dictated that he spend one night a week staying over on Long Island. Fortunately, this sow’s ear quickly turned into a silk purse when he found himself billeted at the home of Jim Grime, a young man whose interests, sense of humour, and huge comic book collection indicated a certain like-mindedness and compatibility.

Although the two friends had a strong tendency to deride each other’s home village and island, they were able to keep the insults in check for the most part by coming together for the common purpose of directing their witty put-downs toward the village of Central Grove.

The friendship endured and after several years the two young men joined forces to bring a new form of music to the islands. Their duo, D. J. Jazzy Jim and Gurrey Ben, may be best remembered for their rap recording The Ferry Slip Shuffle Fo’ Shizzle, which got brief but heavy rotation on several C.B. radios in the Tri-Island area. Unfortunately their fame was short-lived. It turned out that their timing was off, both figuratively and literally; it was the peak of the glitter-rock era and no one knew what to make of the baggy-pantsed pair with their indecipherable rhymes.

The duo’s first public performance was also their last. Appearing before a group of senior citizens at Tideview Terrace, they were quickly driven from the stage amid a pelting hail of pudding cups and half-filled colostomy bags.

Dejected by this artistic failure, Robichini, who just the day before, in a fit of unwarranted optimism about his future as a rap star, had officially changed his name to Gurrey Ben, decided to leave his beloved island and travel the world in an effort to “find himself”. After venturing as far afield as Southern Ontario and spending more than a decade exploring the exotic realms of the Niagara Region, Gurrey, as he was now legally named, did indeed find himself; he found himself back home on the Islands and in business with his old friend and former rapping partner, Grime.

Amazingly, Both Gurrey and Grime had independently reached the same conclusion; that they would only find true happiness living in the place they loved and doing the things they had a natural affinity for, gutting fish and being dicks.

CHAPTER 12: Gurrey & Grime’s Last Case

    Gurrey Ben and Jim Grime were sitting across from each other at the desk/gutting table that occupied the middle of their office/fish house. Grime was looking over some past-due bills while Gurrey had his head buried in the Chronicle-Herald.
    “It’s nothing short of amazing,” mumbled Gurrey to no one in particular.
    “What’s that?” said Grime, not bothering to look up.
    “Ever notice how people die in alphabetical order, Grimey?” replied Gurrey.
    “What are you talking about?” said Grime sharply, finally looking up from his chore.
    “Right here: Abner, Andrews, Appleby, etc. and so on. It boggles the mind.”
    Grime let out a deep sigh. “People don’t die in alphabetical order. That’s just the way they list the deaths. The real question is why hardly anyone dies on Sunday!”
    Gurrey nodded in agreement. “That is strange. I’ve noticed that too. Maybe God wants them to get one more chance before he pulls the plug.”
    Grime was impressed. “Not a bad theory, my flatulent friend. Not bad at all.”
    Settling back in his chair, Gurrey tossed the paper aside, “I guess it doesn’t really matter; it all evens out anyway.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, according to the other notices in the paper, people are born in alphabetical order and get married in alphabetical order, so I guess it just makes sense that they die in alphabetical order too.”
    “That’s two good theories in a row Gurrey; you’re on a roll today! I wish we could put that agile brain of yours to work on a case or two.”
    Things had been slow lately at the offices of the Digby Neck & Islands Detective Agency & Fishgutting Service. Even though the townspeople kept reminding them at every opportunity that they were a couple of dicks, it seemed that they had very little need of their unique detecting skills these days. Even demand for their fish gutting services had fallen away to the point where it was hardly worth putting on the barvel. They had tried to diversify the business by offering to split things other than fish, but except for old Mrs. Bailey dropping by with a coconut her grandson had brought her from his vacation in Jamaica, the whole venture had been a bust.
    Not that Gurrey and Grime needed the money, far from it; they were both quite comfortable financially, what with the nearly four hundred dollars a month they each pulled in from the C.P.P. No, it was more the intellectual stimulation and the physical challenge of a good criminal case that they were missing.
    As Gurrey reflected to himself on how much he missed the hustle-bustle of an active professional life, he leaned comfortably back in his chair, put his feet up on an overturned bucket, and closed his eyes. He was just about to drift off for his usual midmorning nap, joining Grime, who’s snores had been vibrating the gutting knives for several minutes now, causing them to rattle intermittently where they rested together on the table beside the well-worn whetstone; he was teetering on the very edge of falling over the precipice into sleep when he was snatched back from the edge by the sound of the shed door opening and a familiar footstep approaching across the floor.
    The clump, tap…clump, tap…clump, tap stopped in front of Gurrey’s chair. Gurrey lazily opened one eye and confirmed what his brilliant detective’s mind had already deduced. Sure enough, just as he suspected, standing before him was a familiar barrel-chested figure with a peg-leg, a hook where his right hand should be, and a black eye-patch.
    Ishmael (Awk) Welch was a long-time resident of Brier Island and the proprietor of Welch’s Waterless Whale Watch. Welch had spent most of his early life at sea. His mother, Marion, was the first female captain in the Irving fleet, his father was the ship’s cook and Ish had been conceived while their ship rode at anchor in the Bay of Fundy not far from the mouth of the Saint John River. Nine months later, in a magnificent feat of maternal multi-tasking, Marion gave birth in the wheelhouse of her tanker while simultaneously and skillfully piloting the vessel through the eye of a hurricane forty miles off the coast of Venezuela.
    Young Welch’s mother was a great fan of the writer Herman Melville and in a gesture that would later come to be seen as deeply ironic, named her son Ishmael after the wandering sailor in Moby Dick. Ishmael was to spend practically all of his childhood aboard ship. In fact, he spent so much time at sea that he had difficulty getting his “land legs” during his occasional sojourns ashore, causing him to stagger and stumble whenever he tried to walk on a surface that wasn’t constantly rising and falling under him. This apparent clumsiness resulted in him being saddled with the nickname “Awk”; short for “Awkward”.
    By his mid-twenties, Awk Welch had been around the world several times. He’d sailed all Seven of the Seas and was a regular visitor to most of the great ports of the world, including Westport. The name his mother had given him - that of the wandering sailor - seemed to have been prophetic indeed: but a singular event in Ishmael’s life would soon change all that.
    In early 1976, he was visiting relatives on Brier Island. After tossing and turning most of the night, unable to sleep without the sea beneath him, he crept out of the house and bunked down in one of the waterfront sheds where the familiar and soothing sound of the ocean soon helped him nod off.
    Suddenly, Welch was jolted awake by an eerily familiar sensation! For a few terrifying moments, Awk imagined he was back aboard ship; caught again in the August tsunami that had nearly shipwrecked him off the Zhongsha Islands in the South China Sea. As he came fully awake he realized he wasn’t in the China Sea at all, he was in the Bay of Fundy, and it wasn’t August, it was the 2^nd of February: Groundhog Day.
      The first tidal wave of what would forever after be known as The Groundhog Day Storm had swept the fish house from its posts and was carrying it out into the harbour. Before Awk had a chance to gather his wits, the second wave came thundering in, snatched up the old building; and tumbling it along in the teeth of a towering white-crested roller, dashed it against the shore with a fury and a power that reduced it and everything in it to smashed and broken rubble. As the foamy tentacles slowly withdrew, they left behind a chaotic heap of splintered timbers, tangled fishing gear, crushed lobster traps, and the shattered and mangled body of Awk Welch.
    The third and final wave would have surely pulled Awk’s barely-breathing carcass to a deep and watery grave if not for the actions of two brave, handsome, and noble young detectives who dashed fearlessly into the seething maelstrom; and with no thought for their own safety, in fact, with pretty much no thought at all, wrested Awk’s bruised and battered body from Poseidon’s stubborn grasp.
    Struggling valiantly against the elements, the two heroic dicks fought their way back to shore where they soon fetched up against the breastwork. Their strength sapped by the continuous pounding of the waves and the unrelenting cold, they found themselves too exhausted to climb the sheer wooden wall to safety, let alone pull Awk’s unconscious and water sodden body up with them.
    Gurrey realized he was rapidly losing all feeling in his limbs; he could barely keep his head above water. Glancing over at his partner, he saw that Grime, the weaker and slightly less handsome of the two, had not surprisingly, already given up and was starting to float away, resigned to his fate. Gurrey himself, despite his impressive strength and legendary stamina, was starting to slip helplessly beneath the battering waves when suddenly a powerful and sinewy arm drove deep down into the surf and grabbed him by the collar.
    Within seconds, all three men found themselves yanked over the breastwork like squid over a washboard. Laying in the grass coughing up salt water, the two limp dicks looked weakly up and saw a slim but muscular spandex-clad form standing over them. As he wiped the seawater from his eyes, Gurrey realised that they had been saved from certain death by none other than Islands Consolidated School’s star athlete and physical fitness fanatic, Owen Otley. 
        Awk’s recovery was a slow and painful one, the loss of a lower limb resulted in the peg-leg he now sported and a hopelessly crushed hand was replaced with a hook. The eye-patch had nothing to do with the storm, both of Awk’s eyes worked perfectly; he just thought it looked dashing and mysterious. He sometimes wore the patch over one eye and sometimes over the other.
    As bad as the physical damage was, it was the psychological toll that really affected Awk’s life. Feeling betrayed in a very personal way by the vicious and unrelenting power of the ocean, Awk was so traumatized by his close brush with death that he could not bring himself to return to a life on the sea. In fact, he was now so afraid and distrustful of the water that he could not even cross the harbour and as a result had not been off the island in almost forty years.
    Faced with the need to earn a living on dry land and on a relatively remote island, Awk had tried several different enterprises. The tap-dance studio had been a bit of a flop; the only real customer he had been able to attract was Grime, who with his background in ballet, was a quick learner and an avid student, but due to his parsimonious ways, was unwilling to pay enough for the lessons to make it worthwhile. Next Awk tried a stenography service, typing up people’s important papers and such. But, although he could type like blazes with his good hand on the left side of the keyboard, he could not develop any speed typing with his hook on the right side. Besides, the hook did so much damage to the keys that he spent most of what little money he did make on repairs. Next Awk opened a massage parlour, unfortunately his customers left feeling totally relaxed and stress free on one side and suffering from severe hook-shaped lacerations on the other. Awk went through a few more failed enterprises until he finally hit upon one that was successful enough to provide him with a modest income.
    As he watched various whale watching businesses on the island develop and grow, Awk came to the realization that there must be people out there who would like to see a whale but found themselves, like him, unable to venture out to sea. He commissioned the island’s mechanical genius, Rick E. Gram, to build him a stretch ATV capable of carrying up to six passengers and started up Welch’s Waterless Whale Watch.
    It was a very specific clientele that Awk was going after, those who could summon up the courage to cross two ferries to get to the island, but were not quite brave enough to venture out on the open ocean. The emphasis in this whale watching enterprise was more on the watching than on the whales; Awk would drive his customers to Northern Point or Seal Cove or other select look-off points around the island where they would then spend hours peering out at the ocean from the safety of dry land in hopes of seeing a whale. Along with a lot of misdirected excitement over distant wave crests and far-off seagull sightings, there was the occasional glimpse of an actual whale. Enough of his customers were satisfied with this that the business gradually built up a bit of a reputation among the aquatically averse and Awk was able to scratch out a meagre living.
    This was the man who now stood in the office/gutting parlour of The Digby Neck & Islands Detective Agency & Fishgutting Service.
    “Hey Awk, what’s up?” greeted Gurrey.
    “Call me Ishmael!” responded Welch: he had never liked the nickname as a child, and liked it even less now that his injuries had made it all the more appropriate.
    “Of course; how can we help you, Ish?”
    Welch balanced himself precariously on his peg-leg, scratched his stubbled cheek with the point of his hook and squinted at Gurrey with his one uncovered eye,
    “Well shiver me timbers, matey, ‘tis yer assistance I be seekin’. Some scurvy bilge rats be tryin’ to scuttle me business; may the Devil take their landlubbin’ souls, sez I. Yarrr!”
    At this point Welch paused and gave his head a shake; then he continued,
    “Sorry guys, I’ve gotten into the habit of talking like that lately, the tourists seem to expect it of me for some reason.”
    By this time, Grime had roused himself from his stupor enough to contribute to the conversation, “No need to get your knickers in a knot Ish, just tell us in plain words what the problem is and we’ll see what we can do about it.”
    After mulling this over for a moment, Welch said, “I think it will be easier if you see the problem for yourselves. C’mon.”
    Striding out the door with the two quizzical gumshoes trailing behind, Welch threw his peg-leg over the seat of his ATV. He quickly retrieved the leg, reattached it, and took up his position behind the handlebars. Gesturing to the seat behind him he announced “Captain’s permission to come aboard boys”.
    Gurrey and Grime eyed Welch’s “vessel”. Jutting out beneath the headlight at the “bow” was a hand-carved figurehead of a buxom mermaid and below that the name H.M.S.Pequod was painted on the front fender. Gurrey at first took the flag fluttering at the top of the “mast’ rising from the stern of the bike to be a Jolly Roger, but upon closer inspection saw that the Skull and Crossbones had been replaced with the face of a smiling whale.
    “Time to cast off!” declared Welch impatiently, revving the engine.
    A short time later the three “sailors” were bouncing along a rough trail; approaching the back shore of the island through a thicket of spindly alders and wind-blasted, salt-stunted spruce trees. As they drew closer to the shore, Gurrey and Grime both became aware that above the noise of the ATV engine they could hear a high-pitched screeching sound, a sound that was somehow vaguely familiar but at the same time unlike anything they had ever heard before. As they progressed along the trail this curious noise got louder and louder. Finally, they burst out into a clearing atop a small hill where Welch brought his “ship” to an abrupt halt.
    As the now-deafening cacophony swept over them, the two dicks sat stunned, slack-jawed and uncomprehending; which was not an unfamiliar position for them to be in, but this time it was caused by the incredible scene laid out before them. Just off-shore, a couple of hundred feet past the wild rose bushes marking the division between the wind-swept field and the rocky beach, floated a line of cages. These cages followed the coastline far into the distance and reached high into the air. This was where the sound was coming from and both Gurrey and Grime realized simultaneously why the racket was vaguely familiar. The cages were filled with seagulls, hundreds of thousands of screaming seagulls. 
      Waving his hook to indicate the wall of cages, Welch shouted over the din, “Well, I guess my problem is pretty obvious! I can’t subject my customers to this racket, and even if I did, the cages are so high they block the view.”
    “Where did all this come from?” Gurrey asked in amazement.
    “Just showed up overnight. According to Kook Airquaculture, the company that runs this mess, they have Provincial permission to operate an open-pen gull farm on what the government claims is an unused piece of coastline.”
    As they watched, a stubby, ungainly-looking craft that any self-respecting mariner would be hard-pressed to call a boat detached itself from the cages and slowly and awkwardly made its way toward the shore. At the wheel they could make out what appeared from this distance to be a giant vanilla ice-cream cone. As the shipwreck-waiting-to-happen drew closer, they could see that the pilot was not an ice-cream cone at all, but was in fact a squat figure clad in tan oilskins and a large sou’wester. The sou’wester, normally black, was completely white with a several-inch-thick layer of seagull droppings which flowed down onto the shoulders and made numerous dribbling trails down the front and back of the oilskins.
    Grime, despite turning both hearing-aids up to maximum, was having trouble hearing over all the noise. He thought he heard Welch tell Gurrey that the figure on the boat was the owner of this offense against nature, Glen Kook.
    As the clumsy craft nosed its way to shore, Gurrey started down the beach to see what he could find out. Grime, from his seat on the back of the Peaquod observed the massive operation and its effect on the environment. He noticed that as the captive gulls flew back and forth in the cages, they shed a constant cloud of feathers which drifted away in the on-shore breeze creating a black-and-white coating on the water as well as on the beach and the lower part of the field. Even the blossoms on the famous Brier Island wild rose bushes were hidden beneath this film of feathers. As well, he could see that a greasy slick of uneaten feed pellets, seagull droppings and extraneous pesticide spray had spread out from the pens and drifted down along the shore, coating the rocks and sea-weed with a foul-smelling slippery scum. From his vantage point he could see down the coast as far as Seal Cove, where seals, ducks, herons, and a few free-range seagulls could usually be found. Today the cove was ominously empty.
    As Grime swept his gaze over the coastline, he found he kept involuntarily returning to and fixing on the oil-skin clad figure that Gurrey now appeared to be in conversation with. Gradually he realized that there was something about this person that he was finding attractive, and in fact, was causing a stirring in his lower regions that he hadn’t felt in many a decade!
    Although Grime had long considered himself a chick magnet, the truth of the matter was that the magnetism, if there had ever been any, had long since dissipated. Although he tried hard to resist the possibility, it now entered his mind that maybe the reason for his past lack of success with women of the female persuasion was because all this time he had been attempting to practice what he considered to be his seductive powers on the wrong sex. Looking back, he realized with a start that there had been many occasions when he had thrown an admiring glance in Gurrey’s direction as he stretched his slim but athletic body across the keeler while reaching for another codfish. But, he told himself, that had been more in appreciation of the skillful and artistic way his partner handled the gutting knife than any physical attraction...or was it?
    As Grime mulled this confusing situation over in his mind, he suddenly became aware that he had been staring steadily at the gull-guano covered figure for an uncomfortably long time, and most alarmingly, his gaze was being returned! Reluctantly accepting that there could be a definite mutual connection going on here, Grime began to consider the possibility that he had been living the first sixty years of his life under the illusion that he liked girls.
    By this time Gurrey was making his way back up the beach “Well, that was a waste of time!” he stated “I couldn’t get any information at all on what they are doing here”.
    “That’s too bad’ replied Grime “Er, by the way, did he say anything about me?”
    “Did WHO say anything about you?” replied a puzzled Gurrey.
    “Why, him of course, Glen Kook, did he mention me at all?”
    “Oh. Well, yes as a matter of fact, the subject of ‘That cute hunk on the ATV’ did come up during our brief conversation”.
    Grime felt a warm flush rise up his neck, turn his face a crimson red, wash over his bald head and disappear down his back. He was overcome with simultaneous feelings of flattery and a fast-accelerating emotional confusion about his own identity.
    Gurrey watched as Grime’s face registered his attempt to adjust to the new reality he had unexpectedly learned about himself, then added “And just so you know, the name is not Glen, its Glenna, Glenna Kook”.
    Grime’s face now briefly registered total confusion, which was its normal state, then a large expression of relief, then maybe a small flash of regret with a hint of disappointment, and finally back to relief again. “So that’s a woman down there?” he asked with barely contained glee as his life slipped back into its comfortable, familiar, if excruciatingly boring, groove once again.
    “Yes, as far as I can tell, that’s a woman. Why? What does it matter?”
    “Oh, it’s nothing, no big deal. I just misheard the name is all.”
    “Okayyy! Well, I’m glad we got that all cleared up!” said Gurrey suspiciously. “Now, what are we going to do about this monstrosity and how do we help Ish get his business back?”
    “Well” replied Grime “I think we need to know more about this company. Why are they raising seagulls? How do they make money from this? What kind of a business are they really running here? We need to get a man on the inside, and I know just the man.”
     Forty-eight hours later, the two partners were sitting around their office/gutting emporium feeling good about accomplishing the first part of their plan. It hadn’t been all that hard to get Owen Otley, their 5’4”, 365 pound apprentice detective a position with Kook Airquaculture.  Not surprisingly; Kook’s wasn’t exactly inundated with people looking for a job where they would constantly get crapped on, the people who want a job like that usually go into politics, it pays better and although there is just as much squawking, at least occasionally some of it makes sense.     
    Grime was just commenting to Gurrey about how cleverly their undercover man had infiltrated the Kook enterprise and how much valuable information he might gain, when the door swung open and in sloshed a water-sodden and dejected looking Otley.
    “Owen” exclaimed Gurrey and Grime simultaneously “What happened to you! Why aren’t you at work?”
    “I got fired” Owen replied morosely. “They put me to work on the feed scow and I forgot to allow for my own weight when I filled it up with feed pellets. It overfilled and sank right beside the cages.”
    “Great” said Grime “There goes our best chance to find out what that company’s up to.”
    “Maybe not.” replied Otley “I was thinking; maybe it’s time we moved into the twentieth century. Undercover work is fun and all, but ten minutes at a computer keyboard will get you more information than ten days of hanging over that old scow’s washboard would ever get you. All we need to do is hack into their computer system!”
    “Great idea” sneered Grime “Except I’ve got no use for computers and all I ever see you two do with yours is play Solitaire. Waste of money as far as I can see, would’a been a whole lot cheaper to just buy a deck of cards! Course, then you’d have to move your whole arm to play, instead of just clicking one little finger. Face it; we don’t have the skills to hack into anything.”
    “No, WE don’t” agreed Otley “But I know someone who does.” And with that he heaved himself up from his chair and trudged out the door. He was back in a flash (actually it was nearly forty-five minutes, but for Owen, that was considered lightning speed), and was dragging with him a pouty-looking eleven-year old girl.
    “Who’s this child?” sputtered Grime “And why isn’t she in school?”
    “This is Pearline, and she was suspended from school because she signed her teacher up on sixteen different internet dating sites.”
    “O.K., so she knows how to use a computer, that doesn’t mean she has the ability to do what we need done.”
    “She paid the registration fees by hacking into sixteen other teacher’s bank accounts.”
    “O.K. So maybe she does know what she’s doing, but can we trust her? What did you say her name was?”
    “Pearline, but everybody calls her Pearl. You know her family, she’s a Bailey. Her grandfather was a policeman back in the old days when the town constable was called the beadle.”
    “Ah yes, Beadle Bailey, the name does sound familiar, I believe he also spent some time in the Army didn’t he?”
    “That’s right! And you must know her father George, he used to have that barber shop you liked, Bailey’s Shavings and Foam.”
    “I loved going to that place! Things were so much better back when the Island had services like that. Oh, it was a wonderful life.”
    “As I recall” interrupted Gurrey “we went to her parent’s wedding! Isn’t her mother a Barnum from Little River?”
    “That’s right” responded Grime “The Barnum and Bailey wedding was a crazy time! They got married in a big tent! What a circus that was!”
    “And of course you remember her Uncle Bill, the adventurer who left to travel the world.”
    “Yes, that was big news, they begged and pleaded for him to return, but Bill Bailey never would come home.”
    At this point Grime paused to give his chin a severe rubbing, an indication that he was deep in thought, at least as deep as he was able to go, which was barely below the surface. “So!” he finally said “The name is Pearl Bailey is it? I like that, it sounds kind of musical. O.K. Put her to work boys.”
    “Here you go Pearl” said Gurrey “You can get started on my laptop.”
    “Hold it right there!” roared Grime “Gurrey! I’m surprised at you! There will be none of those shenanigans here! I won’t have the good name of The Digby Neck and Islands Detective Agency and Fishgutting Service besmirched in this way.”
    “Grimey you Luddite, I’m not talking about my lap top, I’m talking about my laptop, a portable computer.”
    “Oh, I see. Never mind then. Carry on.”
    Casting an uncomfortable look over his shoulder, Owen ushered Pearl away from the two dicks, saying “Maybe you should sit way over here in the corner and use my computer.”
    Early the next morning Gurrey made his way down the stairs to put on the morning coffee. As he was standing in front of the stove in his bedroom rubber boots and his S.T.D.s (Stanfield’s Trap Doors), he noticed a dull glow emanating from the corner of the detective office/gutting parlor. Approaching cautiously, he realized that the glow was from Owen’s computer screen and that it was partially blocked by Pearl, who was fast asleep face down on the keyboard. Gurrey shook her gently and when she raised her bleary eyes to meet his, Gurrey noticed she had several rows of little squares indented into her cheek. He thought he could make out the letters YTREWQ imprinted just below her right eye.
    “Were you here all night?” he asked.
    “I sure was” Pearl replied excitedly, “And you’ll never believe what I found out!”
    “So, what did you find out?” queried Gurrey.
    “Well, Kook Airquaculture is just a tiny part of a massive international conglomerate that supplies fresh and frozen food all over the world. After digging for most of the night, I came across what at first seemed to be an insignificant piece of information, but eventually I realized that it relates directly to the problem we are dealing with here and could very well be the key to resolving that problem.”
    “It would be great if we could get rid of that eye-sore on the shore. What is this info? Do you really think it is powerful enough to force them to remove their operation?” Gurrey asked hopefully.
    “I think if we use it properly, yes, it will do the job.”
    “Well don’t keep me in suspense, what is this devastating secret that you have discovered?” Gurrey could hardly contain his excitement.
    “Chicken Fingers©” Pearl replied.
    “Chicken fingers?” a suddenly deflated Gurrey responded “What does that mean? How are we going to bring down a multinational corporation with chicken fingers?
    “I discovered that they own the copyright to the words Chicken Fingers©.”
    “Mmmmm, chicken fingers!” Grime had finally roused himself and had just walked in on the last few words of the conversation. “I love chicken fingers, I must have eaten thousands of them over the years. They’re my favourite meal. I wish I had some right now.”
    “You might want to rethink your diet.” Said Pearl “You know how the Quarter Pounder© hamburger doesn’t have to actually weigh a quarter of a pound because Quarter Pounder© is just the copyrighted name of the burger, not an actual description of it? Well, the same thing applies to the copyrighted product name Chicken Fingers©.”
    “What do you mean by that?” Grime asked confusedly “What are you getting at?”
    “When I saw that they had copyrighted the name Chicken Fingers© I looked through all their inside information and found they had a production plant that was churning out hundreds of thousands of Chicken Fingers©, but nowhere could I find any mention of them owning any chicken farms or having any other source of chicken whatsoever. I was eventually able to connect a lot of dots however and discovered what you might call a less than traditional supply of raw materials. As a result, I have come to the conclusion that Chicken Fingers© are not only not made of fingers, they are not even made of chicken!”
    Grime’s stomach was starting to rebel at this unsettling news, his face turning a nauseating shade of green. With the memory of all those Chicken Fingers© he’d eaten over the years swirling in his memory, and despite a sinking feeling that he probably didn’t want to know the answer to the question he was about to ask, he asked it anyway.
    “If they’re not made of chicken what ARE they made of?”
    “I think the answer to that question is obvious, it’s floating a couple of hundred feet off our shore” Gurrey interjected, “The question we should be asking is, what can we do about it?”
    By now Grime’s stomach was staging a full-fledged rebellion and his face was a continually revolving palette of various shades of white, grey, green, blue, yellow and even a bit of orange. Suddenly he made a dash for the back door leading out to the wharf.
    To the accompaniment of some rather disturbing gagging and retching sounds; Pearl answered Gurrey’s question.
    “I have an idea about how to shut this down. I’ve compiled all the information I’ve discovered into a single document, all I have to do is push one button and every food quality agency, every animal cruelty society, every health standards organization, every food buyer and food reviewer with an Internet connection will receive all the evidence they need to prove that Chicken Fingers© are in fact made from seagulls.”
    “Give me a half hour before you push that button!” An ashen-faced Grime had staggered back inside. Leaving both Pearl and Gurrey with quizzical expressions, he exited through the front door, jumped in the Dickmobile, and after a bit of engine cranking and gas pedal pumping, roared off with a screeching of fan belts in the direction of the seagull farm.
    Upon arrival, Grime was happy to see that the clumsy-looking farm boat was approaching the beach. As he walked across the rocks to meet it, his heart was doing flip-flops. His initial attraction to Glenna, the owner of this massive floating seagull farm, had only grown stronger over the past twenty-four hours. He hadn’t yet acted on his feelings, and what he was about to do might forever remove any possibility that he would get the opportunity.
    As Glenna alit from the boat, Grime launched into a confused and convoluted explanation of the farm’s effect on Welch’s whale watching business, his involvement in trying to help Welch by investigating the seagull business, what they had found out, what they intended to do about it, and why he felt it was only fair to warn her about what was going to happen. Jumbled in with all this, he managed to express to Glenna his feelings for her and the hope that these revelations would not ruin any chance for them to develop a relationship. He eventually ran out of words and gradually sputtered to a stop, staring uncomfortably at Glenna, seeking desperately for some positive sign.
    Without a word, she turned, climbed aboard her boat, and headed full-throttle back to the pens. Grime stood dejectedly amid the seaweed-covered boulders for a few minutes; then hopelessly started making his way up the beach. Suddenly, a massive increase in the constant squawking of the gulls made him stop and turn.
    Glenna was running from cage to cage, flinging open the doors and releasing hundreds of thousands of birds. As he watched in amazement, she opened the last door then tore off her guano encrusted oilskins and threw them into the cage. This done, she roared back to shore, ran up the beach and to his utter astonishment, gave Grime a kiss so passionate that it almost short-circuited his pace-maker. As Grime and Glenna continued up the beach hand-in-hand, the soaring of his feeble heart was matched only by the soaring of the thousands of seagulls overhead. Enjoying their new-found freedom, they swept like a black-and-white cloud into the sky, dipping and wheeling with joy over the harbour. Then, turning as one, they swooped down and settled on every roof in the village; where they would sit, screeching and pooping, for months to come.
    Two weeks later, Gurrey and Grime were sitting in their fishgutting emporium/office still trying to wrap their heads around the events that had taken place since Pearl had pushed that fateful button.  Basically, they had achieved their objective, once the details of the fraudulent chicken finger business went out, the conglomerate collapsed, the now-empty gull cages mysteriously disappeared overnight and Ishmael Welch was happy to be back in business with his land-based whale watching business.
    But there had been unforeseen consequences, consequences that now appeared to be putting an end to the long and semi-successful history of The Digby Neck & Islands Detective Agency & Fishgutting Service.
    It turned out that Glenna had been contracted to the now-defunct multinational corporation and had been under the impression that the seagulls she was raising were being used to replenish flocks around the world that had died off because of global warming. As soon as Grime informed her that her beloved birds were in fact being made into fraudulent food, she severed all ties with the company. But now unemployed, Glenna was returning to her home on the other side of the Bay, to manage a hummingbird sanctuary on Campobello Island. And Grime, finally having solid proof after all these years of proclaiming himself a “chic magnet”, was going with her.
    “I can’t believe this is happening” Gurrey intoned morosely, “Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad you finally found someone who can put up with you, but your leaving is going to have a huge effect on the whole Tri-Island area and all the people you’ve helped over the years.”
    “It’s flattering of you to say so, but you exaggerate” replied Grime, “I’ll just slip out of here later today and no one will even notice I’m gone.”
    Glancing out the window, a slight smile came across Gurrey’s face, “I wouldn’t be too sure of that” he said.
    The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the door burst open and Owen Otley barged into the room. Once he had stepped aside, they could see that he was being followed by a whole horde of people. One of the first was Rikilini Robichini, who, with a hint of a tear in her eye and a catch in her throat, wished Grime the best of luck and reminded him that if things didn’t work out, there were people here who were sorry to see him go and would always be happy to take him back. She was followed by Dot Owdows carrying a big box of his favourite dulse donuts. Then Ishmael Welch almost punctured his clavicle with his hook in the process of giving him a huge hug. The well-wishers kept on coming, there was Pearl Bailey of course and Grime’s distant cousin several-times removed, Pearly Prime. Rubella Perry-Outhouse-Thurber-Cann who had recently been released on parole, made an appearance to pay her respects. Even Grime’s one-time arch-enemy, P. Jack, showed up to say a heart-felt fare-well. As Grime was reminiscing with Lucy the Floozy, he noticed Gurrey over in a corner deep in conversation with a familiar figure in an expensive suit and crocodile shoes.
    After seeing the last of his well-wishers off, an emotional Grime turned to Gurrey and admitted that he hadn’t considered what effect his leaving would have on others.
    “Especially on you” he said, “What are you going to do when I’m gone?”
    “Don’t worry about me” Gurrey responded “You might have noticed me talking with that guy from Ottawa, Kickk Moutt, he was here to offer me a job. They need someone to look into the goings-on in the Senate. He said they were looking for someone who could make a good display of investigating, but would have very little chance of actually finding anything out.” Gurrey stuck out his chest with a hint of pride, “I’m going to Ottawa, Moutt said he thought I was perfectly qualified for the job.”

---

    And so ends the saga of Gurrey and Grime.
    Well...not quite.
    Owen and Pearl take over the business and change the name slightly to Digby Neck & Islands Detective Agency & Computer Services. They get the contract to provide security services to the new tidal power operations and eventually build DN&IDA&CS into a major player in the cyber security field.
    Grime and Glenna become famous for their innovative work with hummingbirds, write several best-selling books on the subject and travel the world giving lectures.
    And, Gurrey, with the guidance of computer hacker supreme, Pearl Bailey, finds out the truth behind the Senate scandal and manages to bring down not only the Senate, but the Government itself.

---

    Thanks for the support of all those who were Gurrey & Grime fans. And to those who weren’t fans, thanks for putting up with us.
Ben Robicheau
Jim Prime

 

Chapter Eleven: A Curious Case of Politics

by Jim Prime & Ben Robicheau     

    Gurrey burst into the fish house/office, dragging the various medical apparatus that had kept him alive despite the dire predictions of doctors from Yarmouth to Cape North. He was barely able to contain his excitement.

    His dashingly handsome partner Grime was sitting behind the desk/gutting table, talking on the phone. Gurrey sat down opposite him and impatiently began drumming his gnarled fingers on the gnarled surface. The phone conversation continued, with Grime occasionally asking a question or making an observation. Finally, he said “Well, it does interest me. I won’t lie. Let me think it over.” He said a quick goodbye and hung up the phone.
    “Grimey,” said Gurrey. “You’ll never guess what just happened.” Grime looked up from the notes he’d been taking and said “I’ve got some news too Gurrey, but you go first.”
    “You’ll never believe it!” The less attractive of the two dicks was bristling with excitement, two of his chins shaking violently and his good leg tapping uncontrollably on the floor like a crazed Stompin’ Tom impersonator (which coincidentally had been his summer job in high school).
    “Well,” said Grime. “What is it?!”
    “I’ve been asked by the Literal Party to run in the bye-election next month!” Grime Jumped from his chair and his mouth fell open, revealing the beautiful pearly white teeth that were the pride of the tri-island area. He looked at Gurrey, then back at his notes, and then back at Gurrey.
    “B-b-but,” he stammered. “But Gurrey old friend, I’ve been approached by the Constipated Party to run for them!”
    This time it was Gurrey’s turn to struggle to his feet, his gaping mouth revealing a row of misshapen molars and store-bought bicuspids.
    The two fully erect dicks stared at each other in silence for a full minute. Grime, the taller of the two, was the first to speak. “Are you going to do it?”
    “Well...I think I will, or at least I thought so until I heard your news. What about you?”
    “Same thing. I’ve always had an interest in politics, but now…”
    They again lapsed into silence. This time it was broken by Gurrey. “If this is going to hurt our friendship, then it’s not worth it.”
    “I agree Gurrey!” agreed Grime. “That’s the most important thing.”
    “Still…” added Gurrey.
    “Yeah?” said Grime.
    Gurrey shrugged a Trudeau-style shrug. “Well, it’s just that I’ve always thought I have a lot to offer politically, that’s all.”
    “Me too Gurrey. Me too. What the hell!! Let’s do it - and may the best man win!”
    “Great,” said Gurrey,  shaking his friend’s hand with gusto. “But remember, if this begins to hurt our friendship, we call her quits, right? After all we’ve led pampered lives here in the fish-gutting detective business. We don’t want to get our hands dirty.”
    “Absolutely!” said Grime. “And we can't let it affect our jobs either.”
    “Agreed,” said Gurrey. “Wow, this is exciting. I guess they asked us because we’re so high profile. It’s pretty unique though.”
    “What do you mean?” said Grime.
    “Well, I bet it’s the first time there’s ever been a couple of dicks running for political office.”
    “True,” agreed Grime. “Very true. Dicks in politics. Must be a first.”
    “Maybe we should test each other on some of the questions we’re sure to get when we go knocking on doors,” said Gurrey.
    “Good idea!” said Grime. “Let me start. Let’s see… Ok, here’s one. You knock on the desk and I’ll pretend I’m a potential voter, ok?”
    Gurrey rapped his arthritic knuckles on the weathered surface. Grime pretended to open the door and then said. “Oh, Mr. Ben, I heard you were running for office.”
    “Yes, I am. Can I count on your vote?”
    “Well, that depends. What’s your position on same sex marriage? I happen to be a big supporter of same sex marriage.”
    Gurrey smiled confidently. “I’m 100% for it!” he gleamed.
    “Well that’s good to know” said Grime. “Tell me Mr. Ben, why do you feel so strongly on that issue?”
    “Well my fourth ex-wife was always goin on about how we had the same sex every Saturday night. We'd watch the first period of Hockey Night in Canada, then have sex during Coach’s Corner. That Don Cherry’s quite the aphrodisiac. And the wife liked him too.”
“Yeah, that should work,” said Grime with a sly grin.
    The following morning found the sun slowly burning the fog off the harbour as Gurrey and Grime gradually emerged from their own personal fogbanks; the result of their respective nomination parties the previous evening. The two dicks were once again sitting across the desk/gutting table and trying out campaign slogans on each other.
    “How about this one, ‘Now’s the time, vote for Grime’.”
    “Not bad, not bad at all, brief and to the point. What do you think of this one? ‘Think Gurrey for that sweet smell of success’.”
    “I like it; it evokes an image people can identify with.”
    ”You know”, Grime continued, “this could work out very well for the area. With both of us running for the two major parties it’s a foregone conclusion that one or the other has to win. It doesn’t really matter who gets in, we both want the same things for our district.”
    “I had that exact thought”, said Gurrey, “We’ve seen eye-to-eye for years working as partners in The Digby Neck & Islands Detective Agency & Fishgutting Service, we’re just the same two dicks expanding into the political arena, I guess you could say we’ve become a couple of polidicks. There’s no reason why we can’t continue to cooperate and work together for the benefit of the general public like we’ve always done.”
    The two old friends and partners sat in silence for a few moments, revelling in an aura of good-will and in anticipation of the political utopia they were about to enter.
    Their brief reverie was interrupted by a sharp rap on the office/fish house door and the abrupt entrance of a sullen-faced young man in an eighteen-hundred dollar Armani suit. Casting a disparaging look around the room, the stranger announced, “Those people outside must think they’re funny, they told me this was the Literal Party campaign office.”
    Gurrey rose and extended his hand across the well-used gutting table. “Pleased to meet you, I’m the candidate, just call me Gurrey.”
    “Why would I do that?” asked the stranger.
    “Because that’s my name” replied Gurrey.
    “Oh”, said the stranger, “Well then, I guess we’ll have to work with that. My name is Kickk Mout, I’ve been assigned to help you with your campaign strategy.”
    Taking care to avoid touching anything that looked like it might not go well with fine Italian fabric, Mout observed, “I guess the first order of business is to get you a decent campaign office. Maybe your assistant there can find out what’s available.”
    It took Gurrey a moment or two to realize what Mout was getting at.
    “First of all”, he explained when it finally sank in, “this IS my campaign office, and secondly, that is NOT my assistant, that is Jim Grime, the Constipated candidate, and this is his campaign office too!”
    Across the table, Grime was muttering to himself, trying to come up with another catchy campaign slogan, “’Elect Grimey, he’s not very slimy’, oh, that’s a good one!”
    Mout was so stunned by this development that he didn’t even notice that he had ruined his expensive Gucci loafers by splashing through a puddle of brine as he passed the tanks of pickled fish.
    “You’re not serious!” he gasped, “You can’t campaign out of the same office as your opponent!”
    “Why not?” replied Gurrey, “For years we’ve operated a very successful detective agency and a moderately successful fish-gutting service out of this building, I don’t see why running an election should be a problem.”
    “Well for starters,” an exasperated Mout explained, “there are things we don’t want the other party to know. In fact”, he said, suspiciously eyeing an oblivious Grime, “we should probably continue this discussion in private.”
    Stepping out the back door onto the wharf, Gurrey settled comfortably into the rocking chair he had fashioned out of an old and still quite odorous lobster-bait barrel. Mout looked around for a seat of his own, but after considering a lobster crate with a missing top, an old pile of mouldering dragger net containing several mummified dogfish, and an overturned trawl tub with a broken board in the bottom; he decided not to risk the Armani and remained standing as he spoke.
    “This bye-election is an important one for the Literal Party. As you may be aware, the opposition has been running a non-stop campaign of dirty tricks for years now. The Literal Party refused to be drawn into this low type of politics, preferring, as the party name implies, to rely on facts and information rather than plugging up the intestinal workings of the democratic process as the Constipated Party has done with their indigestible stew of innuendo, secrecy, misinformation and emotional rhetoric. We had hoped that the citizens would eventually rise up and get the democratic process moving again by inserting an electoral laxative into the figurative colon from which flows their cynical manipulation of the Canadian political system, but it seems that the putrid smell of their campaign has only discouraged people and turned them away from voting at all. The last election had one of the lowest turn-outs in history.
    There is great debate within our party as to how to proceed; some think we should just hold to our present course, while others are pushing to beat the Constipators at their own game. This bye-election will be our test case, we are going to see if we can give the Cons a taste of their own medicine.”
    Gurrey had been carefully following Mout’s impassioned presentation, “What exactly does that mean? What kind of things will we be doing?”
    “Well,” Mout replied with enthusiasm, “I’ve already started. I arranged for an attack ad against your opponent to appear in the next issue of Passages. I’ve got a mock-up of it right here.”
    Mout placed his briefcase on the trawl tub and started to pull out a copy of the ad. On the sheet of paper Gurrey could read the words, “Grime is soft”.
    “Now just a minute”, he said, “I’m willing to be tough in this election, but I think that’s hitting kind of low. I don’t see what a man’s on-going - and so-far futile - battle with erectile dysfunction has to do with his suitability as a political representative. I think we should... I... uh...oh.”
    Mout had pulled the page completely out of the briefcase and Gurrey could now see that it in fact said, “Grime is soft on crime”.
    ‘Oh’, said Gurrey, “But that’s not really any better. What I thought it said was true, but too personal, this is not so personal, but it’s not true! Grime isn’t soft on crime; in fact, in his own bumbling way he’s done more than anyone to keep the crime rate down!”
    “I know”, said Mout with what Gurrey thought was inappropriate glee, “That’s the great thing about these ads, if there’s anything we have learned from the Cons, it’s that the truth doesn’t matter! If the victim tries to ignore the lie, then that just makes people think it’s true, if he denies it, then you can say he’s trying to prevent the truth from coming out. Even if he eventually proves that what you said about him was untrue, by that time no one will care anymore, but they will have heard the lie so many times that it will always be remembered. This is going to be great! We’re going to have so much fun tearing your opponent to shreds!”
    As Gurrey thought back to his earlier conversation with Grime, he could feel that aura of innocent positivism slowly drain away.
        Meanwhile, Jim Grime had decided to begin canvassing the Greater Westport area. He convinced Owen Otley to drive him around in the other company car, a 1972 International half ton. Grime was in the truck bed, standing in a hogshead so he wouldn’t tip over, and speaking into the small opening of a Javex bottle that he had expertly fashioned into a megaphone by cutting the bottom out.
    “Citizens of Westport,” he intoned. “I am your new candidate for the Constipated Party. I’m not some bandwagon jumper, no sirree. I’ve been Constipated all my adult life. Vote for me in the upcoming election. I know what the people of this island want.”
    While he spoke, small groups of people along the route looked up from their scratchin’ and spittin’ and such, and watched in fascination.
    “Come to the rally tomorrow night on the ferry wharf. I’ll be presenting my platform at that time. Remember, it’s high time for Grime! Grime is tough on crime! Grime is sublime. Grime is in his prime. Vote Grime and watch your income climb! ” He had decided to throw all the slogans out there to see what stuck.
    The following day, back at the fish shack/office/party headquarters, Grime and Otley discussed strategy over a quart of Ten Penny Old Stock Ale which they passed back and forth between them.
    “Then you’ll be my campaign manager, Owen?”
    “Sure,” wheezed Otley. It’d be an honour. My only concern was that I don’t want to cause bad feelings with Gurrey.”
    “Not a problem. Gurrey and I discussed it and we’ve agreed that our friendship is too important to let politics ruin it. Besides, he’s got that feller from Halifax with the fancy suit and bottled sun tan.”
    Just then they heard the distinctive squeak of the rusty old mailbox outside. That meant the new issue of Passages had arrived, a major event in town. Grime waited for Otley to volunteer to go to the mailbox but he was busy consuming the final dozen of a crate of Vachon cakes that he had recently picked up for half price at the Digby Frenchy's because they were 2 1/2 years past their “Best By” date.
    Grime exited to get the newspaper and within a minute re-entered the shack and resumed his seat behind the desk/gutting table. Slowly he perused the cover. Then very tentatively he rifled through the first few pages of the New York Times of the tri-island area. Slowly his mouth fell open and he began to shake violently as his face turned crimson. Otley looked at him for several seconds, concerned. “What’s wrong Mr. Grime? I've had twelve strokes and it looks like you're having one now.” There was another long silence. Finally, Grime threw the paper at Otley and said “Read this!”
    Otley’s lips moved silently as he scanned the front page. “Out loud!” barked Grime.
Otley swallowed hard and began to read.
    “Two local men are vying to become the Digby Neck and Islands representative in the provincial legislature in Halifax. Ironically the two are partners in the well known Digby Neck and Islands Fish-gutting Service and Detective Agency. Asked if this association will be an issue in the campaign, Literal Party campaign strategist Kickk Mout chuckled. “I think we all know who has made the DNIFGSDA the success story it is. I’m sure Grime is a good man and all that but Gurrey Ben is the brains behind that operation.”
    Pressed on election strategy, Mout suggested that Grime’s past would also be fair game. Gurrey himself was a no-show at the editorial board meeting. “He’s helping feed orphans and rescuing beached porpoises today,” explained Mout.
    Otley leafed from page to page, reading snippets from various articles about the election.
    Look at this! Even Birds of a Heather is against us. He read “Saw a rare articulated Slovakian plover nesting the other day at the head of the cove. Jim Grime drove by in his campaign truck yelling loud anti-environmental slogans and the bird left its nest, leaving its eggs behind, never to be hatched.”
    And here’s the editorial by Randy Moyers.
    “Passages has decided to throw its editorial clout behind the candidacy of Gurrey Ben, the Winston Churchill of our own little island empire. As Ben said when watching men fill potholes on the road leading to Boar’s Head. ‘Never have so many done so little for so few.’  On seeing the contamination caused by fish farming in Westport, he said:
“We shall fight fish farming on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the spawning grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets outside Lloyd's Hall, we shall fight in the hills called Antoni; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving due to diseased fish, then our Empire beyond the seas, Freeport, armed and guarded by the Legion Dart Club, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, Long Island, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of poor old Briar Island.”
    “I can’t believe all this,” said Otley flipping through the glossy pages of the publication that previously been considered fair and balanced.
    “This is strange,” said Grime thoughtfully. “I think I know what’s afoot!”
    “Twelve inches last time I checked,” interrupted Otley. “Although with the metric system I’m as confused as you.”
    Grime ignored his expired Vachon cake-addled friend and continued.  “I know for a fact that Heather is as Constipated as I am. And Randy Moyers would never write that tripe. He used to work for CBC and is therefore saint-like. In fact I think I’ve heard some of that speech before somewhere. I think Passages has been taken over by the Literal Party and become - you should excuse the expression - their organ!”
    “And they’re holding Gurrey prisoner!” ejaculated Otley.
    “Obviously,” countered Grime, his razor sharp mind once again several light years ahead of his 5’3” 365 pound assistant. “My guess is Grime has become a tool - not that he wasn't always a tool - but you know, a tool of the Literal Party. They’re holding him prisoner, the poor politically naïve, incontinent, flatulent, flea-ridden, but strangely avuncular sap!”
    “Well it probably serves him right!” Otley said to Grime’s great surprise.
    “What!” he responded, “Why do you say that?”
    “He didn’t do anything to stop Mout from firing me from his campaign staff!”
    “What? You were working on his campaign? When was this?”
    “Yesterday afternoon.”
    “But you were working on MY campaign yesterday! Are you telling me you were working for both of us at the same time?”
    “Sure, I’ve always worked for both of you, why would I stop now? In the morning I went around and put up your posters, then in the afternoon I tore them down to put up his, then next morning tore those down to put up yours again. It was a great job, the perfect government job.”
    “Why did they fire you?”
    “I’m not sure, that Mout guy said something about us all having to sacrifice for the good of the country.”
    “Well”, said Grime, “All I know now is that there’s a good chance our pal is in trouble, it’s time to forget this political stuff and put our dick hats back on.”        
    Later the same day, Grime and Otley were staked out across from the imposing edifice that was home to the world-wide headquarters of Passages. It wasn’t long before even the notoriously unobservant Grime could see that something was amiss. The broad granite stairway leading up to the impressive double doors of the Passages Building - normally abuzz with the constant comings and goings of reporters; notepads in hand, fountain pens at the ready, “PRESS” cards jauntily protruding from the hatband of their fedoras - was eerily empty.  
    “Something’s up”, Otley astutely observed.
    “Oh, sorry”, replied Grime, “I accidently took a Viagra this morning instead of my vitamin C.”
    “Not that!” Otley said in disgust, carefully averting his eyes, “I mean in there, something’s up in there! We need to investigate.”
    With the front of Grime’s pants leading the way, the two detectives cautiously approached the building. As they reached the steps, they could feel the vibration and sense the low rumble of the mighty presses that produced the influential newsletter.
    “You’re right Owen, something’s definitely going on, this month’s issue of Passages has already been printed, there’s no reason for those presses to be still running.”
    As the two dicks – or I guess until the pill wears off, three dicks – surreptitiously slipped into the building, they were greeted by a sight that only added to their apprehension. The desks nearest the door were normally occupied by the people at the very heart of the operation; the Community Correspondents. The area should have been a hive of activity with the reporters busily fielding calls from far and wide and recording for posterity all the comings and goings in the tri-island area. Ominously, these desks now sat empty, their unanswered phones ringing continuously with excited callers desperate to inform the reading public about the unexpected visit of a distant relative or the season’s first sighting of a purple finch.
    The two intrepid dicks followed the rumble of the presses further into the eerily empty edifice, eventually finding themselves deep in the bowels of the building. Here they reached the epicentre from which the now-deafening clamor emanated. The press room, normally a hive of activity with a crew of ink-stained typesetters dancing attendance to the folders, staplers, collators and inkers of the complicated press that filled the massive chamber, was today occupied by one lone figure standing with his back to the long corridor down which Grime and Otley now crept.
    As they passed the doorway of the Passages Library, - or as it was known in Freeport, “Liberry” - Grime glanced inside and was shocked to see not only Gurrey, but also Randy Moyers and the complete Passages staff tied to chairs and gagged with wads of old newsprint. Motioning to Otley to continue on, Grime ducked into the room.
    Standing at the press controls, Kickk Mout was concentrating on the rapidly increasing pile of newly-printed newsletters coming off the conveyer belt. The clattering of the machine deafened him to Otley’s gasping and wheezing and the constant ‘whuff-whuff-whuff’ of the grossly overweight junior detective’s corduroy pants as he slowly made his way down the long hallway. Mout was completely oblivious to the ominous presence behind him until the moment when two arms bearing a startling resemblance to a pair of ham-hocks wrapped around him from behind and he found himself trapped in one of Owen Otley’s patented bear hugs.
    Back at the library, Grime had untied Gurrey and pulled the newspaper gag from his mouth. After spitting out a few soggy scraps of last month’s “Creatures of the Cove”, Gurrey flashed one of his famous devil-may-care, ‘Danger-is-my-middle-name’, grins and said, “Glad you could drop by Grimey old pal; I see you’ve finally beaten that erectile dysfunction problem.”
    Self-consciously, Grime dropped into a seat, hoping the admittedly minor protuberance would be somewhat less obvious. At this moment Otley appeared in the doorway, still holding Mout in a vice-like grip. Grime barely recognized the man; Mout’s face was beet red, his hair in disarray, his eyes bulging with a fanatical fervor; the Windsor knot of his Louis Vuitton tie was slightly askew.
    “You fool”, he shouted, the spittle from his lips showering Grime’s shirtfront, “I’m on your side! Let me go! You’ll ruin everything!”    
    Grime, who could become completely lost trying to follow anything more complicated than the plot of a Roadrunner cartoon, turned to Gurrey and said, “What does he mean? He’s your campaign manager. Why is he saying he’s on my side?”
    “He’s a double agent Grimey. He was sent here to sabotage my campaign.”
    “But if he’s on my side, why did he say all those mean things about me?”
    “For years the Constipated Party has waged a campaign of personal attacks, innuendo and misinformation, and it seemed to work for them, but just recently there were indications that the Canadian public had finally grown sick and tired of such cynical and negative politics, a great backlash was building against the perpetrators of those dirty tricks. Since dirty tricks was all they had, the Cons were at a loss as to what to do next, until some warped mind came up with this idea. They would turn the attacks against themselves, making it look like the Literal Party was the aggressor; then the backlash would go against the Literals. They were using our bye-election to try it out, that’s why Mout was here.
     Looking back now, I realize there was something odd about Mout right from the start, but I guess I was too carried away with the election to really pay attention. For instance, yesterday morning we dropped into the Lighthouse Cafe for breakfast, Mout was going on about how the citizens deserved a government that was frugal and spent their hard-earned tax dollars responsibly. He interrupted his diatribe to order a new item on the menu, the Bev Oda Special, a $16 glass of orange juice. When I commented on the price, he just laughed and said price didn’t matter, he wasn’t paying, he’d charge it to his expense account.
    Later, we were discussing finances. I had started the campaign with a nice little surplus, but Mout spent it all taking some of his influential friends out for drinks. Now he was saying that since we were in this unforeseen deficit position, he had come up with a new budget to get the economy moving again and put people back to work. Then he announced that unfortunately there would have to be cutbacks and he fired Owen! I was so stunned by the incongruity of the situation that I couldn’t speak for several minutes. I thought poor Owen was going to cry; in fact I’m sure I saw a tear fall, although it could have been the result of the onion, garlic and hot pepper sandwich he was eating.
    That afternoon we were on our way to do a pre-election interview for Passages when Mout mentioned that this was his first time on a ferry. That seemed an odd statement; how did he get to the Island? I let it go at the time but now know that he was dropped off by a military helicopter, courtesy of Constipated Minister of Defence Peter McKraven, who happened to be out on another of his numerous joy-rides.
    Eventually, I realized what it was that bothered me about the man; he talked Literal, but acted Constipated.
    By the time I figured out that the Constipateds had dumped him on me, it was too late to do anything about it; Mout was rapidly descending into madness.
    I think it was the contradictions that did him in. His brain burned itself out trying to reconcile the past several years of Constipated policies. Things like bringing forward a new crime bill based on a need to protect us from a wave of ‘unreported crime’ that was supposedly sweeping the nation. It must have been hard to keep a straight face while trying to convince the country that the only way to save us from these crimes that no one was reporting was by putting more Canadians in jail for longer terms at a cost of billions of dollars per year; all at a time when the actual crime rate has been steadily going down for the last decade.
    Then there was the strain of trying to justify buying fighter jets without a bidding process at a cost of 15 billion...no wait...make that 25 billion. Of course, they’re telling us they’re doing this because our military deserves the best. At the same time, the government is taking disabled vets to court to keep them from getting the benefits they earned.
    Also the constant harpering on the need for everyone to pitch in on job creation at the same time that the government is causing thousands of job losses must cause the old brain to tie itself in knots!
    And it must also be very stressful to pretend that because the government has a majority in Parliament, therefore the majority of Canadians agree with them, when in reality only about 25 per cent of eligible voters voted for them and probably a good percentage of those thought they were voting for the old Progressively Constipated party, not realizing that that party is long dead and buried and this party is anything BUT progressive but is definitely constipated.
    Add in the strain of trying to act Literal when you are really Constipated and also being ordered to now use tactics formerly used only on ‘enemies’ of the government against your own party and...well, it was just too much.
    By the time we sat down for our interview with Randy Moyers, the natural aversion that any Con member has to a free and balanced press started to kick in and Mout was well on his way to the deep end. At first he tried to dictate which questions would be asked; then, when Randy wouldn’t comply, he refused to answer any at all. Then he ran around to all the offices trying to get the various reporters to write false and slanderous things about you, Grime. Of course the Passages people are all too ethical to do anything like that so when he saw that he was about to fail in his secret assignment, he went completely off his rocker and - his madness giving him the strength of ten men - took us all hostage.
    The latest issue of Passages was ready to go to press, so he quickly re-wrote most of it, inserting the derogatory statements that the Passages writers had refused to print. He was not up on all the local news so demanded that I help him. At first I refused, but then I saw an opportunity. I dictated the quote that appeared in the Randy Moyer editorial, I knew, Grimey old pal, that if there was anything that would alert you to the fact that something was wrong, it would be a quote attributed to me and containing complimentary phrases about Freeport.”
    “Yes, that worked a treat,” replied Grime, who had been concentrating especially hard and thought he had been able to get the gist of what had happened, “I ascertained immediately that only the direst of circumstances could compel you to express such a laudatory sentiment.”
    Gurrey was glad to see that the thesaurus he had given Grime for Christmas was finally starting to have an effect.
    “Well, you got here just in the nick of time old friend, Mout stayed up all night writing an even more slanderous ‘Election Day Special Edition’ version of Passages. He had just about finished the press run: another few minutes and every newsboy on every street corner from here to Little River would have been unknowingly spreading more Constipated lies.”
    “This seems like an unnecessarily complicated scheme”, Grime observed, “Did Mout really think it would work?”
    “Just to be sure, he had a backup plan. On election day he was going to call all the Westport Literal supporters and tell them their polling station had been moved to Boars Head. Then he would call all the Long Island Literals and inform them they had to go to Western Light to vote. He figured that given the condition of the ferries these days, chances were pretty good that once everyone got on the wrong island a breakdown would strand them there until the election was over.
    “You know,” said Grime, “I think I’ve just about had my fill of politics. What do you think about calling it quits?”
    “I’d agree.” replied Gurrey, “but it’s too late to pull out now, the election is tomorrow.”
    “Well, what do we do then?” asked Grime.
    Like Socrates, who he had studied and mastered in junior high school, Grime answered his own well-aimed question. “We have to work our damnedest NOT to be elected,” he said. “We have to get the third party alternative, the Greenish Party, elected instead. I'll have to lie and cheat and make stupid, outrageous statement to show that I'm a complete buffoon. Gurrey, you can just behave as usual. If we play our cards right – that is to say, wrong – there's no way anyone will vote for either of us.”
    That very evening the two 'opponents' met at the Firehall for an all-candidates debate. Approximately 50 people had showed up, some wearing buttons that supported one party or another.  Retired newsman and local historian Johnny Thorborn was the moderator and questions were to come from the public as well as noted journalists from the tri-island area. Representing the Greenish Party, currently a distant third in the polls, was Peg “Peggy” Thomtom-Farr, recently returned from a sojourn in the frozen north where she and her husband had made their fortune selling Fridgedaires to Inuit.
    Thomtom-Farr was a sultry beauty who had once been a heart throb and pin-up girl for local Sea Scouts, Boy Scouts, the more mature members of the Cub Scout troop, and the Cornwallis Naval Base. After moving to the North, she had learned to hunt and fish and fix propane toilets, often at the same time. She was a kind of Sarah Palin, but with integrity and brains.
    After the introductions and other preliminaries had been taken care of each candidate was asked to sum up his or her platform in fifty words or less.
    Peg Thomtom-Farr was asked to go first:
    “Having lived in the north, I've seen what can happen to our natural environment if we are not good stewards of the earth. I want to make sure that the tri-islands area develops in a sustainable and responsible way and that the jobs that are created are not at the expense of our beautiful islands and future generations.”
    “Thank, you Ms. Thomtom-Farr,” said the moderator. “Jim Grime, you are next.”
    “Falderall and poppycock, Mr. Moderator! I'd like to point out that Ms. Thomtom-Farr just delivered a 58 word speech! She's nothing but a come-from-away. I can give you my platform in two short words: Jobs, jobs, jobs.”
    “Er, thank you Mr. Grime,” said moderator Thorborn. “Gurrey Ben, please give us your platform.”
    Gurrey straightened his toupee, adjusted his hearing aid, and spit his chaw of tobacco toward the pitcher of water, missing it by three feet and landing on the moderator's Hush Puppies. He squinted at the assembly through his good eye and said, “Taxes is bad,” and sat back down.
    “Yes, er, right,” stammered the MC. “Thank you Mr. Gurrey. I'd now like to ask for a question from a member of the audience...Yes.. you with your hand up.”
    Up stood Lance Stoops, the high school gym teacher and freelance shepherd. “I'll preface my remarks by saying that I think health and exercise are an important way to fend off health problems...and, if, you don't mind me taking a minute to blow my own horn a bit, I have to point out that my prize student Owen Otley is an example of what you can achieve if you only put your mind to it.” Owen was too busy eating Cheezies and bologna sandwiches to acknowledge the smattering of applause.” Anyway, I'd like to ask each candidate what sport they recommend to keep citizens in shape. A one word answer will suffice.”
    Grime spoke first: “Baseball.”
    Gurrey was second: “Full contact crokinole.'
    Thomtom-Farr: “Iditerod.”
    Gurrey sprang to his feet.”I can't believe she said this!” he sputtered. “It's pretty clear that she left here a sweet innocent girl and has returned a brazen, debauched hussy. As we all know, it's usually the other way around. I don't know who this man Rodney that you 'did' is, and frankly I don't want to know, but the morals of these islands must be upheld!”
    He sat down.
Peggy: “An Iditarod is a sled race.”
Gurrey: “Oh, well never mind then.”
    The debate raged on for hours as the three candidates fielded questions on everything from soup (2 for, one against) to nuts(all 3 for). Gurrey and Grime did everything they could think of to disgust and alienate their political supporters. Gurrey came out in favour of diseased salmon.
    There was a potentially ugly scene when audience member Wilfred Prunetips asked each candidate how they would handle the always contentious issue of Freeport-Westport relations.
    Grime was most eloquent on the subject until he remembered that he was supposed to sound stupid, so he added. “I've had relations with women on both sides of the Passage.”
    Gurrey was next. I think that even though Freeporters are better looking and have more book learning, there's room for all of us in the place I will rename Freewestportia. I will build a bridge out of old gurrey boats and various other flotsam and jetsam and our islands will be one big island: Longbriar Island!' Both dicks were booed enthusiastically.
    Peggy Thomtom-Farr rose to speak. “I can see Long Island from my house.” The uproar that followed left little doubt about who the next MLA from the tri-islands area would be.
    The crowd was starting to make its way to the exit doors when Rikilini Robichini arose and said that she would like to hear each candidate describe their vision of a viable future for the Islands.
    Grime leaped to his feet and indignantly replied, “I’m shocked that Ms. Robichini would ask such a personal question! I’ll admit that my hearing is not all that great, but since I started smoking that special herb, my glaucoma has cleared up and now I can see better than ever!”
    At this point, a nearby audience member leaned over and shouted into Grime’s good ear that the question was in reference to a vision for the future, not the candidates’ eyesight. Grime paused to re-centre the flaming red toupee that he had recently found in the Frenchy’s bargain bin, rotate his glass eye until it pointed forward again, unlock the knee of his artificial leg, and adjust the valve on his oxygen bottles. Finally he cleared his throat, spat his wad of chewing tobacco into what he took to be a wastebasket but was in fact the open purse of the Passages political reporter, and spoke.
    “I have given this subject much thought since I first heard of it a few seconds ago, and have come to the conclusion that our future lies behind us! The 1950’s were a wonderful time on the Islands! Plentiful fish, lots of boats in the harbour, the cars were cool, and the TV programs were classic. If elected, I shall proudly lead us back to the future and ban any post 1960 developments from the Tri-island area.”
    As Grime sat back down, the only sound in the hall came from the creaking of the rusty hinge in his fake knee. Before the stunned and astonished audience could react, Gurrey was on his feet, “Unlike my esteemed opponent, I plan to move forward into the future, we must not fear what is to come, but must instead embrace the inevitable. If elected, I will see to it that both ends of the harbour are sealed off and Grand Passage turned into the world’s largest fish-farm.”
    “Well, those were two interesting proposals!” Peggy Thomtom-Farr was now standing, “Unfortunately, the past is past; we cannot go back again. Nor should we blunder blindly into the future accepting whatever is thrown our way. We live in a beautiful part of the world with many unique assets; others recognize those assets and want to exploit them. We must take control of our own future. Yes we must diversify, yes we must make the most of the natural advantages that are available to us, but in a way that is sustainable, beneficial, and compatible to the wants and needs of the citizens of these islands!”
    As the meeting broke up with the cheering crowd carrying Ms. Thomton-Farr out of the building on their shoulders, Gurrey and Grime gave each other a discreet “thumbs up”.        
     The following evening, the two dicks were sitting with their feet up in the office/ fishgutting parlour chuckling over some vintage selections from their collection of old Mad magazines when the door opened and Owen Otley huffed and puffed his way in.
    “The polls just closed and you guys did better than I expected; between the two of you, you got almost four votes. Needless to say, Peggy Thomton-Farr is our new MLA.”
    With a sigh of relief, Gurrey said, “So things turned out OK after all, we got to experience a bit of the political life, and the Islands ended up with a good representative.”
    “Yes”, agreed Grime, “I think from now on we should just stick to being dicks; after all, that’s what we do best.”