Gurrey and Grime were lazing around their detective agency office/fish-gutting service watching re-runs of Car 54 Where Are You? on their black and white Emerson TV. 'Remind me to go up on the roof to turn the antenna,' said Gurrey, as he gutted another cod and threw it on the pile. 'Reception's pretty bad. Someday I predict they'll have some kind of cable or even a satellite to bring us a clearer picture.' Not wanting to burst his friend's bubble, Grime decided not to tell him that his home town of Freeport had had such a system for two weeks. Suddenly the ancient wooden door to the fish house burst open and there stood Owen Otley, all 5'4", 365 pounds of him. Because of their advancing ages, the two detectives had hired Otley as their leg man whenever speed and agility were required. So far it hadn't worked out well and even Horace Perly, a 95-year old shop lifter with a walker had escaped Otley's pursuit. 'Trouble at the bingo hall,' wheezed Otley, 'Big trouble!'
The Bingo hall was owned by the powerful Robichini family which, in truth, owned most everything on the island: the all-night shepherd service, the shoe cobbler's place, the belt stretcher, the boot-leggers, the Brier Island Stock Exchange (where islanders exchanged cows for bulls), and of course, the dry cleaning establishment, which was believed to be used to launder money. Then there was the fake whale watch which used inflated plastic whales to dupe American tourists out of their 'Yanqui dollars'. The bingo cartel was tightly controlled by them and their head honcho - one Wallman "The Wall" Robichini - and this wasn't the first time that something smelled fishy in the tiny village of Westport. The problem was that Grime knew that his partner had connections to the Robichini family. Would he be able to dispense justice impartially - or would he be just another wart on the festering buttocks of Briar Island? Only time would tell.
Gurrey seemed to take forever to strap on his prosthetic leg, wash the fish guts from his hands, and grab his dobber, which he always carried with him in a specially fashioned holster 'just in case.' While Grime waited, he made small talk about the weather and various points of interest in the island. The two old friends were always reminiscing. 'I remember the time I got lucky down at Beautiful Cove in my 1965 Valiant,' he winked at Gurrey. Intrigued, Gurrey turned up his hearing aid to hear more. 'Give me some details,' he said. Grime proudly stuck out his chest and continued, 'Yup found $1.25 in the back seat, stuck down in the crack. Talk about getting lucky!'
The Bingo hall was owned by the powerful Robichini family which, in truth, owned most everything on the island: the all-night shepherd service, the shoe cobbler's place, the belt stretcher, the boot-leggers, the Brier Island Stock Exchange (where islanders exchanged cows for bulls), and of course, the dry cleaning establishment, which was believed to be used to launder money. Then there was the fake whale watch which used inflated plastic whales to dupe American tourists out of their 'Yanqui dollars'. The bingo cartel was tightly controlled by them and their head honcho - one Wallman "The Wall" Robichini - and this wasn't the first time that something smelled fishy in the tiny village of Westport. The problem was that Grime knew that his partner had connections to the Robichini family. Would he be able to dispense justice impartially - or would he be just another wart on the festering buttocks of Briar Island? Only time would tell.
Gurrey seemed to take forever to strap on his prosthetic leg, wash the fish guts from his hands, and grab his dobber, which he always carried with him in a specially fashioned holster 'just in case.' While Grime waited, he made small talk about the weather and various points of interest in the island. The two old friends were always reminiscing. 'I remember the time I got lucky down at Beautiful Cove in my 1965 Valiant,' he winked at Gurrey. Intrigued, Gurrey turned up his hearing aid to hear more. 'Give me some details,' he said. Grime proudly stuck out his chest and continued, 'Yup found $1.25 in the back seat, stuck down in the crack. Talk about getting lucky!'
Gurrey turned away in disgust.
Desperately hoping for a few minutes of coherent conversation for a change, Gurrey turned back to the red-faced and perspiration-drenched Otley, who was still standing gasping in the doorway, and asked, "What's happening over to the bingo hall?" The weathered timbers of the old building gave out with a tortured groan as Owen leaned his full weight against the door-frame. "Give me a minute to catch my breath", he wheezed. "I just beat my own personal best time running over here from the hall. Four hundred yards in just under twenty minutes", he said proudly. Gurrey thought that Otley may have even puffed out his chest a little when he said that, but couldn't really tell since his chest looked puffed out all the time anyway. Still struggling to catch his breath, Otley dug some makin's out of his shirt pocket, and despite his sausage-like fingers, quickly and expertly rolled himself a reasonable facsimile of a cigarette. After sucking it down to a smouldering stub with one long drag, and gasping and hacking through a coughing spell that went on for several minutes; he finally said "That's better", and launched into his story.
According to Otley, the whole problem at the Bingo Hall started when the organizers of Freeport's weekly Saturday night tea party were forced to cancel on short notice after someone misplaced the teabag. Casting about for some way to alleviate the drudgery of their miserable existence, the Teabaggers - as they called themselves - were drawn to the shiny lights and exotic sounds reflecting off the water from the glittering metropolis across the Passage; in particular, the huge blinking neon "Bingo" sign caught their attention...then lost it...then caught it...then lost it...then caught it again. Eventually the Teabaggers were able to break the spell of this mesmerising sight and decided to take a walk on the wild side and try out this new-fangled high-stakes game they had heard so much about.
When the large group of gawking Freeporters shuffled timidly through the ornate doors of the Westport Bingo Hall, a buzz went around the room. Fortunately, Westporters are a naturally peaceful people, accepting of even the most unfortunate members of humanity, and all was relatively quiet until the game actually got under way. The first few numbers of the evening were called with no trouble, but when "G-23" was shouted out, suddenly all the Teabaggers were staring at their cards with stunned and puzzled looks on their faces. In a frenzy, they began to tear off first their own, and then their neighbour's socks and shoes and began ‘cipherin' on all available fingers and toes.
Desperately hoping for a few minutes of coherent conversation for a change, Gurrey turned back to the red-faced and perspiration-drenched Otley, who was still standing gasping in the doorway, and asked, "What's happening over to the bingo hall?" The weathered timbers of the old building gave out with a tortured groan as Owen leaned his full weight against the door-frame. "Give me a minute to catch my breath", he wheezed. "I just beat my own personal best time running over here from the hall. Four hundred yards in just under twenty minutes", he said proudly. Gurrey thought that Otley may have even puffed out his chest a little when he said that, but couldn't really tell since his chest looked puffed out all the time anyway. Still struggling to catch his breath, Otley dug some makin's out of his shirt pocket, and despite his sausage-like fingers, quickly and expertly rolled himself a reasonable facsimile of a cigarette. After sucking it down to a smouldering stub with one long drag, and gasping and hacking through a coughing spell that went on for several minutes; he finally said "That's better", and launched into his story.
According to Otley, the whole problem at the Bingo Hall started when the organizers of Freeport's weekly Saturday night tea party were forced to cancel on short notice after someone misplaced the teabag. Casting about for some way to alleviate the drudgery of their miserable existence, the Teabaggers - as they called themselves - were drawn to the shiny lights and exotic sounds reflecting off the water from the glittering metropolis across the Passage; in particular, the huge blinking neon "Bingo" sign caught their attention...then lost it...then caught it...then lost it...then caught it again. Eventually the Teabaggers were able to break the spell of this mesmerising sight and decided to take a walk on the wild side and try out this new-fangled high-stakes game they had heard so much about.
When the large group of gawking Freeporters shuffled timidly through the ornate doors of the Westport Bingo Hall, a buzz went around the room. Fortunately, Westporters are a naturally peaceful people, accepting of even the most unfortunate members of humanity, and all was relatively quiet until the game actually got under way. The first few numbers of the evening were called with no trouble, but when "G-23" was shouted out, suddenly all the Teabaggers were staring at their cards with stunned and puzzled looks on their faces. In a frenzy, they began to tear off first their own, and then their neighbour's socks and shoes and began ‘cipherin' on all available fingers and toes.
This was the first number over 20 to be called and the Freeporters found themselves to be out of their depth: all that is except for ‘Six-Digit Darryl’ who was considered ‘gifted’ by the Long Islanders due to his ability to count all the way up to 24.
The Teabaggers quickly realized that they were at a distinct disadvantage in this game, so they demanded that no numbers higher than 20 were to be called, of course the Westporters objected, "And it all went rapidly downhill from there." Otley continued. "The Long Islanders thought that this was some kind of a plot against them, a way to show off the natural superiority of the Brier Island educational system; things quickly got out of hand and it all ended up with the Bingo caller being kidnapped and held for ransom." At this point in his narration Otley shot an apprehensive look in Grime's direction before continuing with an almost apologetic air, "The Bingo caller tonight was Rikilini Robichini."
Grime, who had appeared to be dozing off in his chair during most of Otley's story, came to with a loud snort and was suddenly teetering unsteadily on his feet. "They can't do that!" he shouted, "That's terrible, I won't stand for it...I...I...I...!" Grime began to gag and choke and finally spat his poorly-fitted false teeth out into his hand. "Lasht time I buy teeth at the Dollarshtore" he lisped.
"Take it easy there Grimey", cautioned Gurrey with a modicum of concern. "You don't want to blow the fuse in your pacemaker again! Remember the last time that happened? It was just sheer luck that we happened to have a set of jumper cables in the car!" It was well known throughout the Tri-island area that Grime and Rikilini - the eldest and tallest of the seven Robichini sisters - had once had a brief, torrid affair. It had ended almost as soon as it had begun, and no one knew why: were the differences too many, was the Westport/Freeport cultural gap too vast to bridge, was the social stigma of a mixed marriage too much to contemplate, were the constant ferry trips too tedious to take? Even after all these years, Rikilini still refused to acknowledge the tenuous connection between the two, and although Grime also was reticent to speak of that extremely brief period in the otherwise unremarkable history of his mediocre lovelife, Gurrey suspected that somewhere deep in Grime's erratically beating heart, he still harboured feelings for the fair Rikilini.
Grimey knew that "Six-Digit Darryl" could actually count to 25, but not without dropping his pants. His natural modesty had cost Freeport the Bingo bragging rights. Sure, Grime had been distracted by Rikilini, the beautiful Amazon who appeared so out of place on this island of dwarfish people. She stood out like Dolly Parton at a Twiggy look-a-like contest. Grimey's friend Gurrey had been a man about town in his youth. Long hair flowing from his Volkswagon bug while he courted what he insisted on calling "the girlies." Only the women of Freeport, much more urbane and cultured, were able to see through his shallow facade of suaveness. Sure he wore only his best hip-boots to the dances, and sure he cut them off at just the right jaunty angle, and sure his wallet had the fanciest chain on it and ok, his collection of anchors on his car dash was the largest on either island - but substance, that's what the real women wanted - and Grimey had that up the old wazoo.
Grimey and Gurrey had enjoyed almost identical upbringings. Both were the sons of grocery magnates on their respective islands and both were heirs to the kind of vast fortunes that only small town grocery sales can produce. Gurrey had frittered his money away, sinking every last penny into TV antennae and phone booth stock. Grime had invested in a chain of boot-legging establishments that had not worked out. In truth Gurrey had tiptoed into puberty a few months prior to his friend but Grime had pole-vaulted past him in no time. Besotted women often sang of his charms around campfires on the spectacular cliffs of the glorious Freeport mountain range known far and wide by the descriptive but gender-confused name of Aunt Tony, the Rockies of the Tri-island area.
Lately Gurrey had noticed that Grime seemed to be spending more and more time living in the past - and oddly, it didn't appear to be his own past he was living in! He would happily waste countless hours bending the ear of any unfortunate who happened along bragging about his so-called "glory days". Grime apparently still fancied himself quite the ladies man and could go on in colourful but nauseating detail about his imaginary accomplishments as what he coyly and crudely called a "pole vaulter". It just so happened that Gurrey knew the unvarnished truth: that even as a young man, Grime rarely if ever was able to "clear the bar", and for the last several decades even the advent of a certain little blue pill had not been able to get Grime's "pole" back in the game.
Still, blithely ignoring the overwhelming mountain of evidence to the contrary, Grime hung tenaciously to the image he had built up in his own fevered mind; that he was, as he liked to describe himself, “A chick magnet”; he even had it printed on his business cards;
The Teabaggers quickly realized that they were at a distinct disadvantage in this game, so they demanded that no numbers higher than 20 were to be called, of course the Westporters objected, "And it all went rapidly downhill from there." Otley continued. "The Long Islanders thought that this was some kind of a plot against them, a way to show off the natural superiority of the Brier Island educational system; things quickly got out of hand and it all ended up with the Bingo caller being kidnapped and held for ransom." At this point in his narration Otley shot an apprehensive look in Grime's direction before continuing with an almost apologetic air, "The Bingo caller tonight was Rikilini Robichini."
Grime, who had appeared to be dozing off in his chair during most of Otley's story, came to with a loud snort and was suddenly teetering unsteadily on his feet. "They can't do that!" he shouted, "That's terrible, I won't stand for it...I...I...I...!" Grime began to gag and choke and finally spat his poorly-fitted false teeth out into his hand. "Lasht time I buy teeth at the Dollarshtore" he lisped.
"Take it easy there Grimey", cautioned Gurrey with a modicum of concern. "You don't want to blow the fuse in your pacemaker again! Remember the last time that happened? It was just sheer luck that we happened to have a set of jumper cables in the car!" It was well known throughout the Tri-island area that Grime and Rikilini - the eldest and tallest of the seven Robichini sisters - had once had a brief, torrid affair. It had ended almost as soon as it had begun, and no one knew why: were the differences too many, was the Westport/Freeport cultural gap too vast to bridge, was the social stigma of a mixed marriage too much to contemplate, were the constant ferry trips too tedious to take? Even after all these years, Rikilini still refused to acknowledge the tenuous connection between the two, and although Grime also was reticent to speak of that extremely brief period in the otherwise unremarkable history of his mediocre lovelife, Gurrey suspected that somewhere deep in Grime's erratically beating heart, he still harboured feelings for the fair Rikilini.
Grimey knew that "Six-Digit Darryl" could actually count to 25, but not without dropping his pants. His natural modesty had cost Freeport the Bingo bragging rights. Sure, Grime had been distracted by Rikilini, the beautiful Amazon who appeared so out of place on this island of dwarfish people. She stood out like Dolly Parton at a Twiggy look-a-like contest. Grimey's friend Gurrey had been a man about town in his youth. Long hair flowing from his Volkswagon bug while he courted what he insisted on calling "the girlies." Only the women of Freeport, much more urbane and cultured, were able to see through his shallow facade of suaveness. Sure he wore only his best hip-boots to the dances, and sure he cut them off at just the right jaunty angle, and sure his wallet had the fanciest chain on it and ok, his collection of anchors on his car dash was the largest on either island - but substance, that's what the real women wanted - and Grimey had that up the old wazoo.
Grimey and Gurrey had enjoyed almost identical upbringings. Both were the sons of grocery magnates on their respective islands and both were heirs to the kind of vast fortunes that only small town grocery sales can produce. Gurrey had frittered his money away, sinking every last penny into TV antennae and phone booth stock. Grime had invested in a chain of boot-legging establishments that had not worked out. In truth Gurrey had tiptoed into puberty a few months prior to his friend but Grime had pole-vaulted past him in no time. Besotted women often sang of his charms around campfires on the spectacular cliffs of the glorious Freeport mountain range known far and wide by the descriptive but gender-confused name of Aunt Tony, the Rockies of the Tri-island area.
Lately Gurrey had noticed that Grime seemed to be spending more and more time living in the past - and oddly, it didn't appear to be his own past he was living in! He would happily waste countless hours bending the ear of any unfortunate who happened along bragging about his so-called "glory days". Grime apparently still fancied himself quite the ladies man and could go on in colourful but nauseating detail about his imaginary accomplishments as what he coyly and crudely called a "pole vaulter". It just so happened that Gurrey knew the unvarnished truth: that even as a young man, Grime rarely if ever was able to "clear the bar", and for the last several decades even the advent of a certain little blue pill had not been able to get Grime's "pole" back in the game.
Still, blithely ignoring the overwhelming mountain of evidence to the contrary, Grime hung tenaciously to the image he had built up in his own fevered mind; that he was, as he liked to describe himself, “A chick magnet”; he even had it printed on his business cards;
Jim Grime
Private Dick - Fishgutter - Chick Magnet
Grime also liked to go on ad-nauseum about having “substance”, and Gurrey suspected that this may well be the source of Grime's slow but steady downhill slide into unrequited decrepitude. It wasn't actually ‘substance’ that was the problem so much as it was ‘substance abuse’.
Oh, it had started out innocently enough. Many, many, many years earlier when Grime was still somewhat of a youngish man, he had abandoned his boyhood home and struck out to seek fame and fortune in the traffic-congested, mall-dominated, fast-food-infected Valley town of New Minas. Here, against all odds, he somehow managed to publish several books about an obscure Boston sports team and become something of a minor celebrity.
Unfortunately for the unsophisticated, naive, youngish man from the wrong side of the ferry, he was about to learn that celebrity on the mean streets of New Minas came at a high price. Oh, it had started out innocently enough. Many, many, many years earlier when Grime was still somewhat of a youngish man, he had abandoned his boyhood home and struck out to seek fame and fortune in the traffic-congested, mall-dominated, fast-food-infected Valley town of New Minas. Here, against all odds, he somehow managed to publish several books about an obscure Boston sports team and become something of a minor celebrity.
Grime soon found himself caught up in a dizzying whirl-wind of New Minas's most prestigious social events, it was the bowling alley one night, the curling rink the next, followed by a non-stop blitz of the forty-seven Frenchy's in town. Blinded by the glamour and bright lights that comprised the day-to-day life of the New Minas Glitterati, Grime soon found himself being introduced to "the substance". At first he only partook of this trendy stimulant because all of his new "friends" were doing it, but in short order he developed an insatiable craving for the substance and subsequently found himself forced into buying it on the street.
When the common street variety lost its kick for him - when he started noticing he was getting lethargic and irritable without regular infusions - he sought out a specialty supplier and started experimenting with exotic "blends" from mysterious, far-away places like Columbia and Bolivia, and then he finally graduated to "designer items" with exotic names like latte and cappuccino. When he over-indulged one reckless night and woke up the next morning with a burly tattooed longshoreman in a silk teddy on one side of him and a strangely alluring-looking sheep on the other, Grime finally had to admit that he was under the thrall of the dreaded bean; his caffeine habit was totally out of control. In a rare moment of clarity, he decided that the only way to break this vicious cycle of dependency was to return to the safety of his boyhood home, far from the big-town temptations.
Sadly, upon his less-than-triumphant return, Grime found himself spurned by his former friends and neighbours. They had heard of his off-Island exploits, and although they had absolutely no problem with him now being a desperate and degenerate addict, the feeling throughout the community was that since he had published a book he would most likely be, as they said, "All high and mighty with his fancy readin' 'n' writin".
Despondent, Grime was seriously contemplating throwing himself off Rony's Point one desperate night when he happened to raise his eyes up to see an array of beautifully glimmering lights reach out to him like the arms of an angel from across the water, and as the foghorns sang like a chorus of heavenly voices in the background, the Mecca across the harbour emerged like a glorious mirage out of the parting fog. Suddenly, Grime was struck as if by a thunderbolt from upon high with the realization that before him, like a vision from Heaven itself, lay the only community in the Tri-Island area that had a library. As hard as it was to accept, Grime came to the reluctant realization that he might fit better into that literate, sophisticated, urbane world across the water, that a whole new future lay before him just on the other side of the harbour.
Over the past few weeks, Grime had noticed that his once solid friendship with Gurrey was being severely tested by rampant jealousy. In fairness, Gurrey had not had an easy life. Like most Briar Islanders of his time, in his youth he had been forced to subsist on a diet of grubs, berries and field mice, and often there wasn't enough to go around in his massive, massive family where babies appeared with the frequency of power outages. In fact the two were doubtlessly connected. There was little to do but fish and fornicate and Gurrey’s father hated fishing. Sure the missionaries from Freeport occasionally brought provisions, including what Westporters called 'store-bought' clothes, but their proud nature prevented them from accepting too many such hand-outs. After an excellent education in Freeport's finest institution of higher education, Gurrey had accepted a position as a 'trainee' at the Metropolitan Store in Digby and it looked like he was on his way to respectability. Unfortunately, fate intervened as he was accused of unseemly behaviour in the 'Women's Whatnots' section of the store and he was thrown out on his ear. He began to hang around with the wrong crowd in Digby, holding séances in graveyards and impregnating so many native girls, that today most Digby people over 25 look exactly the same.
But Grime still had a fondness for Gurrey. The two had been in Cub Scouts together and had learned many ancient secrets of the forest - like how to cook frozen wieners over an open fire, and how to clean up the puke left on the floor of the church vestry by the scoutmaster's humongous Newfoundland hell hounds. Due to the inconsistent Westport transit system Gurrey even stayed overnight at Grime’s home on Cubs night. There he learned such rudimentary social skills as sitting at a table and using utensils instead of the pointy stick that he employed at home to 'stab the little critters.' On one occasion Grime stayed at Gurrey's home, where he was shocked to discover that he had to put his own milk on the cereal and so - so as not to embarrass Gurrey's lovely, long-suffering mother - he ate them dry. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, a saint in every conceivable way.
Recently, the two dicks had spent so much time bad-mouthing each other that they had been neglecting their detective agency/fish-gutting service. The result was that crime was rampant in the Tri-Island area and local restaurants had resorted to serving un-gutted fish, letting the customers perform that task at the tables ‘as part of the culinary experience.' Gurrey and Grime decided to call a truce. Tiverton had been hardest hit by crime during the dick-less period, as it came to be known. The community had seen an outbreak of littering and rowdiness, not to mention literally dozens of sartorial crimes. But the crime that had the entire village on edge involved the Balancing Rock. Tourists, some of them who had traveled from places as far-flung as Tiddville and Weymouth North to see the amazing phenomenon, were shocked to see the erstwhile balancing rock...
"Grimey...Grimey...c’mon Grimey, snap out of it!" The familiar and manly voice seemed to be coming from far, far away. Gradually, Grime's eyeballs stopped rolling in their sockets, began to uncross, and eventually focused enough for him to recognize through the roiling mists of his addled brain the rugged yet handsome visage of his partner. Ever since he had had that steel plate installed in his head, - the result of an unfortunate tumble off the wharf onto a whale-watching boat during what came to be known by the local wags as "The Case of The Trampled Tourists" - Grime had been experiencing periods where his mind tended to wander. Fortunately he believed, these spells were fleeting and had so far passed unnoticed by anyone else.
"Jeez Buddy", Gurrey exclaimed with a note in his voice that would most likely be construed by the casual listener as something bordering on concern, "You were out for nearly forty-five minutes that time; staring off into space and rambling on and on about something called 'women's whatnots' and about that big problem they're having with the Balancing Rock. Don't worry about all that; as soon as we get this hostage case cleared up, we'll go look after things at the Rock."
"Yeah! Right! Like you two old geezers could figure that out." With a startled expression on his bloated face, Owen Otley looked up from the slacked pollock he was devouring at a rickety old table in the corner. "Oh, did I say that out loud? What I probably meant to say was, 'If anybody can solve the unusual and complicated problem that has all of Tiverton in a tizzy, I'm sure it's you two fine gentlemen.'" With that he took a quick gulp from his fifth Moosehead of the evening and, confident that he had successfully smoothed over his unfortunate faux pas, turned back to the remnants of his salty snack.
With an icy glare in Otley's direction, Gurrey turned back to his semi-comatose partner and gave him a shake, "Come on buddy, I need you to be sharp. You're the only one who can negotiate for Rikilini's freedom, you grew up with most of those kidnappers; you understand their unusual version of the English language, their fractured phrases and twisted idioms; you actually ‘get’ most of their obscure references. I can't do it; I'm not even sure what the accepted response is to the traditional Freeport greeting of 'Gettin' any?', and I'm even further stymied when asked, 'How's it hangin'?', but you have a natural flair for that sort of conversation."
Grime’s mind had finally cleared somewhat and after listening intently to Gurrey's persuasive argument he planted both hands on the arms of his chair and with a groan and a resounding fart, pushed himself to his feet. "I'll do it", he announced, "But first I'll need to get out of these clothes." Gesturing to his usual outfit of hip-rubber boots, fish-gut covered barvel and a tattered Frenchy's tee-shirt that proclaimed ‘Baby On Board!’ above a downward pointing arrow, Grime explained, "This get-up might be O.K. for socializing on any other night of the week, but this is a Saturday night, everyone in town has had their weekly bath, scoffed down a charge of beans, and put on their best 'Sunday-go-to-meetin'’ clothes. If I'm going to slip into that Bingo hall without attracting a lot of unwanted attention, I've got to fit in."
With that, he strode to the back wall of the office/fishgutting parlour and entered a door near the overflowing liver barrels. Several minutes later he was back, transformed in a purple, crushed-velvet Nehru jacket worn over a white dickey and adorned with a heavy imitation gold chain linked to a large peace symbol. His colourfully striped bellbottoms were held up by a wide, white, fake-leather belt that matched his funky six-inch-heeled platform shoes. "This should get me in the door without drawing any undue attention", he said, adjusting the rose-coloured lenses of his wire-rimmed granny glasses.
Sadly, upon his less-than-triumphant return, Grime found himself spurned by his former friends and neighbours. They had heard of his off-Island exploits, and although they had absolutely no problem with him now being a desperate and degenerate addict, the feeling throughout the community was that since he had published a book he would most likely be, as they said, "All high and mighty with his fancy readin' 'n' writin".
Despondent, Grime was seriously contemplating throwing himself off Rony's Point one desperate night when he happened to raise his eyes up to see an array of beautifully glimmering lights reach out to him like the arms of an angel from across the water, and as the foghorns sang like a chorus of heavenly voices in the background, the Mecca across the harbour emerged like a glorious mirage out of the parting fog. Suddenly, Grime was struck as if by a thunderbolt from upon high with the realization that before him, like a vision from Heaven itself, lay the only community in the Tri-Island area that had a library. As hard as it was to accept, Grime came to the reluctant realization that he might fit better into that literate, sophisticated, urbane world across the water, that a whole new future lay before him just on the other side of the harbour.
Over the past few weeks, Grime had noticed that his once solid friendship with Gurrey was being severely tested by rampant jealousy. In fairness, Gurrey had not had an easy life. Like most Briar Islanders of his time, in his youth he had been forced to subsist on a diet of grubs, berries and field mice, and often there wasn't enough to go around in his massive, massive family where babies appeared with the frequency of power outages. In fact the two were doubtlessly connected. There was little to do but fish and fornicate and Gurrey’s father hated fishing. Sure the missionaries from Freeport occasionally brought provisions, including what Westporters called 'store-bought' clothes, but their proud nature prevented them from accepting too many such hand-outs. After an excellent education in Freeport's finest institution of higher education, Gurrey had accepted a position as a 'trainee' at the Metropolitan Store in Digby and it looked like he was on his way to respectability. Unfortunately, fate intervened as he was accused of unseemly behaviour in the 'Women's Whatnots' section of the store and he was thrown out on his ear. He began to hang around with the wrong crowd in Digby, holding séances in graveyards and impregnating so many native girls, that today most Digby people over 25 look exactly the same.
But Grime still had a fondness for Gurrey. The two had been in Cub Scouts together and had learned many ancient secrets of the forest - like how to cook frozen wieners over an open fire, and how to clean up the puke left on the floor of the church vestry by the scoutmaster's humongous Newfoundland hell hounds. Due to the inconsistent Westport transit system Gurrey even stayed overnight at Grime’s home on Cubs night. There he learned such rudimentary social skills as sitting at a table and using utensils instead of the pointy stick that he employed at home to 'stab the little critters.' On one occasion Grime stayed at Gurrey's home, where he was shocked to discover that he had to put his own milk on the cereal and so - so as not to embarrass Gurrey's lovely, long-suffering mother - he ate them dry. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, a saint in every conceivable way.
Recently, the two dicks had spent so much time bad-mouthing each other that they had been neglecting their detective agency/fish-gutting service. The result was that crime was rampant in the Tri-Island area and local restaurants had resorted to serving un-gutted fish, letting the customers perform that task at the tables ‘as part of the culinary experience.' Gurrey and Grime decided to call a truce. Tiverton had been hardest hit by crime during the dick-less period, as it came to be known. The community had seen an outbreak of littering and rowdiness, not to mention literally dozens of sartorial crimes. But the crime that had the entire village on edge involved the Balancing Rock. Tourists, some of them who had traveled from places as far-flung as Tiddville and Weymouth North to see the amazing phenomenon, were shocked to see the erstwhile balancing rock...
"Grimey...Grimey...c’mon Grimey, snap out of it!" The familiar and manly voice seemed to be coming from far, far away. Gradually, Grime's eyeballs stopped rolling in their sockets, began to uncross, and eventually focused enough for him to recognize through the roiling mists of his addled brain the rugged yet handsome visage of his partner. Ever since he had had that steel plate installed in his head, - the result of an unfortunate tumble off the wharf onto a whale-watching boat during what came to be known by the local wags as "The Case of The Trampled Tourists" - Grime had been experiencing periods where his mind tended to wander. Fortunately he believed, these spells were fleeting and had so far passed unnoticed by anyone else.
"Jeez Buddy", Gurrey exclaimed with a note in his voice that would most likely be construed by the casual listener as something bordering on concern, "You were out for nearly forty-five minutes that time; staring off into space and rambling on and on about something called 'women's whatnots' and about that big problem they're having with the Balancing Rock. Don't worry about all that; as soon as we get this hostage case cleared up, we'll go look after things at the Rock."
"Yeah! Right! Like you two old geezers could figure that out." With a startled expression on his bloated face, Owen Otley looked up from the slacked pollock he was devouring at a rickety old table in the corner. "Oh, did I say that out loud? What I probably meant to say was, 'If anybody can solve the unusual and complicated problem that has all of Tiverton in a tizzy, I'm sure it's you two fine gentlemen.'" With that he took a quick gulp from his fifth Moosehead of the evening and, confident that he had successfully smoothed over his unfortunate faux pas, turned back to the remnants of his salty snack.
With an icy glare in Otley's direction, Gurrey turned back to his semi-comatose partner and gave him a shake, "Come on buddy, I need you to be sharp. You're the only one who can negotiate for Rikilini's freedom, you grew up with most of those kidnappers; you understand their unusual version of the English language, their fractured phrases and twisted idioms; you actually ‘get’ most of their obscure references. I can't do it; I'm not even sure what the accepted response is to the traditional Freeport greeting of 'Gettin' any?', and I'm even further stymied when asked, 'How's it hangin'?', but you have a natural flair for that sort of conversation."
Grime’s mind had finally cleared somewhat and after listening intently to Gurrey's persuasive argument he planted both hands on the arms of his chair and with a groan and a resounding fart, pushed himself to his feet. "I'll do it", he announced, "But first I'll need to get out of these clothes." Gesturing to his usual outfit of hip-rubber boots, fish-gut covered barvel and a tattered Frenchy's tee-shirt that proclaimed ‘Baby On Board!’ above a downward pointing arrow, Grime explained, "This get-up might be O.K. for socializing on any other night of the week, but this is a Saturday night, everyone in town has had their weekly bath, scoffed down a charge of beans, and put on their best 'Sunday-go-to-meetin'’ clothes. If I'm going to slip into that Bingo hall without attracting a lot of unwanted attention, I've got to fit in."
With that, he strode to the back wall of the office/fishgutting parlour and entered a door near the overflowing liver barrels. Several minutes later he was back, transformed in a purple, crushed-velvet Nehru jacket worn over a white dickey and adorned with a heavy imitation gold chain linked to a large peace symbol. His colourfully striped bellbottoms were held up by a wide, white, fake-leather belt that matched his funky six-inch-heeled platform shoes. "This should get me in the door without drawing any undue attention", he said, adjusting the rose-coloured lenses of his wire-rimmed granny glasses.
On his way out the door, Grime beckoned to Otley, "Come on Owen, I'm going to need your help." In response to Otley's distressed look, he replied, "You don’t have to walk, we'll take the Buick over to the Hall." With a look of relief, Otley turned sideways and after a brief struggle, managed to squeeze his globular form through the doorway and follow Grime out to the car.
Twenty minutes later, they were back. "It all went just as slick as grease through a goose", Grime proclaimed. "As I predicted, my mod clothes got me into the hall with only the usual amount of snickering and pointing. After quickly casing the joint, I got Owen to wedge himself into the doorway to block any attempt of escape. Then I confronted the Teabaggers; they were demanding a full refund because they felt that someone should have warned them that an I.Q. higher than that of the average Freeporter was required to play this ‘complicated game’. The owners of the Bingo Cartel felt that the Teabaggers had a valid point and readily agreed to the refund, but an impasse was reached when at the very last minute, the hostage-takers also decided that as compensation for mental anguish they would demand two trays of those delicious little egg-salad sandwiches that the Super Seniors sell at the Bingo Hall canteen. As you know, the Super Seniors can be a feisty bunch, and they refused to give in to the demands of the kidnappers; saying something about living through the depression and fighting a world war earning them the right to control who they gave sandwiches to. It took some tough negotiating, but in the end I got all parties to agree to a refund; half of it in cash, half in Canadian Tire money; plus a tray of day-old olive and cream-cheese sandwiches and some of that left-over Jell-o salad with those little multi-coloured marshmallows in it. I’m pleased to report that Rikilini has now been safely returned to the bosom of her family and everybody has gone home happy.
Twenty minutes later, they were back. "It all went just as slick as grease through a goose", Grime proclaimed. "As I predicted, my mod clothes got me into the hall with only the usual amount of snickering and pointing. After quickly casing the joint, I got Owen to wedge himself into the doorway to block any attempt of escape. Then I confronted the Teabaggers; they were demanding a full refund because they felt that someone should have warned them that an I.Q. higher than that of the average Freeporter was required to play this ‘complicated game’. The owners of the Bingo Cartel felt that the Teabaggers had a valid point and readily agreed to the refund, but an impasse was reached when at the very last minute, the hostage-takers also decided that as compensation for mental anguish they would demand two trays of those delicious little egg-salad sandwiches that the Super Seniors sell at the Bingo Hall canteen. As you know, the Super Seniors can be a feisty bunch, and they refused to give in to the demands of the kidnappers; saying something about living through the depression and fighting a world war earning them the right to control who they gave sandwiches to. It took some tough negotiating, but in the end I got all parties to agree to a refund; half of it in cash, half in Canadian Tire money; plus a tray of day-old olive and cream-cheese sandwiches and some of that left-over Jell-o salad with those little multi-coloured marshmallows in it. I’m pleased to report that Rikilini has now been safely returned to the bosom of her family and everybody has gone home happy.
"So that’s another case closed,” concluded Gurrey. "Now, what are we going to do about that strange situation in Tiverton?"
“What??” said Grime dreamily, “Oh, sorry, I was just thinking of Rikilini and bosoms.”
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