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.”
