ࡱ> cebq` 6bjbjqPqP .^::h.%       b(b(b(8(<(\.>)>)"`)`)`)`)`)`)B.D.D.D.D.D.D.$0h2h. `)`)`)`)`)h.  `)`)}....`) `) `)B..`)B...  .`)2) 0y͝b(+.B..0..s3,s3.s3 .@`)`).`)`)`)`)`)h.h.-X`)`)`).`)`)`)`)D$b(b(        The LION, THE BITCH AND THE SMORGASBORD G.A.Chirnside 2014 All Rights Reserved M y name is Kevin Murphy, and I have just stolen a Kombi van, yellow, in which to complete my escape. My dishonesty has always been not so much serious as recurrent; the challenge for me has always been how not to get into jail, but never how to get out. Over recent years I have slipped in and out of this jail or that with impunity. Escape was easy; how, I hear you ask? Let me say simply that as age has approached and my body no longer in demand, nor a target for abuse or insidious drugs, I have become so unimportant, so overlooked, so hideously small that I have been able to slip undetected through keyhole and laser beam alike. Oh yes. I have come and gone pretty much as I please. Today is different though. I have stolen a van. Now I have responsibility, but still I am as buoyant as a teenager leaving home. The road winds ahead; I am close to Lakes Entrance and patches of Pacific blue blow in the open window through gaps in the trees. The Kombis motor clatters away aft, propelling us along a steady course. The theme from Seachange has just come on the air when I see her. Not young, but moving on the soft shoulder at a steady pace looking neither to her right or left. I pass her, not stopping, but of course do, a few hundred metres further up the road, and watch in the off-side mirror as she silently catches up and fills it. I have to help her in. Now there is blood on my hands; her paws are about done, it seems. Dumped? I ask, but she is already asleep, her grizzled Heelers face calm, tongue lolling. When we put into McDonalds, the same truck is there, a sort of mini-semi-trailer, that had passed me an hour before. And the writing on the sides is the same, yes, Myttons Extravaganza, Circus of the South, the gay, heavily-serifed letters heralding the greatness of the little show. As we pass, the truck moves slightly on its springs, and from it there emanates a pervasive admixture of diesel, damp tarpaulin and animal urine. Just out of curiosity, mind, I lift a corner of the tarpaulin and peer into the gloom. I see, watching me from its shadowy perch with unswerving eyes, a lion bereft both of proportion and good humour. A pale gold in colour, tail thrashing around like a headless eel. Hmmm ... I consider, and out loud, Poppa aint happy. And if Poppa aint happy, aint nobody happy, he quips right back. I sense he is hip. Bro, I say, yo sures hell could ease on fair thro dose bars now, like, bro yo done gotta jus think real small. Like as small as small. Real small and thin as panther piss is how yo gotta be. I know that feeling man. And with that, he does get real thin, and just as I had suggested, joins me on the outside. Gimme five I grin, and he raises a club-like paw to bat my uplifted palm. I look around for the bitch shed been there a second ago but now seems to have vanished. Hurrying, low, we slip back to the Kombi, where I find her waiting, a little circle of blood wetting the hot concrete under her paw. I can tell, looking at her that she is peeved. You never gave me high five, she says flatly, and her eyes, looking into the mid distance, well with indignant tears. I never thought ... well, youre a dog ... So, only lions do high fives is that the story? No. Why? Are they more sporty or something? Look. Ill give you high five right now come on. Doesnt matter. Dont want to now, anyway. I catch the lions eyes as they roll quickly in the direction of heaven. Unfortunately the bitch sees them too. What the f--- are you making f---ing faces about, f----face? she snarls. Language, I correct her. Thats no worse than the stupid jive talk you were doing. Ill stop if you stop. So we all stop talking altogether, and instead board the Kombi, two in the front, one in the back. Brother, I can tell you, this lion can talk. He leans forward and mouths off right over my shoulder. Lion-breath aside, what is coming out of his mouth is all about him; his this, his that, his kidney problem. Never asks a thing about me or my heart problem or the bitch who has that big lump under her jaw. Finally, he sits back. Nice area he concludes. Hey look! Stop back up. We all look at the sign: Scenic Flights. Family fares. Helicopter or plane. From $60.00. Havent you always wanted to fly? he asks, excited. No says the bitch. Ive been. Its not that great, I offer. Well, what then? asks the lion, wobbling his head at us as if we are holding him back. It was quite nice just driving, says the bitch. Why dont we, I chip in, sensing another fracas, why dont we go to a really nice pub and have a good feed and a swim nice clean sheets on the beds? Besides, I cant see them taking a bloke and a dog and a lion up in a chopper. There is a limit you know, I add wisely. So the pub it is. More than a pub this is the last resort. But there is a problem, and I am learning; when youve got responsibilities, nothing is easy. The receptionist is bright, tanned and flexible. Twin share is fine. But no pets. Theyre not pets, I tell her, theyre my friends. Thats OK then. She reaches for a key-card which she places with a clack on her side of the intervening expanse of polished granite. And how would you prefer to pay today sir? Well, you know, Im stuck. They dont issue Bankcard at Wacol. But bugger me if the bitch doesnt come up trumps, and flips out her Amex just as cool as you please. With a small triumphant glance at the lion, she hands it over. And so we slide into heaven. The lift smells of gardenias and is mirrored on all sides, as we rise, suddenly four blokes with four lions and four blue heelers, a menagerie of misfits. It doesnt surprise me when the lion roars into our nice room, opens all the cupboards and bangs them, the fridge, the toilet, the bidet, and bangs them, turns on the ceiling fans and the radio and the flat-screen and jumps on the beds, all in one hit. Some lions will do that. But I am disturbed when he opens the sliders, then, peering over the balustrade, shouts down to a hapless sunbather below, Here, dude suck on this! And sends a large blob of lion spit sailing earthwards. So what? he defends himself, its not as if weve got long, is it? The shits going to hit the fan big time. Hes right of course, and as we polish off the mini-bar, the television is already telling us that his untimely departure from the McDonalds carpark has been duly noted Resigned but happy, we go in search of a feed, not a long search, for the function rooms are on our floor, and in the very first, lying still and calm, glimmering in the afternoon light, is a bounteous buffet, a smorgasbord of such succulence that it takes our breath away as one. The bitch is first to recover. What a fantastic f---ing first-class feast! she yips, and bolts to the trough, Im for the chicken legs! I carve myself some slabs of ham as thick as my hand, the salt juice running through the stubble on my chin and onto my chest, already wet with the sliced gold of the mangoes I am stuffing in with the meat. Fancy putting all this on just for us, wonders the lion, fiddling with a trifle. Au contraire, I tell him, this is a wedding breakfast, or Im Dolly Parton. Were gate-crashing before the party, friends. Come on. Eat up. Itll be your last. Not convinced, the lion seeks my ear. Thats preposterous, I tell him, you cant do that! The lion looks glum and embarrassed, but doesnt drop the subject. But I dont like any of this food. Its not natural for me. Shut up. Have some beef. Its quite rare. Its still not the same, he whines. Well, youll have to ask her yourself. The bitch comes over, offering Moreton Bay Bugs. What are you two arguing about? she asks. Felix here, doesnt like the grub. So? So, he wants to eat you. The bitch drops the bowl of Bugs. Like hell you will. Go and eat your own arse! End of subject, dropkick. And so saying, she tucks into some strudel. Suddenly, we all freeze, We have company; the bride and groom, also arguing. Settle down, Irene. Settle down? What do you mean get married and settle down? Ive never been so humiliated in my entire life. That bloody minister. I just cant believe he said all that stuff, especially about the blond receptionist and the convertible Saab. You dont even have a receptionist youre a sheetmetal worker, actually. Dont hold that against me Irene. Im not. Im just saying. And dont hold it against Reverend Abbot for playing the devils overcoat its the new way. Advocate stage-whispers the lion to me, behind our trestle. Ive seen that chick shes on the telly. She looks like shes in control already, to me. Peter, the bride asks nervously. Yes Irene. Theres actually a lion in here. The silence that follows, although short, allows us to hear the crowd noise, ebbing and flowing behind the thick palpitating sound of rotor blades, which bruise the afternoon air. I step forward, and see the brides fear. I look at her smashing face and see all the lovers Ive never had. I look at the grooms face. He is destined for prison as surely as I have been. His mortgage would be his lock, and the fair Irene his wardress. The Channel 7 chopper appears with deafening suddenness at our window and behind it a police helicopter and behind that oh God theyve collided, slicing and hacking at the air, and plummeting to the green quadrangle below. Exploding Avgas balloons past our window at the same time as hail of lead shatters the glass. Come out a loud hailer assures us, and you will not, repeat not, be hurt. Free your hostages immediately! The irony of my new-found fugitive status strikes me. On the far side of the quad there is a phalanx, rough-necked and armed, and across from them, both soldiers and police, all shouting and shouting. The building seems to be on fire now, and the newly-widowed bride has blood on her veil, for Peter has taken a bullet through the ear. As the tear-gas invades, we break for the lift. I have three floors to instruct the others. If we can reach the other end of the grassy quad, fellas, we are home free. More than that. We will be national celebs. Just gotta think real small, OK? Soon as the doors open, run hard. I reach down to pat the bitch, and she licks my hand. The lion is growling a long low note but doesnt seem to mind the bride on his back. Irene takes a double handful of her mounts tawny withers and grits her perfect teeth. Ride low, baby, I tell her. Ride low. The doors open. Down the centre line we charge, as two hundred million viewers watch, headlong into a Mexican Wave of crossfire. Bloodshed to the left. Carnage to the right. And between, the four of us, as thin as panther piss, race unstoppable for our first touch-down.     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