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Wednesday, March 29, 2017

LIVING IN THE GREAT BEYOND - WELL-ARMED


I have no idea what time it is. We use the sundial
approach up here. That's when there is a sun. about six months of the year. 
It snows 9 months a year, at a bare minimum.
And when it's not snowing we tend to be in darkness, because of the peculiar habit
of the village council.
        Of course living in bunkers underneath
mounds of the last town... well, it's dark
underground.

        I hear a peculiar jingling sound across
the room. I turn up the oil lamp by my bed
so I can see... Hank is affixing a tall pointy
hat to his head. When he moves his head
I see he has sewn tiny bells around the hat.
       It  looks for all the world like a fool's
cap, but I say nothing. We have to make
our own entertainment up here. Wait a
minute, it's a dunce's hat! And when he
shakes his head he sounds like a wee reindeer.
       I lie back down in bed, "That's it!
He's finally gone over the top."  I laugh
quietly into my pillow.
       There's no reason to hurt a person's
feelings, even if he's already crazier than a
shit-house rat. And maybe getting worse.

       The preacher showed up with some lumber
the other night, and some kind of beauty queen.
It seems he's going to build a small house
over the bunker and use the bunker as a basement.
        I go over to Artie's bar, hang my coat on the moose head nearest me. I have the Lee Enfield bolt action 303 hanging under my right
arm, as per usual. The barrel and the stock are both cut short, of course.
       When living in the Great Beyond it's best to stay well armed.
       
       Preacher and Helga show up and they sit on the stools next to me. She has powder blue tight jeans on, and she has curves where most people only imagine them
      The story unfolds naturally. Preacher had a small white church in Inuvik and he was getting no donations for his Feed the Children fund. So he got drunk and threw several well-
publicized tantrums. He was up on the church roof waving a scotch bottle above his head
and screaming/shouting:  "FUCK DONATIONS!"
       His next bright idea was to make porn movies in the basement of the church, and raise some cash that way.  And bingo! it worked.
In the meantime he developed some arcane
erotic tastes. And he had left his pervo mags
under the bed in his bunker.
      The upshot of this whole situation is -
he wants his mags back now...!
And he thinks he knows who has them. 

***

      I get Artie to pour me another of the special standard drink of the house: "PROOF AND BUSH BERRIES" served in a tin cup.
      The door of the bar opens to the Main Lane and I hear that jingling sound again...
      Then I hear war hoots and the banging of
a drum! And somebody out there is chanting.

        Hank has had those extra-special porn mags all last winter. Now he doesn't want to part with them. He really doesn't want to part with them.
         I catch a glimpse of a man with a white priest's collar wearing a very bright Indian
headdress. He's chanting and waving a club
above his head. Also, he's beating beating a drum. And making war whoops to a rhythm
no one can discern.
         "This happens all the time up north," says Helga.


IS HE LIKE THIS BECAUSE HE KNOWS SOMETHING OR BECAUSE HE DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING? 

I ask myself.

            
            I take a quick look outside the door of the bar. I see a scenario out of the stuff
of a weird comic's dream. A man in a priest's collar is standing erect in a headdress, holding a club over a man in a dunce's cap who is on his knees, trying to extract something from
under the chief-priest's foot.
           This is a scene that is not approved by any version of the Indian Act throughout it's entire twisted history. 
               If the legislators who wrote that moronic law, if they had had the imagination to foresee any scenes like this -  the one unfolding on the Main Lane of WAIT-A-BIT...  they would have outlawed such bizarre scenarios
with extreme prejudice.
            And added major jail sentences to any and all of the participants, and forbidden alcohol and guns to everyone in the environs forever.


            Up here we have no police. And no maniacs with badges come through this valley
at any time.  We make our own liquor, so no such law would affect us, or be any cause for concern.
            Except now I'm hearing slaps and body blows. And I see Hank is on his feet again, In his hand is a two pound weight swinging at the end of a nylon  stocking.
            The crazed preacher and my perverted roommate are circling each other with evil glints in their red eyes, Both are carrying large weighted saps. In no time, someone will be unconscious