I and a brace of the core members of my retinue were passing a Friday evening in a most pleasant fashion, quaffing cocktails and partaking of various deep-fried morsels at TW's, the bar at the Tradewinds Motel in Fort Bragg. It is an eternal truth of the restaurant business that you can batter and deep fry literally anything, serve it with ranch dressing, and drunk people will devour it and ask for more. Fish heads, dirty sponges, lugnuts, whatever—it need only be golden brown, piping hot, and attractively presented in a lettuce-lined basket.
Present were the always-game Will Hawk, my batman, who despite his obvious intellectual shortcomings has given years of faithful service. Fearless, intrepid, and loyal to a fault, Will is a veritable blunt instrument of a man and useful in ways beyond the ken of your deeper thinkers. I have no doubt that he would, if called upon, lay down his life for the boss and I daresay it may yet come to that. Our lives are thrilling and adventuresome, fraught with danger and spiced with exotic and occasionally bizarre sexual exploits; one might look to the escapades of the redoubtable Agent 007, James Bond, for a referent, with the main difference being that we are strictly freelance and Bond enjoys the protection of MI6.
Accompanying us, as always, was my valet, Clive. A British subject, Clive is a veteran of the Falklands conflict, a graduate of Cambridge where he distinguished himself on the rowing team, and a recipient of the Order of the British Empire for service to the crown in economic theory. He is utterly without peer in the position of gentleman's gentleman and only went into service out of profound respect for me and my personal mission.
Clive's primary distinguishing features are his exceedingly long arms, short stature, reddish pelt, and tendency to brachiate. Yes, Clive is Pongo pygmaeus, or orangutan.
Born in Sumatra, he was captured as a child by a sportive young Devonshire baronet in search of a rare hallucinogen secreted in the sap of a tree indigenous to the area. He did locate a quantity of the psychedelic substance and ingested it on the spot, which led to him shedding his clothing and attempting to join a band of orangs. They voted 3-2 to reject his bid for membership, with two abstaining, but young Clive was intrigued by the hairless ape and elected to return with him to the fertile fields of Devon. He developed the power of speech, learned English, proved an apt pupil at Harrow, and had an outstanding record at university. His Army career was followed by a cabinet post and Parliament seat, and ultimately retirement to the United States and his current situation as manservant and COO of Stony Lonesome, Inc.
Will and Clive are occasionally at odds, as they consider one another respectively an insufferable snob and a rusticated boor, but deep down I believe they have a deep and abiding respect for each other.
Will is a Fort Bragg native who, as a linebacker at FBHS, set a record that still stands for most concussions sustained in a season. College was not in his cards as the young tackling dummy could not so much as spell SAT, but I plucked him from the streets where he was attempting to scratch out a living as a freelance tour guide, during which forays he was repeatedly unable to locate the Pacific Ocean. I put him on salary and accorded him the "batman" honorific — I have reciprocity with the Royal Fusiliers — making him an invaluable member of the team and setting him to such duties as Clive or I might find repellent or unsavory.
I was drinking Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters; Clive, true to his roots, was on his fifth Pimm's Cup; and Will was downing Jack and Cokes like there was no tomorrow. Clive pointed out that it was karaoke night, and we owed it to ourselves and the rest of the patrons to sing our bloody hearts out and take home first prize, or by damn he'd know the reason why. We signed up, lubricated ourselves a bit more, and by the time the singing started we were tuned up and ready to go.
Will started things off for our group with his flawless rendition of "Hit Me Baby (One More Time)," down to the choreography and hair-tossing. Will is a devotee of all things Britney and he brought down the house with his performance, which, despite his bulk and overt masculinity, was irony-free and a true homage. A few lackluster performances by some local drunks followed, after which I got up and galvanized the crowd as they heard the introductory drumbeat of "Ballroom Blitz." My rendition, if I do say so myself, was electrifying and by the time I got to the frenetic pre-chorus and built to the towering crescendo, the crowd was on its feet and en saute like popping corn. Passers-by on the sidewalk outside divested themselves of their burdens and turned the right-of-way into a disco. Women in the audience rent their garments in a frenzied expression of sexual ecstasy. When I finished, the crowd was unanimous in their desire for "MORE!" but I yielded the mic to Clive.
A hush fell over the crowd as he took the stage and popped his long fingers to the syncopated opening bars of "It's Not Unusual." His rich baritone filled the room as the patrons of the bar fell into a collective trance watching Clive's sinuous, seductive moves across the stage. He swung, he shimmied, he shook and he swayed as he explored the contours of the melody, finding nuance and shading that Tom never dreamt of and taking the song's peaks to dizzying heights. By the time of the final "whoa whoas," panties were flying through the air like soiled doves, littering the stage and, in fact, Clive himself, who was bestrewn with thongs and assorted other scanties. He left the stage to thunderous applause and foot-stomping and it was unmistakably apparent that Stony Lonesome Inc. had once again made karaoke night its bitch.
We ordered another round and drank heartily while politely deflecting the majority of the indecent proposals proffered us by our adoring public. Nobody saw any point in trying to follow Clive's masterful performance and so it appeared the festivities were over, and we were preparing to take our leave when a huckstery-looking gentleman in a houndstooth sportcoat and a feathered Alpine hat approached our table. Addressing me, he stabbed an unlit cigar stub at my chest and said, "How much for the monkey, chum?"
Uh-oh. This could get ugly. I cast a glance at Clive to see how he was going to deal with this jerk. He is normally a model of decorum and usually, like others of his country and class, employs withering rhetoric to dispatch the rude and uncouth. But he was full of Pimm's and ape hormones and still on a performance high. If this jamoke wasn't careful he was liable to get his head twisted off. Clive's eyes were narrowed and he straightened in his seat but remained silent. "Not for sale… not a monkey… British subject… what say you take a powder, huh, mac?" I said, trying to forestall any unpleasantness.
But the lout didn't get the message and continued pressing. "Hey, c'mon, we're businessmen, right? We can both make a lotta dough here, c'mon, whaddaya say?" He reached in his back pocket, presumably for his wallet, but before he could retrieve it Clive was on his feet and reaching into his own suit-coat pocket for his calfskin driving gloves, with which he slapped the interloper smartly across the face, knocking the cigar out of his mouth.
"Sir, I demand satisfaction," Clive said in a commanding stentorian voice. "You have insulted me, my employer, and even this idiot," he said, gesturing toward Will.
"Hey," Will said, looking vaguely offended.
The yokel was sputtering indignantly when Clive took him by the scruff and belt and frog-marched him out the back door into the parking lot. Will and I followed close behind. We got outside and Clive said, "Sir, as the challenge was mine, the choice of weapons is yours. Choose!"
"How about this?" the chump asked, extracting a slim automatic from his belt.
Clive reached out and casually slapped the pistol from his hand. "Will, get rid of that," he said. "Can do," said Will, heaving the weapon onto the roof of the motel.
Clive waggled a long finger admonishingly at the boor and said, "Now, now. Fair play on the field of honor, what? You have forfeited your right to choose. Will, fetch my swords from the boot," tossing him the keys to the Bentley.
Will came back momentarily with a matched set of dueling rapiers. Clive took one and tested the air with it. "Pick up your weapon, varlet," he said.
"What're you, nuts? I ain't gonna sword-fight you," said the scalawag, pronouncing the w in sword.
"Then you'll be run through like a common helot," Clive said. "Arm yourself."
The rogue picked up the other blade gingerly and held it out in front of himself shakily. Clive dropped into a classic fencer's stance. "En garde!" he shouted, lunging forward.
The unfortunate knave backpedaled, dropped his sword, and put up his hands. "No, please don't kill me, I'm sorry!" he said.
Clive leapt to the rapscallion's rear and swatted him on the seat of his pants with the flat of his blade. "That's for calling me a monkey," he said. Thwack! He hit him again. "And that's for disrespecting His Nibs." Again! "That's for your jacket—and that's for interrupting karaoke night—and this one—kapow!— is for being a blot and an excrescence. Now hie your chaffy hide back to Lake County before I take your head for Queen and Country."
"How'd you know I was from Lake County?" the blackguard asked, rubbing his backside with both hands.
"Lucky guess," Clive said, as if it weren't a guess at all. “Now go! Before I change my mind."
The saphead scuttled over to his waiting 1986 K-Car and chugged off lakeward.
Clive turned to address me. "Sir, I apologize for the display, but matters of honor must hold sway."
"No worries, Clive, old sock. You've done both your species and your country proud. Now let's go back inside and collect our winnings!"
Stony Lonesome Inc. had effected a clean sweep and taken first, second and third honors—Clive, me, and Will, respectively. We performed our de rigeur encores, wowed the locals once again, and called it a night.
Karaoke night is not always quite so exciting but it's always interesting. Then again, when you travel with an upper-crust British orangutan and a singlemindedly devoted goon, things can hardly fail to be otherwise.
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