Tales Of The Gurrier

“Bastard Pope” snarled Kesey hurling the remote at the tv. “Bastard Pope on every bastard channel and Fools and Fucking Horses on the rest!” Popeshite everywhere, he tossed a bunch of newspapers at the Gurrier’s feet. Look at this bollix! Fecking Godsuckers worming out of every boghole in the country. It’s a Jesusbiscuit eating infestation. I thought we drove all these ditchbrained savages out of the place years ago?

The Gurrier paused to peruse the acres of newsprint at his feet detailing every mawkish, sanctified moment of the deceased pontiff. It was indeed a bunch of bumfoolery of the highest order. However the country was gripped as in days gone by with a fervent religosity not seen since the days before the great clerical bumsex scandals of the early nineties and the inexorable rise of the Celtic Tiger which replaced spiritual and temporal balance with credit card balances and preapproved home loans apr .05%. These simple pleasures assuaged the people’s need for reassurance. Who needs reassurance when you have NTLDIGIMAXes 900 channels of sexporn and footy in every room. Wayne Rooney’s legs, Becks bumhole and Jordan’s tits beamed into your brainmeat at 15 second intervals. Jesus never got a look in.

So now with the mumbling, crumbling living cadaver JPII gone rotten beyond redemption the media paroxysms of santicmonious religious bunkum had begun. Now as if by some strange racial memory from the rotting hulk of Irish Catholicism ancient decaying nuns and priests were being turfed out of semi-retirement onto our screens. Burbling and dribbling their abject tributes and devotions to this leader of the worlds largest collection of dishonourable, dishonest, immoral, corrupt, unprincipled, dirty, despicable, contemptible assortment of shitmonkeys the world had ever seen. If ever there was a body in need of it constituents to rise up and heave out its crapulent masters it was the Catholic Church. By Christs holy cock, fuck Vatican II it’s time for the 2nd Reformation!

These were the unspoken words that passed between The Gurrier Murphy and The Bastard Kesey that fateful night. They knew what had to be done. They knew what course of action needed to be taken. They needed to take the country by the scruff and shake the Bejesus out of it. They needed to show them something on their tellyboxes they would never forget. They had to act quickly though. Already the nation was falling back into its old ways. In Cork an old lady had seen the face of JP in her lap. It winked at her she said and told her to say two hail Marys and pray for the canonisation of Gaybo. In Ballinspittle a local farmer had claimed the Virgin Mary had appeared to him in a slurry pit and told him Vatican II was the work of Satan. In Glenageary two young girls had ceased menstruating after taking communion and claimed a vision of St Consumptia of the Sacred Hearts had told them to save their eternal souls and go to Rome and drown themselves in the Holy See. On Grafton street (Grafton street for fucks sake) six American Tourists and Portuguese woman were taken to the Mater Hospital after reports the statue of Molly Malone started praying and speaking in tongues.

This was bad very bad. The pyschic backwash of years of repressed spirituality were having an adverse affect on the country’s collective unconsciouness. Weirdness was spilling out everywhere. Uncontained we could have a fullblown Catholic revival on our hands by the end of the Summer. Kesey and the Gurrier had both been through rough times over the years but they’d both be fucked if they’d let those sleebheen bastards back in charge of the country again. They knew what they had to do. Knew the only way to do it was to show them. Show them all the secrets. The Park. The Cross. The sunset mass. It was perfect. Cameras, Bertie, an audience of thousands and the Cross. They’d show them. Show them all the secrets of what really lay beneath the Popes cross in the Phoenix Park.

Kesey looked askance at The Gurrier. They had the Voodoo Cannons, they had the Whoor Traps, Christ they even had the Gonzo Helmet and the Bag of Deadly things. But it wasn’t enough and they both knew it. They needed him. “What are we going to do?” said Kesey “we need him”. “He’s dead” said the Gurrier. “He’s been gone for years.” “We need him back!” “They killed him Kesey. Those bastards up on Kildare street. You saw him go! Heinous is dead. They put him in the chair, Harney and the Bumferrets strapped him to that damn chair and killed him!”*

It was true no one had seen Heinous Ingoldsby since the terrible events of Paddys Day 2001. There were rumours of course, there were always rumours but the man or entity that had been that violent force of nature was gone. The Gurrier and Kesey had moved on. The Gurrier to his fastness in the West City and Kesey to his Clondalkin Estates. Their adventuring days may have been behind them but on the long winter nights the Gurrier still fancied he heard the screams of Heinous’ prey in the wind. Kesey though he would never admit it often went hunting in the estates with his favourite feral mink O’Toole and tried to recapture the glory days of the infamous “Bastards of Ballinteer” when he and Heinous would tool up to 3 Rock and toss napalm bombs down the mountain with homemade mortar cannons. But the denizens of Clondalkin were a wily lot and did not beg for their wretched lives like the soft shites in Dundrum. He missed the southside, life was so much simpler then. He missed trying to think up ways to kill Heinous and The Gurrier before they retired. He wrote all his ideas down now and posted them on the internet but it wasn’t the same. All the young fellas on the internet wanted to know about was how to stick things through their mickeys without making it fall off. The whoor traps on Benburb street all lay empty now and the feckin whoors bred like rabbits in his absence. Sometimes he would don the red cape and walk among them as “Cardinal Sin” to minister to his flock but frankly these days he’d rather be at home in bed. Even the publicans of Dublin we starting to sleep easy in their beds once more. It had been years since The Gurrier and Kesey had descended on a hapless bar owner and destroyed his reputation, establishment and mind as had been their way. The formal complaint was just an urban myth now, used to frighten young publicans into obeying the smoking ban.

In short they had gotten old and lazy and complacent just like their predecessors. Where had the rage gone? The fight was gone from them. Dirty John was long gone, Wahlberg was a joke, Heinous was dead, Quigley the dealer had disappeared years ago. Only The Gurrier and Kesey still remained but they had no taste for it anymore and now this, this threat had materialised and they had nothing to give. Desperation began to set in

“Maybe we could bring him back” said Kesey darkly. “Back? Back from where?” said The Gurrier. There’s nowhere to bring him back from. “Maybe if we got him angry enough we could wake him up again? The Gurrier paused. He spotted a newspaper headline beneath his feet which read “Face of Bono appears in afterbirth. Mother claims her baby is reincarnation of the Pope…” He looked up at Keseys tortured features, bright angry tears of rage stood out on his face. “Get the shovels” he said.

It was well after midnight when they reached Merrion Square. It was cold and damp as the arse of a tramps trousers when the two figures detached themselves from the darkness and picked their way along the north side of the leafy square. The Gurrier and Kesey did not mind the darkness or the cold they were used to such things and the deed ahead was one best attempted under cover of darkness. The Gurrier glanced fearfully about him for the upmteenth time that night. It was not that he feared the ordinary denizens of Dublin who roamed the streets at this hour for his compatriot Kesey was far and away the most dangerous creature abroad on two legs this night. No what he feared were the other things, the things that dwelt just a few hundred yards away in the depths of Dail Eireann. Bowel deep in the black earth of the seat of the nations democracy lay the terrible secrets of what had transpired here just four short years ago. The Gurrier shuddered to think back to that night. The night Heinous murdered the Great Auld Wan Shel’Tiggroth with a lead pipe and was carried off by Harney and her goblins. The blow that had been struck that night reverberated through the country but a terrible price had been paid. Heinous Ingoldsby, Enfant Terrible of the Legion of Gonzo, the Unstoppable Force, The Immovable Object, The Dark Shite himself was dead. His sacrifice had saved them all but his loss weighed heavily upon them. It just wasn’t as much fun without Heinous. Kesey’s rages had lessened, The Gurrier no longer had to carry The Pacifier with him at all times and he couldn’t even remember the last time Kesey had tried to murder him with Dwarves. In fact he was sure he’d seen two of them working as Santa’s Helpers in Clerys’ last Christmas. It was a sorry state of affairs. But this time, this time the fuckers had finally gone too far. The Gurrier gripped the shovel tighter to his chest and whispered to himself, “right you crazy fucker where did we bloody bury you then.”

It would do no good to recount the tale of the Curse of Paddys Day once again. It has been told a thousand times by a thousand storytellers better than I. Suffice to say after the defeat of Dark Bertie, The Harney Gremlin and The Great Auld Wan Shel’ Tiggroth our adventurers had beaten a hasty retreat from the smouldering remains of the Throne room. They didn’t stop running until they reached Merrion square but by then it was clear there was no hope for Ingoldsby. The bumferrets had done their evil work well. They buried him where he fell, in the gutter. A fitting end to a man once described as ‘the most evil shit you will ever meet and no mistake’ The Gurrier chuckled, he was quite fond of that quote even if he did say so himself.

There was a dull thunk of metal hitting metal. The Gurrier looked up from the grim work, Kesey nodded as the familiar shape of one of his Whoortraps emerged from the fetid earth. A six foot box of solid steel lined with vicious metal teeth and coiled springs, oh Kesey had a thing for those whoors alright. A bloody dangerous thing. Still it had done for a coffin in a pinch and Kesey had the unnerving knack of producing one of these hideous contraptions seemingly on a whim. Soon the metal box was fully uncovered and Kesey began his preparations for… actually the Gurrier was quite curious as to what Kesey was going to do. He knew the mad inventor could have anything up his sleeve and often did, anything with tentacles generally. Kesey looked the Gurrier deep in the eye, took a deep breath and reached into the Bag of Deadly Things. What he drew out is lost to posterity as there came a curious noise from the direction of the whoortrap. Kesey looked at the Gurrier, The Gurrier looked at Kesey. A low hissing sound was now definitely emanating from the steel coffin.

Kesey shifted uncomfortably. “He, he was dead when you put him in the coffin right?” said Kesey. “ME! It was your fucking coffin Kesey I assumed you checked he was dead” said The Gurrier. “ME! You told me he was a goner”
“Yeah a goner, not dead, don’t you watch movies? If someones a goner it means they’re nearly fucking dead. Not completely fucking dead. He was still moving!”
“Yeah well I thought those were spasms. Dead bodies have spasms”.
“Spasms, SPASMS! Christ how many people have you actually killed? Can’t you tell spasms from the excruciatingly agonising death throes and writhings of the almost dead?”
“To be honest I never pay that much attention at that point, mostly I just like the expression on their faces when I turn on the machines.”
“Wait does that mean…?”
“Shit did we,?”
The two adventurers paused in their argument as cold fear gripped their loosening bowels. Thought raced across both their frantic minds. If Heinous was not exactly dead when they, buried him he was known to have frightening recuperative powers, in addition it was also well documented that he had survived for extended periods of time living off nothing but pot noodles, twigs and worms. But four years? Could this be possible? These thoughts flashed through both their minds as they turned to face each other. The Gurrier looked at The Bastard, The Bastard looked at The Gurrier one word passed their lips. “Guns!” Get the fucking guns for fucks sake.” The lid of the coffin began to slowly, imperceptibly to ease itself upwards. “For the love of Christ Kesey get the fucking gun loaded! I think he’s waking up”

Kesey fumbled with the catches on the side of the ancient elephant gun. He had brought it along mostly for nostalgia’s rather than practicalities sake. It had been Heinous’s favourite gun, a monster of a thing. Almost six feet long with barrels the width of dinner plates. Crafted in 1868 by the original Heinrich Weishaupt and his infallible manservant Chang (later to found the infamous gentleman rogues outfitters of Saville Row Weishaupt & Chang). Originally designed for the Maharajah of Gujarat who loved to hunt elephants from the deck of his fabulous clockwork harem. The gun was inlaid with mother of pearl, onyx and precious stones and along the barrels were engraved depictions of the Maharajah enjoying the carnal fruits of his fantastic harem. It was rumoured the molds for the barrels were taken from the member of the Maharajah’s favourite bull elephant. It was a shocking sight to behold.

Kesey had come into possession of the weapon from an ancient relative of his who had worked as an interpreter in the court of the Maharajah. Always a family of dissolute thieves the fellow had nicked the Maharajahs prized possession, impregnated one of his clockwork Houris and made off with his favourite elephant. It was said the Bastard Kesey’s family could never return to the sub-continent until the terrible crime had been atoned for. For his part Kesey had used the gun to commit yet more crimes but it was Heinous who had taken a particular shine to it. He loved to take it out to Marley Park on a Sunday afternoon and to blow up trees. He called it King Boner.

Kesey struggled to load the massive shells into King Boner’s chamber, they weighed almost two pounds each and were a special ammunition commissioned from China, filled with nails, broken glass and curare poison. Finally he got the shells loaded and managed to close the breach. He proffered the weapon to The Gurrier. The Gurrier stared at him. “I’m not shooting that thing! You do it. You’re the crazy fucking survivalist living out in the bloody sticks with all your mental inventions and fucking giant cock guns. You buried him alive, you to shoot the bastard.” Kesey shook his head. There was no time left to argue, The Gurrier grabbed the huge shotgun from the inventor and swung it around, bearing down on the coffin. The hissing sound had grown louder and louder now; it sounded like a steam train pulling into a station. The Gurrier had to shout to be heard above it. “I’ll put a couple of rounds through the front as a warning shot”. He pulled the ivory trigger…there was a sound like thunder and the Gurrier disappeared.

Kesey grinned to himself. Four years in the attic and she still fired like a dream. The whoor-trap was a smoking mess of twisted metal, the elephant gun lay on the grass several feet behind where The Gurrier had been standing. Of The Gurrier there was no sign. Like a dream thought Kesey but she still kicked like rabid donkey on PCP. Almost dislocated his shoulder the first time he fired it, Heinous was the only one who could handle the gun without doing himself permanent damage. The Gurrier didn’t know that though, he didn’t like guns much, he preferred his mace and a good taser anyday.

“You utter bastard Kesey! I’ll fuck you to death with a shovel shiteyes!” The Gurrier appeared from the hedge shedding twigs and bits of birds nests as he advanced on Kesey, bleeding hands scrabbling for his trusty mace. A noise from the direction of the coffin stayed their hand. “The warning shot didn’t work, do we have any pipe bombs left?” But Kesey motioned the Gurrier to be quiet. He had an idea.

Epilogue,?

The Ambulance driver reported responding to a 999 call at an uncertain hour that night, what took place between his response and the next morning when he was found naked and weeping in the toilets of a leeson street lap dancing club may never be known. What is known as incontrovertible fact is that a little after 11pm that night as the priests and nuns began to wrap things up at their black mass at the foot of the Popes cross and Bertie readied himself to take the podium and bask in the adoration of his flock a siren was heard wailing over the expanse of the Forty Acres. Garbled unconfirmed reports from unreliable eyewitnesses say a badly damaged eastern healthboard ambulance crashed into the side of the podium and from the wreckage two dishevelled looking tramps emerged grinning from ear to ear. One of them was waving a can of petrol and screaming that St. Patrick was the Anti-Christ. The other appeared to be wielding some kind of giant cannon. It wasn’t until they dragged a huge metal box out of the back of the wrecked ambulance that the eyewitness reports become hazy and unreliable. Some say that a huge gorilla or possibly an enraged polar bear that had previously escaped from the nearby Zoo descended on the chaos and started to maul the crowd. Others say the gorilla had been captured by the tramps and they released it from the box. Still others say they saw the Gorilla try to attack the tramps and then stop when they pointed at Bertie. The gorilla then stopped stared at Bertie for a long time and then took the cannon from the tramp.

To Be Continued

This entry was posted on Monday, October 3rd, 2005 at 9:47 pm and is filed under Stories, Tales of the Gurrier. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.