WARNING :
Do not start to read this book unless you are prepared to engage with the never ending creative odyssey that the makers of The Happy Ghetto are on. Once you embark you will be subjected to Beasts, Monsters, Bikers, Surfers, Yeti’s, Boneheads, Octo-headed strangelings and yarn spinning veterans. This is just one of the short stories from the many fantastical exaggerations that float around this ink fueled island. Keep in touch Ghettolingz. www.happyghetto.co.uk
All contents and images are the copyright Š2015 of Ed Gamester & Darrell Thorpe and may not be re-produced or re-told without their expressed permission. www.happyghetto.co.uk
Welcome Ghettolingz! Greetings, Ghettolingz. Come sit by the fire. Tonight’s tale is the story of Pedalo Joe and how he saved the notorious Bearhawks Motorcycle Club, which cruises around the island on their hogz, hunting the dreaded Bearhawk. ‘Twas in the time of the great whisky drought. Whisky River, which flows from the Twisted Peaks to Voodoo Beach, had dried up. Bone dry, it was. Like an ancient cake. Or a large scarf. This affected all of us. Mama Polly went totally insane, as you probably already know. Personally, I switched to gin - but that’s mainly because I own a lemon farm. Yet the drought had the biggest impact on the Bearhawks Motorcycle Club. The B.M.C. We all know their club motto:
“Fueled By Whisky ” Most people don’t realise the B.M.C motto doesn’t actually refer to the riders. It refers to their motorcycles. The hogz are powered - via a complex process of distillation and mystification - by whisky, pumped directly from Whisky River. As Old Clyde, the original Mighty Bearhawk foretold:
When the river stops a-flowin’, the hogz stop a-goin’.
One day, Slow Joe decided enough was enough. Wheeling his hog into his workshop, he locked himself inside. For a week. With a spanner. Ten spanners, actually. Of differing sizes. Eventually, he emerged with a brand new contraption. Three monstrous off-road wheels. Steel storage chests. All manner of lamps,
hooks and practical gubbinz. And, of course, pedals. The ultimate leg-powered Bearhawk-hunting machine. Bulging with pride and the rush of blood to his quadriceps, Slow Joe pedaled into town to meet the rest of the gang.
Oh, how they laughed. Even Steve the Fist cracked a smile. The B.M.C were the most badass motorcycle gang on the island. Hell, they were the only motorcycle gang on the island! They weren’t going to hunt the Bearhawk on pedal bikes. It simply wasn’t cool. Besides, they all agreed, the Bearhawk probably didn’t even exist. Also, nobody wanted the groin chafe.
Slow Joe vowed to prove them wrong. He would show them pedal power was legit. He would find the Bearhawk by tricycle or die trying! Or at least suffer severe leg cramp in the process. But where to start? Where would a Bearhawk lurk? The Dark Forest. Obviously. It was dark, for starters. It was also a forest: classic home for both bear and hawk, let alone a creature that was half bear, half hawk... and all terror! All the clues were in the name. Alas, after searching high and low, Joe found no sign of a Bearhawk. The closest thing was a Hemisphere: a giant, two-headed creature that proceeded to squabble with itself over whether Slow Joe was a surfer or a tractor. He was neither.
Slow Joe left The Dark Forest and continued his search elsewhere. He pedaled deep into the mountains, in search of another hiding place for a creature as terrible as the Bearhawk. Eventually, whilst tactically circumnavigating a mediumsized hill, he came across a cave: vast and suspiciously mouth-like. Pitch black, bitterly cold and uncomfortably damp, it was exactly where a Bearhawk would lurk. Presumably. Slow Joe was coming to realise the B.M.C knew very little about their prey... For the first few hundred metres, he discovered nothing. Only the dripping of unidentified liquids and countless jagged stalactites hanging from the ceiling: ancient, noble...and twitching?!
These were no rock formations; they were wings! Pointing his lantern at the ceiling, Slow Joe braced himself for the Bearhawk. Instead, he saw bats - enormous, terrifying bats! He didn’t know it at the time, but they were actually McCuba bats. Entirely harmless except by accident or during a good old fashioned bat race, they were named by the man who discovered them...after himself. He did that for a great many things around the island, including things that had been discovered long before his arrival. He calls this his ‘legacy’.
Panicking, Joe pumped his pedals until he was safely out the far side of the cavern. When he emerged (somewhat shaken) into the light, he was greeted by a stunning view...and a startling realisation. There in the distance was Whisky River. And there, lying across it, was a Great Grey Mape! Colossal and apparently out cold, it lounged across the river, blocking the flow and causing a mighty flood plain of whisky to spread across the distant fields - pickling the land. This was the cause of the whisky drought. This creature in its gargantuan slumber.
Slow Joe was no expert on Mapes, but he knew enough to realise that a Great Grey in a deep whisky slumber could sleep for months or even years! For as long as the Mape lay blocking the flow of whisky, the B.M.C fueling stations would lie dry. It was down to Joe and his tricycle to hunt the Bearhawk. Although what he would do with the monster if he ever found it was a mystery!
In fact, it was only really hunting down a terrifying monster that made the B.M.C so cool in the first place. If they captured or killed it, they’d be back to being just...guys on bikes. Tired, demoralised and in sudden need of a drink, Slow Joe pedaled to a nearby tavern.
Freezing cold and tired, Joe stumbled into the tavern and ordered a hot chocolate. The beast behind the bar raised one of its many eyebrows‌ Just what brought this little man to Flipperz n’ Tipperz? Rejuvenated by the hot chocolate and suddenly proud of his quest, Joe puffed his chest out and told them all that he represented the Bearhawk Motorcycle Club.
If any of the beasts and creatures assembled had any information on the whereabouts of the mysterious and terrifying Bearhawk, they should tell him immediately. For a moment, there was silence. Then the tavern erupted with laughter. The beasts hooted and wailed, and one of them shoved Joe into the room next door‌ and there it was.
Body of a bear. Head and wings of a hawk. Screeching and wailing, the fabled Bearhawk loomed over Joe - who dived for cover braced himself for the end. Yet, whole minutes later, he was still alive! The Bearhawk wasn’t attacking. It was‌playing pinball?! It was also wearing an ill-fitting Atari t-shirt, from when it was still called Puck Man. This, Joe realised, was a tragedy. This was not a worthy opponent for the coolest motorcycle gang on the island. He would never win back the favour of the Bearhawks by discovering this...nerd. Dejected, Slow Joe left the tavern.
Moments later, the Bearhawk exploded from the tavern. It was furious. For one thing, Joe had distracted it just as it was approaching the long-standing Flipperz n’ Tipperz high score! For another thing, it had told all its friends that it was being hunted down by the coolest, most badass motorcycle gang on the island. The B.M.C tore around the place on mighty hogz, drinking whisky and making a general nuisance of themselves. They did not pedal around on tricycles, sip hot chocolate and sulk! It was beyond unacceptable; first he had ruined its high score, now Slow Joe was ruining the Bearhawk’s reputation!
It was all too embarrassing. Something had to be done. If the Bearhawk was going to be cool again, the B.M.C needed their hogz back. If the B.M.C were going to be cool again, the Bearhawk needed its terrifying reputation back. For the rest of the evening, the two of them sat outside Flipperz n’ Tipperz, racking their brains. Suddenly, Slow Joe had an idea. For starters, The Bearhawk was going to have to get changed.
Together, Slow Joe and the Bearhawk made their way to the bank of Whisky River. There, they followed the dusty riverbed all the way to the source of the problem. The Mape was still there. Still unconscious. Still snoring. Still blocking the flow of the river, and cutting off the supply of fuel to the B.M.C. The Bearhawk performed a series of slow stretches. Then, with a deafening bellow, a mighty heave and its badass skull t-shirt rippling in the breeze, the Bearhawk dragged the Mape clear of the river and hefted it aloft!
Immediately, Whisky River broke free. It surged back through the lands, spreading joy into whatever it moistened, Slow Joe bid farewell to the Bearhawk, pedalling straight into the river, he set off home. Buoyed by good luck and his enormous off-road adventuring tires, Slow Joe rocketed across the island and made it back to the town riding a veritable wave of whisky!
Seeing him arrive in such style, the B.M.C cheered and greeted Joe as a hero. They immediately renamed him in honour of his deed, and, within a few days, they had all their hogz back on the road. .
So it was that Pedalo Joe, as he was henceforth known, put an end to the great whisky drought, restored the reputation of the fabled Bearhawk and got the most badass motorcycle gang back on the road. All it took was a little determination. And a well-timed photo... Join us next time for another fireside story from the Happy Ghetto!