SMOKE SCREENS GRAHAM VIVIAN LANCASTER
For Murray
Alexander House
ALEXANDER HOUSE Incorporating
TRAYBERRY PRESS 29 Howick Road Pietermaritzburg 0836388813 Copyright 2013 Graham Vivian Lancaster Copyright 2013 in this published edition ALEXANDER HOUSE All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder and publisher. First published 2013
ISBN: 978-0-9870145-3-5
Cover design: G. V. Lancaster, Emil Rampaul Cover photograph: G.V.Lancaster
Distributed by Trayberry Book Distributors. Cell: 0836388813 Tel: 033 - 3427978
WORKS BY THE AUTHOR: NOVELS:
Wind Song Storm Song Strength Of ten The Devil’s Own
SELF HELP:
Everyone Can Do It Its Never Too Late Surviving The Ladder The Cost Of Money Who’s Shrinking Your Money? The Happy Customer
POETRY:
Marks On My Soul Gypsey Whale Song Gravel Roads Fledgeling African Ride Moments of Truth Picaroon Journeys That Kind Of Feeling Rusty Gates Poetry Study Guide
HUMOUR:
Bert and Co. Bert Another Story Nothing For Mahala Smoke Screens Penga Street
ADVENTURE SERIES: Wild and Dangerous + Study Guide Secrets of the Sea Cyclone Tracy Wrath Of The Gods Dangerous Alliances When The Earth Thunders + Study Guide Awakening Africa Flying With Eagles Over The Edge + Study Guide ******************* The Adventurous Life Of Rory Flint Rat To Riches + Study Guide Dock Town Mayor and Mayoress Dock Town Upside Down Sibanda Of The Zambezi River Courage And Secrets
SMOKE SCREENS
The day of the Death’s Disciples and Magnificent Marauders reconciliation Christmas party was the final staple in the flimsy coffin of any good relations between the two motorcycle clubs. What started as a simple get together for a bling and braai down at The Island left the park littered with boot stomped beer cans, red lipstick necked bottles and fried chicken boxes. With an assortment of blue words and black eyes and some red light siren crying ambulances, orange light tow trucks and ten blue lights flashing siren wailing police vans, it was all like one big size hot hits in chutney bangara bash. Suddenly bullets were flying and people were taking cover behind girlfriends and cardboard dustbins. Big Bobby The Fonz sprinted for his motorcycle, strategically parked for early escape. But a police handler and dog were covering the rear, so to speak. Big Bobby The Fonzy flew through the air like Zoro, to land on the saddle and away on his iron horse, but the nippy unleashed German Shepherd had other ideas and was that little bit faster. It jumped after him, locking its teeth through his leather hand made pants imported from Turkey, while taking an ample mouthful of bum flesh into the bargain. Screaming Big Bobby The Fonzy crashed his motorcycle right over one time and all as machine, dog and he sprawled in the dust like fighting fowls. And there he lay face down with brown dust in his teased up cocks comb Brylcream hair and one eyebrow, and a frenzied dog furiously shaking him by the backside. The dog handler wasn’t too particular about getting to the scene in short time and the more Big Bobby The Fonzy screamed and slapped behind at the slavering jaws of the monster, the more the dog said, “Grrrrrr, grrrrrr,” and thrashed its head from side to side, kneading his bum like a piece of dough between both paws. It was a spectacle that would have won America’s Funniest Home Videos hands down.
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Able Seamen of the Death’s Disciples, a cameraman from Henry’s House Of Angels was on the scene with bended knees and zoomed in camcorder, filming at close range for winning shots to be cut into the DVD, ‘Revenge Of The Cheated Wolf Husband.’ Spokesman for the Death’s Disciples, Smokin Rear Wheel Sookaroo, was quoted in the Mercurius Star the following day, “So to say, the last supper wasn’t a sit down affair - but it was five star!” he continued, “However, it was decided and all, by mutual consent, although truth be told, unspoken and unheard, Chatsworth is far too small for both clubs, but a difficult situation and what to do when many live in same house?” Big Bobby The Fonzy obviously hadn’t found any of this even slightly entertaining, as he didn’t ride home that day. Indeed it appeared his last ride had been with a police dog on his pillion, so to speak. Amongst all the frenetic activity, by the time someone thought to put out a gag order it was too late, for Smoking Rear Wheel Sookaroo was called upon for some clarity on the matter. Having just been catapulted to prominence as spokesman and being a member of the Death’s Disciples which was currently on the winning side, he did his eloquent best in his deepest English to leave no underwear unwashed. “The reason the two gangs decided to meet at The Island was to have a parley and sort out what they was going to do about the continuing animosity and bickering like. The problem is, Big Chain, chief of the Death’s Disciples has taken it upon heself to ‘appropriate,’ or so it is claimed, Big Bobby The Fonzy, chief of the Magnificent Marauders’ girlfriend, Silvanie Naidoo. A hot piece she is too, a magistrate and business woman in black fish net stockings, bright red high heels and lipstick, tight leather hot pants, leather bra with gold safety chain linking the ample cups and waistcoat that not so long ago had the Maurauder’s snarling tiger with claws in bronze and gold on the back. In it’s place now is a grinning skull with one winking eye, a grim reaper scrimshawed dagger embedded through the shattered cranium and the point exiting by the chin with three big drops of bright red blood, of the Death’s Disciples.” Silvanie’s waist length mane flew out straight like the groomed tail of a black stallion from beneath her polished chromium plated
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crash helmet on the slipstream, and everyone in Chatsworth stopped to envy their passing. Even in Phoenix too. Therefore, this wasn’t about space to roam, it was about a trophy and she played it to the hilt, “Love the one you’re with, baby,” she sang and with that mantra, made much more than she did on the bench. “But now, Sylvanie, she isn’t super bright, you know where I’m going with this? But cunning and sly and it is said in friendship at university with the Dean, she passed with A’s,” Smokin continued. “Another point of contention is the silver BMW Z4 for which Big Bobby The Fonzy signed a cash cheque and watched her drive off the showroom floor, fluttering her fingers in the rear view mirror, singing, ‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye…’ cos why, he was not a North Indian like her, but – ah – well - so far south almost to be falling in the sea. In the time what it took to buckle on his helmet with the bright red plastic Mohican super glued down centre line, kick up the stand of his 320 kilometre an hour Honda Fireblade, Sylvanie was gone and returned three days later, having forgotten her Blackberry by her house - and without GPS, got lost somewhere along the N2 at the car’s governed 250 kilometres in one hour.” Smoking Rear Wheel Sookeroo had obviously had the bit between his teeth and he was running free as the reporters soaked up every detail. “The Z4 hasn’t been seen since the ‘acquisition,’ but in it’s place, is a far more expensive new Nissan GT-R twin turbo. As though that isn’t enough, Big Chain has bought himself a Yamaha YZF – R1 with extras - just in case - and he knows how to ride it too. The GT-R is sprayed the same smoky metallic grey, both unique like twins, both with orange tongues of flame stickers and stick on bullet holes down the sides and Big Bobby The Fonzy is in an advanced state of terminal humour failure.” Everything was there for everyone to read and Big Bobby The Fonzy couldn’t have been more exposed had he walked naked down Main Street at rush hour. He flung the newspaper away, “Enough of insults!” he screamed and was rushed to the doctor’s rooms after collapsing with a suspected heart attack, which turned out to be anxiety.
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SS The badgering and jibing got worse and Big Bobby The Fonzy became more and more incensed. His people were looking at him and wondering? The Death’s Disciples, edged on by Big Chain and Sylvani were laughing openly at him and spreading vicious rumours. He challenged Big Chain to a street race one Saturday morning as he fancied his traffic weaving skills were superior and he had one big size advantage - being smaller. Besides that, his Fireblade was in full racing tune and probably faster than the Yamaha. He was so cock sure of his win; and he was right. He would leave Big Chain behind in the traffic and be gone by the time Chain hit the open road. Big Bobby The Fonzy made one fatal mistake; he challenged Big Chain a few days before the race, which gave Big Chain time to make arrangements for the day… Big Bobby commanded Able Seamen to appropriate the sky diving helmet with the Go-Pro attached on top.” “You follow close, Able so you can all record my victory for clear proof of it and no this and that talk after.” “Sure, right in slipstream,” Able was keen because he could just see some more of the ‘Revenge Of The Jealous Wolf Husband’ story. He rode with Big Chain, so cleared it quickly that night with the boss. “Of course, of course, we make him eat his bitter words without a mineral to wash them down,” Big Chain said thoughtfully. “Don’t you be afeared dalling, you look straight ahead and ride true off the line and everything it will be just fine.” Sylvani smiled slowly as she worked out a strategy. It was reported in the newspaper and as usual, Smoking Rear Wheel Sookeroo got his name in lights with his blow by blow report. “So now was they drawn up by the robot with hootering traffic backed up in two lanes five blocks behind, finished wheelying and provoking and feroshus checking each other by the eyes of pure hate and choons Big Bobby The Fonzy.” “When the light beams favour, burn takkie!” “Sharp! choons Big Chain.”
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But now - looks up Big Bobby The Fonzy and stands Sylvani Naidoo in fishnets and tight leather short with back to them and she is just bending over so slow wit straight legs like drinking giraffe - to buckle her shoe, and she falls towards Big Bobby The Fonzy’s lane just as the light beams favour. Big Chain sees green light, gone but Big Bobby sees accident - stall. Thumb on starter button as Able Seamen smacked into his back wheel one time what rockets him away like a Tom Cat off a aircraft carrier flight deck, but Big Chain he is already three hundred meters gone. A moer of a noise and blue smoke and shoppers running to safety and white with blue and yellow striped bee bah cars racing after them through town until they hit N2 South and Big Chain was a helmet top flashing away in the distance. Big Bobby The Fonzy was furious and taking chances, up on back wheel through narrow gaps and traffic hootering him and swearing him his family history and that. Now, Big Chain, having just missed a brewery truck spilling crates of Black Label all across the N2 off ramp intersection was already sitting watching the sea with half a perri-perri chicken and chips with cup of coffee at Scottborough by the time traffic cops phoned ahead and warned by someone in the legal profession, but can’t see can’t say who was it, woke up from their roadside camping chair sunny summer slumbers. Big Bobby The Fonzy’s traffic weaving skills weren’t up to speed so to say that day and he arrived at the capsized brewery truck dodging drunken looters from squatters camp running wild, sipping, slipping and tripping with plastic crates full of quarts and lying prostrate in the road amongst the busy traffic, drinking from the puddles, burping and farting, crossing eyes and filling twenty litre spakpacks before all was foaming and wasting away down storm drains. He revved the crackling and snarling Fireblade, wild to be unleashed, up the side, down, through the traffic, two legs walking the Honda through without slicing tyres on glass and away onto N2, kicked down and gave it horns. Big Bobby The Fonzy was caught on the speed cop hair dryer at 320 kilometres an hour down the straight. Straight to jail. He saw the trap and clapped anchors as he swerved to miss the traffic cop who jumped out into his racing braking path.
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Magnificent Zondi with football bums and boobs screamed, “Maibobo!” with running legs what jumped and turned one hundred and eighty degrees. It was the clipboard she hung in the air what shattered Big Bobby The Fonzy’s visor and jerked his neck back into temporary blackness. Howeva! Came the handlebar very fast on one soccer ball bums what jerked in the clutch and engine was screaming full out as traffic cop pirouetted in the air and centrifugal force burst the hawsers and buttons and one whirling football boob slapped Big Bobby The Fonzy’s head behind the hat followed by number two what slapped with mili-second inertia and followed one huge bat wing clap telegram making three progressively opening clicks of eyes what sent him spinning over the top. He hit the grassed centre medium, slid and cart wheeled and dotted down behind his bike as on coming traffic skidded blue smoke, but all Big Bobby seed was blue sky green grass blue sky green grass blue sky – green grass but only through one eye. And then – everything was very still. “I em a blind!” Magnificent Zondi screamed as her superior officer, Innocent Mlaba, ran up to assist her staggering across the road with arms out before her for balance. “Comrade Zondi!” he exclaimed, looking at what he had often wondered about and what he now did saw hanging down across her belt. “I em a blind!” Magnificent screamed. “Ah no, Comrade Zondi, you are perfection!” her superior said, unable to drag his eyes away. “No, no I em a blind! When I breath it out, I am seeing some little bit of light only and its gone.” Innocent Mlaba dragged himself away from the eighth natural wonder of the world and looked behind her, for he had noticed her head seemed to be stuck on the wrong way. “Hmm! Comrade Zondi! You are blind indeed - because yuwa face – anda yowa eyes - it is covered with curly black hair - like one weary wolf in London town.” He withdrew sharply as thoughts of witchcraft assaulted him. “‘Aikona it is a mtagati bewitched thing what that evil moto bike is put it me,” she shrieked, feeling up behind her.
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“Aikona Comrade Zondi, I am seeing it now!” he said in one sudden moon click of recollection of her hair whirling round like one helicopter main rotor blades, “You was spinning round inside your white hair!” Innocent Mlaba exclaimed. “Aibo!” Magnificent grabbed her cheap Chinese blonde nylon wig from the Palace of Flying Bargains in both hands and rotated it decisively about her head. “Hah! A miracle of light! Magnificent Perfection Zondi, I am healed!” she kissed her pursed fingers and held them to the sky in thanks. “Hey, inini ndabo zonke skat heel dag staan en nonsense praat!” a visitor on the way back to the Transvaal shouted. “Hei voesek wena! This is a racial what you are say!” she shouted, looking through her officious eyebrows and fixed him with a sulky pouting lips look and he wheel spun away fearful of his life. “Oh my godfathers and godmothers too but I am in one eye blind!” Big Bobby The Fonzy wailed thinly. “Hah! Lift youwa head, cos one eye it is looking the grass inside!” Magnificent Perfection Zondi wasn’t feeling too patient cos why she still felt the Fireblade handle grip’s black rubber stripe burned across her big fat backside. Big Bobby The Fonzy rolled over and saw the football boobs hanging down at him and he screamed, thrusting himself backwards like a caterpillar across the grass. “Never did I ever saw such a terrible ting - even by Henry’s House Of Angels! Oh please, oh please, I am died and gone to the devil like my mother she always done said. Oh please, oh please have mercy on my blooding heart.” He clutched his chest. “Hah, get up youwa schoopid!” He dragged himself whimpering to his painful feet, noticing his one times too small boots what came with the Fireblade in Auto Trader was torn just this side of redemption. He flicked at one piece of bush falling across his face, but it was the plastic Mohawk hanging skew what flicked back. And so he was weaving unsteady, bent in the middle like a dunked ginger biscuit hung from the sky walking like Michael Jackson, careful tiptoes steps like his feet might shoot out behind at any one minute. And his arms hung from his collapsed shoulders, bowed spine sticking out like one abacus and Big Bobby The Fonzy moaned as he moved. It started like one snuffling grunt
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