Season Three – Episode 24 – “R & R”

When the Three Eagles walked through the front door of Dude, Where’s My Board (surfer bar) the jingling bell announced their arrival. It was time for some well-deserved “R & R”.

Then, from behind the bar, the keeper they would soon befriend shouted out, “Ladies make sure you get the sand kicked off them sandals.”

It was early, pre-Noon, and not a sole patron to be seen within the confines of the dilapidated excuse of a tavern. “Kick the sand off?” Sally thought… “Between the warped-out wood planking suffering from years of salt air, and potential asbestos hanging from the ceiling—last thing on this dude’s mind should be sand.

Turns out the dude’s name was Rip. Potentially short for the probability of him ripping off patrons. Time would tell.

From behind the bar counter, with his back now turned away from the Three Eagles, it appeared as though Mr. Rip was working on, at best, a well dated filet of raw mahi mahi.

Short of the reflex gag—Ellie was the first to notice the small white squirmy things on the outer portion of the meat. Then Hazel got the dry heaves when it was confirmed that these little squirrely whirlies were maggots.

Rip gave final confirmation when he picked them out with fingernails. Nails that were two weeks late of being trimmed. Then he flicked them into the nearby trash container. Sally doubled over from her barstool and spat on the floor.

“Good buddy of mine dropped off this nice piece of dolphin couple days ago,” Rip announced with his back still turned to the ladies. “Got a few maggots in the meat, but they’ll cook out if I can’t pick ‘em all.”

Turning to face the ladies—he wiped his hands on his apron—reached into the ice bin with bare hand—packed a glass with ice—and asked “Now, what can I pour you three beauties?”

          “Um…..We’re probably good on the mixers sir. How about a couple bottles of Great Northern Super Crisp for my friends and I,” requested Sally.

“Suit yourself…. I mix up a pretty mean Pimm’s Cup if you’re looking to quench a sea salt thirst.”

          “No…. No worries. Beers will be great.”

“This place doesn’t have quite the same vibe it did a half dozen years ago,” Hazel announced to her teammates. “Used to be crawling with surfer studs. Not parasites.”

          “Oh well,” replied Sally. “Peace and quiet and a cold frosty is just fine for me.”

“Speak for yourself there Eagle ONE,” fired Ellie. “I was hoping to maybe have my coals stoked a skosh.”

Two hours later and several beers deep the Eagles were shooting 8-ball, had the juke cranked playing Jimmy Barnes top ten, and were spinning Rip in circles on the hardwood. The poor retired surfer dude was getting pulled every which way but loose.

Four hours later the tournament had escalated—Rip, who was no longer the bartender, lay tits up in the corner—And a steady flow of NONSURFER rangy looking biker thugs started to amble in through the door.

Their surprise at seeing Sally, Ellie, Hazel? Epic! But not in a pleasant sort of fashion. To be exact—this beer joint of a dump hadn’t seen a member of the female persuasion since forever.

At first…. In cool Eagle fashion…. The girls opted to play friendly.

Sally slung a few drinks from behind the bar—Ellie took a twirl on the floor with a couple chumps that could have bottled their own BO and sold it for skunk piss—And Hazel let a few peons win a couple billiard games.

All was well, until it wasn’t. That’s when gang leader Bubba Big Dink solicited Sally for a trip around the block.

Instantly, her cool as a cucumber disposition disappeared quicker than a ghost shrimp being slurped by a bonefish. She came across the top of the bar top with a forearm shiver to the nose of one Mr. Dink.

“Three Eagles Unite!” she screamed, with Dink on his way to the floor. Then, following the thud of his musk melon to the hardwood, all went quiet in Dude, Where’s My Board. The briefest of silences mind you. A heartbeat at best.

The next sound occurred when Ellie’s heel caught her dance partner square to the jaw with a round-house cage fight move—kicking and smacking him into the vinyl vault. The needle skipped over the chorus on Jimmy Barnes “Working Class Man”. No one seemed to notice.

Not wanting to be considered a maker of peace—Hazel joined the fracas—using her pool cue as a ninja staff. She whirled and twirled and cartwheeled around the billiard table banging every noggin within spitting distance.

Then, when the crowd of maulers began to retreat and circle their proverbial wagon, she shucked her 34D brassier with a Houdini act that no man has ever been able to perform without removing the shirt. This spit second feat produced a primitive hand-thrown weapon (sling) capable of launching stripes and solids at high speed.  

All said and done there were twenty-seven bikers on the floor when the asbestos from the ceiling settled. Rip remained propped in the corner. Sally had broken a fingernail when she smashed a beer mug off someone’s skull. Ellie and Hazel were no worse for the wear. For the Three Eagles, their summation of the festivus was quite rousing. Upon departure it was equally agreed “This has been an extremely well deserved and fun filled afternoon. Something that should be done more often.”

At the top of the world in NW Ontario the gang was having much less success with a not very much being accomplished sort of day at work. Link was having a hell of time with his band of delinquent geese, who continued to drop number-twos across the property with disrespect for new ownership.

At best, it was chaos with some unwarranted and fowl drama. Lead gander named Chaz, was absolutely refusing to comply with Operation: Deuce Drop Relocation.

So much so—When Link borrowed his tiny squirrel friend’s megaphone—made from an old paper towel tube—to make an announcement and gather the flock—Pain in the ass Chaz started campaigning on his own among the down-feathered crowd by stating: “Hospitality on this island stinks, along with whatever’s in that septic tank!”

True…. The situation in the septic tank had gone south. Back at the pit Stash McGivern had set up yellow DO NOT STEP IN SH** tape around the holding site and Rusty was wrapped in a wool Hudson Bay blanket shaking off the side effects of his double faint.

“I’m gonna need some “R & R” after this job’s complete,” announced Stash to no one in particular, while clamping a medium sized wooden C-clamp to the nostril portion of his beak. “Buy a fishing camp, live the good life,” he continued. “If only I had a looney (1$ Canadian coin) for every Yankee I seen cross the border chasing a dream.”

–To Be Continued–