SNAKE OIL Chapter 15

Updated Sunday 21 February, 2010 12:15 PM

SNAKE OIL

By Doctor What

Chapter Fifteen

The hardest thing in the world to understand is income tax. - Albert Einstein

March 1, 2017

Someone looking at the building would have been singularly unimpressed with it.

As buildings went, it had nothing remotely interesting about it. A simple wooden shack that seemed to be held together through a combination of rusty nails, a few pathetic attempts at painting it sometime in the distant past, some bits and pieces of wire – but mostly sheer willpower apparently.

The only evidence of its original purpose as a sheep shack was the remnants of a small sheep pen some distance away from the shack.

At one corner of the disused pen was a pole. Somebody in the past – most probably as either an attempt to bring a bit of comfort to themselves or the more likely reason to rub it in to any individuals in the area just how far away they were from anything resembling civilization – had nailed up some signposts. One sign proudly proclaimed the town of Koolyanobbing to be a mere 57 kilometers away, another pointed out that the ‘Rockin’ City of Kalgoorlie’ was only 156 kilometers away, a third sign advised any would be tourists that Goldfields Woodland National Park was a ‘mere’ 64 kilometers away and the fourth and last sign felt compelled to state that the ‘Pooncey Town of Perth’ was 377 kilometers away.

Any further speculation and pondering on just how far from the beaten track the shack was from civilization on the part of the observer would have been put on hold as a man – travelling at a rather surprisingly high velocity – was practically launched out of one of the windows.

The man landed with a heavy thud onto the ground, raising a large cloud of dust in the process. The man – groaning and swaying – slowly stood up, shook his head and took a single step forward – only to be hit in the head with what appeared to be a boomerang. He collapsed to the ground again with another heavy thud and – wisely – decided to stay there.

Voices drifted out from inside.

“Are you daft, man?” said a male voice. The accent was definitely from the UK. A student of regional accents would have placed the accent as having a distinct Yorkshire origin. Those more well-versed in such accents and having a pedantic streak would have been willing to bet a pint of the beer of your choice that it was from South Yorkshire, with a high degree of probability that the speaker was born and raised in the Sheffield area. “You pick Ace over Leela?” The voice was using the same tone of voice one would use in reply to an individual stating, in all seriousness, that Pat Boone was the greatest rock and roll singer of the twentieth century.

“She like to blow thing ups and can make explosives from corn flakes packets,” said a second male voice, this one with a distinct Aussie accent. ”Now that has to be handy,” he continued.

Our would be observer, upon sticking his head through the rather large and new opening in the wall where the window previously existed, would have seen two men standing back to back. One of the men was quite short – no more than 5’2’’, if that -- and rather heavily built. The other man, in contrast, was relatively tall and slender. A Doctor Who fan would have sworn that the man was a dead ringer for Tom Baker, the Fourth Doctor.

In addition to the contrast in physical appearances was the contrast in clothing styles. The short man had a distinct ‘goth’ style to his clothing, one that seemed to be at odds with his apparent age of late forties or so. The Doctor Who lookalike, on the other hand, seemed determined to play up his similarity to the utmost by wearing a rather elegant and refined long coat, a white cravat wrapped tightly around his neck, a powder blue handkerchief placed neatly in his breast pocket and topped off with what appeared to be a trilby hat placed firmly on his head.

“Are you Aussies completely daft?” repeated the tall man. “How can you not like Leela? She wore skimpy clothing in every episode! And she was an action girl not afraid to get right into the thick of things!” The tall man paused briefly to look up and punch a man who suddenly charged at him from the shadows. The punch landed squarely in the center of the forehead of the attacker and, as the man fell to his knees screaming, ‘Doctor Who’ followed up with an expert kick to the head that knocked the attacker a few feet backwards. “In addition,” continued the man, “she was a so called primitive who adapted well to travelling with the Doctor!”

Short Goth Man pondered this for a moment, pausing for a moment to grab the arm of another attacker who came out of the shadows with both of his hands and, in a move that was too quick to follow with the naked eye, seemed to…wiggle…his hips. This resulted in the attacker suddenly being lifted upwards and, after a brief swinging arc over Short Goth Man’s head, proceeded to fly for about a dozen feet at waist high level in – more or less – the same direction that the attacker originally came from. A series of loud grunts and thuds indicated that several of the attacker’s companions were a bit slow in leaping out of the way.

“Wee-eeeeell…” pondered Short Goth Man. “I admit that you just can't go past women in animal skins.” He seemed to give this last sentence some very intense prolonged thought. Pausing briefly to kick another attacker in the knee and karate-chopping him in the face as he came down, he turned to his companion. “You just need to watch out for the knife, that’s all…”

‘Doctor Who’ nodded his head in understanding, twirling on one leg to kick an attacker who came at him from his right in the chest and then, just as quickly, twirling again to kick yet another attacker who came at him from his left. “So—Tom Baker or Sylvester McCoy?”

“No contest,” replied Short Goth Man, as he suddenly ducked under a punch thrown by an attacker and kneeing him in the groin before he could react. “Sylvester McCoy.”

“Philistine!” screamed ‘Doctor Who’ as he grabbed a knife out of mid-air that was thrown at him and, in one quick move, threw in back into the shadows. A loud ‘uuuurk!’ sound was heard a moment later. “How can you possibly choose him?” he shouted.

Short Goth Man picked up a chair from a nearby table and smashed it over the head of an attacker. Lifting up the almost - but not entirely - unconscious man over his head, he proceeded to fling him into a corner. The sound of a table smashing was followed almost immediately by several loud ‘ooofs’. “I like him because he went back to the tradition disdain for humans,” he replied, rather defensively.

‘Doctor Who’ snorted in derision. “What we need is a tie-breaker,” he said, punching yet another attacker in the throat and casually stepping over his prone body a moment later. “Yo- Berky!”

‘Berky’ appeared to be a man of average height and weight and an apparent age of late 20’s standing about 15 feet away. He was the only one of the three who wore anything that remotely resembled a military uniform. He had a top of the line iPod attached to his belt and was singing softly along with the song that was currently being played through his earphones. He was in the middle of a fight with at least four attackers simultaneously.

“Yeah, you know you got to help me out,” sang Berky as he punched one man in the throat. “Yeah, oh don't you put me on the back burner.” He did a twist of one leg and a kick lashed at another man at jaw level. “You know you got to help me out.” Duck and a punch. “You're gonna bring yourself down.” He did a kick to the knee of one attacker and a quick duck under a wild swinging punch. “Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down.” He kneed the groin on one attacker. “Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down.” He did a karate chop to the neck of another man. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.” Punch, punch and drop. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier” Kick and twist. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.” A slash to the thigh a guy in front of him and an elbow punch to a guy behind him. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.” Another punch. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.” He blocked a punch and drove the heel of a hand into the nose of one attacker. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.” A kick to the knee. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.” Quick arm twist, a shift in leg position and kick to the head. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.” A finger jab into the eyes of one guy. “I got soul, but I'm not a soldier.” He did a head butt and the last of the attackers fell to the ground.

Berky raised his arms over his head in a victory pose and shouted at the top of his voice.

“I got soul, but I'm not a soldier!”

Berky glanced over at ‘Doctor Who’ and Short Goth Man, seemingly noticing them for the first time. Blushing slightly, he yanked the earplugs out of his ears.

“Heh—I love the classics…”, he said. There was a hint of some kind of southern U.S. accent to his voice.

Berky glanced between the two other men.

“What’s up?”

‘Doctor Who’ shifted the position of his cravat that had gotten loose. “We are in need of your assistance. Who was the best Doctor Who?”

Berky shrugged his shoulders.

“Can’t help you there - never seen a single episode. Absolutely hate the show, in fact.”

This comment seemingly had the same effect on the two older Commonwealthers as the statement ‘You know, them books make good toilet paper’ to a 60 year old librarian would have.

The two men stared at ‘Berky’ in stunned silence for a full minute.

Short Goth Man turned to his companion, a look of utter confusion on his face. “Where in the name of the Nine Hells did you pick up this one?!”

“I told you—we did excellent work together in South America. How was I to know he came from the benighted ignorant land of the Yanks!”

“Er…I told you thirty seconds after we met that I’m an Alabamian…” replied ‘Berky’.

“I thought that was some weird religion!”

Short Goth Man shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“Never seen a Doctor Who episode…such deprived individual to have never seen any science fiction shows…”

“Oh, I’ve seen some science fiction shows!” replied ‘Berky’ brightly. “I rather like some of them!”

The two other men glanced at one another and then turned their gaze back at ‘Berky’. Narrowing their eyes suspiciously, ‘Doctor Who’ paused to take a deep breath.

“What science fiction shows do you like the best?”

“Oh—Star Trek Voyager! That’s gotta be, like, the best science fiction show EVER!”

There was a very long pause.

Finally, Short Goth Man turned to ‘Doctor Who’.

“You just HAD to let them get their independence, didn’t you?”

There was the sound of some discrete coughing from what was left of the front door.

The three men – all antagonisms forgotten – instantly shifted in a combat stance and turned to face the man who walked through the doorway.

‘Doctor Who’ paused for a moment and then squinted his eyes.

“Drake?”

Drake grinned and stepped out of the doorway.

“The one and only!”

“Drake!” shouted Short Goth Man as he ran forward and lifted up Drake a full six inches off the ground, giving him a bear hug in the process. “Long time no see, mate!”

“Long time indeed! Er…can you put me down? Oxygen is becoming an issue…”

“Oh! Sorry about that!” replied Short Goth Man, putting Drake gently back onto the ground.

“Nice to see that you haven’t lost your strength, David. And Aaron! Looking good as usual! And is that the new guy you decided to take under your wing – Andrew, right?”

“I prefer Berky, if you don’t mind…”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Cause that’s my last name.”

“Ah.”

Drake glanced around, noticing the numerous unconscious and semi-conscious men lying around.

“Who are all these dudes? What were they planning?”

David and Aaron opened their mouths to reply, then paused. Glancing at one another in confusion, they turned to face Drake again.

“To take over the world. Or rob a bank. I wasn't really paying attention to be honest…” replied Aaron. “But back to you – what are you doing here in the middle of the Western Desert?”

Drake smiled.

“I may have a job for such useful and well-trained ‘soldiers of fortune’ as yourselves.”

“Please!” admonished David, with mock horror. “We prefer the term ‘freelance civilian contractors’.”

“Indeed,” replied Aaron, “Soldiers of fortune make us sound like we just go around beating people up and blowing stuff up for whomever pays us the biggest paycheck.”

Berky raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“Er…isn’t that what we do?”

“Berky?”

“Yes?”

“Be a dear and stay quiet. You’re ruining my big moment here.”

“Apologies. I’ll just go stand in the corner there and kick that guy who’s trying to stand up for a few moments.”

“That’s nice. Now—where was I? Oh yes!” Aaron placed his hands dramatically onto his hips and lifted his head slightly and loudly cleared his throat.

Drake nervously pulled his gaze over towards David.

“Er…what is he doing?” he whispered frantically.

David rolled his eyes in obvious disgust.

“He spent a summer doing Shakespeare at Regent’s Park, remember?…” he whispered back.

“O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!” shouted Aaron. “There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer –“

“Ummm—if I may interrupt your lordship for a moment?” ventured Drake. “I have a rather tight schedule to maintain and I would like to get back home by Monday.”

Aaron sighed deeply, obviously disappointed.

“Very well, Drake – I suppose we can move onto the crux of the matter. What’s all this about anyway?”

“Well—first things first. It would probably be a good idea to get the local authorities to pick these guys up.”

The three ‘freelancers’ glanced around at the two dozen or so men lying in the remnants of the cabin in various degrees of unconsciousness.

“Oh yeah—forgot about these guys…” said Aaron.

“Second,” continued Drake. “We are going to find a nice quiet pub somewhere around here where we can discuss this matter in greater detail.”

The other three men appeared to ponder this statement for a few seconds.

Berky raised his hand.

“Yes Berky?” said Drake.

“Are you buying the drinks?”

“Yes I am.”

The three men smiled and nodded their heads enthusiastically.

“We’re there!” they replied, more or less simultaneously.

“And thirdly,” said Drake, “It will be a good idea to clear your schedule for the next little while. And get your passports ready – the three of you will be meeting the rest of the gang soon.”

Aaron smiled at the mention of the word ‘gang’.

“Excuse me – but does this mean that I’ll be able to give all my Shakespeare quotes to a whole group of people?”

Drake hesitated.

Finally—after a long moment – Drake nodded his head in apparent resignation.

“Yes Aaron – you’ll have free reign to give all the speeches you want.”

“Oh excellent!” replied Aaron, clapping his hands in glee. “This is truly a sign that Providence smiles down upon me.”

“Well, there goes my faith in the Almighty,” replied Berky from the back.

On to Chapter Sixteen

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