 |
"I Think, Therefore I Ant."
April 27
Kiwanas Club
Hubert
Cole is a real-estate agent and former member of the Parry Mills Kiwanis’s
Club. After supplying testimony to
law enforcement officials he was relocated, given a new identity and now lives
in seclusion with his wife, mother-in-law and three children.
I remember I was up early that morning.
It was a Saturday, and I was sitting on my front porch sipping a coffee
and casually scanning my lawn for renegade dandelions and the street for
little red cars. The automated sprinklers at the Robinson place across the
street came on and the resulting combination of mist and early morning sun
caused a perfect little rainbow to arch itself over the impatience that he had
planted next to his wife’s bo-peep lawn ornaments.
It was a hell of a sight.
It
was 10am when I got the call from Larry, the chapter president, my friend and
family orthodontist. My wife Jane,
unaware of the danger I had put our family in, handed me the cordless.
Larry had told me that he would be bowling today with Fat Eddie and a
couple of mutts from The Elk’s Club. When
I heard the tension in his voice I knew that something big was up and what —
no matter how difficult — I had to do about it.
I
first met Larry six months after we moved to Parry Mills.
Katie, our eldest, needed braces and a couple of neighbours suggested
that we give Dr. Larry a call. I was impressed by his professional manner and
the easy way in which he traded barbs with his clients and staff.
Larry was a big fat meat and potatoes lug with a wide smile, colossal
forehead and the most massive hands I have ever seen.
I used to wonder why, with hands like that, Larry had chosen
orthodontic care as a profession. Larry laughed when, some time later, I put
the question to him. He grabbed
me, wedged my lips apart and jammed his entire first into my mouth.
I guess his point was that the mouth was very flexible but I just
thought that it hurt like hell. I
laughed though, afterwards. Larry could make anyone laugh, he was just that
type of guy. Our family became
regular clients and Larry and I became fast friends.
Larry
embodied community spirit, he worshipped our small, but dynamic town and its
vast and unspoiled environment. While
Parry Mills owed much of it’s development to it’s extensive natural
resources; its pristine lakes and strategic location at the lake head where it
boasted a large fresh water port, I felt that it also owed some of it’s
famed renown to Larry. He was
almost poetic when he spoke of its “extensive beauty.”
He loved mentioning that Parry Mills was “nestled” on
Lake
Oragra
. Phrases such as “wilderness jewel” actually sprung from his chubby lips,
and everyday he seemed to marvel at the majesty and austere beauty of its
lakes and trees. All four seasons were eye-dazzling, recreational dreams for
Larry to behold. I sometimes
thought my friend was wasting his time in orthodonty and should have been
writing the town’s tourist brochures.
Larry
was determined that I should be more than just a resident of Parry Mills; that
I should take an interest and pride in my new home town.
Back
then, Larry was a regular member of the Kiwanis — just one of the rank and
file foot soldiers of the organization — but right from the beginning he
seemed destined for bigger things. Larry
encouraged me to join up, explaining that it was a good place to make
connections, have a beer or two, and maybe even do some good. With Larry’s
support, I was an accepted member in no time at all.
It
was 1994. The Parry Mills Kiwanis
membership hovered at about 40 guys and had a pretty comfortable lock on the
local charity scene. We did bake
sales, food drives, raised money for the school and hospital but Larry wanted
more, and he didn’t keep quiet about it.
Our president at the time, Chuck, “The Pie” Helman hated Larry, but
I think he also feared him. Chuck
owned the local grocery store and was widely respected as a fair man with a
fine eye for produce. He ran the
Kiwanis with an iron fist and the help of a small, but fiercely loyal squad of
old-boys who had been with him through his 35 years in the club.
The Pie was strictly by-the-book, and was big into costume, pomp and
Kiwanis tradition. Larry, on the
other hand, was more relaxed and was pretty much worshipped by us younger
guys. Frequently he’d go behind
“The Pie’s” back and host a kegger or the odd “bring your own meat”
barbecue, and for many of us, that was a much needed breath of fresh air.
The tension between the two was palatable, and neither did anything to
hide their animosity.
It
all came to a head a few months later. Larry
had been running a crown and anchors game for the War Amps without Chuck’s
knowledge, but when one of the local wives reported it, “The Pie” was
anything but charitable. Chuck was
still very much in control at this point, and while Larry may have had youth
and personality on his side, “The Pie” had experience.
Larry was summoned to a private meeting at “Dough-nuts Donuts” to
explain himself. “The Pie” had
obviously decided to straighten Larry out and figured that it would be best
done out of the meddling eyes of the rest of the brotherhood.
Larry called me and Pete “Golf Shoes” Davidson and asked us to come
along as “insurance.”
“Dough-nuts
Donuts” was situated by the main harbour and the view from it’s greasy
windows was an impressive, if somewhat opaque sight.
Lake
Oragra
opened up as far as the eye could see and was flanked by thick walls of white
pine. When we got there, Chuck and
a half dozen of his cronies were scarfing down bear claws and jumbo coffees.
“The Pie” was not pleased that Larry wasn’t alone.
In his eyes you could see that he read it as Larry’s ultimate, and
final act of defiance. He told Larry that he was finished and asked him
politely to turn in his vest. I
was devastated.
Larry
looked broken hearted, but when he picked up his chair, broke it over
Chuck’s back and threw “The Pie’” over the counter and into the coffee
machine, everyone in the room knew that the Parry Mills Kiwanis club had
changed for good.
Larry
assumed command after quickly dispatching the rest of the dead wood from the
ranks. He wasn’t as brutal as
he’d been with Chuck ”The-Pie” but he didn’t need to be — he had
already gained our fear and respect. The
violence of the change in guard unnerved us all but I suppose we were too
afraid to confront it. For those of us who remained it became, sadly, an
accepted and necessary way of doing business.
I
was put in charge of recruiting. Larry
made it clear to me that he wanted muscle, not semi-retired music teachers,
and I went straight to work. Over
the next year our club’s ranks swelled to over a hundred.
We brought in prison guards, plumbers and taxidermists to add some
grit, street smarts and to have the owls restuffed.
Scott “Whizzer” Henderson, Punch “The Clown” Linkletter and
Terence “Mortgage” Braund were just a few of the mugs that donned our
vest. The atmosphere at the club
changed dramatically. Gone were
the formal ceremonies and meetings; dirty limericks appeared on the bathroom
walls, the music got louder and Tuesdays, formerly known as “discussion and
debate” night was now “Candy Stripers drink for free.”
Still,
over time, the positive aspects of Larry’s reign began to show.
Revenues went through the roof. We
were throwing serious money at charities and reaping the PR benefits.
Larry was a natural leader and photographed well.
He was big on ribbon cutting events; his gigantic hands transforming a
pair of scissors into mere nail clippers.
We built a playground, supplied the funds for a new burn wing at the
hospital and purchased 150 computers for the local high school.
We were a charitable tour de force.
The press loved him, the police were in his pocket and his orthodontic
practice was thriving. It was what
we, here in Parry Mills, called
Paradise
. Or it would have been, if not
for the Shriners.
The
Shriners had traditionally run the north side of town. There was a
long-standing, friendly agreement that they didn’t mess with our charities
and we didn’t mess with theirs. As
far as I was concerned the Shriners were a bad joke, and while I found their
Fez
’s and little cars ludicrous, I knew enough to stay out of their way.
But Larry, well, he really hated them and that, I suppose, was his
fatal flaw. He was hell bent on
confrontation and ignored my pleas — and the pleas of the other members —
to leave well enough alone. When
it came to the Shriners, Larry only listened to his rage.
As far as he was concerned they were a bunch of pantywaist, peckerless
show-offs who cared more about their drunken conventions and old boy network
then they did about the charities they supported.
But
I think it was more than that. Larry
had tasted power and liked it; it was better than steak, better than
orthodonty. Larry wanted to
control Parry Mills and the Shriners were keeping him from running the whole
show. It was time to send them a
message.
The
Shiners’ annual parade was traditionally held on the third Sunday of August.
As soon as the announcement was made, Larry countered.
There would be a Kiwanis’s picnic on the same day.
Wednesday of that week, five Shriners showed up at the clubhouse.
Skip “Happy” Shand, an eloquent country bumpkin and Shiners’
representative, “gosh, shucked” his way through the whole thing, talking
about “unfortunate scheduling” and the need to compromise.
He proposed a rational solution — a Shriners’s parade leading to a
Kiwanis’s picnic. Larry broke
his nose with a pool cue.
Larry
reasoned that a quick demonstration of force was necessary to show the
Shriners that they were no longer needed in Parry Mills.
He assured us that a couple of well planned operations would leave the
Shiner’s shaking in their boots, remove the need for any further violence
and allow us to get back to the fun-loving ways of our past.
The boys were convinced easily. I
suppose we had begun to see ourselves as tough guys, as charity renegades, and
we were ready to rock their world. We
started off with crank phone calls. Then,
when that didn’t work, Larry upped the ante and we started pelting their
houses with eggs. Finally, when it
looked like we were getting nowhere, Larry figured we should cut to the chase
and start beating the living hell out of them.
Not surprisingly, this plan got results.
Larry took real pleasure in the violence and, while wailing those
massive hands of his into some Shiner’s face, he’d laugh out loud and warn
them about the dangers of “Shiners’ Affiliation” After the beatings
Larry would ask them if they wanted to join up with us.
It was a futile gesture — at this stage they were usually
unconscious. When even the beatings failed to stop the Shiner’s from
carrying on their charitable works, Larry started moving our men into the
north side of town; reasoning that our presence there would break Shiners’
spirit and finish them off for good. Unfortunately,
Larry never really thought about the extent of their organization.
With Shand nursing a broken nose and the rest of them fed up with
Larry’s hi-jinks, the formerly happy-go-lucky Shriners made a call, and
within a month their brothers from
Chicago
,
New York
,
Miami
and Washington were all over town. Big
city Shriners with plenty of experience protecting their share of the charity
scene...and in dealing with the likes of us.
The
first sign of retaliation was a drive by shooting — unheard of in Parry
Mills, and reportedly the first to involve a tiny, red, motorized vehicle.
Luther Pinkerton took two in the leg.
The police said he would have bought the farm if the driver had been
taller. And that was only the
beginning. The big city Shriners played by a whole set of different rules,
when it came to violence, they preferred knives and guns over dirt bombs and
pool cues.
Larry
became morose and, I think, realized that we had gotten in over our heads.
He refused to give in however, and announced that the Kiwanis were
going to war. At that moment, I
knew everything had changed. Our
clubhouse became our fortress, the owls suddenly vanished and I was sleeping
with one eye open. The town and
the local charities were quickly hacked into Shiners’ and Kiwanis
“hoods”; and crossing the wrong street at the wrong time, or attending the
wrong Bingo, was tantamount to committing suicide.
There
was an initial flurry of hits, retaliations and counter-retaliations.
The streets were dripping with the blood of middle-age community
volunteers. When it became clear
that there was going to be no decisive victory, both sides dug in their heels
and prepared for the long haul. Of course, the charities were caught in the
middle. In some ways they
benefited from the increase in charitable events (both sides were determined
to edge the other out) but in many ways they were hurt.
The giant cheques we handed over to the clothing drives and day camps
were tainted with the blood of Shriners and everyone knew it.
Our
town became a parody of its former self. Everyday
citizens were afraid to leave their houses. “Civvies” as we called them,
kept away from anyone associated with either of the gangs.
Lawns fell into disrepair, front porches went unused and children no
longer played hockey on the streets. I
thought that after the initial dust settled everyone would sit back and
realize that we were engaged in madness; that we were destroying the very
things we had set out to protect, but I was wrong.
Larry
and the new inner core became increasingly fanatical; caught up in a lust for
revenge and power. I tried to talk
to Larry about my concerns but the “Orthodontist Don” as he was now called
was beyond reason. He was
concerned only with loyalty and I could tell that he viewed my questions as a
type of betrayal. He probably
would have had me executed if it weren’t for the fact that I was helping him
drywall his basement.
Weeks
settled into months, settled into years and still the war raged on.
By my count we lost over 20 guys, many to seasonal activity
“accidents.” They died while
boating and swimming, cross-country skiing and folk dancing.
After 6 years of struggle morale was shot and Parry Mills resembled a
ghost town. I remember one
particularly gruesome Xmas; it got so bad that Salvation Army Santas were
afraid to shake their bells after nightfall. Every tiny bit of charitable
donation was coveted and fought over, and worth dying for.
To
be honest, the Shriners were winning. They had slowly edged us out of
everything and while our ranks were depleting, theirs continued to grow.
We had only the St. Armand Seniors Home left as a charity and rumour
was that the Shriners were preparing to make their move.
Larry recognized the danger we faced and desperately tried to get the
Elk’s Club on side, but they wanted nothing to do with us -- no one did.
There was desperate talk among the club faithful that we should meet
with the Shriners to discuss a cease-fire, but Larry was too proud for that
and he vowed that we would go down in flames first.
I
became increasingly depressed and while I wanted to leave the group there was
just no way out. I was sick of the
violence, sick of the fear and sick of Larry.
I just wanted my life back, but it was too late.
I had gone from real-estate agent with a trunk full of “for sale”
signs to sub-lieutenant who packed a 6 iron and beat Shriners with a sock
filled with pennies. I think the
real turning point for me came when I got out of my car one day when I heard a
voice behind me call out. I drew
my sock, spun around and came face to face with a kid, maybe 6 years old.
I saw the fear in his face and felt ashamed, but when he said “Hey
Mister, when I’m in my 50's I’m gonna be a Kiwanis-banger just like
you.” my heart broke.
It
was two weeks later when the FBI walked into my office and dropped a file full
of photos and transcripts of wiretaps onto my desk.
I was almost relieved it was over.
They had me, dead to rights. But
it wasn’t me they wanted, they wanted Larry.
The Bureau knew that Larry was planning something big.
They figured that things were so desperate that he was capable of doing
anything. They weren’t wrong.
Larry had been telling us to stay ready for action, that he had a
master plan in the works that would rid Parry Mills of the Shriners once and
for all. What that was exactly, he
wouldn’t say, but his big, evil smile led me to believe it would probably
involve the extracting of teeth. I
agreed to wear a wire. All I had
to do was wait for the call.
That
Saturday, at 10 a.m., the day of that perfect little rainbow; when my wife,
Jane, handed me the cordless, I knew that the time had arrived.
Larry told me to meet him and a few of the others at the clubhouse
after supper, for a beer and an emergency meeting of the war council.
I told him he could count on me, hung up and then called the FBI
Getting
wired for the meeting was the hardest thing I have ever had to do but my wife
and kids needed me, and to be honest, I had lost my taste for charity.
I
drove past our town’s gracious homes, stone bridges, picturesque churches
and harbour on my way to the clubhouse and realized just how much of its old
charm had faded. Bullet holes,
overturned trashcans and burned out cars replaced the daisies, ice cream carts
and tandem bicycles of just a few, short years ago.
There were no lights on at the club, no sign of activity, but plenty of
Shiners’ tags gratified all over it’s walls. I decided to enter through
the back way, keeping my eyes wide open for Shriners ready to swarm.
Inside,
seated around the head table were Larry, Fat Eddie, Punch “The Clown” and
Little Stinky, the Irish enforcer. Larry
was agitated, he complained that he had lost all feelings in his hands. He
kept rubbing at his huge meaty fists as he rocked back and forth in his chair,
seemingly oblivious to the sound of the wood bending and groaning under his
weight. He was paranoid, he was delusional, he was making me nervous.
When he kept asking me the same question again and again (it was, what
did you have for dinner?) I started to get very self-conscious of the wire.
Finally, when he was convinced that I had a steak with potatoes, he
told us of his master plan.
Any
qualms I may have had about turning Larry in vanished the moment he unveiled
his plan. It was simple. It was
terrifying. Larry had proof that
the St. Armand Home for seniors had accepted a big screen TV for their
activity room from the Shriners and decided that the time had come to move.
He explained to us that battling the Shriners directly was getting us
nowhere, that we had to go to the source.
I couldn’t believe my ears. Larry
was suggesting that we target charities directly, all charities, and
intimidate them into turning their back on Shiners’ support.
Larry opened a case of baseball bats and invited us all to go kick
Kiwanis sense into the seniors.
My
mind was reeling, both with the details of his insane plan and the knowledge
that my betrayal would ensure it was never realized.
It was sheer lunacy, and it never would have worked, but Larry’s
thugs seemed very encouraged by its potential.
It
was moments later that the door was kicked in.
It was the FBI of course, not the Shriners, but Larry, reaching for a
bat, wasn’t going to be taken without a fight…
My
only solace in all of this is that I never had to testify against Larry.
He had a heart attack when he realized he was being arrested.
I did testify against my other brothers however, and I have to live
with that shame and guilt. I also
have to live in a different community, with a new name and police protection,
but what are you gonna do?
On
Friday nights I read to the blind, it’s not as glamorous as being a member
of the Kiwanis, but it keeps me out of trouble.
April 26
Avery Ant's Academy Award/ OR
Oh,
the things I’ll steal…
I hooked up with Philip Seymour Hoffman last night.
Sweet guy. Very talented…
and trusting.
I said, “Say, Phil, I can see your Academy Award?”
He smiled and replied, “Well, sure, okay as long as you don’t brain me with
and then steal it.”
”I wouldn’t do that,” I reassured him, “trust me…”
What a gullible sap. And what a head
wound and headache he must have today!
April 25
Keep Your
Head Down
The
following are excerpts from a new anecdotal book of humour entitled, “Keep Your
Head Down” Real golf stories told by real golf pros.
Tork
Bernstein:
This
happened a few years ago, I was teaching a middle-aged man (always the worst,
these guys hate shelling out bucks, don’t take criticism well and treat you like
you were a common prostitute) who was having problems with visualizing.
Every time he stepped up to a hole that had water he ended up in it. Other than
that, he was an okay golfer. I decided to do 9 holes with him and help him with
his problem. A little battle training, if you will… So we arrive at the first
water hole, a 148 yard, par 3 with an elevated tee, a narrow shot to a tight
green with a small pond to it’s left.
“Visualize
the green,” I told him.
He grumbled something about what the hell did I think he was doing and not to
stand so damn close to him – apparently I was making him nervous.
“Forget about the water, as far as you’re concerned it’s not even there,” I
said, “just SEE the ball landing on the green. You can do it.”
He shanked
it into the water and gave me a foul and nasty look that said, this is all
your fault.
“That’s
okay,” I said, the water still rippling from it’s latest catch. “You just
twisted your body too far left, stay away from the left, stay away from the
water.”
“I thought
you said there wasn’t any water,” came his pissed off reply.
“That’s
right. You’re right, good attitude, so let’s see you put this one right one.”
It looked
like it was going to land, I even screamed out something like, “That’s the
shot,” but at the last minute the ball hooked drastically left and landed in the
pond. He hit another ball, he skulled it, it somehow managed to roll in the
water.
The next one looked better, but it caught a tree and kicked left, he was
wet again. The next three shots all landed dead centre in the pond. I suggested
changing clubs, he took out his four iron, hit a lovely shot that took a funny
hop and kicked left into the drink. He fired five more into the water, all the
while muttering to himself about, “fucking visualizing.” When he ran out of
balls, he gave me a nasty look.
I reached into my bag and gave him a dozen Top
Flights; everyone of them eventually drowned. I didn’t know what to say, it was
obvious I couldn’t help him and he sensed as much. I wished him luck, said
something about playing desert courses and barely made my five o’clock
appointment. A frisky blonde who was learning golf so she could have something
in common with her new boyfriend.
It was the next day as I was reading the paper when a small article caught my
eye, it turned out this guy had gone home, strapped his bag and pull cart to his
body and drowned himself in his swimming pool... Apparently several practice balls
were floating on the pool's surface.
Golf, it’s a funny game.
April 24
Keep Your
Head Down
Jack
Shellman:
I had
recently lost my tourney card so in order to pull in some money, (no damn
endorsements for this fellow) I decided to go back to giving lessons. I had a
class of ten students out on the range driving golf balls. It’s hectic work and
tough to make sure everyone gets paid enough of your attention. Anyway, there
was this one guy, he’d been playing for twenty years and was still shooting in
the hundreds on a good day – and that still included several mulligans and lots
of cheating.
Well he’d decided the time had come to see a pro, I should tell you, men are the
worst clients, they acquaint a golf pro with a prostitute – it’s true.
Anyway, after the usual quips about hooks and hookers, he started slashing away.
I immediately saw three major problems and alot of time in the future with this
guy, but the first thing I suggested was that he move his hands more over to the
centre. With that piece of advice I went off to help a friendly young housewife
who was learning the game for her husband. I snuggled up behind her and helped
her on her swing for five or ten minutes and decided to move on. I noticed the
hacker was still having difficulty his shots were spraying everywhere and he
looked like he was having a hard time keeping down a slow boiling anger, so I
called over a few encouraging words.
“This game
is going to kill me,” he roared, stepping toward me and receiving the full
impact of one my student’s backswing right in the centre of his head.
He died immediately. Boy, he sure got that one right.
April 22
What The Queen Did For Her Birthday
I called Liz and I asked her, “So, what did ya do for your birthday – you dusty
and stroppy old toe rag!”
She was actually pretty gracious and gave me a blow by blow account of her day.
”Well Avery, you fucking tosser,” she said, “first thing I had to do was do my
duty and allow that bleeding bounder Phillip to roger me. You’d think it was
his birthday – the bastard! But now wot ‘e’s got all that bloody Viagra, ‘e
wants it all the time. Bloody hell. Anyway, as we was making the beast with two
bleedin’ backs, I lay back and thought of The Queen of England. Which as every
geezer knows is me. Once that foul chore was well over, I called in me
dogsbodies to serve up my birthday breakfast of kippers. It was dead tasty.
After that, I hoped in the carriage and spent the afternoon in the pub knocking
back the pints and watching the horse races. Now that was brilliant! By mid
afternoon, I was right pissed. Don’t remember much of the day after that to be
honest. I kind of recall getting into a fight with some bloke and his bird. I
think I brained him with a pint glass. After that it’s a blank… Which must mean
I had fun!”
This Week's 10 Fun Search Terms for
Avery Ant
The following are this week’s favorite 10 search queries
people used to get to www.averyant.com
(really!)
horny plant
how to cheat on income tax
big breasted polish
how tall is vice premier wu yi
world's biggest ant
how do lesbians have sex with each other
plumber's crack images
gay rabbit
how to erect a beanstalk rack
pantomime wearing diaper
Last Christmas is so 2005...
Only 242
Shopping Days Left Until Xmas!
(to the top)
To read all the other mildly exciting editions of
"Avery's Daily Journal" visit
"Avery's Journal Archives"
|
|
Send
this site to your friend! |  |
