Lycanthropus: A Clem MacDougall Aventure, Take III

III. LIAR, LIAR.... “Damn that bloody blackguard Talbott!” Clem MacDougall said to Soppy Doyle as he signaled for another round of drinks at the Fox & Hounds. “I told the blighter tae meet us here two hours ago. Where d’ye suppose he’s got to this time? I’ll wager it’s somewhere near the inside of a whisky bottle, eh?” Doyle plunked a ten-dollar bill on the bar. Fox Huntzberger set down cocktail napkins and a fresh Martini for Doyle and a snifter of Laphroaig for MacDougall. He scooped up the sawbuck like a lizard snagging a moth on the wing. Then he hovered nearby, his ears almost flapping as he eavesdropped. “Old Slyboots wasn’t looking too chipper last time I saw him,” Doyle said. “Stopped in here for a couple of seconds the other night, but buzzed off before a drop of the devil’s drink could pass his ruby lips, so he did. Looked like he was about to toss his cookies, lose his lunch, blow his beets....” “All right, all right. I get your drift, ye blowhard. He must hae come in here just after he left me office. He was lookin’ a wee bit green aboot the gills, now that ye mention it. He was puttin’ a fair serious dent in me emergency spirit supply. I had tae cut him off.” “Well, Mac, I’d guess he came down with something and he’s sleeping it off. What was he telling you about some old hag making him drink something up there on Hickory Hill?” "Och, aye... That was a tale, right enough ... “Oh, bloody piggin’ hell! Jumpin’ Jaysus bleedin’ Kee-rist!” Doyle flinched as MacDougall launched himself from his barstool with a string of oaths and a shriek of pain. The stool fell with a crash and Gorilla The Bouncer yawned and glanced over from his seat by the bar entrance. MacDougall sprinted to the men’s room and vanished through the door. For just a moment, in the dusky light, Doyle thought he saw smoke billowing from the seat of MacDougall’s trousers. From the men’s room he heard hissing and cries of agony subsiding into sighs of relief. Fifteen seconds later, Doyle stood in the men’s room doorway. There sat MacDougall in an open stall, his bottom completely submerged in the hopper. Steam filled the room -- and a barbecue-pit smell of singed skin and hair. There was also a whiff of brimstone. “What the hell, Mac?” Doyle stayed in the doorway, keeping his distance. “It looked like your pants were on fire. What the hell?” MacDougall glanced up and saw Huntzberger and Gorilla The Bouncer peering over Doyle’s shoulder. He gave a rueful grimace. “What the bloody hell, indeed. I was sittin’ there peacefully drinkin’ me drink an' makin' polite conversation, an’ suddenly it feels like me arse is on fire. What the bloody hell, indeed. What kind o’ den of iniquity are ye runnin’ here, Huntz?” “Well, come on, Mac. Stand up and let’s have a look at you.” Doyle pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and shut the door in the faces of Huntzberger and Gorilla. STILL MORE TO COME.