THE story of L’Anglais – Part Deux

After our meaningful, yet short lived careers at the Club, I’d say it must have been a good decade or three before L’Anglais and I crossed paths again. Word through the concord grapevine had him down Alabama way picking cotton, grilling roadkill and running ‘shine. Sporadic coconut wireless tagged him off the coast of Corsica on a endangered butterfly expedition. Close friends and family thought they would never see him again.

As for myself, I gave up the soup game shortly after leaving the Club and shifted focus to dehydrated fruits. I unselfishly sunk my entire trust fund allocation into a patent on the concept of calling dried fruit, fruit leather. The dolts from Sun Rype revolted with Pinochet fury and I was forced underground. And wouldn’t you know it was through the marche sous-terrain that L’Anglais and I were reacquainted.

Destination Omak, travelling by night burro; calves, hams and back strapped with fruit leather, I was trudging along the dusty trails and sage-permeated bluffs over OK Falls when I heard the faint sound of bells. Nah, couldn’t be. I recalled L’Anglais’ penchant for hanging bells off the velcro on his shoes, but this was plain spooky. Sure enough, around the next bend I caught a glimpse of the old buzzard with a feline in tow.

We bumped fists, exchanged a couple trinkets then sat down to sample a fresh batch of his satsuma plum ‘shine. “They don’t call me Trent ’round here, it’s Two Rattler Ray, but that’s another story.” Turns out Ray had been on the run himself and it wasn’t from a hollow corporation, but the g-o-v to the mutha fuckin t. The revolutionary blue shine (trick was, post distilling, he put the plum skins back in the bottle which lent the batch an electric blue tinge – beautiful) he developed was in hot demand, but the VQA bastards were sinking their collective baby dicks into the Cdn vineyard markey in a Monsanto SEEK AND DESTROY way and no Eastern, multi-linguist was gonna cut in on their profits. No Sir.

“What about the girl” I asked. Apparently, the Inkameep locals had offered safety and taken him under their wing with the sole request that he round up virgins for ceremonial purpose. Going back 400-600 years the locals had been tagging McIntyre bluff in a viscous turf war reminiscent of the days of wild style and more recently, local NDG mooks, but now they were all hot for sacrificing virgins off the nearly 1km high cliff to keep the rattlesnake population at bay. This was probably the least ethical job I’d EVER heard L’Anglais taking, but I suppose his hide was at risk and the unlimited pemmican rashion was pretty enticing.

The ‘shine buzz had fully taken over my mind and the body wasn’t far behind. I had a run to make. Ray had a virgin to take. We said adios and parted ways for the second time under a new moon. I’ll never forget the last wise words Ray said to me…

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One Response to “THE story of L’Anglais – Part Deux”

  1. l'anglais Says:

    Well done, sir. I have my work cut out for me…

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