A Favour From De Geuechts-Truep van de Paramaribo Circus

With a defeated sigh, Michelle hits dial: 'Hi Elise.'

The other end is blunt: 'Michelle.'

Careful careful: 'So, you know how I'm house-sitting for Dad?'

Elise spits: 'Whilst he orgies about the high seas with heroin and abortions? You know he was married, Michelle, to our mother?'

Tippy toes: 'It's ahhh, it's a cruise for single seniors. The brochure didn't, didn't mention heroin and, um, abortions are redundant because mmmmenopause?'

Hissing: 'Read between the brochure lines.'

'Aaanyway.' Because this is not the time to suggest therapy. 'Baxter has dug under the fence and I can't find him. Soooo, because he's a dog and you work with animals -'

'I'm a zoological psychologist. I. Am. The. Jordan Peterson of turtles.'

'Mhm. Mhm. Pretty please help me?'

Fine: 'I'll be there in two hours'

Which turns out closer to three because Elise has to wind a small truck along Adelaide Hills roads to the property, on the line between country town and bushland, that her father had downsized to. Michelle raises worried eyebrows upon seeing the truck. Elise climbs from the driver seat in two steps and pivots to Michelle with open arms, projected voice:

'I cannot find your Boxer for I am mere woman, and no number of x-chromosomes will elevate me to goddesshood.'

('Baxter.' Michelle's sisterly diplomacy giving way to fight and/or flight.)

Heading to the truck's roller-door: 'But my work grants me witness to those who inspire more than some awe, perhaps full awe, and truly, truly, Shazza will find this dog. Now stand straight, that's how lobsters assert dominance.'

Michelle has already sprinted back inside and, locked in the bathroom, hears the door-shaking roar that confirms Shazza the Bengal Tiger's wake from nappy-poos. The truck is open and Shazza, out in single bound, strolls wistful down the street, absent-mindedly pawing side-mirrors off the parked cars she passes. Elise realises she neglected to sway the tiger to search out dog, an omission she attributes to her own monologue.  Too damn inspirational - if it distracts even myself, what will my presentation incur at next year's TurtleCon? One auditorium of hearts and minds won over? Or the beginnings of a viral mass following? Could I handle such adoration and maintain my modest ego? Where did Shazza go?

Elise heads inside, knocks on the bathroom door: 'Hey, we have a problem.'

The door remains locked: 'You mean the fucking, the fucking, what was that?'

'Shazza is a tiger loaned to Adelaide from Brisbane and I, in turn, took Shazza on a subprime mortgage.'

Door open now, Michelle brandishing a loofah-on-a-stick: 'Do you grasp finance? Do you remember how "subprime" entered the public-' hand and loofah twisting in air '- lexicon?'

'I will concede that point of ignorance.'

The sisters take the truck and crawl the streets of the nearby town and bushland in a widening spiral. Michelle has a Dentastix and Elise has a tranquiliser gun.

'Baaaxter. Shaaazza.'

'Shaaazza. Beeenji.'

'Benji? Baxter!

'Baxter? Shazza!'

After dark, unsuccessful, the sisters return home and brew a pot of Clari-T to help collect their thoughts. The usual steps in finding a missing animal are to contact council and the RSPCA, then to canvass the area with 'lost pet' posters. Such steps are largely redundant in Shazza's case because she is a fucking tiger. Such steps are also moot in Baxter's case because Shazza is a fucking tiger, liable to eat toddlers or something else that will implicate, in manslaughter by association or whatever, the people who released the fucking tiger. Elbows on table, Michelle rubs her temples and neglects her mango and berry tea.

Elise: 'I'll admit to some responsibility, some blame here, so I've called in a favour from a colleague.'

'No no no no.'

'It's ok. He's an arsonist.'

The sirens have already started. Standing in the front yard, smoke is already visible over the distant bushland, illuminated from beneath by orange flames. Baxter the beagle runs full pelt from down the street and scrambles into the truck, jumps on the horn thrice. Come on. Big fire. Time to get out of dodge.

Elise is chipper: 'See, one problem solved.'

Michelle lights a cigarette of catnip and tobacco: 'You're fighting fire with fire and, and, catching dogs with fire.'

Elise raises voice: 'Aaaand YOU are doing drugs. What the shit, Michelle? When did this start?'

'I tried it, uh, two months back, some friends of Georgia's husband were at game night?' Exhale. 'It's catnip.'

'It's a gateway drug.'

Smiling wide, Tom rides on Shazza's haunches as she moseys back along the way she left: 'A gateway drug to tummy wubs.'

Shazza flops on the front lawn and rolls onto her side, eyes half slit as Tom tussles the hair on her belly. Elise's face is tight and her hands hang by her hips, right index finger twitching. Michelle's eyes smirk as she takes a long drag on the catnip - see, one problem solved. Baxter leans on the truck's horn. A neighbour comes outside to yell at the midnight commotion, sees the distant smoke, sees Shazza, looks to the distant smoke, looks to Shazza, throws arms up with a 'Tyger Tyger burning bright' and runs back inside.

Tom rubs hands up and down Shazza's cheeks: 'Who's a cutie? You're a cutie.'

Elise glares: 'Her name is Shazza. What's yours?'

Already standing in a half-bow, right forearm diagonal across his stomach: 'My apologies. I suspect I am not here just to play with your cat.' A pause. 'With your pussy. Fuck, should have opened with that. Anyway.' Thumb over shoulder towards the bushfire, addressing Michelle. 'That your doing?'

Left elbow propped on right palm, Michelle shrugs: 'More or less.'

Tom rubs his chin: 'Well. I already sold the Fire Extinguisher of Merg Portua, because uncontrollable fire is apparently ingrained in the Australian psyche. But I am owed a favour by De Geuechts-Truep van de Paramaribo Circus, a South American circus that fights fires. Legend goes that, after pegging tent on the edge of Puerto Maldonado, a fire started by land prospectors came roaring down on the town. Lives and livelihoods on the line, the clowns, acrobats, trapeze, elephant tamers, fire eaters of course, were co-ordinated by the ringmaster to fight the rainforest fire, buckets and hoses. Such was the performer's prowess that several Puerto Maldonadoes signed up, joined the circus.

So the GTPC continued, continues, to tour South America, thrilling audiences and fighting fires, always inspiring new recruits into its ranks. Nowadays they are considered one of the larger paramilitary forces in the region - a clandestine airstrip, carriers, helicopters. They decided to expand into Central America a few years back, which is where I met them. Having scored some El Dorado Green, I had decided to sink a whole cone and see how long my lungs could last and, about six hours in, I was wandering the Darian Gap and, looking for a lay as I do, stumbled into tense negotiating between the GTPC and FARC.

Exhale. Everyone gets a solid second-hand high. Everyone chills, talking gets easy. I am deemed a total legend and thusly owed a favour.'

Elise raises a hand from crossed arms: 'Wait. South American countries have fire departments.'

Michelle stamps out her catnip: 'That's ignorant.' Shaking her head but clearly enjoying this. 'Racist, even.'

'De Geuechts-Truep van de Paramaribo Circus can sort this out, two hours, tops.' Tom raises left index finger, one moment. 'In return, I require the Galaxy Klaxon. Or, rather, just the gas canister, which should fit into your truck. It's essentially a giant air horn designed to call the Intergalactic Friendship of George Formby's Necrotising Fasciitis in an emergency. But sound, space, yeah. Deal?'

Michelle shrugs shoulders at Elise, smiling optimistic and encouragingly. Elise shrugs back, slight, more in the forearms and hands than shoulders, with a roll of the eyes. Negotiations are cinched when Shazza lolls back into the truck and curls up amongst straw bedding. Baxter sits perfectly still in the driver's seat.

Elise and Michelle, beagle and Bengal tiger in tow, drive the truck north along the Mount Lofty Ranges for two hours. The Galaxy Klaxon is contained in a large white dome, akin to a stereotypical astronomical observatory, located atop an insignificant but comparatively tall mount at the edge of a wine region. From a dirt road, a half-worn gravel path zigzags 200 metres to the peak. The animals are left in the truck. At the dome's sole entrance, with the tranquiliser gun, Elise insists on going first and kicks in the door.

Tom did not bullshit - the Galaxy Klaxon is identical to an in-the-hand air horn excepting its being about 2,500 times the size. Three men in indigo robes stand by the handrail that circles the central monument. The oldest leans slightly forward and rightwards, right hand clutching a halberd with which he props himself up, left hand gingerly placed on stomach just above the left hip. The youngest tilts backwards from the knees. The third maintains a static, counter clockwise twist from the feet upwards, arms outstretched for balance and tranquiliser dart now sticking out from above the right nipple:

'Avast Ye! Rasmus, Poppery, intruders at the gate seek the Galaxy Klaxon for their purposes. Aw, fuck, I could go nappy-poos.'

(Michelle: 'Nice shot. Completely unnecessary, but still.')

Rasmus, the eldest, advances by shifting between left and right foot with 45° pivots. Poppery, the youngest, follows with long, hesitant, wobbly strides and 'ooh, ooh, careful'. Ignatius, middle aged, scrambles with the hand rail so as to slow his slide to the floor where, starfished, he begins a quiet snore. Elise prepares her next shot - taking the tranquilising drug from refrigeration on her belt, connecting this to the hypodermic needle end of the dart, then attaching the fletching end, loading the completed dart into the gun and is about to pump air when a halberd's point is finally held at her face, with the implication that she cease and desist:

'I knew we should have brought the tiger. Even the beagle.'

Michelle holds hands in air: 'We could have run. They, uh -' addressing the Knights of the Galaxy Klaxon, 'Why are you moving like that?'

Poppery rocks to and fro in search of comfortable posture: 'Well, sometimes a man's testicles recede into the body but, like, way up there. Cramped up with the other organs. Nobody knows why.'

Rasmus, indignant: 'Poppery, why do you divulge our, uh, manly problems to these intruding women?'

Bitchy: 'Because these are the first people, besides you and Ignatius, that I have seen in seven years.'

Stern: 'You think with your loins.'

'My penis concerns me not. My testes prevent any erection.'

Michelle: 'Wait. Testicles way up in the body. All three of you?'

Elise smirks: 'He he he he, they synced.'

A look of shame in a sideways glance shared by the two men.

Michelle claps hands together: 'Ok, going out on a limb here, but I reckon you want your testicles to drop. We want the Galaxy Klaxon. Yeeeah?'

Rasmus hums curiously: 'If, if you can drop but one ball, you may have as you wish. But what esoterics can deal with this Mystery?'

Michelle smiles, aha: 'An inspiring speech.'

Eyes widening with a sudden swell of purpose, Elise places first over heart: 'I cannot find your Boxer for I am mere woman, and no number of x-chromosomes will elevate me to goddesshood.'

(Poppery: 'What?')

Gazing up and left to a transcendent future: 'But my work grants me witness to those who inspire more than some awe, perhaps full awe, and truly, truly, Shazza will find this dog. Now stand straight, that's how lobsters assert dominance.'

A minute passes with no audible plop. Rasmus grabs his crotch, jiggles his scrotum about. He gasps astounded, stands straight and sheds a single tear:

'Heavens, she did it. Poppery?'

'Fuck you, Rasmus. No, they're still up there.'

'Ignatius?'

Dreams of Goku flash behind Ignatius' eyes.

But one out of three is good enough and the sisters are given the Galaxy Klaxon. Back at their father's home, Elise and Michelle spread deck chairs on the front lawn and pass a cigarette of tobacco and catnip back and forth, watching the bushfire now almost at their street. Tom arrives with De Geuechts-Truep van de Paramaribo Circus.

A bowl of popcorn is prepared, Baxter is given a steak, Shazza is given five. A chain of three acrobats, hanging from a helicopter flying low over the edge of the bushfire, aim fire extinguishers to douse the flames with brilliant precision. The audience applauds.

Tom, seated between the two sisters, tilts his head towards Michelle: 'How about it? You want to bump uglies this time?'

Michelle: 'Sorry, I'm a save-it-for-marriage type.'

Tom lolls his head left to Elise: 'How about you? You seem bat shit insane.'

Eyes venomous daggers, Elise slowly directs stare back at Tom. Michelle knows her sister and thusly stands with a cough, nervously retreats back inside. Elise is either going to kill Tom or fuck him until he bleeds.