Lithuanian Vodka. Alright - so in the first few blogs here Ben's going to be taking a hammering, but it will come to pass that every man woman and child known to us (and some know more children than others), will have slights and libels a mile wide painted against their names. Let it begin...
Our story starts one summer’s day many years ago now, as yet another great exodus to the bach at Piha was winding up - most of the delinquents making their meek ways back to social propriety at something approaching 50kmh. Only the hardcore remained - the unemployed, apathetic, and just plain bad - Ben O'Connor, Unkle Bazlord, and the quasi-caretaker of the magnificent venue, Brendan Millar.
For those unfamiliar with the goings-on at the Piha bach, I suggest that we all take pains to ensure that as many stories as possible make their way onto this website - those were happy days, like the kind Bryan Adams and Don Henley sang about because they knew all the fun that was left in their lives would come exclusively from expensive spirits and cheap whores, or sometimes the reverse.
Ahhhh, Piha. What can I say? Probably quite a lot... The usual practice there was to get blindly drunk in the evenings and then laze and sunbathe in the afternoons. Little bit of swimming, little bit of chilling, and then a whole lot of craziness. It would happen a lot that some of the more restless youths would find themselves compelled to fling their bodies over and through a particular Flax Bush in the front yard, Millar of course being the prime exponent of this endeavour, with myself being easily led into joining him - as per usual.
The front yard - a desolate and forbidding expanse of midget grass tougher than yer old grannie's boots, and twice as prickly. Being the second generation of growth in the backdune area of the beach, it wasn't surprising that only the odd macro-plant managed to raise it's stunted appendages (ooer!!) toward Ra's glowing sky-ball (oo-er!!!), the Flax Bush being chief amongst them. It was one such night about which the core of our ever-lengthening story is formed...
"Dog" Millar and I were playing at ninjas again; running, jumping, flying through the air and succulent serrated green leaves, to land and roll majestically out the other side of the Flax Bush. Over and over we did do this - a madness upon our souls, compelling us to fling our broken flesh through that most unforgiving of god's creations, the mighty Phormium tenax. Only 1.5m high did it stand, but as wide again at its base. Bristling with spiny protrusions, this was one dwarf that would not be tossed. Finally our madness fled us, and panting with our exertions we retreated into the safety of the bach in search of more liquid energy for further escapades. All the while, the Flax Bush mocking in its chlorophyllic silence...
(cue transition from darkness to sunrise over the Waitakeres, backlighting the beach and casting a lightening orange glow over the east face of Lion Rock, rapid activity of beach-comers driving the main drag, dogs pooping and kiddies vomiting - or even a mixture of the two - as morning gives way to afternoon...)
Slowly, carcasses dragged themselves from haphazard and contorted sleeping positions - erected in haste as the befuddled minds to which they belonged finally succumbed to the abuses of the evening. Many went in search of emergency sustenance for their ailing bodies, turning aside torn and sauce-bloodied remnants of bread in favour of air-staled chips and congealed dip. Water was drunk as though God himself was pissing from the cold tap, each mouth seeking a miracle in its flow but finding small comfort in doing so.
One by twos and threes the revellers left the bach, filtering past the stoic Flax Bush in the front lawn and disappearing past the gaggles of sun-lovers, accumulated since daybreak. Only a heroic three were left in the end - our protagonists in all their shattered glory, for once letting their collective guards' down and appearing mortal for all to see.
Brendan: "Damn! Look at all these nasty cuts and scratches all over my arms and legs!"
Unkle: "Pussy. What the fuck?"
Ben: (unconscious) "Groan"
Brendan: "Hey - you've got some too, you big gay fag - look"
Unkle: "Oh those? Those came from all the wimmins I was looking after last night, you dirty cum-bucket - after we'd been proving our hardness leaping through that filthy diseased Flax Bush"
.....
Unkle and Brendan: "THE FILTHY FLAX BUSH!!!"
It was then we realised that Brendan is a mingin' penis-dock, and Unkle Bazlord a true hero of the revolution. We also realised that our wounds were swimming in festering bacterial matter from that bastard Flax Bush out the front, and that if we didn't treat ourselves immediately, we'd soon be nothing more than devastatingly good-looking petri dishes for these compassionless prokaryotes.
Luckily, long years of watching war films and playing ultra-violent shooting games had taught the ginger terror and I the value of a good makeshift antiseptic. Searching our immediate environs, we happened upon a glowing bottle of liquor, marked on the outside: "Lithuanian Vodka - General Spirit, 40%", and then in small print : "consume in a well ventilated area - do not ingest. If any product comes in contact with grey matter, prepare to embolism. Not to be taken by the weak - children, the elderly, animals, epileptics or Australians".
Perfect!!
I went first. I took the top from the plastic bottle, inverted it, and ever so gently poured a small quantity of the steaming liquid into the cap. Cautiously I placed the open bottle back on the table, turned to face my inferior, and braced myself for the coming apocalypse.
Unkle: "WWWWAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHmy GOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDfuck me fuck me fuck me FAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRKen HELL!!"
Brendan: "Aaaahahahaaaa!! Haaaahahahahahahahaaaa!!!"
Ben: "Snore....What? What the hell? Barry - what the fuck are you doing?"
I screamed loudly. My body was rapidly organising itself to eject the mind that had led to this torture, and I wasn't sure I wanted to stop it. My intense disappointment at the results of our little experiment was plain to see, but in a typical moment of mental confusion, that rodent-abusing ringmaster Millar somehow thought I must've been performing, and yellow-carded me:
Brendan: "It can't hurt that much, you pussy! Give me a go"
.....
Brendan: "WWWWAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHmy GOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDfuck me fuck me fuck me FAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRKen HELL!! HOLY JEEEEEEESUS FUCK MY CHRIST!!!"
Unkle (in Morpheus tones): "Yeees."
As Millar had similar issues with his body searing in white-hot agony, I had just recovered my decorum enough to notice that Ben was looking on in wonder. Wonder gave way to curiosity. Curiosity was smothered by stupidity. Stupidity was amplified by desire, and then his mind was made up:
Ben: "Hey you guys - I want to try that!"
Unkle: "But you haven't got any cuts on you man - me and Millar were only doing it because we had cuts from last night. It wouldn't work on you"
Brendan: "Unless....."
Unkle: "Yeah, unless..."
Ben: "Unless what? I'll do it, I'll do anything!"
Unkle: "Anything?"
Ben: "Yes, anything!"
Brendan: "Okay - you grab his arms and I'll take the legs!"
With this cry we two leapt into action, laying Ben out on the carpeted hallway floor - plush, new, fibrous, rough carpet - face down and in his boxer shorts. Taking a firm grip of Ben's hands and arms, we dragged him the length of the hallway, hoping that divine friction would separate Ben and his epidermis before long. Alas, upon reaching the end of the hall and inspecting his wounds, we found only a wee pink patch on each knee - barely rosy enough to distract Santa from his little elves...
Brendan: "Fuck! Alright - this time you drag him Barry, and I'll stand on the backs of his knees"
Unkle: "Oooohh, shit..."
Ben: "Ohhhhh SHIIIIIT!!!"
That did it. Back the other way down the hall, Brendan surfing the legs of the Forrest Hill giant as I put all my might into hauling his bulk back to the living room. So much downforce was there on Ben's pinny little knees that I swear I could see ripples forming in the surface of the carpet as the immasculine little tacks holding it down were subjected to the worst trauma of their professional lives. But this was as nothing when compared to the abject punishment received by the O'Connor's patellae.
Raw. Red. Inflamed. Glistening. Too fresh yet to bleed, but fairly weeping clear plasmic fluid in an attempt to seal over the trauma suffered by his flesh, the O'Connor lurched to the nearest chair, flinging his mass into it with abandon. I retrieved a sample of the tortuous medicine from the table and approached Ben slowly, not wanting to spook the beast and have it rampage through the flimsy structure.
Unkle: "Come on buddy - it's time. It's what you wanted, remember?"
Brendan: "Yeah baby!!"
The O'Connor took the thimbleful of clear death, slowly lowered it to his knee, and gingerly began to unlevel the cap towards the gaping hole where his flesh had once been.
Time slowed. Ages passed. Children grew old and died. Planets imploded. Geese migrated, all in the time it took for us to witness the single most wretchedly hilarious moment of my young-ish life. As the distillate drew level with the lip of the cap, the surface tension stalled it - the liquid built up behind, increasing its pressure, threatening to blow at any time. And then it happened - the vodka spilled out across the raw skin of Ben's knee.
All at once the world exploded - Ben moved quicker than a blind lesbian at a fish factory, leaping up and falling down all in the same instant, writhing on the floor, kicking like a loose-end prop who's been a bit careless with the Deep Heat on his groin strain, mouthing obscenities vehement and colourful enough to make a navvy with Turet's Syndrome hang up his hat, swearing oaths of revenge most vile upon Millar and myself and all our descendents for centuries to come. Never will I forget that moment. Nor the one that followed shortly afterwards...
Ben: "Holy Jesus! That shit really really hurts!"
Brendan: "Yeah, and you were actually drinking it last night"
Unkle "Hey Beeeee-en..."
As I addressed the wounded one, his eyes spied in my hand the meagre amount of liquid death within reach of his tender dermis. What a sane human being would've thought an innocent and insignificant drink, Ben knew now to fear with all his ungodly soul. His eyes widened in a fascinating melange of horror and demonic rage. His body reacted instinctively, rearing up off his seat to charge me as I sat at mine, spittle drooling from his shrieking mouth, gangled arms swinging wildly like those of gibbons, only with twisted and knotted claws at the end seeking to end my life before I got the chance to exact more comedic value from his suffering body.
I knew I had only one chance to save myself from the madness the O'Connor had become. I took my arm back across my chest and gathered my strength - he was nearly at me now! I released the spring, swinging my arm across the path of the wild beast and releasing my deadly cargo in an arc towards the mad one. As Lithuania's best flew through the space between Ben and I, I had an angelic moment of clarity - I of all people knew what it was David felt that day he bested Goliath in the Valley of Elah, but had he used former Soviet bloc vodka to dispatch his rival, he surely could not have had a more satisfying reaction than that which greeted my eyes as the faux acid hit home its target - Ben's knobblies.
A direct hit! As the drink lashed home on the raw seepages of Ben's knees, he instantly crumpled in a heap. Slow motion again ensued. His visage transformed from one of utter contempt and bestial rage, to one of almost child-like questioning and incomprehension. Pain softened his features. The venom in his eyes dulled as the mind behind them finally said "Fuck this: you're on your own", and his talons grasped nothing but stale air as his bulk reduced itself to ground level mere inches from my own. Result.
In essence, the story endeth here. After more hilarity than any two people deserve to eke from the misfortunes of another, Millar and I helped Ben gather his wits, promising to find him some valium for the pain once we got back to civilisation (he didn't take our offer of a saltwater dip very well). We three tidied what remained of the bach, loaded ourselves into the mighty ZX, and drove into the hills as the waning light of day again cast its rich pastel shadows over the unspoiled perfection of our adolescence...
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