The gang have escaped ICE in Seattle (but for how long) and head to Portland. There’s good local microbreweries but what else awaits our crew as they stop at a Biker’s Bar on the outside of town.
And not wanting to give anything away but… may there be personal disappointed for Prick?
Transcript
The battered Beryl, now carrying four souls and the faint aroma of stale booze, petrol and burgeoning political intrigue, finally limped into the outskirts of Portland. Our thirst, both literal and metaphorical, led us to a dimly lit, Harley Davidson surrounded establishment called “The Rusty Nail,” a proper American stop off with the comforting scent of beer, burger and whispered conversations.
We bellied up to the bar, Reggie surprisingly spry -encouraged by his recent Farsi pronouncements and new friend, the nameless backpacker who was observing the local customs with quiet curiosity, and Chuck holding court on the iniquities of Trump’s stance on… well, something involving tariffs and avocados, I ordered a local IPA, something with a name like “Rainy Day Respite.”
Then it happened. A stout woman with a cascade of purple hair and numerous beautifully placed piercings squinted at Chuck. “Hey… ain’t you that Congressman fella? The one always yellin’ on the TV?”
Chuck, puffing out his chest slightly, launched into a familiar tirade. “Indeed I am! Charles Finnegan, voice of the voiceless, scourge of the…”
“Yeah, yeah, I saw you on the news this mornin’,” she interrupted, a mischievous glint in her eye. “They said you and your… entourage… were kickin’ off some kinda presidential bid? ‘Finnegan’s Fury’ or somethin’ catchy like that?”
A ripple of interest went through the bar. Suddenly, all eyes were on our dishevelled quartet. A grizzled biker with a handlebar moustache slapped Chuck on the back. “Not even a Senator and goin’ to be President Finnegan! Look at the balls on this guy! You gonna bring back our freedoms and cheap motorcycle parts from China?”
Before Chuck could even process this unexpected coronation, a battered bucket appeared on the bar. “Let’s get the ball rollin’!” someone yelled. Dollar bills, crumpled fives, and even a few hopeful-looking coins began to accumulate.
Our nameless Farsi-speaking companion, seemingly understanding the shift in atmosphere even if the language remained elusive, suddenly clambered onto the bar, striking a dramatic pose. He cleared his throat and delivered a single, impassioned sentence in Farsi, his voice ringing through the suddenly hushed establishment. “سیاستهای بروس اسپرینگستین کجا و یاوههای کید راک کجا؟” (Reggie whispered while oiling his ankles, “He’s asked, ‘Where are the politics of Bruce Springsteen and where is the nonsense of Kid Rock?’) He hopped down to a smattering of applause, the nuances of his critique lost on the majority but his conviction undeniable.
“Alright, far out Mexican boy,” Chuck shouted. “I’m with ya. We wanna be free! We wanna be free to do what we wanna do! We wanna be free to ride. We wanna be free to ride our machines without being hassled by the man! And we wanna get loaded! And we wanna have a good time! And that’s what we’re gonna do! We’re gonna have a good time! We’re gonna have a party!”
The bar, filled with bikers, screamed and cheered. Chuck was hugged and lifted onto broad shoulders and paraded triumphantly around the room. One tattooed beard on legs proclaimed that Chuck was the Hells Angel Democrat for Freedom. Another kissed me hard on the cheek and placed a joint between my lips. I knew what I had to do. I knew what my place in this fightback was.
“Right then,” I interjected, “While this… spontaneous outpouring of civic duty is most heartening, we are on a vital mission. We require… sustenance. Medical supplies, naturally, for any unforeseen… political injuries. Food, to maintain our strength in the face of adversity. And a rather substantial quantity of alcohol, all purely for medicinal purposes, you understand.”
The good people of “The Rusty Nail,” now fully embracing the “Flying Finnegan for President” bandwagon, were more than obliging. Within a couple of hours, fueled by local brews, hashish and burgeoning enthusiasm, we found ourselves conducting an impromptu interview with a local cable news crew, Chuck holding forth on his “vision for a less beige better America for Bikers and anyone who wanted to tune in and drop out, even if it was just on the holidays.” Our battered Beryl was soon laden with a boot full of local craft beers and artisanal spirits, several boxes of Portland’s finest pizza, a bag overflowing with gloriously pink Voodoo Doughnuts, and a bucket teeming with freshly steamed Dungeness crabs, courtesy of the chef, who was applauding the speeches and pronouncements with the longest, most precarious looking cigarette ash i’ve ever seen hanging from his mouth and perilously over the salad selection. “We’ll get the word out, you guys,” he said, acknowledging the amount of phones pointing at us. “If there is one thing Seattle can do other than a great coffee, build aeroplanes, excellent pizza, make music and umpteen other things… no… I mean, If there is one thing we in this here bar can do other than drink, its make viral videos..!” He wasn’t joking, as we were to find out in the next 24 hours.
The drive to Clementine’s residence was a hazy affair, punctuated by Chuck’s increasingly grandiose pronouncements about an electoral strategy and Reggie’s intermittent pronouncements that “The Boss” as well as Kneecap, Bono, Petula Clark and Echo and the Bunnymen would surely endorse our campaign. Trump would of course, have them all arrested. Our buffer. Brave celebs standing between us and the fash bullets.
Clementine’s house, when we finally arrived, was a riot of colour and creeping ivy, a Victorian-esque monstrosity that looked like it had sprouted organically from the overgrown garden. The door was opened by a woman who defied the very notion of “octogenarian.” Clementine possessed a vibrant energy, her silver hair a wild halo around a face etched with a thousand stories and a mischievous twinkle in her bright blue eyes. She wore a flowing silk kaftan in a shade of electric purple and enough silver jewellery to sink a small boat.
Upon beholding this vision, I was utterly smitten again. Our tumble in the hay in the late sixties seemed like yesterday. This woman SHOULD have been my wife, not the other four (or was it five?)
I stammered, attempting a courtly bow that nearly resulted in me losing my balance… and my teeth. “Clementine, my dear… you… you haven’t aged a day!”
Clementine, however, seemed utterly oblivious to my flustered admiration. Her gaze was fixed on Reggie, who was looking rather sheepish. “Reginald, darling! You made it! But… where’s your sparkle?”
Reggie patted his eye socket forlornly. “Left the old glass eye back at a… rather lively establishment, my dear.”
Clementine clucked sympathetically. “Oh, you silly goose. Never mind.” She rummaged in a nearby bowl filled with an eclectic assortment of objects and produced a large, swirling marble. “Here you go, cutie. Wear this.” Reggie popped the Marble into his socket. It had a green swirl at its centre, contrasting with the cataract brownish blue hue of his other eye.
“Oh darling!” Clementine swooned. “You remind me of that rather passionate night with young David Bowie, and his cool friends Arthur Mullard, and Fanny Craddock. Such a “creative” energy between us all.”
Witnessing this bizarrely intimate exchange, I felt a pang of… something. Resignation, perhaps. Certainly utter rejection. The allure of the octogenarian artist was clearly not mine to claim. With a sigh, I located a bottle of Jameson in my bag and a couple of Amytal. The sounds of Reggie’s squeaky laughter and Clementine’s robust responses (and rather squeaky bed springs) soon filled the house.
Chuck, meanwhile, oblivious to the romantic entanglements unfolding around him, was perched at Clementine’s kitchen table, surrounded by the hastily collected campaign donations. He counted the cash with a furrowed brow, muttering to himself. “Texas… Texas is the big prize. If we can just… appeal to the… the psychedelic cowboy vote… maybe… just maybe…” The fate of the nation, it seemed to us, rested on the shoulders of an increasingly mescaline-fried congressman munching on a bucketful of crabs.
