Night of the Long Knuckles

Hic!, I croak. Shit, I curse.

The tide’s ebb I can feel in my guts. And it’s turning. The tide. And/or my guts. I am fortunate to have such intestinal fortitude. It is my well-celebrated capacity for cloak & dagger intrigues which allows me to keep my wits. Even now.

Hic!, I croak. Shit, I curse. 

My eyes are focused on the boathouse tavern they call, “Perky’s”. It is the bar where Jill of Barking negotiates on my behalf. My eyes blink through the lakeshore mosquitos. The damp south sea wind has chilled me to the marrow; if these mosquitos had any thirst, they’d crystalize at the first taste of blood. So cold. 

Hic!, I croak. Still no sign of Jill. 

Earlier tonight, Jill was the messenger delivering news of danger. I was imperiled, she said after she found me in the men’s showers at the hostel. She was clearly cider-drunk. It is easy to gauge Jill’s insobriety when her adopted cut-glass Londoner accent becomes undermined & un-poshed by the rowdier roots of her tongue. Vic!, she called for me after cavalierly charging into the men’s room. Which bloody curtain you ducking behind, love?

Just a fucking minute!, I said to forestall Jill from ripping open shower curtains one-by-one, startling an unexpecting Dutchman or Argentine mid-lather. I barely had a rinse myself, having waited for the water to rise above room temperature. My toes, in flip-flops, were still numb with cold. I turned off the weak trickle of water and wrapped a threadbare towel around my hips just before Jill slid back my shower curtain. 

Vic!, Jill said with indifference to my indecency. What’s this?, a quick one off the wrist? No time for it, love. You’re imperiled. Imperiled?, I asked, or in peril? What’s the bloody difference?, she asked. The Germans are after you, she said, Vic Neverman: dead or alive, what?

I pondered on my sins, doing the calculus of crimes committed & slights delivered, when Bjarke, the tow-headed Dane shaving his baby face at the men’s room sinks interrupted my concentration. As Jill & I attempted to discuss my safety to the background of shower drains, Bjarke reminded me of the hostel rules posted on the wall. There is being only five minutes shower time per day, Bjarke said in a schoolmarmish tone. You having used already two minutes, yes?

The absurdity of my being clocked for hot water usage greatly humored Jill. She let out a goatish laugh at the bleeding-zit Dane patronizing me. Fucking narc, I said to Bjarke as I ushered Jill out of the bathroom. 

Queenstown bills itself as the adventure capital of New Zealand. This time of year, there are late-season extreme skiers & glacier hikers and early-season Antarctic explorers (scientists & Air Force transport pilots, mostly), along with crunchy back-packers on expired visas, yoga gurus, social media influencers, all in various states of drunkenness with sobering tales of the giant squid of Lake Wakatipu grabbing an ankle on the 3 am stumble home last night. Somewhere in the mix slips Jill & me. Two individuals crossing paths in search of metaphysical questions we already feared the answers to. It was a futile journey, but one which bore unexpected fruit because we had journeyed together. 

Obviously, she & I haven’t slept together. If we had, this wouldn’t read like a fucking greeting card. 

Back in my hostel room, Jill plopped down on the bed while I fetched beers from a hiding spot. When she unbuttoned her jeans, it was more for relief than a sultry appeal to my biological imperatives. Those pants had fit her when she arrived from England. I cracked open a beer which she grabbed with her knitted mitts and deftly took a strong pull from. She glugged beer while horizontal and without spilling a drop. What a woman!?, I said with awe. 

Your bastardy knows no bounds, Vic Neverman!, Jill said through a subtle belch. You’ve outdone yourself this time, love. Fun times & war crimes, what? 

I pulled-over a sweatshirt to pair with my towel & flip-flops, an act which had me momentarily blinded when the bedroom door swung open, knocking me off-balance. I stumbled, spilling beer while desperately clinging the thin kilt in place. It was my Danish roommate, Bjarke, entering with fresh razor-burn. What the fuck, Hamlet?, I cursed Bjarke. Gesturing to the woman snickering on my bed, I stated the obvious: I have a guest! Bjarke blinked his large nordic eyes at Jill, completely flummoxed on what he should do. I gave him a hint. Fuck off, I told him. Then, more civilly, I asked him, can we have some privacy, please? Where?, Bjarke asked, where is it I should be going? I dunno, I told him, with your head up your ass you should be able to somersault out the way you came. 

Bjarke turned and sulked from the room. 

You’re an absolute cunt, Vic Neverman, Jill said. Aren’t you supposed to be the Gandalf to all the young dive bar-hopping Hobbits in pursuit of some drunken destiny? Or are you still smarting over his dressing-down in the lav?, she asked. She went on to ask as I put on some blue jeans, is his name really “Hamlet”? Nah, I told her, he just thinks he’s Prince of Denmark. He’s probably headed to the front desk right now to complain about me. Fucking traitor. 

Tell me, I insisted, what do the Germans want? I cannot fathom what beef they might have. What’s the wurst I could have done? Heh. Get it? Jill sighed and said, god, you are such a boor. This’sn’t something to take lightly, Vic. You were a part of the “Playground Blitz”, yeah? The Germans have declared a vendetta against all perpetrators. “Victor” is there at the bottom of the list, but only because the Germans are meticulous about alphabetizing. Revenge is in the air, eh? Germans are screaming for payback, ne’er a good sign, love. Payback both physical & emotional after what you lads done. Two Brits at the Blitz, and one Canadian, have already been attacked. Phillip Longspeare was pantsed waiting in line for a sandwich at Subway. Dudley, the ringleader, has been nutmegged twice. Twice! Nutmegged?, I asked in horror. Sack-whacked, Jill clarified, two separate events our man was struck down with a groin shot. “Nutmeg”, she explained, is Cockney rhyming slang for “leg”. You get the point, yeah? Nut-taps between the legs. The Germans are punching where it matters. Dudley has put out the warning. He’s calling it the “Queenstown Putsch”, yeah? I prefer, if we’re going to harp on the past, “Night of the Long Knuckles”. Should’ve never taken the piss with the Krauts, Jill said. What did you lads expect?, harrying the Huns as you did?

Dammit Dudley, I cursed the ringleader of the Brits for instigating the Germans. I had nothing to do with this plot, I swore to Jill. I was there at the field, but I was not a party to “the blitz” against the Germans. Jill shrugged at my plight. Tell it to the Red Baroness. But I don’t know how you manage that without her Gestapo goons nutmegging you, Jill said. Needs-must leave town, me thinks. Hideout in Christchurch, Vic, until the kettle’s no longer screaming.

The Red Baroness?, I asked as I tested the smell of varying dirty socks. Lea is behind the nut-tap putsch? She’d reason with me. We had a moment together back in Wellington, I said. What moment?, Jill said with a blushed outrage. Never mind your moment, Jill went on, you cannot reason with mama bear after humiliating her cubs. She has a name for her jihadis. “Der Hodenkobold”. Do you know what that means in German, Vic? The testicle gremlins. It is too late to reason with the Red Baroness, Jill said. No, you need an intermediary. If anyone can help you, its Lars von Mars. 

Lars von…?, ugh. I said. Fucking hate that guy…

Aye, but he loves my tits!, Jill laughed. Hmm. She had a point. I gathered a deep breath, but before I could even ask, she knew where my mind had gone. Vic!, she shrieked. Don’t you dare ask me to pull-in that ghastly slag! No!, I insisted. Just talk with him. Use your feminine wiles to persuade him to put in a good word with the other Germans. Get me off the target list. 

Jill made the call. Lars von Mars was willing to have a sit down. At Perky’s. Dockside. Jill should come alone. She told me to keep to the shadows lest I receive a king-hit to the goolies. I went to the docks, disguised in shame & a fake beard. Cursing my luck. Cursing Dudley for getting me mixed into this. Over the last few weeks, I had participated in countless international stunts of bravado. One idiotic bungee jump after another. A trapeze jump I made in the rain after climbing a 40’ high telephone pole. I even entered in a drag contest at Mahinapua. When Dudley invited me along to Queenstown’s “Playground” for an afternoon of paintball, it seemed the most benign of the challenges presented to me. 

It should’ve been a simple game of simulated warfare amongst friends. 

Dudley had been quite inclusive when recruiting for the paintball scrimmage, inviting not just the lone Yank in our circles (me), but the Germans we’ve met in the bars of the South Island. Lea, the Red Baroness, was invited but declined. Many of her short-shorts-wearing Bavarian mountaineers did, however, come along. At the Playground, we were outfitted with the typical paintball accoutrement: face mask, paintball gun, paint pellets, etc. Of the forty of us, we were separated into two desegregated teams. The British and Germans were both halved and put onto either side. North side of the playground versus south side. No nations, no colors. The whistle blew and battle commenced. North team advanced south. South team advanced north. But what was not evident on both sides was while the Germans advanced towards the central battle line, the Brits on both sides held back. The Germans did not notice the British non-advance until it was too late. It was a massacre. The Brits of either side opened fire on their German teammates. Shooting them in the back. I was on the east flank, trading fire with a Belgian across the battle line from me until he was gunned down from behind by his British teammate. What the hell?, I wondered, turning around to discover the infighting behind me. Had they gone mad?

The referee’s whistle blew, but minutes would pass before the infuriated Germans stopped shooting back at the giddy English, who had all taken safe cover in the rear bunkers. The only ones more angry than the betrayed Germans were the Kiwis overseeing the event. The afternoon was cancelled. We were each given a lifetime ban from the Playground. We paid for a half-day of play, for equipment rental, for paintballs, all for seven minutes of chaos before being sent home, back to the city. No one was exempted from the punishment. 

The Red Baroness’s desire for blood was arguably just. Lea ordered the counter-offensive. A reprisal. Her list was exhaustive. No one was given the benefit of a doubt. The Red Baroness sent her Teutonic avengers on a testicle-wrecking rampage through the Queenstown bars. 

The Night of the Long Knuckles. 

Surely, Lea could be reasoned with. A truce made. I recall our beer-soaked discussions in Wellington. Lea actually broached the subject of hazing rituals she witnessed by American GIs stationed in Germany. Her countrymen have bonding traditions, she mentioned, but nothing as vulgar as striking a friend’s genitalia with intent to cause pain. This behavior she learned from the Americans. In Wellington, she was curious. In Queenstown, she put the savagery into practice. But this never had to happen in the first place. 

After the Playground Blitz, I had asked Dudley why. He hadn’t stopped chuckling the entire drive back to Queenstown. Why, Duds? Why betray your German teammates? Why shoot them in the back? Is it generational antagonism from last century’s wars? Not even!, Dudley said. All good sport, innit?, he explained. His rivalry had more to do with futbol than world wars. Fucking ridiculous, was my take.

Surely, Lea could be reasoned with. Jill’s hope is the popular Berliner disc jockey, the arthritic Lars von Mars, would listen to her plea on my behalf and then persuade the Red Baroness to leave my balls off her hit list. In this mad world, Jill was the only one I could trust. 

Shivering, spitting mosquitos, hiccing-up, I am relieved to see Jill finally exit Perky’s boathouse. She is leaving with a pair of men I do not recognize. All three are laughing. One of the men lights a cigarette for Jill. I hear her say, ring me, before she departs the docks for terra firma. Jill heads into Central Queenstown and I walk a parallel path a block away until convinced we are not being followed. We rendezvous in the underground. She enters the basement bar of Little Mez first before sending the all-clear signal. 

Sorry love, Jill says as I sit down with a beer, I’m already half-legless. Lars von Mars kept refilling my schnapps, she says with a grimace. But you’re safe, Vic. Lifted the smock & tickled the cock, yeah? Took a minute. Lars von Mars has been awake for 3 days, he is on ecstasy, which has him gayer than usual. My feminine wiles less persuasive, yeah? But he made the call to the Baroness. Your neck is off the block, love. Eternally grateful, yeah?, she smiles. Winks. Relieved, I offer to kiss her. She says she’ll back-pocket the offer for a rainy day. Rainier. 

Little Mez is tight-quarters for Jill & me, but I don’t mind the heat her proximity provides. This is the warmest I’ve felt in weeks. Dudley’s come out of hiding too, Jill says after reading messages off her phone. He’s at White & Wong’s now, heading to Rhino’s shortly. Asked us to meet him there, she says. Good, he owes us a few rounds of drinks for this bullshit, I say to her. 

At Rhino’s, we find Dudley at the bar amongst ski-gear wearing vacationers. His unfazed smile suggests his testicles have adequately recovered from two separate attacks. Or that he is properly rat-arsed with drink. He waves us over with bottles of Tui strong lager in-hand. Luring us. But it is not like Duds to offer a round before being reminded he owes one… I purposely slow my pace. The paranoia has not left me. Dudley takes a shifty glance to his right. I turn left, looking in the same direction, and I find Bjarke crouched over a beerhall bench. Wide Nordic eyes. The fuck’s he doing here? Bjarke’s eyes are on my boots. Unprompted, the Dane slow-motion stumbles forward onto the floor between us. It’s awkward, uncanny, as-if someone tied his shoelaces together. The fuck, Bjarke? I look back at Dudley, who appears concerned with the Dane’s tumble. I never see Bjarke pull back his fist from his kneeling position. There is a flash in my lower peripherals preceding the impact of the Dane’s fist. Instinctively, my knees buckle. A hard lesson learned in youth: if anything comes into contact with your scrotum, the best reaction is to collapse. Give way. Do not stand firm and absorb the blow. I fall to the floor like the slow timber of a Jenga tower. Jill has turned around, looking for me. Her smile is lost as she recognizes the assault. 

I am down. Fetal position. Expecting the agony. Testicular pangs are often delayed. Sometimes the lightest scrotal brushes bring the greatest pain, but it takes a moment for the central nervous system to identify what just occurred. A long second and a half go by before I realize the Dane’s knuckles must’ve been absorbed by my thigh without directly striking the more sensitive gonads. The south Pacific cold, of all things, has made me a difficult target tonight. I am going to be okay. I remain in a fetal position. Coiling against further blows. 

Dudley hurries to my side and sets the beer down beside my head. Sorry bruv, he says with feigned regret. Had no bloody choice, he says before exiting the bar. Bjarke is on his haunches, like a spooked crab backing away. The look on his face is terror. I know immediately he is a fucking patsy. A puppet of the Red Baroness. A mystified crowd of spectators has congealed around us, murmuring, what’s happening? Are these two going to breakdance? As Bjarke scurries away, Jill lowers herself into a drunken-wobbly squat, saying softly, stay down, love. Stay down. 

She’s right. I am being watched. Bjarke’s German puppet-master is out there. Watching. I let out a false squeal of pain. Yee-ow. Fuck. Groan. I put on a show. Et tu, Bjarke!, I holler at the Dane, but he has disappeared into the crowd. I perform a few dramatic gasps, cry out for mother, etcetera. Jill’s drunken wobble leans too far until her hip crash-lands on the floor. Without spilling her beer. She hisses at me, alright, love, don’t over do it, yeah? She places the Tui bottle at my lips and I take a few restorative slurps. I rise into a sitting position where I remain for five minutes before ending the spectacle. Jill & I stand-up together, she’s leaning into me more than I her. 

I look up, past the onlookers, to a beerhall table in the distance. Where I see the Red Baroness. She holds my eyes. Her features are stoic. Mirthless. Her appetite for blood has been appeased. 

Vic!, Jill says as we waddle away. You’ve lost your hiccups, yeah?

I think I have, I laugh. 

Hic!, Jill hiccups. Fuck!, she curses.