The ’67 Kombi bounced down the road, taking in every bump and pothole, it’s springs squeaking as the overloaded van made its journey through the outback. Ronny had made the last ferry and the ten hour trip from Davenport to Melbourne would make port right around noon. The sea had been rough, and the bench he had tried to sleep on was hard and unforgiving.
He had tossed his duffle in one of the wooden cubbies at the walk-on entrance to the ferry. The green canvass was stained, with oily spots and hard areas of things caked on over the years. He was nervous because of his cargo, and because of the smell. He had wrapped the contraband in plastic bags, and all of the plastic wrap his mother had. He then used all of the aluminum foil creating several, bent and knobby silver bundles. But he still smelled it everywhere. No matter how many times he washed his hands, he could still find hints of the skunk.
Getting on the boat was no issue at all. He didn’t need anything but his ticket. No one checked his bags. As went up the walkway to find a bench to claim for himself, he lit a smoke and put his headphones on. I’ll get a beer, find bench, and call it a night, he thought to himself.
Bam! “Oy… fuck off mate… Jeeeezuuz fuck me…” sang the choir of sleeping souls.
He woke in midair, just in time to fully appreciate being slammed onto the bench at the back of the van. Others in the van were laughing and cursing. A collection of pots and pans dropped the from the bungie chords holding them tight against the ceiling, crashing onto the unsuspecting pile of sleeping bodies below. A smiling face peered back at him through the rearview mirror. The brown face was animated and highlighted by a bright white and crooked grin.
“Hey mutha fuckers… wake up! Ha ha ha… you missin all da scenery… don ya wanna see dem roos? Ha ha!” Demby wanted to be Jamaican, but he wasn’t, despite his dreads, and the dropping of consonants he was still half Abbo and Jewish. He didn’t like it when they teased him about it, so Ronny didn’t. What the fuck did he care if Demby wasn’t kosher with who he was. All Ronny cared about was that Demby was his partner and his ride.
“Hey Ronny boy…”
Ronny nodded, but said nothing. He held his hand which was sore, swollen and stiff. The skin was hot to the touch, and dark lines shot forth from the gash on the back. He had washed it out best could, and then duct taped paper towel over it, but that wasn’t working anymore.
“Hey mate.. bring up some of dat shwag you was talking about before… I tink I need me a resbite from behin dis wheel. Hey Murray… what you say you take da wheel.”
Murray farted a response.
Ronny, pulled back the duct tape and wiggled his stiffening fingers. His knuckles cracked, and the back of his hand pulsated like the beat of a heart. The horn sounded and Ronny looked up to the rear view mirror.
“Hey Ronny, you how it goes baby… ass, grass or cash, because no one ride for free… and baby I got all the ass I need.” Laughing he reached over and grabbed at the t-shirt of the girl sleeping shotgun. She awoke, startled and smacked away his hand as it landed on her left breast. She mumbled something as she turned and curled over toward the window, giving him her back.
Ronny pulled a small tinfoil bundle from his small rucksack, and began the climb over bodies in an attempt to get from the back of the front of the van. He dropped the occasional apology as he stepped on toes and hair. At the front Demby told the sleeping girl to switch with Ronny, so he would have a place to sit. She reluctantly got up, and with a loud smack on her ass from Demby, she was off to the back of the bus.
Ronny sat rolling his head side to side as his neck was stiff from the awkward position he had been in. The sun was bright, and hot through the window. The poles flash bye like errant frames in an old film, bad cuts and odd jumps. Baked and cracked brown extending infinitely into the clear blue sky. Rocks, lines and formations distort the reflection that blinks back him.
“Dah Doo Run Run Run…
Dah Doo Run Run…
When I was juz a baby…
Mine Dah say son…
Rolla fat-ass doobie…
An we haves some fun…
Dah Doo Run Run Run.. Dah Doo Run Run… Ha Ha Ha”
With his right hand on the wheel he shook Ronny out of his trance. From his pocket Ronny pulled with a wince the foil bundle. Ronny said with a start… “Yeah… right here.”
“What da fuck happen to you man… dat han look not so good.” Ronny saw through the persona and had the feeling that maybe Demby really cared.
“Just cut my hand, and haven’t had the chance for a proper wash, or proper bandage.” The pain was getting worse, and the fever was crawling up his arm.
“Hey look mon. When we stop, and we gonna soon cause me… me got to see a man about dat mule what’s kick my intestine ta hell. You check in dem drawers back der, and you find you a medic kit.” He nodded slowly, opening his big bloodshot eyes,
“You do dat… all righty then?”
“Yeah.. right…” He was freezing, and shivering in spite of the smothering heat of the van.
“So break out dat vine man. I been tinkin on dis one. If dis shit is a good as you say… we gonna be rich mutha fuckas…” He begins to laugh. “Whoop whoop… dat right mutha fuckas … das right.” He punched the ceiling two times and a baby woke with a scream from the back of the van.
Four hours later the Kombi had stopped, and camp was set up. Makeshift tents, and shelters were crafted out of anything that could be held together and keep the rain off. Ronny was with Demby, in what he considered to be a proper shelter, a WW II Australian Infantry Tent, complete with three tent poles, a dozen rail nails, rope, and ties to shut the flaps. Compared to the the shanty town that spontaneously appeared surrounding the vintage piece, it was the Ritz.
Demby had planned everything out and it had worked perfectly. His contact in security met them in the queue to enter the festival. He wore a floppy green fedora and dark glasses, as if he were wearing a disguise. Ronny assumed he was trying to mask his identity incase anyone not in on the deal recognized him. His name was Larry Isaacs, he was short but stocky with dark thick hair, dark small eyes that pinched in at the bridge of his rather large nose. He was nervous, making quick choppy motions, barely able to stand still.
“Okay. Demby…”
“Let me take this,” he held up the plastic bag wrapped around the silver log. “I bring it to the boys, we will get our tastes, and bag up some freebies… a joint here and there to get things moving.” He took a hit from the glass dragon foot bowl that Demby had prepared for him. He inhaled deeply, pulling in his breath for a ten count according to Ronny. He then closed his eyes and held it in his lungs, until on the verge of turning purple he let out a mount St; Helen eruption of smoke, that clouded the windscreen.
He rocked on his feet slowly… and with his eyes still closed he coughed out an iquirey. “What the fuck do you call this shit”
Demby looked at Ronny, and shrugged his shoulders. “Hey man… What dem call dis?”
Ronny sat stupefied and stoned. His aching hand throbbed shooting needles of pain up his arm and into his arm pit. Looking at his hand he said in almost a whisper… “The devil… the Tasmanian Devil.”
“Tasmanian Devil…” Larry repeated, slowly moving his head from side to side…
“We will be sending out info through social media… watch for #Taz #Tdevil, etc.. various forms of the name. I got you guys set up in prime camping location, here is your pass… stick it in the the window.”
“Let me get things moving. I will have the gate boys dropping hints, spreading the word, and you guys get set up and get your asses in gear, because I want to start moving this as fast as fucking possible. Get this shit broken down into baggies, ready for sale and let’s make some real green…”
Demby said… “Right on… ”
Ronny stood surveying the workspace. A large table stood at one side of the tent where three young women in various states of undress broke down the cargo into single serving samples. Ronny set them up and walked them through the process of breaking the bud down, placing it in the small baggies, and sealing it up. It was an assembly line. Blondie broke apart the large buds and branches, Brunette then took a baggie, which Red Head had placed a sticker of the Tasmanian Devil. At the end of the line, Blonde number two, stacked the baggies and bundled them with rubber bands and dropped them into a large box.
