Biffo & Fetish in
Biffo Gets His Man
by Dan Gavel
Step with us backwards in time, if you will, to those days of blood and yore in Olde California, the district of Tequila County. Here lay the residence of don Dago Panatella—he of the flashing teeth, the pencil moustache and the pendulous proboscis, and his deaf mute bondservant Fetish.
At an early age don Dago had sworn a solemn oath to rid the region of subversives, extremists, incendiaries, pimps, embezzlers, counterfeiters, cat-burglars, unwashed students, unemployed layabouts, scroungers, social workers, people who clear their throats on crowded buses, people who flush the lavatory while the train is in the station, people who wear handkerchiefs knotted at the corners on their heads, homosexuals, bisexuals, heterosexuals, elephant sexists nose-flautists, pæderasts, people who bite their fingernails, druids, guppies and all those who hail from the wrong side of the tracks (in fact, everyone but the depraved miscreants who were running the whole caboodle).
Yes, in reality don Dago was the infamous caped and masked crusader of all that's good, clean and decent, a secret known only by Fetish, his faithful servant, who would never spill the beans, even if he could speak (which he couldn't.)
Twilight seeped over the old hacienda; the silence broken only by lone bandicoots desperately searching the night for their newts. In the rapidly retreating daylight, a lone boy scout could be discerned signalling frantically from atop a termite mound with a pair of semaphore flags.
Meanwhile, don Dago, incredulous, his smart brass opera glasses pressed firmly against his eye sockets, was decoding the generous gestures with deepening severity.
"By Jove, Fetish, this is indeed grim news—there is no time to waste," postulated don Dago convincingly.
"Quickly, take off my cape."
Fetish, bemused, did his master's questionable bidding.
'Now hurry remove my jacket."
Uncertainly Fetish complied.
"Now my trousers Fetish, quick, quick."
Almost reluctantly Fetish took off don Dago's trousers.
"You knew I'd be needing them sooner or later—I understand the attraction of black leatherette and sateen Fetish—it is so 'macho isn't it—but after all it is I who am Biffo, not you, faithful servant".
Don Dago donned his mysterious macho outfit with great satisfaction, leaving his hat and mask until last. Soon afterwards he was to be seen striding purposefully towards the stables, his black sateen cape flowing bravely in the breeze, the shambling form of Fetish limping doggedly behind him.
Now he was Biffo and no-one could stop him.
Biffo walked primly up to his metallic beast—a chopped CZ, complete with cissy bars, teardrop tank, chrome spats, extended forks, banana seat and suicide clutch, which, with the help of a mechanic friend of his, he had bored out to four cylinders.
Adjusting his tee-shades and pulling on his riding gauntlets, looking immaculate in his World War I flying ace leather helmet and fleece-lined woollen underpants, the mighty upholder of justice took a dashing but miscalculated flying leap at the menacing monster; caught his foot in the battery cover, and fell crunchily on his nose. At that precise moment, owing to the miracle of Czech ingenuity and defective Communist workmanship, the stand of the ponderous beast vibrated a little, creaked and gave way, unleashing a torrent of rusting nuts, bolts, battery acid, swarf and two-stroke oil on the prone figure of the caped cretin.
Mere hours later, Fetish had finally summoned the presence of mind to rescue the desperate jackanapes from the chaos of an untethered CZ and Biffo, cautiously astride the insipid mechanism, was attempting to coax it into action, futile though this seemed. After kicking it over a few hundred times, the motor finally coughed, sneezed, spluttered, choked and gasped into a senseless throb.
Cautiously Biffo tugged at the reluctant clutch, snicked it deftly into gear, unleashing an ungodly whining sound, issuing forth from the very bowels of the doomed beast.
Cursing behind his mask Biffo impetuously increased the revs resulting in a corresponding increase in the ghastly din, but no motion of any significance.
Gradually the flatulent do-gooder became enveloped in clouds of acrid blue smoke leaking from every crack and crevice of that tool of destruction. The CZ lurched backwards, the back wheel setting the full weight of the reprobate machine neatly on Fetish's left foot, causing the poor wretch to writhe around in agony, his mouth agape like a guppy's, mouthing mute screams of anguish as his trousers caught themselves in the rod brakes, and like a bolt from a broken crossbow, 175ccs of throbbing mayhem screamed down the road at reckless speed, dragging the hapless Fetish along behind it.
Biffo let out a whoop of joy, and clumsily engaged second gear, whilst with the other foot, trying to free Fetish's right arm from the brake-light switch.
Fetish's leechlike presence and flailing limbs resulted in an inexorable leeward drift and the tangled mass of skin and bolts careered uncontrollably towards the unsuspecting hacienda of Governor Malodoroso.
Inside Sgt. Tortilla was entrenched in consuming what he euphemistically called "a teensy snackerette" — which consisted of a hundred coypu spleens preserved in aspic, at least a dozen pickled eggs, thirty or forty faggots, a couple of cases of baked beans, all topped with a liberal serving of mango relish, all recently purchased at El Ropo's delicatessen at considerable expense.
El Ropo's Delicatessen
Tucking his capacious napkin under one of his many chins, the corpulent non-com smacked his podgy lips in anticipation of the frugal repast he had prepared.
Just as he was about to spear a pickled egg with his rapier, his brain, usually impervious to any external influence excepting those of a culinary nature, gradually absorbed the hideous drone fast approaching. Tortilla turned his head and the nightmare was upon him. Amidst a welter or mingled oaths, mute screams, blue smoke and coypu spleens, Sgt. Tortilla's generous napkin was wrenched from between his chins, wrapped in Biffo's gleaming goggles... then all went black.
In his opulent residence, Governor Malodoroso was holding court to local notables; pig farmers, mostly, and a motley collection of women of ill repute. He was expounding on his pet topic—how all pinkos and extremists should be led shackled to a pit containing hungry puff-adders, or something equally unpleasant, and cast in with no mercy, when a quite spectacular entrance by any standards was effected totally unannounced through the closed french windows.
Biffo, astride his terrorist machine, with the prone form of Tortilla limp across the handlebars, his buttocks wedged tight between the tortoiseshell cissy bars, was experiencing some difficulty seeing the havoc unleashed in mere split-seconds on the otherwise uneventful soirée, owing to the presence of Tortilla's Irish lawn napkin inextricably coupled with his helmet and goggles. Fetish, by this time a mere sack of bruises, broke free to the sound of tearing garment, cut a swathe through the assembled astounded guests, and buried his head in the punchbowl, emitting occasional blubbing sounds for the rest of the evening.
Tortilla's Irish Lawn Napkin
Meanwhile, the masked mountebank, gripping desperately at the handlebars of the fearsome contraption, was hurtling with reckless bravado through the sumptuous feast newly prepared by Governor Malodoroso's multitude of subservient staff. Tortilla's recumbent form came into contact with a plate of truffles and two formerly-impressive looking candelabra, his upturned buttocks a quivering mass of jellies and salmon pâté hors d'oeuvres.
The chaotic apparition then made an equally dramatic exit through the equally closed opposite french windows leaving behind a stunned silence broken only by the flub blub blub of Fetish's submerged visage.
Mere hours later, Biffo's ragged form could be seen silhouetted against the rosy coloured dawn fast approaching, painfully extricating himself from the tangled mass of the once-intact CZ, which had recently run out of fuel and everything else. Before him his red-eyed squint perceived the shambling mess that was now Fetish, who had floated uncertainly from the bemused residence of the hapless Governor.
"There's nothing for it, Fetish—this business can't wait—we must break out the Reliant Regal" postulated Biffo, as determined as a one-legged goose.
The resultant silence was broken only by the sound of Fetish slumping face-down in a nearby fetid pool.
"There must be easier ways for a mute bondservant to earn a living in these enlightened times," Fetish mused petulantly to himself, as he slipped easily into oblivion.
©1980,2000 The Reader's Doglist Association of Great Britain