And De Fun Don't Done by Robert G. Barrett Read Free Book Online

was musty as well. There was a kitchen to the left, cluttered with pots and dishes, a grimy sink, a grimy stove and a rusting fridge. The rest of downstairs was just one big room with bare floorboards, except where a landing walked up one step to a curtained off room in the right corner. A set of stairs led left from that up to what looked like the master’s magnificent bedroom and lavish toilet facilities. A dusty, noisy air-conditioner, whining away at the top of the stairs, did manage to bring the temperature down a few degrees. There were a couple of daggy animal skins pinned to the walls, two or three paintings and as far as home decorating went, that was it. The only noticeable comforts were an old three-piece lounge sitting between the door and the far wall as you walked in, a small-screen TV set sitting on a dusty, wooden cabinet full of old books, and a coffee table with a telephone on it. Les noticed a locked cabinet against one wall and beneath this a table holding what lookedlike a home mincer. Norton stared at the handle on it for a few seconds; he knew what it was but couldn’t think for the moment. There was no stereo in the room, no pool table and definitely no cocktail bar or cabinet.
    â€˜Well? What do you say?’ asked Hank.
    â€˜Wonderful,’ nodded Les. ‘Who lived here before you did? Elton John?’
    Hank turned on the TV and went into the kitchen. Les sat down on the lounge. The sound was turned down but you still couldn’t tell what was on because the reception was mostly a purple blur. Norton stared at it for a few moments, looked around once more, and shook his head. Where am I again? America or Ethiopia?
    Hank returned from the kitchen with a bottle of tequila. Norton grimaced and felt his mouth go dry. After all those lovely frozen margaritas in that little bar I know just what this is going to taste like. Shit. With or without the sip, lick, suck. It wasn’t even a good brand. A cheap- looking label, slapped on the bottle under a rusty cap, said Gusano Rojo de Oaxaca, and the worm lying at the bottom looked like half of someone’s appendix. Yuk!
    Hank dropped it on the table along with two tumblers. ‘Wait till you try this, pal. It’s from a village right out back of Mexico.’
    â€˜Terrific.’ Norton was beside himself. ‘I’ll bet it’s even got old pieces of Mexican foreskins and labia in it. What did you pay for it? About two bucks a crate?’
    Hank poured two half tumblers full of the urine- coloured liquid. ‘Down the hatch, buddy. Badlands style.’
    Les watched as Hank threw the tequila down his throat as if he was Wyatt Earp drinking Red Eye at the Last Chance Saloon. His beady eyes spun round even more crazily and he looked at Les. It wasn’t a friendly drink; it was a silly bloody challenge. Norton picked up his tumbler, looked at it for a second, then did the same. It tasted like Brondecon and kerosene. Norton screwed up his face and hoped his tastebuds would forgive him. ‘Ohh shit! That tastes like goat’s piss.’
    â€˜That figures,’ said Hank. ‘Offering you pure tequila is like casting pearls before swine.’
    â€˜Yeah. And me shouting you those nice cold beers was like giving strawberries to pigs. You wouldn’t have a beer in the fridge, would you?’
    Hank ignored Les and poured another two tequilas, obviously getting a kick out of Norton’s displeasure. ‘Now I’ll show you something else.’ Hank took a key, walked over to the cabinet on the wall, unlocked it and swung open the doors. ‘There,’ he said, glowing with pride and smugness. ‘What do you think of these? You don’t see anything like that in Australia.’
    Norton turned around on his seat. The cabinet was full of guns; four pistols and three rifles all racked horizontally. That was what the thing was on the table — a hand frame for reloading your own bullets. Hank