Autumn 2014

33.

Surreal Satire piece from the young writer of Cork- David O'Doherty. Enjoy!

 

 

The National Liar's Association

 

As far back as I can remember I've always been the most honest man in me village. So, when the flyer for the meeting dropped in me letter box I just knew I wouldn't go. 

It was on in the big hotel in town; the one with the windmill and the rotating bar. In the Mark Twain Suite, the flyer said.

Sure, when I got there, wasn't the door locked. A peep through the keyhole revealed only darkness. When I pulled me eyeball from the vicinity, who should I see only a likely looking fella in green crushed velvet. He gave me the nod. He seemed an honest type.

'You look like a man who knows what he's doing' says he.

'I am' says I.

'Are you here for the meeting?' says he.

'I'm not,' says I, 'I'm just browsing.'

'Right you are,' says he, 'drink?'

'I won't,' says I, as we made our way to the bar.

'On me' says he.

I paid for the drinks- a triple babycham and a coke for himself, a pint of whiskey on the rocks for meself.

'How did you come?'

'By giraffe' says he.

'Hovercraft' says I.

'Very nice,' says he, 'what model?'

'Mitsubishi 142-C' says I. 

'Good mileage?'

'Not bad' says I. 'The giraffe?'

'0-60 in five seconds' says he and swigged from his rum and pineapple.

The crowd at the table next to us were tucking into fierce tasty looking panda steaks. 

'Do they a bit of grub at these meetings?'

'They do,' says he. His tummy rumbled. 'Myself and the giraffe stopped for a burger on the way.'

'Where's the giraffe now?'

'Outside parking' says he.

'So what's the story,' says I, 'the flyer said to come here.' I slurped from me bottle of porter.

'Did it now?'

'Could it be a lie?' says I.

'I couldn't say now' says he.

'It couldn't' says I.

'Couldn't it? says he, as he dipped a chocolate digestive into his mug of tae.

'Have you been to these meetings before?'

'I have' says he.

'Many come?'

'Just myself and the giraffe usually' says he. 

'I see' says I and puffed on me pipe. 'And what do you discuss?'

'You know' says he. 'Current affairs, politics, the government.'

'The government?' says I.

'Good, honest bunch' says he.

'I'll drink to that' says I. We raised our steins in a toast.

'Sport too' says he.

'Is that right?' says I. 

'It is,' says he, 'the giraffe's mad for the golf. Are you into the sport yourself?'

'I am' says I, as I downed me shot and sucked on a wedge of lemon.

'Which one?' says he.

'The one with the ball' says I.

'That's a good one' says he.

'What about music?' says I.

'What about it?' says he.

'Do you discuss it?'

'We do' says he and hit a triple twenty. 'Do you play?'

'I don't' says I and potted the black. 'I don't play seven instruments, including the Peruvian Harp Flute and The Amazonian Ukulele.'

'Would you believe,' says he, 'they're the very instruments I do play?'

'I would' says I, as I composed a sonata for piano.

'Well,' says he, 'how did you get started?'

'On what?' says I.

'On the ol' lying' says he.

'I've never told a lie in all me days' says I.

'Me neither' says he.

Deciding against desert, we polished off the last of the spuds and went our separate ways.

 

Briga Saulė, 2014

Briga Saulė, 2014

by Brigita Stasun