Storytellers: Lindsay Tuc

Mar 6, 2013 by East to West    2 Comments    Posted under: Features, Storytellers  

“THE AMAZING MOSCATO BROTHERS”—a very short story by Lindsay Tuc.

It might have been 2008. I know for sure it was a Tuesday night. The Walrus and I (I’m serious, everyone calls him that) only ever did acid on Tuesdays, not that we did acid every Tuesday, just that when ever we took acid—it was always on a Tuesday. At the time I drove a 1992 black Mercades coupe and wore a gold watch. I always drove because The Walrus can’t drive, he still doesn’t have a driver’s licence and the world is better off because of that. I am very happy that I am alive and writing this story and I strongly discourage operating a sports car or any other motor vehicle whilst intoxicated.

I dig girls, women too; all sorts of girls. I also dig other things like records but this story is about girls. I can’t remember her name but she was big and dark and South African. We were doing exactly 99 kilometres per hour on the eastern freeway through the pelting rain to meet her and her friend at their town house in Box Hill—we took our hats off to avoid suspicion. The Walrus was text messaging the girls over some dating app I had downloaded for my shiny new iPhone. He loved using the iPhone, and he is good at talking to girls, which was perfect. A perfect storm.

“Moscato!” The Walrus yelled from the passenger seat, directly into my ear, as if he’d been kicked in the nuts. “We need to get some fucking moscato.” We promptly got the off of the freeway. Both of us knew that moscato was some kind of sweet wine and that the girls wanted at least one bottle to drink. We doubled back and slid into Brunswick East like Luke Skywalker diving his X-wing into the death star. “You know what we are” my trusty navigator said as a statement, not a question “the fucking amazing moscato brothers!”—he swears a lot. He went into some dialog about how we were valiant knights delivering sweet wine to two damsels in distress or some of the usual bullshit he spouts; I was concentrating on the road. Somehow we made it to the Railway Hotel in one piece. We strolled into the bottle shop like it was nothing and informed the poor lady behind the counter that we were the official moscato brothers and that we needed two bottles of moscato and a small bottle of whiskey pronto. I paid, The Walrus left a twenty cent tip.

Long story short, as this is a very short story, we made it to Box Hill in high spirits. Beeping twice as instructed we lit a cigarette to share and marvelled at the tonal qualities of a Mercedes car horn. The two South African girls switched the light on and let us in.

“Aaaay it’s the moscato brothers!”

My South African princess was a lot bigger than she looked in her profile photo, her friend was pushing four feet tall at best and wearing a hospital gown and bracelet. The Walrus would like me to point out here that he had no intention of sleeping with either of these girls as he had a girlfriend at the time who was prettier than anyone else’s girlfriend I’ve ever met. That girl could stop traffic, and eventually left him for Jennifer Hawkins’ ex boyfriend. She never liked me anyway, so stuff her.

Sooooooo cuddly… I could have cuddled that girl for the rest of my life and still be happy with my accomplishments. I pushed my head into her massive bosom as she stroked my crotch and sipped moscato and it was fantastic. The tiny girl was on the opposite couch teaching The Walrus how to swear in Afrikaans. The room was littered with African animal plush toys, it was pure bliss. We were on safari. We had reached our destination. Time stopped.

According to The Walrus, the cursing lesson progressed into stabbing lessons as the very small girl in the hospital gown had a knife discreetly hidden upon her person. South African house music that we had never heard before was blaring out of the stereo, which I quite enjoyed until The Walrus suggested that we leave immediately… I suggested that we all get naked. The Walrus had had a knife pressed to his ribs and was bleeding. He stood up screaming bloody murder, pulled out his favourite aluminium knuckle duster and dragged me by the back of my shirt outside to the car. Dude totally killed my high.

Since then I have deleted all dating profiles, sold my car and enjoy cycling, not only for the financial benefits but also for fitness and public safety.