Reverend Henry pulled up to the compound in a beat up old VW van, and got out, followed by a billowing cloud of pungent smoke. He was a squat, stocky character with a natty dome adorned by dreadlocks down to his waist. He carried a plastic rafting oar like it was some kind of power staff.  "Cum dung fas anna get deh dogs B, dere's no time fe dally," he ordered.

I hurried to the kennel, leashed the lads, and rejoined Reverend Henry a few moments later. "What now, Rev," I asked breathlessly, barely able to restrain the Dobermans in their frenzy to find and protect their master.  "Dese dogs a goan a tek we de a Bad Bwai inna balmyard. Cum run! Haf fe go now!"

With that, I let up a little on the leashes, all but being dragged behind as the Dobies tore out the gate of the compound and into the woods out back. Reverend Henry shuffled along close behind with remarkable speed for a gait so ungainly. We were barely 100 yards into the trees when we were set upon by a dozen or so Waxy Winged Shape Shifters that had taken the form of Matt Kramer, complete with Hawaiian shirts and khaki slacks. K-J, K-mus and Turdley were occupied with eight of the evil creatures in what was essentially a standoff, as Waxy Wings prey exclusively on humans and the dogs could do little more than rip off the odd limb, which would only grow back in a week or two anyway.

One went at Reverend Henry, who laid it low with a well-placed fungo from his plastic paddle. It twitched sickeningly, trying to rise, whilst the Reverend turned his attention to my attackers and me. The remaining three had come straight for me, but I was ready for them, throwing a handful of thyme in their faces, expecting them to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West in a Jacuzzi. Imagine my surprise when they were all over me, unfazed, with those slimy tongues caressing my cranium like some nefarious foreplay before sucking my brains out. I cast a desperate glance at Reverend Henry, hoping that he would do a Sammy Sosa on these daemons too, but instead he only bowed his head, folded his arms and composed himself. After a few moments, he looked up, raised his oar high and let out a great cry:

"Park deh karma!"

And as one, the Waxy Wings fell dead, reverting to their true form. They were a bright green and looked a little like giant humming birds with stunted arms and legs.

"Please, Reverend Henry, Reverend Henry please," I begged. "Tell me what just happened! I thought the only way to kill these things was to sprinkle them with fresh thyme."

"No mon, ya no feh unastan… I mon no seh fresh thyme, I seh fresh time!"

"Say what," I replied dumbly.

"Run, cum see, B," Reverend Henry went on, "dread a be dread ana gotta be one wid deh moment, mon, ana live eva breath unto Jah, ina fullness a time. Lika soun a one han clappin’ and like dat. An den, wenna be inna deh zone as deh ‘igher mon seh, need feh only mekka deh word, an dat’s whatta seh ‘bout sprinklin dese tings wid a fresh time."

I didn’t have thyme to think about what he had just told me, because the lads were off towards wherever the rest of the Shape Shifters were holding Bree, so we lit off again in pursuit. After a minute or two, Reverend Henry pointed to our left and said "Big bangarang dat weh, B!" And indeed, we could hear a great commotion, with the dogs’ vicious growls and the high pitched whine of the Waxy Wings. We hurried on and came to an old graveyard where we saw the battle taking place. K-J, K-mus and Turdley had fought their way to the unconscious Bree, where they were valiantly keeping about two dozen of the Shape Shifters at bay. However, sheer force of numbers would soon overwhelm them, so again, Reverend Henry bowed his head a moment, and then let out another great cry:

"Walk deh dogma!"

And all the Waxy Winged Shape Shifters fell dead, save the biggest one, their leader. He turned upon the Reverend and charged at him in a rage, but the Reverend uttered a casual "Poof," and the demon dropped like a slow motion bone in a old Kubrick movie.

We quickly went to Bree’s aid, hoping we weren’t too late. Cradling his head in my lap, I spoke to him urgently, saying, "Bree, are you still with us, man? Do you know who you are?"

After a few seconds, he opened his eyes, and with a demented grin replied weakly, "I’m Billy Bree Bob, that’s me." He would go on repeating this for some time, but at least he was alive, so we helped him back to the compound and put him to bed, where he fell into a deep sleep, with Reverend Henry keeping a watchful eye over him.

After the nightmare that had just ensued, we were lucky to still be able to stage Bree’s Parker Muscatel tasting, but it was an anticlimactic dud. The wine was all swill and the crowd got ugly and left early. We would have been better off with Gallows Heartless Burgledy; at least it had Jeanie’s tight red sweater on the label.

Sex sells, even when the wine still sucks.

Reporting from Sonapanoma,

Bastardo

Disclaimer: Any resemblance between the characters in this dispatch and actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidence and a fig-Newton Claret of my twisted imagination.

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