HARNESS HAPPINESS!
That’s what the giant sign hanging over the stage read. Three large silver discs—clearly not metal, but covered instead in cheap aluminum foil—hanging from the rafters, swaying slightly, and resembling both Annie’s necklace and the chain and washer I had found underneath Jasper’s floating body in the log boom pool.
A shimmering bright font on a large projector screen sparkled and danced across the display with the now-familiar words—WISH IT! WILL IT! WIELD IT!
Declan sashayed back and forth on the dais waving his hands up in the air as he tried to rile up the audience. He grinned ear-to-ear as he kept his groove going, crowing enthusiastically into the headset microphone hovering near the corner of his lips.
“Boom sha lock lock boom, ya wally glunterpecks!”
I hung my head in embarrassment, but given my cousin’s borderline inhuman tolerance for alcohol, I couldn’t tell if he was three sheets to the wind or simply just extra buzzed from the thrill of having a large crowd hungry for some life advice in the palm of his hands.
“Golly, his arms are covered in so many tattoos,” I overheard a frumpy, fifty-something woman mention to her milquetoast husband, while gawking at the full-sleeved orange, green, and black tats adorning Declan’s striated biceps, triceps, and forearms.
“He sure doesn’t look Russian, does he?” chimed in the meek man.
Declan glanced backstage over his shoulder and made a slicing motion with his index finger across his neck. The classic tune by the Irish-themed, hip-hop trio faded. He flicked away the butt of his smoke, then clapped his hands together repeatedly.
There was some mild applause as a portion of the perplexed crowd joined in, still unsure of what exactly was going on, but apparently willing to go along with it for the time being.
“All right, ladies and lads! Keep smackin’ yer mitts together an’ let’s hear that boola bus!”
The uncertain clapping grew a bit louder.
“Now, who’s ready to grab life by the barse and take charge o’their futures tits sweet?”
The influx of Emerald Isle slang combined with Declan’s own distinctive terminology, including his beloved bastardization of the French expression tout de suite for “right away,” was too much for some people.
“You’re not Jim!” shouted a surly-looking silver fox in a polo shirt.
“Where’s Kooty?” demanded another audience member.
“Who the hell are you?” screeched a woman.
“Keep yer Alans on, Mates. Me name is Declan St. James. An’ ol’ Koots asked me to fill in for him.”
“Is he sick?” asked Silver Fox.
“Let’s just say he’s in no condition to take the stage this afternoon.”
“I want my money back!” bellowed a ripped skinny fat dude in a tank top, whose muscular arms contrasted with his prominent pot belly and chicken legs. He jumped to his feet and let loose a few obscenities to drive home his request before the rest of the equally distressed crowd turned restless and began getting out of their chairs.
Declan furrowed his brow as the tide turned against him. A moment later he spotted me in the back of the audience and his frown turned upside down.
“Quit yer ragebaggin’, folks! We got us a celebrity here among us! Give it up for professional wrasslin’ superstar ‘Hammerhead’ Jed Ounstead, who owes all o’his fame an’ fortune to the three Ws program!”
My cousin pointed in my direction and a hundred heads turned to stare at me. Realizing I couldn’t leave Declan in the lurch, I begrudgingly walked forward while the crowd politely clapped until I climbed up onto the stage and took my place at his side.
“What took ya so bloody long,” he snapped, covering the microphone with a closed fist. “I sent yer arse like ten texts.”
I realized I hadn’t checked my phone since I received Annie’s message and mounted Odysseus. I silently cursed the carry-pouch looped around the belt of my cargo shorts. The leather sheath may have come in handy during investigations, but the thing negated the vibration of a mobile phone. I reached into my EDC case and flipped on my iPhone’s ringer, when Declan noticed what was in my other hand.
“Jaysus, ya stopped to go shoppin’?” he asked incredulously, before using a couple fingertips to open and peer inside the bag. Seeing the male enhancement item I had been given by Dicky Diamond, Declan grinned devilishly. “Good on ya, Jed.”
“The Doukobor, D,” I growled.
“In the back,” he said, nodding behind the stage. “He’s waitin’ for ya.”
I knew there was a catch, but between the undercover rodeo clown action, petting zoo knife fight, and ostrich ride, I had experienced enough tomfoolery for one afternoon and decided to take him at his word. But before I could head toward the back, Ripped Skinny Fat Dude stomped up the aisle on his gaunt gams and stabbed an accusatory finger at me.
“Liar! He’s been famous for years. The three Ws program had nothing to do with it!”
I froze in my tracks. Ever the consummate sweet talker and brimming with malarkey, Declan seemed confident he could handle the cantankerous crowd.
“Go on, now,” he said to me in a hushed tone. “I’ll keep these eejits busy an’ buy ya some time to question that Russki bastard.”
He unwrapped his fist from around the headset microphone, spread his arms wide, and stepped forward into the spotlight. “Easy, Boyo! Ya gotta crawl before ya can walk, am I right?”
“What the hell does that mean?” snapped Ripped Skinny Fat Dude.
Declan rubbed his hands together, turned away from the crowd for a moment, then spun back around and produced a small red and silver can of Hell’s Gate Premium Lager as if it had magically appeared out of thin air. The crowd oohed and aahed at the optical illusion.
“Wish it!” he crowed.
He popped the top of the beer.
“Will it!”
Declan threw back his head, chugged the entire three hundred and fifty-five milliliter brew, smacked his lips, belched, then crushed the empty can on his forehead.
“Wield it!”
Declan flung the flattened metal disc out into the audience and threw his fists in the air victoriously. The crowd suddenly seemed awfully motivated by my cousin’s demonstration, because I could still hear their chuckles and applause by the time I made my way backstage to the room where I finally found the enigmatic spiritual leader whose cheap branded jewelry was somehow inextricably linked to the death of my lumberjack buddy.