Alberto Drops In To Save The World: Part 6

Part 1: Alberto Drops In To Save The World.

Alberto existed somewhere, and now he’s back in lutruwita. Apart from the quantum jump having made him terribly hungry, he just might have to save humankind.

Part 2: Alberto Drops In To Save The World.

As if being an extinct species wasn’t enough, Alberto has to come to terms with the modern world. And being a pretend dog.

Part 3: Alberto Drops In To Save The World.

A foray into the heart of nipaluna doesn’t go quite as planned.

Part 4: Alberto Drops In To Save The World.

An ‘animal of no particular species was responsible’, says the patrolman. But the secret’s out.

Part 5: Alberto Drops In To Save The World.

Alberto gets lost, and quite a few things get smashed…winter, and chaos, is coming!

Part 6

Jackie Nitaki paused for a moment. She sent the video from Byron’s phone to her own, then deleted it.

She put the phone back on the ground and went inside. She would be upstairs working away when Byron Brookes woke up. Whenever that was.

* * * * *

Inspector Don Sell spent the morning fielding shy but persistent questions from journalists. About thylacines. There were others coming in about breaches of lockdown rules and so on, but it was the thylacine ones that were getting to him.

He’d sent officers to the scene of the attack to look around, and there was a bit of forensics to come back. So he could dead-bat for a little bit.

But he knew that ‘animal of no particular species’ wasn’t going to cut it. As much as he was reluctant to accept Zachary Greene’s version of events, it was at least now on a formal statement so he could work with that.

A few flashlights went off as he walked into the media room and too his place at the lectern. Sell was standing in front of a large ‘Report breaches of COVID-19 regulations, 1800 36 22 37’ sign coloured a stern dark blue and decorated with fanciful spiky coronavirus spheres.

Just after midnight last night, two police officers on routine patrol have stopped a man on a bicycle and asked his reasons for being out and about. During the course of questioning, an ani…a dog has leapt at one of the officers and has attempted to bite her on the neck. She has fallen to the ground with a slight injury and her partner has rightly attended to her and called for backup. The man that they stopped was later charged with two offences, being Failure to Comply with a Public Health Directive, and Failure to Exercise Effective Control of a Dog. We have notified the Council that there may be a dangerous dog at large and provided a description.

He looked up from his prepared statement. The room was somewhat thin, with journalists working on a pool arrangement. One camera operator and two journalists who alternated with the questions.

“Will you provide us with a description?” asked Gaynor Deadwood of the ABC.

“It’s not usual practice to provide descriptions of animals. People know what a dog looks like.”

Deadwood looked over at Emilia Bumberg who was representing commercial TV stations.

“According a report in the nipaluna Newsmonger…the patrolman at the scene said ‘possible thylacine attack’ when he called the incident in,” she said as she looked up from her notes.

“It’s not usual practice to comment on news reports either,” Sell said bluntly.

“So that’s not true?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Is there video footage?”

“We’re reviewing all evidence. As I said, a man … let me see, a 35-year-old man, address withheld, was charged with two offences and an officer received a shallow wound to the neck. She attended hospital briefly to treat the injury and then was sent home.”

“Was the ‘dog’ microchipped?” asked Deadwood.

“We’ll be looking at the man’s ownership of the dog as part of the investigation.”

There was enough silence for Sell to tap his papers in a we’re-all-done-here gesture.

“So it could not possibly have been a thylacine?” asked Bumberg hurriedly, sensing that the Inspector was off guard.

Sell turned to her before he headed off.

“If you want a story about extinct animals, go to the museum.”

* * * * *

Alberto had slept until almost mid-day.

Zach was working in his back-room office as usual. His mind was still racing from the night before. And, though he would be loathe to admit it, he had not been able to sleep waiting for Alberto to come home.

Alberto wandered into the office and saw Zach was busy tapping away at a computer. He farted a few times, licked his ankle and then retreated to the sofa in the living room.

There was a knock at the door.

Zach came running. Doodle! he cursed to himself. If I peer through the curtains to see who’s there I’ll look like a curtain-twitcher. He cursed himself again for not being much of a handyman and never installing a peephole.

The best he could manage was opening the door quite slowly so he could think a little as he clocked who was there.

“Hello Mrs Tweddle,” he said.

“Yes, young man. I’ve been thinking about you.”

Zach gulped.

“And that ‘dog’ you’re looking after.”

Gulping? It was a good season for that.

“Yes.”

Again.

“There’s something not right about him.”

Alberto was only a few metres away from the entrance hall, and had his ears up. Zach could almost see him out of the corner of his eye but didn’t want to glance in that direction. He tried to focus, at least mentally, and he did that by pushing his glasses a little back up his nose.

Zach nodded vaguely at Mrs Tweddle.

“Maybe he’s…I mean, it’s, ah, possible that-”

“And on the news it said that there is a dangerous dog at large.”

Zach gulped the gulp of all gulps, bigger even than the Persian Gulp.

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Tweddle as she looked Zach dead in the eye. “Which reminded me that as you are not experienced with these animals, you may not be aware of signs of distemper.”

Zach’s face turned from stone to wet clay, at least slightly malleable.

“Have you heard of the DogKeeper program?”

Zach tipped his head to one side quizzically.

“It’s a new program from the federal government to assist people having a hard time financially to keep their dogs,” she explained confidently. “There is a small subsidy per fortnight to assist with the cost of maintaining a dog. You can apply for it online. I’m sure a young person like you could manage that. And that site has links to all kinds of information about how to look for a dog, keep a dog and so on.”

“That…sounds…that’s useful information. Thank you Mrs Tweddle. And sorry about that time, when, you know, he tried to…”

“Distemper I say. I know dogs!” she said, clicked her heels and strode back up the path to the street.

* * * * *

Byron Brookes had called a press conference at his own house.

Gaynor Deadwood was there but this time it was Brent Gee filing for the commercial tv stations. Jennarenn Jetsam from a community radio station had turned up as well, looking a little out of place. She generally only got out for one media call a day. And in these times, with crowd limits, she was a bit reluctant. But this sounded like it was going to be on a doorstep so there would be room to physical distance in the front garden. Deadwood said the cameraman was running late.

The three waited out front, expecting he would be out soon.

“I reckon he’s going to announce he’s been appointed a special trade envoy to the Kingdom of Zot or some other festering hole that has a sheltered workshop for old maaates,” said Deadwood.

“Will probably have to survive on a lousy half-mil a year, plus expenses, chauffeur, housekeeper and the whole shooting match,” responded Gee. He was the most experienced reporter in all of Tasmania and had seen it all, frankly.

Brookes opened the door.

“Come through, ladies and gentlemen, I’m about to show you something incredible. This way.” He held open the front door and pointed them through the townhouse to the rear courtyard.

The three journalist walked through the house, noting that there were still empty merlot and beer bottles strewn across the floor of the living room. The rear yard was a bit tidier, but as the cameraman arrived and they waited for him to set up, Jetsam noted a few shards of broken glass on the pavers.

Byron Brookes cleared his throat.

“Thank you for coming. I’ll be brief.”

Gee sighed. Brookes had every media organisation in the state on his retirement speech yesterday, and he still hasn’t finished. Be brief my ring.

“Last night I was sitting in this very spot contemplating my future. Right here. Right where that chair is.”

He pointed, and held the gesture. The cameraman thought about panning to see what it was, then realised he could get a shot later and cut it in.

“It was late, and it was dark. Ish. I’ll grant that. But I was sitting there when a Tasmanian tiger leapt from the bushes, these bushes,” – he pointed again, this time behind him – “and attacked me. It knocked me over and I hit the ground hard. You can imagine.”

He let that hang for a little while.

“While I was lying there, the animal escaped. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Let me tell you it came as a surprise to me too. But I am certain that it was a tiger.”

The journalists looked at each other. Deadwood was desperately trying to recall when and where the incident the police didn’t really want to talk about had occurred.

“How certain?” blurted out Jennarenn Jetsam. “Had you been drinking?”

A look came over Brookes’ face.

“Where are you from? If you’d been out of nappies a bit longer you’d know that’s quite an offensive question to ask.”

“Fudge Radio. I’ve been out of nappies for nineteen years and if you talk down to me again I’ll punch you in your big, fat, red, chronic-alcoholic nose. Answer the question Mr Brookes. Had you been drinking before you were attacked, as you claim, by an animal that has been considered extinct for 86 years?”

Gee and Deadwoon tried to stifle laughs. Brookes decided it was time to turn on the boyish. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, he mused to himself.

“As you would expect, my wife and I shared a glass of champagne to celebrate the passing of the political phase of my life,” he said with grin. “Just one glass…and we thank the vintners of Tasmania for their fine sparkling wines, what a great job they have been doing in the economic conditions fostered by the hard work I put in over so many years. It was just after that – we were about to take a romantic video selfie together – that the Tasmanian tiger attack occurred.”

Jetsam coughed lightly, and everyone glared to her. You just couldnt’t cough anywhere these days.

Brookes suddenly was a possibility of fighting the headwinds and changed.

“As a matter of fact, I had my camera out at the time,” he said brashly. “I am now about to show you, for the first time, the last video taken by my phone camera. Afterward I will be happy to forward you this video for examination. I repeat. I have not personally actually watched this recording. It has not been downloaded, nor edited. It is completely as shot, last night.”

He held is phone up dramatically. The cameraman zoomed in. Even Brent Gee held his breath for a moment.

“As you can see, the screen is broken. That happened, I can tell you – I can tell the world – as the incident unfolded and the tiger knocked the phone from my hand.”

Brookes pressed the play button.

There was darkness, then a blur as the camera swivelled.

Some kind of light. Maybe a desk lamp. An office scene? Important-looking books in the background. More blur. A body.

“Now you’ve retired, you can spend more time with me, Brookesy wooksy,” said a pair of luscious, pale white tits up close and very naked.

Jennarenn Jetsam spun around and vomited copiously in the bushes. Poor Elmo the Wonder Dog.

The secret’s out, and Alberto is on the run! Join Alberto and Zach’s coronavirus adventure in Part 7 of Alberto Drops In To Save The World next weekend.