Allan Guthrie Week: "Sweet Wombat Cream Now, Ya Cunts!"

The Guthries have landed safely in America. You should have seen Sunshine's seven handlers scurry around the airport, fetching his 19 matching Tartan bags and trying to stack them on a rickety PHL luggage cart. "Faster, ya cunts," Sunshine barked, making his way to the stretch Humvee limousine that his publishers had provided for his stay in the U.S., complete with a rotating crew of three drivers, intended to man the wheel in 8-hour shifts, just in case Sunshine had a craving for sauteed bok choy at 3 a.m.. Notice I said intended. As it turned out, the limo had barely peeled out of the International arrivals area when Sunshine started foaming at the mouth, beating at the silk upholstery with reddened fists. "What is this fucking shite? Ah, the cunting bastards... I told them velvet, not fucking silk!" The limo swerved to the shoulder. The driver popped out of his seat, racing for the trunk where he no doubt prayed there was a swath of tartan velvet large enough to cover the back seat, as well as a sewing kit. But Sunshine was faster. Before the driver could blink, Sunshine was pummeling the man's coccyx and arse with a tire iron. ("Never the face," Sunshine explained later. "Nobody'll go anywhere with a cunt who looks like he's gone a few rounds with a fucking meat grinder. I'm a right bastard, but I'm no sadist.") A good 20 minutes later, Sunshine returned the gore-caked tire iron to the trunk and then announced, "From here we walk. Strap on some luggage you cunts." His handlers sprung into action. If you were anywhere near I-95 North last year, just a few minutes from the airport, you may have caught a glimpse of us: a motley crew of men in kilts, charing up the shoulder, with all manner of bags strapped to our backs (18 in all; the 19th bag had contained the kilts--Sunshine never travels without a full set). Every once in a while, if you listened carefully, you could hear the occasional cry of "cunt!" bouncing off the concrete canyons of the city.

Several hours later we made it back to Secret Dead Blog headquarters. Sunshine collapsed onto the carpet and remained there until morning; any attempt by a handler to cover their boss with a blanket was met with a growl and a "piss off, cunt." Meanwhile, I crept down to the basement, where David Terrenoire was working furiously, manipulating wombats in a strange kind of frenzy.

"Only a half bucket, Duane," he said, panting.

"We have only a few hours left 'til morning," I said. "You'd better pump faster. Because Sunshine's in a mood, and trust me, this is not the kind of mood you'll tell your grandkids about someday. This is a foul mood, thick as the Scottish harrrrr."

I left David to his work and caught some sleep. In the morning, we drove Sunshine to 30th Street Station--he woke up with the idea that he'd commandeer a commuter train in the name of Lothian and Borders "just for the fucking hell of it." That's when he realized that he'd missed his usual breakfast of sweet wombat cream, and at that very moment, the Bride snapped the photo at the top of this post. We barely made it out alive.

More tomorrow, from New York.