Tuesday, 2 May 2017

Who the Hell is Desmond Morris?

For the record, I have no idea who Desmond Morris is. I’ve heard of Bill Morris, the union guy, and Desmond Dekker, who I believe sang that song about his ears being alight, but Desmond Morris is a new one on me. I did try to Google the name, but these big, fat banana fingers of mine are way too clumsy to work this damned smart phone, and so I remain in the dark.

The reason I mention the fellow is because his name came up during a conversation with my contact. “We want Desmond Morris,” he was saying. “We’re going to dog him.”

Never one to let the opportunity for a crude joke pass me by, I immediately leapt at the chance to throw in a dogging reference, but no one laughed. My contact, a serious and occasionally intimidating fellow with a luminous green Mohican, went on to explain that in his particular vernacular, the phrase ‘dog’ means to train someone to obey your every command, to break them of their own will and install total obedience.

And once this Desmond Morris chap has been successfully dogged, my contact intends to make him head of his South American operation. He’s going to send him down there to sort out those Goddamn Beaners.

I was somewhat surprised to hear this. My contact is known for selling illicit contraband around the Bay, but he never struck me as someone who might have an ‘operation’ in South America. In all honesty, I never even suspected he could identify South America on a map. I began to wonder if he hadn’t been watching a little too much Breaking Bad. But when he pulled out a hunting knife and slammed its razor tip into the table top, I was more than willing to listen to whatever he had to say.

“You’re going to find Desmond Morris,” he snarled, pointing a crooked finger at my throat.

“Me?” I exclaimed. “I don’t even know who Desmond Morris is. How the hell am I going to find him?”

“You’re the writer. Start writing.” He slung a laptop at me. “Get on the internet. Find Desmond Morris. If he ain’t right here in this room by nine o’clock on Friday, you and me are going to have ourselves a problem.”

So there you have it. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, I’m now tasked with the job of tracking down this Desmond Morris fellow, whoever he may be. Huh. Who’d be a writer, eh?

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