The Sacrifice: Part Three

The Bizarre European surf trip of Doggie and Pipe continues here!

It was to be the road trip of their lives. England. France! Spain!! Portugal!!! Morocco!!!! Yet Doggie and Pipe drove to Biarritz, and… no further. Pipe’s kombi grew cobwebs as the two surfers settled. And why not? Their mansion life hosts were two very different sisters – gorgeous Gabrielle and the hulking but generous Amelie. The food was free, Gabrielle flirtatious and, every day, they were driven to the surf in a Rolls by the reticent butler, Duffoir.


However, all was really au contraire. Amelie? Not a woman, but a murdering smuggler who planned to kill our heroes. Gabrielle? Super sexy bait. And Doggie’s new three board quiver, that he’d won in a pub raffle? A trio of fibreglass mules containing mysterious contraband. To Doggie’s horror, the smallest board, his pet fish, surfed like a legless octopus in the daily tiny waves. So Doggie agreed to drive with Pipe to a nearby cliff. Pipe’s plan? Sacrifice Doggie’s pig dog to the great surf god, Hughie McOmbak.

“Farewell, stick from Hell,” Doggie muttered, and threw his prize into the night.

The board, and several pounds of embedded plastique, spiralled away. Wind gust. It spun back toward the cliff face…


Half the cliff atomized. The rest collapsed. Monstrous rock fragments slid toward the moonlit ocean, taking Pipe and Doggie for the ride.

“I can’t die like this!” screamed Doggie. “There are still three billion women I haven’t slept with!”

“Shut up and climb this tree!” Pipe was already up to the lowest branch.

Doggie staggered after him.

The landslide rumbled on. The ocean rushed up.

Splish! Splosh!


Several hundred thousand tons of hardy cliff plants, fossils, ants, surfers and rock smashed into the Bay of Biscay. Titanic waves rolled out, sinking fishing fleets, flooding boulevardes and cracking oil rigs like Cool Hand Luke cracked eggs. At the epicentre, the highest rock fragment crumbled and bubbled. Pipe and Doggie’s tree lurched, rootless.

Doggie tried to joke. “I’m this close to being completely out of my tree!”

“Shut up and keep climbing!”

The tree twirled.

“Whirl-bloody-pool!” cried Doggie.

“Shut! Bloody! Up!”

The tree spun faster and sank lower as it neared the vortex centre. Pipe and Doggie climbed ever thinner branches.

“Big breath!”

The tree burbled under, away.

Dark water crowded Doggie. He swam toward the stars, but the whirlpool sucked like a Dyson. Pressure crushed his ears. How did I become the Hughie sacrifice?

Something poked his foot. And legs. Scooped, Doggie rushed toward the surface. The tree had bobbed back! Branches poked through the surface like skeletal fingers.

“Pipe?” Doggie gasped. “You… alive?”

A voice groaned from branches above. “No.”

Doggie smiled. “What caused the boom, anyway? You reckon my stick hit an unexploded bomb from World War Two, or something?”

“Or something.” Pipe edged to the end of his branch.

“What now?”

Pipe eyed the distant lights of Biarritz. “Fat boy swim.”

Doggie groaned.

* * * *

The killer in a dress snarled and loomed over Gabrielle. “Do you even know where the English surfing scum are?”

“I… no.”

“There are police reports of an explosion at the Lookout.” Fake Amelie’s hands closed toward Gabrielle’s neck. “If those surfer fools have wasted the explosives, it will not go well for you.”

Gabrielle answered steadily. “Both the van and the Rolls aren’t here. I trust Duffoir has followed them.”

“Duffoir?” Amelie grunted and dropped his spade-sized hands. “When the surfers reappear, do not let them leave your sight! I have to meet with Mr Big and explain why I do not have their auto-destruct plastique! Then the Don wants to discuss his shipment too!”

“You tell me too much.” Gabrielle broke away.

Fake Amelie smirked and strode off.

* * * *

“I’m glad the Atlantic is so polluted and fished out.” Doggie dog paddled toward the beach line-up. “No big sharks.”

“Shut up.” Pipe breaststroked. “We still have to climb the lookout road and get back my kombi.”

“Never a chauffeur when you need one – Whoa!” Doggie kicked. “Set!” He dropped his head and windmilled. But Doggie was too overweight from excess food and too worn out from excess drooling and drowning to catch even a cold. Over the falls he sailed. The wave dumped a load of whitewater on his head and held him under until his lungs squeaked.

Yet when he finally broke the surface and gained back his breath, Doggie cheered. “Woo-hooo!”

“Are you insane?” Pipe staggered over the sandbar. “Wait, of course you are.”

“Did you see how big that wave was? I reckon the swell’s already on the rise!”

Pipe scratched his head. “So our swell sacrifice actually… worked?”

* * * *

Lookout Road was a long, zigzag climb. Halfway up, they heard the sirens. At the top, they saw the whirring police lights – and no sign of Pipe’s kombi.

“It must have slid into the ocean.” Pipe groaned. “My darling!”

“Hmm.” Doggie squinted. “I thought you parked far enough back.”

“Oi.” A lady gendarme approached, firing questions in rapid French.

“Uh… parlez vous British?”

The cop smiled grimly. “You are tourists?”

“Uh… yep.”

“Why are you here?”

Doggie answered. “His k- oof!”

Pipe elbowed him in the ribs. “We just climbed up to check the surf.”

Doggie rubbed his ribs and flashed his sexiest smile. “It’s rising!”

The gendarme inspected their messed up hair and half-naked bodies, covered in scratches. “Perhaps you should both move your romance to somewhere a terrorist crime has not been committed.” She winked, and marched off.

“She thinks we’re gay!” Doggie observed.

“Shut up. Let’s just get out of here, before she returns with more questions.” The duo trudged off. “What the hell happened up here tonight anyway?”

Doggie shrugged. “Something blows up and the cops assume terrorism. But we sure aren’t terrorists…” He rubbed his chin and eyed Pipe suspiciously. “Well, I’m not, anyway.”

* * * *

Halfway down the zigzag road, headlights flashed.

“The Rolls Royce,” beamed Pipe. “Must be Duffoir!”

Sure enough, Duffoir pulled up. The lads leapt in, grinning.

“How’d you find us, Duffy?” asked Doggie.

Duffoir drove, but said nothing.

“He never speaks,” said Pipe. “I reckon he just followed us, like a good chauffeur, and has been waiting down here for us, a safe distance from the cops.”

Doggie shrugged.

Duffoir turned off the cliff road onto an even bumpier side track. He pulled up, climbed out and walked to a fallen branch blocking the track. He heaved, and dragged

the branch aside. There stood…

“My kombi!” Pipe ran forward and hugged the door of his trusty old rust bucket. He turned to Duffoir. “You saved my kombi from the cliff collapse and from the cops!

You’re a non-verbal legend, Duffoir! The Clint Eastwood of chauffeurs!!”

Duffoir lobbed the kombi keys at Pipe, jumped in the Rolls and drove off.

“That guy’s weird,” smiled Doggie. “But cool.” He jumped into the passenger seat and peered into the back. “Stoked. My other two prize boards are still okay. “

“It’s two a.m.,” grunted Pipe.

“Maybe we should party to celebrate our good fortune?”

Pipe fired up the kombi engine. “Let’s check that rising surf first.”

* * * *

“It’s bigger! For sure!” Doggie bounced up and down in his seat. “The whole beach is closing out!”

He looked at Pipe. Pipe looked back. They both knew the swell would soon be too big for any of the beaches around Biarritz. Only one break in this part of Europe would be handling.

The two spoke the magical word at the same time…


* * * *

Gabrielle’s phone tingled against her backside. She seized it.


“Ha ha,” replied the killer impersonating her sister. “I have much good news and some bad. The Man is very happy with the explosion at the Lookout. His people have already claimed responsibility, and will pay in full! And the Don is ready to purchase the contents of the fibreglass mule known as ‘the shortboard.’ The bad news: if you don’t find those English dogs soon, the Don will have me killed.”

Gabrielle couldn’t help herself. “That’s bad news?”

“For you, yes. If I die, you will never see your sisters again!”

“You…” Gabrielle’s face lit up. “I have to go! Duffoir has just driven in. And so have Doggie and Pipe with the remaining surfboards!”

Gabrielle dropped her mobile and ran to the spare room. Pipe and Doggie were packing their bags.

She feigned shock. “You are leaving… without saying goodbye?”

Doggie turned bashful – a good excuse to look down, at her breasts. “Gab… we didn’t think you’d be awake! We won’t be gone for long-”

“We might, actually,” said Pipe. “We suspect Mundaka will be pumping at dawn.”

“Mundaka? In Spain??” Gabrielle’s mind spun. “Then… you must take me as well!”

“You really want to come?” Doggie looked shocked but stoked. “With us? To leave your beautiful mansion and sit in our stenchy van while we surf?”

Pipe nodded. “That really makes no sense.”

“I don’t plan to be sitting and waiting,” smiled Gabrielle. She turned and left the room as enigmatically as Duffoir. She returned with her own backpack – and a packed surfboard bag.

“You surf too?” asked Pipe.

“Wooooh!” Doggie hooted.

* * * *

“Just over an hour until dawn.” Pipe leapt behind the kombi wheel. “This is gonna be perfect timing!”

“You sure you want to drive?” asked Doggie from the back. “You look pretty tired, and half blown up.”

“I’ll be fine. I want to spend some quality time with my van.”

Gabrielle climbed in beside Pipe. “You have surfed Mundaka before?”

Pipe reversed out. “Last time we travelled Europe, we were so eager to surf the legendary wave, we waited there for three weeks. But not a ripple broke. There was no sand at the river mouth.” He turned to Gabrielle with his serious face. “But I know Mundaka is a serious wave, Gab. The best in Europe, many say.”

“I have surfed Mundaka many times,” said Gabrielle. “And there are better waves in Europe.”

Pipe raised both eyebrows.

“Hey!” cried Doggie, fondling his prize surfboard that, unknown to him, held a highly-illegal concentrated serum, and a tiny but growing crack along the stringer. “Isn’t the Mundakky Pro on next week? Maybe there’ll be some pro surfers there too.”

“They better stay out of this goofy’s way,” muttered Pipe, his accelerator foot flat to the floor.

Ahead, the Spanish border loomed.


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