Chapter 5: The Immaculate Jagoffs of Pittsburgh

For Man, Beast and Bird

While the HARK Valley Press comic novel is available to purchase (hard cover, paperback or digital edition) on Amazon (click here), as a subscriber you are receiving chapters of The Immaculate Jagoffs of Pittsburgh. Still on Dec. 23, 1972, we roar into Chapter 5, after a Foreword explaining how a linguist came into a tattered manuscript, and the first four chapters set before and early during the now-famous Immaculate Reception game. At the historic “Original Fish Hahs” dahn Market Square, where the massive bartender Gregorious (aka “Groggy”) presides, Scan begins to realize the implications of giving in to that jagoff Clay, and leaving the game with a minute to go… (As this book is written in "aggressive Pittsburghese," a guttural language mixing German, Hungarian and localisms, we are including the translation guide.)

GREGORIOUS

“My granpa usedta drink red eyez an toe tapperz dahn this ole joint,” Clay musedt, as they passt tha sign abaht how tha place opent a hunred yearz ago an went inside. Tha Original Fish Hahs wuz pretty dead, six er seven drinkerz spread aht tha long shiny still bar includin a black-hairedt chick, abaht twenny four, big sharp beak nose atween crazy-blue eyez, tight bellbottom jeanz, No. 5 Hanratty jersey. She was jabberin sumfin ta Gregorious, aka Groggy, the massive flabby mountain a a bartender who wuz tryna ignore her.

She chugged from a Ahrn bottle, burpt an slammt it dahn awn tha bar, sayin, “Scuse me! Hit me again, big boy!” Groggy rollt iz grey bloodshaht eyez an give er another un; a red eye fer a red eye, Scan thought. 

“Scuse me,” she said, burpin agin. “Now lemme get this right: Yer Groggy an yu usedta work up Groggy’s?” she slurrt.

“I own it,” he said, head-noddin at Clay an Scan. “Howz yer ole man?” he axed Clay, poppin two Ahrnz fer Clay an Scan; shit, thought Scan, who wuz gonna get a Rollin Rawk. But.

“Hez good, Gregorious–thankz fer axin,” Clay said, an slid like a snake next ta tha Hanratty chick, ignorin seventeen other empty stoolz.

Smilin at a new victim, plus one who was her age unlike tha mill hunkz dahn tha bar, she goez ta Clay: “So, Groggy over here ownz Groggyz up air,” she said, vaguely pointin wif her cigarette ta tha winda overlookin Market Square, flippin her hair flirtily.  “...but they eighty-sixted him from iz own bar soze he has to work dahn here! Right, Groggy?”

“Long story that I ain’ gaht tahm fer,” Groggy said, slammin dahn tha sweatin bottlez.

Waitin til Groggy had drifted far enough dahn tha bar ta not hear, Clay leant over an whispert in tha girlz ear: “Some jagawff gaht smart wif im up air–Groggy cut iz throat.”

“Get aht!” she joyfully shriekt, as if Clay told her Groggy had a litter a puppiez behint tha bar. “Hey–Groggy!” she callt.

“What now?” Groggy grahlt, lumberin back tawardtz em.

Scan jumped up tha bar ta intercept.

“Hey Gregorious–what wuz tha final score?”

“Don’ know an don’ care,” Groggy croakedt. “Dint yinz go?”

“We lef early ta beat traffic wif a minute left,” Clay callt aht.

“Forty secondz,” Scan involuntarily corrected.

A pair a mill hunkiez–big beardz, union hatz, abaht 650 pahnz atween em–looked at each other an explodet in laughter.

One pointed at Scan.

“Best finish ever–ya missed it!”

“Yinz lef early?! Classic frickin hall a fame jagawff move!” tha other said, pointin wif a crookedt (from bein broke a bunchat tahmz) finger up at tha lil TV. 

Scanz frightent eyes fallad tha crookedt point ta a crackly, dented black an white set mounted up tha wall. Channel 2 coun’t show tha game cuz it wuz at home, but they had Bill Currie in some Gawd awful bright green sportz jacket dahn in front tha stadium, tryna talk ta a buncha screechin drunkz. The sound wuz awff but there wuz big text dahn tha bottom a tha screen:

MIRACLE WIN FOR STEELERS!

Scan choket awn iz beer an gaggt–he had ta get air. He put tha bottle dahn awn tha bar an pusht awff Clay who lazily grabbed at iz arm, sayin, “Where yinz goin?” Scan ignoredt im, pushed through tha front door an run over ta tha fountain where he pukedt fer 30 seconds straight, recyclin tha dayz beer. He coughed a bunch an spit when tha reverse drinkin endedt, pantin and disorientedt like a dog after chasin itz tail.

Finely, iz gaze focused on tha fountain inscription:

FOR MAN, BEAST AND BIRD.

Sumfin abaht that give im hope. Maybe Channel 2 gaht it wrong–woun’t be tha firs tahm–an he didn’t just make tha mistake a his life? 

But as he used iz jacket sleeve to wipe iz mahf an spit inta tha fountain, tha glimmer a hope wuz stompt aht: He heard a convoy a hornz gettin closer, lookt up an seen a great big crahd in black an goldt swayin forward like a drunken army at im, chantin

HERE WE GO STILLERZ…

Scan retreatedt like they wuz blitzin after im back inta tha bar. Clay turnt as he come in an they lahkt eyez.

“We misst it,” Scan said, disgustedt.

“Wut?” Clay said, turnin iz head sidewayz like a puppy.

“Stillerz won.”

“Oh yeah I heard who carez.”

“Gerela musta kickt a field goalt,” Scan gruntedt.

Clay pullt awn Scanz jacket an directed im awn tha stool up tha other side a tha Hanratty girl. “This is my roommate Scan,” Clay said ta her, an she offered a limp sweaty hand which Scan disgustedtly shook. “Scan, check this aht: Her namez Terry an shez gaht a Hanratty jersey awn,” Clay gushed, like it wuz tha greatest scientific discovery since Jonas Salk.

She drunkenly shruggt an lit a Virginia Slimz. “So wut?”

“I hate Bradshaw!” Clay cacklt. “Ta be hones, I like Joe Gilligan er wutchacallim–but Hanrattyz better than that redneck nerd Bradshaw.”

“Oh I don’ know whoze who–my boyfriend gaht it me–gaht me it,” she hiccuppt.

Clay winkt an mawk whispered at Scan: “Oh–she gaht a boyfriend.”

“Hez comin ta pick me up after tha game on accahnt I don’ wanna freeze my titz awff dahn air,” she said. “That dam game over yet?”

“Naw it’s like halftahm,” Clay said, winkin at Scan. “Hey Gregorious get this lovely lady another un awn me,” Clay callt.

“She don’ need another one,” Groggy said, not lookin up from wipin tha bar half-assedly. “She been here owl day an shez drunk as a skunk.”

“Suck my big fat dick!” she owl a sudden screamt, flickin her lit cigarette at Groggy an spittin a hawker at im.

Everbody froze; Groggy mebbe usedta be a hitman an mebbe still wuz, an whatever he wuz he wuz definitely huge an fer sher once tore a door awffa bar (not his) an smashed a cop car wif it cause tha cop called him a dumb fat Polak.

But Terry NotHanratty immediately took a sack, droppin her head awn tha bar wif a thud wahl sobbin sloppily. “Aw shit Groggy I’m sorry yer a nice guy I’m jus a jagawff bitch wif no self control like everbody sayz!”

Shaking iz head in disgust, Groggy angrily grabbt a Ahrn aht tha icebox, twisted tha cap awff even though it supposably needed a opener an slammedt it awn tha bar nex ta her head–Scan an Clay flinched, thinkin he wuz gonna crack her skull wif it, but he dint.

“Jesus Mary an Tha Pope, if it means that much herez a frickin beer–don’ make a frickin Romeo an Juliet tragedy aht it,” he grouset, crossing iz massive armz over a gut that could prolly stop a tank.

“Here you go Groggy keep the change bud,” Clay said as he pushed a five tawardtz tha edge a tha bar.

Scanz self-disgust, shame an anger suddenly turnt ta weird alarm: 1) Clay never bought drinkz for chickz; an 2) Clay never tipped (which gaht im eighty-sixted from a lahta jointz). But then Scan caught aht hiz peripheralz aht tha plate-glass winda a sea a jagawffz pourin inta Market Square like a giant overturnt pitcher a black an goldt beer; even wif them thick lead windaz you could hear em screamin so lahd you woulda thought George Worshintin climbt up aht iz grave an wuz leadin them inta battle against Englan er sumfin.

Scanz kneez buckledt.

How could he a lef early?

Why’d he have ta listen ta Clay?

Who suddenly handed Scan a fresh beer.

“Best day ever,” Clay said, slammin iz bottle inta Scanz.

Scan shook his head. “Worst day ever. We missed it.”

He knowed e should be happy on account a they won but felt like he could collapse, thinkin a owl them crappy seasonz an crappy playerz an bonehead lossez like when wutzizname spiked it on the 1 yard lahn–owl this crap since he fell in love wif tha Stillerz an clung onta them at 8 years old like they wuz Santa Claus an iz reindeerz in shoulder padz.

An now!

“Frick it they’re just gonna lose next week,” Clay said, grinnin crazy. “Bradshawz a nerd an a klutz. An I gaht Hanratty!” He lookt arahnd then added conspiratorially, “An her boyfriendz a cop!”

The shock a Clay goin after chickz wif boyfriend had long wore awff fer Scan. And he had long ceased carin abaht Clay’s ever-changin rationale: because it makez em more valuable, because it makez em feel dirty an then they really let loose, because a tha danger a gettin caught like when you wuz in junior high gettin stoned up tha woodz…Scan dint care abaht any a that, xspecially now. He took a long drink a cold Ahrn ta try ta drahn tha lump in iz throat. Leavin early; just so he dint have ta walk…Scan felt like he’d did tha ultimate betrayal–like he’d gone up ta another lady an called er Mom.

There wuz only one thing ta do: Beat tha rush pourin through tha door. Scan rushedt up next ta Hanratty an orderedt three more awff Groggy. He put a buck (quarter each plus tip) dahn an when Groggy put tha beerz dahn Scan grabbt em away from where Groggy set em in fronta Clay an tha girl.

“Hey!” tha girl slurrinly protested.

“Don’ let him drink no tequila!” Scan orderedt, gettin in the girlz face.

“Why?” she said, laughin. “Does it make im turn inta tha werewoof?”

“Just don’t,” Scan warned, shaht a look at Clay who give im a crookedt “oh well” grin.

Scan hugged tha bottlez ta his Mt. Lebo jacket like he wuz a runnin back an pushed izself ta tha back a tha long bar, headin fer a lil table in tha back corner jus as a second wave a tha crahd slammt through tha front door like high school kidz headin fer a kegger.