So here's the story as Sean told it to me, just yesterday, which is just as he remembers it and no wonder, with all the adrenaline that must have been in his bloodstream that night. It would probably take years of world-class therapy to erase that memory.

So it was this Fire-Man, not that one. It wasn't this painting, it was another one. And, most importantly, Sean would like it known that he paid the man. Original, erroneous version of this story here. Updated here.

Record all straight? Good, now we get to the amusing bits.

First, a statement from the artist.

00:00 … so far, and razed them to the ground in a smoking heap of ashes …
* 00:00 LS TILT, NICE LIGHTS – CARS PASSING
00:12 … petrified and turned into diamonds, that those things may then estimate the true value of our endeavor, long after the actual actions have passed and collapsed into themselves, which they will do instantaneously and all the time. Claps off. Claps on. Too much electricity boys. I’m just making sure that the lightening doesn’t strike you, okay? Excellent.

Excellent. So that's all clear then? Well here's how I heard it late last night. It was dark, but unfortunately nobody could really call it stormy, so we'll just have to take what we can get, atmospherics-wise.

The Heathers (that's them over there) did commission Fire-Man to paint the big painting that you see in the Irish Heather to this day, and they were very pleased with it and the artist was very pleased with it and equally pleased with the money he made on it. He was something of a regular at the pub, and Sean was glad to be buying local, art-wise, and besides helping out a fellow Gastownie who could, as with all artists, use a buck or two from time to time. So they commissioned the big painting with the staff and the regulars in it, for that is one of Fire-Man's gifts, the painting of actual people so that they look something like themselves, albeit perhaps more pointy-like about the chin and nose but then he likes them that way. And all was well and all were happy, particularly the people in the painting, who took no end of delight in pointing out their portraits to the other pub-grubbers.

And then they thought, "Gee, it's great to have one. Wouldn't it be nice to have two?" and there you have the moment when it all started to go wrong.

"Hey Fire-Man," said Sean, or words very much to that effect, "How'd you like to do more or less the same thing for us again?" And the Fire-Man agreed, particularly when the innkeep, an all-too-trusting soul and you can ask his sister if you doubt it, added the magic words "here's half the cash up front." A time and date of delivery were agreed upon, and soon enough the artist began Polaroiding and sketching the pub populace in apparent earnest. And making notes on the process.

Cut to several months later…

Sean's been buttonholing the artist for some time now. "Where's the painting, man? The regulars are all asking about it; this is getting embarassing!" and at first Fire-Man squirms a bit and tries to avoid answering. Weeks pass. Finally, Sean says "Look man, if it's not gonna happen, you need to level with me. I have to tell these people something, and we need to do something about that two thousand bucks I gave you." At this, Fire-Man replies soothingly, flashes some good-looking Polaroids of the painting as an almost-finished work in progress, and finally he gives in and gives the man a solid delivery date, about a week later.

Cut to a week later…

The painting, three months late, is about to be delivered. The media has been alerted, and is present in the kind of numbers that only access to good alcohol on an expense account can guarantee, if you know anything about journalists. In the spirit of the thing, as Sean said, they've allowed Fire-Man's posse to put up the painting, all swaddled in myserious canvas, the better to surprise everyone at the official unveiling, it being very difficult to unveil something that isn't veiled in the first place, so this is. And the Heathers all promised not to peek.

The original painting has been taken down and stored so that the new one can go in its (prominent) place. Here is the invitation Fire-Man posted online, which gives you a hint of what to expect.

Come 8pm there are about eighty people packed in the front bar, never the most commodious space in the known universe: everyone in the painting has shown up with their pals, as there is no point being in a portrait unless you are seen to be in the portrait, and the media for there is no point having a public arts event at a bar unless the media covers it (just ask them!), and all the staff and regulars and some freelance art critics for who among us is not, eh? just along for the ride.

Fire-Man enters, blindfolded, attended by a Muse with a scroll, from which said Muse proceeded to read. Let's go to Sean's report:

Now, I don't know if you know Dave at all. He's a real showman. He dresses something like the gimp, only covered in flames, with a flaming headdress. It's quite a sight, I tell you. So it made quite an impression.

The Muse reads from the scroll, a long jeremiad about the evils of Capitalism, with which we are all familiar, how Sean is an IRA hitman, which hardly anyone is supposed to know, and much more along the same lines. If you've ever read an unsuccessful artist's Artist's Statement, you've heard the routine. This goes on for quite some time, and is capped off when the Muse presents Sean with a puppet of the Devil, very dapper and carrying a cane and top hat, and named "Mister Pizzazz," and clearly meant to be a not-altogether flattering symbolic representation of the host.

And Sean is like, oh fine. Bloody artists but he doesn't say it because he's paid good money for a painting and it's time to get to the painting-unveiling, and besides, you don't want to be the party-pooper, and so they turn to the veiled masterpiece and proceed to do the dance of the seven veils or in this case just one, and they unveil the painting.

It's a good painting, as far as it goes, which is not really any farther than the Polaroid from a week earlier had shown it. People are sketched in roughly, the basic form is there, but it's obviously unfinished, particularly as there is a

large hole

in the center of the painting, where Sean and Erin had been painted. Instead of their smiling (if Fire-Man-pointy) faces, there is now a 2 x 2 hole with an extra piece of canvas tacked up behind, bearing the message "Save the Irish Heathens" and with an arrow pointing towards Incendio, down the street.

At first, people applauded. Paintings are nice, particularly paintings you, yourself, are in. All appeared to be going well, and the Muse and Artist stepped into the throng to partake of the merriment. After a few minutes, though, people realized that the reason they couldn't make out their own likenesses wasn't that they'd had too many Guinesses, but rather because the painting was in no way finished.

If there's one thing you don't want to do, it's mess with people's self-images. Let us just say that while things had gone smoothly for a half-hour or so, they turned ugly remarkably quickly. One fellow attempted to express his critique with the form of a blow to the head of the artist, but in this he was unsuccessful. And Sean, by now somewhat recovered from the Mister Pizzazz Bizznezz, started asking some pointed questions such as "where's the rest of the painting, O Mighty Picasso?"

Meanwhile, down the street at Incendio…

Incendio is a nice place, a gourmet pizza joint with chatty, charming staff. They have a lot of Fire-Man's paintings hanging, so they're always up for supporting the still-struggling artiste. Fire-Man had conned Dean and staff into believing he had a brand-new painting for them, and they were holding a Fire-Man unveiling at exactly the same time. This, it turned out, was not a new painting, but actually the 2 x 2 square cut from the Heather's painting. Some of his friends were there, standing around, uncomfortably making excuses for why the artist was late; it is worth noting they were not in on the joke. 

Meanwhile, back at the Irish Heather…

Things had heated up to the point where Fire-Man felt it best to evacuate the building, at least on his part, and so, claiming to the assembled throng that the "Irish Heathens" were being held for ransom for $4,000, the Artiste took flight, tearing down Powell as if his life depended on it, which it might have, followed closely by Sean Heather (who notes "in those days I could still run"), his two brothers-in-law, and his father-in-law, all of whom were somewhat upset and at this point ready to commit artiste-icide without hesitation.

Fire-Man reached Incendio first, arriving slightly out of breath but very impressively, bursting through the door as if pursued by the Hounds of Hell. He had just enough time to announce, "Ladies and Gentlemen, The Irish Heathens!!!" at which point, and with exquisite, if unintentional, timing, Sean and posse burst through the door ready to kill him.

The Fallout: no body count, unless you count the painting or the two thousand dollars Sean paid for it. Fire-Man's artist friends felt bad enough about the whole stunt to pitch in and finish the work, including patching up the hole in the center with the piece from Incendio. One of them even made the painting of the Irish wild boar which hangs over the door to this day. Fire-Man, however, was unhappy with his inglorious treatment, and turned up the next day, having founded a church (sorry Sean, the name escapes me) dedicated to purifying the Irish Heathens of their capitalist tendencies. He stood outside for some time, reading the proclaimations thereof, until some gentlemen in blue came by and requested his presence at the Cop Shop, whereupon he took a swing at one of them and that ended predictably.

He has tried to explain to Sean that he figured the painting would be worth much more if everyone thought he, Fire-Man, was mad, to which Sean made the predictable reply.

The painting hangs in the house of the Heathers, for they cannot hang it in the Irish Heather. The artiste has said if he ever lays eyes on the "abomination" that others have made of his genius, he will paintbomb it.

"It's the biggest damn thing in my house," says Sean, "and not a day goes by when I don't walk past it and think of that bastard, Dave."