Numbers and stuff... update cheat

32... number of days I've been walking for.
564... number of kilometres walked.
401... number of kilometres to go before I see the end!
4... number of tigersnakes that have scared the shit out of me, as I've almost stepped on them.

So pretty much, thats my weak excuse for not being in contact with the blogging world. :)

No Title...

‘I’m sorry.’ She whispers softly beneath her breath. She is standing just meters in front of me, her hands hug her thin and unique body, her face, without expression is soft and delicate.
‘I was confused, I’m sorry, I was scared.’

‘Don’t be scared, I’m here now. You are so beautiful.’ I say as I watch her eyes tense with tears. ‘Come here, hold me, be near me; please,’ I continue as I reach out to grasp her in my arms.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo’

Fuck where did she go, WHERE DID SHE GO! My heart races and my throat chokes. I lay awake, it’s dark. My sweat grows cold and I reach to the end of the small and lonely bed for a blanket.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster crows again.

Quiet rooster, quiet! Not now you piece of shit, not now. She was right their, right their in front of me and you woke me. Fuck.

I fold the blanket around me, tighter, feeling its comfort as it holds me in the night. Where did you go, come back please.. Please come back. I need to go back to sleep, I’m coming, PLEASE WAIT FOR ME.

A gentle gust picked up from the east and through the small timber window beside my bed, I can just make out the shodow of some leaves, beneath the fading moon they dance and rustle to the calling of the wind. It’s almost morning, maybe that’s why the rooster calls, or is it that he is scared. Are you scared rooster, quiet now, quiet now, it’s time to sleep, don’t be scared. Just a few more hours rooster, please, just a few more hours.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo.’

Fuck, shut the fuck up now! I warn you, I’ll cut your throat before dawn and boil you in the deepest pot. Quiet. Sleep.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster sounds again.

What’s the point, she was never really their, was she. The tears run down my face and drop to the pillow, more follow, and I squeeze tighter.

‘Why did you go, why, please tell me why.’

She shrugs her thin shoulders and I watch as the skin pulls tight over the hollow of her collarbone. Her lips are straight and her eyes, sad with unexplained emotion stare around the room.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo.’

I lay awake in the small cluttered room, my head searching for answers. The rooster keeps calling to the wonder of the morning, but the sun takes an eternity to rise and I sit sleepless in my own sweat. I want to sleep, I’m scared to sleep. I know she will be their, just a figment of my own imagination with no more answers than if I was awake. Please leave. Just leave me alone, I’m tired.

I watch through the shutters as the silky grey of night gives way to the brilliant colours of spring, ripe reds, pinks and greens. Beautiful flowers give glory to those who seek there beauty, as small lifeless limbs sprout supple new shoots. Birds, collecting slaters and slugs, dash from branch to branch and wag there tails with glee as I watch with a fresh feeling in my heart.

‘Cock-a-doodle-doo,’ the rooster crows again.

That’s it; I’m killing that fucking thing!

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 6

A few weeks have passed since that ordeal and the river. Of course, the indestructible aluminium hull has since been at the welders’ joint having a hole patched. Suppose it wasn’t all that indestructible after all. The leak however, appeared after a raging stomp out at the oyster farm. The Boss, well intoxicated, went on another demonstration with a few folks from town.

It is said, when in Carnarvon, one must be stupid drunk, period. ‘Once you have learnt this secret’, I imagine the boss preaching one morning as he tosses me a toasted cheese sandwich, ‘any shithole will seem like paradise’.

There was this time when, ‘Hold on’ I shout over The Vandals and that, what song was it again, that’s right, Long Hair Queer. So Shane braces himself across the backseat like a well armed star fish, the .22 magnum slung firmly across his chest. Zac however can see the corner, holding the shot gun through the window, he leans into the passenger door ready for what is about to happen.

The speedo’ needle finds the 100kmh mark, my knuckles go white and I tear at the handbrake like a tiger tears a throat. The car swings wildly across the gravel track, one instance; I shift down, release the brake and throttle the hell out of the pissy carburettor. The car keeps sliding as Zac lets off a round; the power pole on the far corner splinters as hundreds of pellets blister beneath the timbers skin. The front wheels spin through the dust, it takes hold and we’re through the corner. In the rear view I can see a magnificent dust cloud covering the intersection, we’re safe, and I didn’t even spill the beer.

(Authors note: Destroyed that car some months later in a late night sideways flight from the authorities. We didn’t spill any beer that time either, we had already drunk it).

Through the long lazy heat we drink beer, beer and more beer. When we party we drink vodka mixed with beer and roast oysters over an open fire. When we get drunk, we ‘wrangle’ cods with thick ropes, we shoot guns at bricks and drive fast and eat oysters. The desert sun shines in our eyes, our lips crack and we dance around the yard for the joy of the earth, until it’s late, then we fall in the grass and sleep.

And this other time, Zac was nestled against the bow; in his hand he clutches a 1.0m spear gun and in the other rests a Corona straight from the ice box. He said he was hungry, we should shoot a turtle and you know the next thing, that small outboard is labouring away, flat out, hell screamin’. The hull dancing across the chine, throwing to and fro with the rippling tide we pass through the labyrinth of lurking mangroves. The water’s always clear after the change of tide, we’re lucky we consulted the chart; it’s perfect turtle hunting conditions. So pissing down this river we get talking about the logistics, ‘how do you catch a turtle’, you know, ’you jump on it’, ‘Fuck that, I’m just going to shoot it’.

The fish was sweet the way fresh fish tastes and we ate it while a fat mud crab boils in the brine. Turned out Zac was full of shit, you can’t shoot a turtle from a boat unless you hit the head. After the first ten shots our skin grew tight, we threw in the towel so to speak and went out into the bay where the rusted wreck lay. Zac shot some fish and I climbed across the rusting remains, jumping into the cool salty sea when I was too hot and a fresh beer was in order.

So Mum that’s all for now, as you can see, I’m doing okay and keeping away from those ‘filthy whores’ you warned me about. You know, I really have been thinking about those lovely Christian girls you keep harping on about, if you don’t mind, could you please send one up with the next package, my balls are killing me.

Punk Rock Breakfast - Wired To A Beat

Most girls I know are so lame
Red hot bods
They're all the same
Nothing in between the ears
Just lots of space
Six cans of beer to fuck

See you later
Thanks again
Maybe we can just be friends
All that space inside your head
Makes me want to go to bed and fuck

She lifts the cheap wine glass to her lips and gulps greedily; the outdoor setting is decorated with three empty bottles of Evan & Tate Pink Moscato, some Rosemount Chardonnay and various other Margaret River whites. A desperado at the end of the table explains that he should have got a carton of ‘em; just flown in from site; two weeks pay – time for a piss.

‘I told the guys,’ the platinum blonde, pint sized, beaver screeches, ‘I fucking warned them that if you were coming around, we should fucking hide all this piss. Bad shit always happens when we get on the piss. You remember that time you chased me down the beach, naked, I was only 15.’

‘But I didn’t fuck you that night,’ she continues. ‘I remember my mum telling me that I should hit that shit up, she was like, what the fuck, you should just fuck him.’

She tilts her head back in hysterics, trashy and dogged.

The love I have for her is real
$2.99 the six pack deal
See her with another guy
It makes me laugh
She thinks I cried

Girls in bars they make me sick
But I don't care if they suck my dick
Spend six bucks on dollar night
A prostitute for just one night to fuck

Lyrics by Guttermouth – Just a fuck

The Girl With A Tattoo Of A Gypsy

‘I can’t read palms’, she frowns as I draw my hand away, ‘anyway that’s your past, this is your future’.

She points to my opposing hand; suddenly I feel a burning pass over me. I hide my hand like a murderer hiding a weapon – did she see the darkness in those veins, did she sense that foul aura – if only I could get rid of my hand – no, not here I couldn’t, I best keep it behind me.

‘I read the cards’, she continues.

‘What, like at the blackjack table’.

She smiles and skips over to a small black bull-terrier leashed to a pillar, with whimpering dark round eyes, she knees down and rubs him gently behind his ear – she’s got no visible underwear, not even a G banger – so fit, round and tight, she must not be wearing anything –what would I find if I peeled back those thin black tights. Would it be bald and juicy, what would it taste like?

‘You coming?’ she calls from the staircase, then darts out of view.

The other two have already left and I rush to catch up. I should never have asked about that book she was reading, what was it again? Damn, I wish I had of read it, or at least remembered the author. She had me look like a fool talking about this natural hallucinogenic stuff.

‘I don’t smoke weed much, but when I was over in Cambodia; yeah we smoked heaps; tore the shit out of my throat; wasn’t very good stuff.’

‘Me neither,’ tom replies, ‘I can’t remember the last time I smoked.’

‘Same, I think I was eighteen when I smoked weed with my sister behind the tin shed back home, that was before I had Sam,’ Rach continues.

‘Which way are we going?’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy questions.

‘Oh, over here,’ I point to a raised garden bed and gate, ‘we’ll have to jump it, I don’t know the code.’

We hop the brick wall and drop into an empty car park. Taking Tom’s skate board I push off towards a curb on the far side. I shuffle my feet into position but the board slows and eventually stops. I can hear Tom laughing in the back ground and I turn to see them watching – maybe I’ve drunk too much for this.

‘How far is this spot,’ Tom moans as we pass through the hotel car park and onto the road.

‘Just across the park, a small track leads down to the water.’

It’s longer than I remember and we walk in an awkward drift. Tom talks about his inexperience’s some more, saying things like, ’I always get so stoned when I smoke – everything spins’, I want to agree with him but I say nothing and focus on the thick tuffs of grass beneath my feet.

‘I thought you said this was close by,’ Rach questions.

‘So did I, you can see it just over there,’ and I point to a pathway leading off into the bushes.

The concrete path navigates down a steep seaward cliff. On either side, tall banyan roots tower above us like walls of a cocoon. The air is dense and Tom sighs with relief as he welcomes the coolness on his face.

‘Nobody is ever down here,’ I start, ‘I used too come down after a shit day at work and just daze beneath the trees.’

‘Yeah, that would be pretty cool,’ Tom replies.

The tide is high and the shore is littered with coppery cream sand stones that are smoothed by the sea. Tall trees with coarse, dark brown bark and large sweeping branches flow out across the shore and above the gently lapping sea. Another couple has taken refuge under one of the giants’ branches, he sits busily concentrating on an easel, she knees beside him watching, her hands resting on the inside of his leg.

Trying not to disturb them we find a spot on the far side of the opening. The Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy sits beside a big bushy branch which shades the bright afternoon sun from her face. I rush to sit beside her – don’t want to look like I’m too keen though, remember not to be a cling on.

‘Here you go Rach, you can sit on this rock,’ I point to the rock beside the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eyes me as though I’m acting strange. I am acting strange I think; I’m drunk, drunk for all sorts of reasons and I’m feeling the red of a fool.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘there are crabs under these rocks.’

I take a rock from its place amongst the litter of leaves, coarse golden sand rushes in to the hole that is left behind. I scratch at the leaves around it, nothing – she’s got her tin out, it’s well worn and the print has faded.

‘I can’t roll,’ I say.

‘Neither dude,’ Tom follows.

‘It’s okay, guys,’ she relaxes the tin onto her lap, ‘I can roll.’

I watch for a bit as she thumbs through her print faded tin and produces some papers, careless and with ease she sets them together and folds in a crooked crease – Crabs, need to find some crabs.

I start searching through the rocks and the large brown leaves that cover the shore. Still I can’t spot any.

‘There are crabs here,’ I mumble again.

It’s not until I stop moving that I see them, in the clearing that I have made, the ground has come to life. Small shells, about the size of a penny, drag themselves through the golden sand leaving light trails as they go.

‘Here, here, look,’ and I pick up two and hold them in my palms for the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy.

The small crabs are scared at first and bundle themselves into the safety of the shell. I watch for a moment untill they pull themselves together, in a burst they come out of the shells and dash across my hands, I fumble trying not to drop them.

‘Look,’ I urge again.

She looks away from the half filled paper in her delicate fingers and smiles.

‘Can I see,’ Tom asks and as I lean in to show him, she goes back to fingering the grass within the paper.

‘Wow, they are pretty cool.’

‘Yeah, they are Crazy crabs,’ I reply to Tom.

I shift back and hold the small crabs out to the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘Would you like to hold it,’ I plea.

She looks up from the half spun, cone shaped joint – the crooked crease, now it makes sense.

‘Yeah, in a moment,’ she smiles.

‘Crazy crabs?’ Tom mutters.

‘Can I hold them,’ Rach asks.

Oh, yeah, sure,’ and I hand the smaller of the two too her.

‘Lets smoke this joint hey,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy interrupts.

I drop the crab into the leaf litter below and squeeze in between Rach and the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy; Rach eventually moves across to the next rock and I nestle in beside the Girl. We smoke the joint quietly, well, apart from Tom who coughs like granddad used too, ever toke. I feel the weed take my body in a rush, from my head down until my whole body feels heavy, warm and comfortable. I rub my hands against my jeans, then my fingers against each other; I lick my gums and then my lips. It feels weird and the saliva in my mouth tastes good, rich like a spicy dish, earthy and enjoyable.

‘Crazy crabs,’ Tom repeats

‘Well they used to call them Crazy… Hermit crabs, they are Hermit crabs… they used too call them Crazy crabs.’ I mumble and watch the languid sea through the shade of the large green foliage. A bright lustre reflects from the ripple on the water, it burns my eyes but I can’t look away.

‘Can I hold one,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy asks – shit, I’ve dropped it. I start looking around my feet for the penny sized crab, but it’s gone – there, just under the rock and I reach down and pick it up.

When I turn to hand her the crab she’s already holding one. It’s the one I gave to Rach earlier. She holds it in the delicate tips of her two forefingers, slightly above her head, she speaks in a smooth and gentle voice, ‘come, come out little guy, I won’t hurt you’.

Her lips are moving slowly and I watch with such intensity I see nothing but her tongue swirling through her mouth – what it would be to taste her, too kiss her soft and gentle, just the way she talks. I wonder, I wonder what is beneath that bandana wrapped around her perfect head, does she have cropped hair, cropped hair just like that girl, Rhian, yes, Rhian, she was such a beautiful girl – should I make a move, maybe later, yes maybe later.

‘Do you guys ever wonder,’ she, the Girl with a tattoo of a gypsy starts.

I’m staring. I look into her hands, there is no crab anymore, they are folded neatly between her legs, I scan the ground and see the small penny sized crab beside her feet, it lifts itself from the heavy shell on it’s back, tired, it starts towards the closest rock.

What did she just ask? I’ve completely missed it – do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder, do you guys ever wonder – I have to stop this.

‘Crazy crabs; the shops; to sell them,’ I blurt.

‘Ha-ha, too sell them,’ Rach laughs.

And then silence – what should I say, what should I say…

‘It’s so beautiful; trees; it’s so beautiful; sun… on the water; so beautiful.’

‘Yeah it is really nice isn’t it,’ the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy confirms in that calm and gentle voice.

Yes, this is beautiful.

We sat there for a long time, talking when we could, but more just sitting silently. I thought about a lot of things, foremost I thought about the things I had forgotten to think about all that day, all those things that are wholesome and real, that are important, that make me happy – I know what I need to do, I’m going, I’m going, going and I stood up relieved from the weight that carried me into this drunken stupor, only to drop as a huge rush bends me over like a new born calf.

‘Well we should get going,’ says the Girl with the tattoo of a gypsy, ‘I have some things I need to do before tonight.’

Meet Derrick

A fierce gust picked up and Derrick, from inside, felt the car jerk sidewards.
‘The wind’s coming off the ocean, supposed to be a pretty heavy storm tonight,’ he reassures Sasha’s nervous glance.
Leaning across the wheel of the car he feels the chill from outside pass through the windscreen, wiping the fog off the glass with his sleaves, he watches the road in front, outside its wet, the clouds have covered the moon and all that he can see is the glimmer of water across the road. He relaxes back into his chair and squeezes the throttle a little harder. Earlier that evening he’d had been out surfing, it was a wild ride that still had him pumped. He had only ever seen it break on the outer reef like it had been today, a wild rough swell, closing down at different areas before making it all the way to shore. His old man used to tell him stories of surfing it six foot clean, back in the day that is; he was always a bit sceptical but he still lived the old boys stories daily like it was a gospel reading from some old scriptures. During the hot sticky summer days he dreamed as the teacher drew strange diagrams across the blackboard and talked about x this and y that. Outside through the large beige framed windows, Derrick would watch the tall tree on the far side of the grassy field. He watched the leaves of the highest branches as they danced and sung songs to the wind. He watched the direction of the breeze until he could see the ocean forming in front of him. He would be delighted when the wind blew west; it was like a magnet for his mind that drew him away from his work. First he dreamt of the glassy green sea, smothered by the tender off shore breeze and set alight by the glorious sun. He would look out across the ocean like he were sitting in the white of the beach and see the ocean surging behind the dark figure which was the outer reef. He’d watch as peak after peak of perfect swell grew from the deep blue sea and rose up and broke with a thundering growl. He dreamt until he could see himself paddling in, a quick paddle he would think, then a heavy drop as the thick green lip would curl over. He’d play out the drop in his head over and over again until he thought he had it perfected, he’d crouch and grab the inside rail – no, he’d stay standing and hold his hands above his head and feel the roof of the cave which surrounded him. He fantasised for hours on end, up until the very end where the wave would close out across the sandy shore. He thought about just holding in until it engulfed him like his dreams or bursting out the back like a pro in all the videos. He practised this on the weekends, asking the guys if they had seen how high he launched, and when they said no he’d just try again.

The way the old boy would talk about it, he made it sound like the reef had fired every second day, but like all old boys, Derrick figured, they had forget the hundreds of sessions surfed where they waited in between. He had never seen if go off the way he had imagined it, the way his old man described it. You forget over time, all those other days until all you remember is that wave, that moment, that very off chance and that very time you had the best surf of your life. Like it had played in Derricks head, it played in his old mans mind on those same long summer days until he believed that every wave he had ever surfed was very much that same day.

Even if it had been rough as guts, he couldn’t wait to tell Samuel he had surfed Shark Ally. Beat that bitter break, charged the choppy lines and floated around those heavy close outs the both had feared.
‘Derrick,’ Sasha shrieked, ‘slow down, you almost hit that curb.
He eased off the throttle and smiled at Sasha.
‘You scared?’
‘No, I just don’t want to die tonight.’
‘Like we would crash anyway,’ Derrick replied.
‘Well I don’t want it to be tonight if we do.’
‘Don’t worry we won’t crash, anyway, Sam’s is just around the corner, we’re almost there.’


..............
So it's been ages again, sorry about that anyone who reads this. After I got home I ended up leaving again for a trip to Darwin then a trip to Cairns in the sunny state of Queensland on the east coast. Finally I came home again for some work. Been working on a few peices but not finishing any of them. This was a quick throw down to see where I had been going with my writing. Sorry if it sounds like a tacky chapter from a teenages novel, it was the characterisation I was more interested in.

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 5

The twenty five horsepower Yamaha sounded off like a cat trapped in a dumpster full of water. Whoring away it compelled the dingy forward through the translucent waters and fortress of mangroves. The dingy or tinny for the uninformed is a small boat hull about 14 feet long, folded from Aluminium - it is supposedly as good as indestructible. That is, indestructible in the hands and hearts of timid owners. This craft however, belongs to the oyster farm, an entity of sort’s, not a loving, caring, meticulous owner as above. Different rules will apply.

‘..And like all “company” vehicles certain protocol, procedure, call it what you like, is to be followed’, Dick, the boss explains as he handles the tiller. For this sort of business he had demanded a full demonstration would be required.

Work must have been taking a back seat today, I thought as he suddenly interrupted the monotonous schedule.
‘Have you driven a dingy before’, he inquired on a slow hot afternoon.
‘No’ I concluded, well, apart from that intrepid flog down the river last week when he was off on R&R. That I’ll keep to myself though, I had to choke the bastard every time I wanted it to stop, couldn’t even find the kill switch.
‘Well grab some beers from the fridge then’, he instructed with his authoritative coarseness and started on about the motor. ‘It’s a real temperamental prick’, he informs me. ‘It’ll cut out just as you come ‘round a tight bend. Cause all kinds of grief - you got those beers yet then?’

Before long he was well showing me all right, as we careered off into the thick mangrove brush, the dingy tipping heavily as the hull connected sidewards with the oyster encrusted banks - wiping off twenty five horsepower of inertia in one smashing instance. I exploded into a prolific rage of curses. Fearing for my life, I stare into him wondering what type of cut snake he was. He laughed.
‘You see what I mean’, he finally starts as he studies my pale disfigurement which is now scrolled across the bow. I nod agreeing and pull a branch from my torn shirt.

You see the rivers, or more appropriately drains, in which we are devouring with great vigour, are rather a branch of small streams that weave haphazardly through the endless salt plains of the north. Most of which are only accessible during high tides, not much larger than a dingy in width they are lined by lush mangrove confines.
‘The aim’, Dick explains, is to drive as fast through it as you can with out achieving the inevitable, which is losing control! As I would learn, this little activity of his was a favourite for passing away some of the tiresome desert tedium. I was sceptical!

‘We got a shuck’r around here’, he instructs and I go-to nervously searching for the small metal blade amongst the leaves which are now scattered across the wooden floor. ‘And pass us a beer’.
He then leans over the gunnels and tears a branch from the shallows.
‘Goes with the beer’, I am informed as I look across in wonderment. The branch he’s holding, I now see is covered with good sized oysters. I find the blade jammed against the ribs and Dick snatches it from me. Skilfully he prises the pointy end of the shellfish. It’s a short fight, brute against small oyster. Once open he gives me a good lookin inside, offering it up for first try. Maybe he’d figured I hadn’t eaten oysters before. I think he rather enjoyed scaring the shit out of this city boy, no doubt he was doing a fine job of it but in this case he was a week late.

The branchial chambers are swollen. I think about telling him this, but it’s too late to start pretending, I was still shaking from the collision… and anyway I only know this as Colby had instructed me earlier that week. ‘It’s like the ball sac’, he had explained, ‘they are best eaten when they are ripe like this, gives it that creamy flavour’.
Reaching across the deck I took up Dick’s offer.

I had to agree, they tasted delicious.

.................................................................................................................
I'm back.....

Where in the hell..

Is Juice?

Well let me try answer that for you. I am currently residing amongst an endless series of shanty cupboards and shady looking gypsies.. I'm somewhere in Cambodia. Peace fellow people. I will write again when I get a decent keyboard..

Thailand - Phuket

What a filthy little hole this is... What the hell am I doing here?

Darwin Markets

Vouge hippies, pig hunters, Supre specials, tourist, smiling kids, locals just to name a few, all set up above the grassy bank facing west with rugs and chairs and table and other homely comforts. All gawk at the colour which erupts the evening sky. Perfect silhouettes of palm trees are imprinted in photos to be sent home. Bright shades of oranges and pinks and blues, cut by a seamless horizon reflected from the sea. Sail boats assimilate the powerful surging light. Noise, the beats, boom-boom-boom, bounce from somewhere unseen, everywhere, chattering, laughing, booming, tapping, sizzling, droning.

Beverages, ‘Don’t forget the beverages, ice if you have some.’ Nobody wants to drink warm beer, though this is the tropics and we are desperate. Kimberley cool. And the sun drops behind an invisible horizon, further and further and gone. At last a flash of great light explodes into the atmosphere, and more colours are splashed across the canvas. The mobs, people, crabs and dogs, all turning away from it, retreating and the sad darkness that is night are left to devour all.

The mobs moving, a sea of sweat, sticky heat, shirts catch on eachother as we shuffle and brush and side step. Freaks in wheel chairs, slobber with canes bashing caps and bounce over toes. Little people dash, trip, trick, all sorts of jolly fun. Hold your wallets as the flavours permiate the sticky mess, all types of exotic fodder tantalises the frenzy into overdrive. People bully past with bowls of spicy squids and roasted shanks. Mouth waters, more slobber, swigging beer. Big blue bins, cram, jam, pack, consume!

Small decorative stalls with gentle coloured lights glow beneath the peppermints. Worldly goods for sale today, all expensively cheap and the organizers empty the bins a third time. ‘You take credit?’ a lady asks? Beep, beep, beep, spending. All sorts of trinkets line the stalls from pretty shawls with small hand sawn sequins to jewels of magnificent conglomeration. Tapping sticks and black murmurs. ‘Dollar for a brother?’ and the crowd keeps pushing.

Frankincense drifts though the air and we gulp another beer. Boom, clash, bang another band appeals. The crowd now plump with stuffing’s of gravy and suckling pig, shuffle and trip and push. Barging, hypnotized, a wall of ashen beneath propped collars and the work men busy themselves with the bins again.

Three fairies dance though the perspiring, slobbering mobs, twirling and twisting (elegant?) with wild arms and the harmonica reverberates across there flushed features, greasy, tanned, lovely hips, delicious lips. Moving, and swinging. Hula hops, great big hula hops and now these lovely hips, all sensual, moving smooth and rhythmic.

I love the way
The sun shines for everyone,
I love the feeling
Of the warmth flowing through my blood,
Well the sun
It recharges me,
Makes me feel happy,
Then it takes me
On a little journey…

Gulp, consume, bins, moving, sweating, laughing, the festivities continue and a quiver of chatter breaks out, ‘did you see that?’ Then pointing, lots of pointing and the fairies pay no attention, they smile and dance, mesmerized, big sauce pan eye’s and the music stops and they dash off as dainty as they arrived. The crowd disperses with urgency, trip, push slob… More to consume, more to consume!

The beach is now deserted, just a few hardcore freaks. Flames zapping through the air and the police at the other end bash some useless drunken black folk. Bam-bam-boom and the hardcore freaks start with a procession of bongo drumming and the fire twirlers dance and a Japanese guy, all bushy hair, blows at the droning didge. Gulp, gulp, gulp, moon grinning and we sit with the weirdo’s until dawn, drinking and singing – total carry on.

Coolibah: Two Women, A Man And A Boat.

He gets up from under his piss reeking hollow beneath the coolibah. Reaching his hand out, he moves towards me, stumbling, gurgling, hocking… Briefly I think he might just pass out before he reaches me, but with all the awkwardness of a drunken stupor he manages to intersect my path of travel.

‘Excuse me mister,’ he begins and lunges forward in an instant of awareness, trying to shake my hand. But I’ve learnt that this is a ploy in which he uses to iron glove your hand, letting go only when you have become too exhausted with his stench and hand over the coin.

‘Do you have two dollar for me brother?’ he adds seeing his window closing when I ignore his plea to hold hands and do his dance.

‘Yeah mate,’ I reply digging my wallet out, I pass over two bucks.

‘Excuse me mister, but you haven’t got some more do ya,’ he continues after he secures the first coin in his stiff grip.

‘No,’ I say, but I see him pointing to the five dollars stick out of my wallet.

‘Well what the fuck am I supposed to buy with two dollars,’ his tone becomes aggressive. CPI index must be a big concern around here!

‘Fuck off,’ I stop him here, I’m rude and I don’t give a shit. I already know every possible situation, none of which will be a thank you.

‘Arh fuck you cunt, you stole my country, fuck off!’ he begins to shout, but I carry on walking to work. He follows for a few steps with his fists clenched, then tires and turns away.

The Drive Of A Nation

Words inspired by the film 'Bombora'

We had been driving for days, weeks or even years. Nobody it seemed minded much. We were unanimous content in the feeling of our serenity. Tiresome obligations chewed up by the plied firestones of many miles , left to die on a long stretch of road. Separate us, separating them. It is true that the road will calm all anxieties.

We had gone, unplanned, spurred by our restless dreams, the idea we could live, not by rule, not by reason, but exactly the way we were destined. Free to be Gods children amongst his gardens, baring the fruits of a free man, a smile, good health, and a mind empty to the worries of the world. I watched Casey sleeping. Curled up across the bench seat, her body bounced as the car dived across the pitted road and her hair danced in the gentle breeze. Bleached by the sun, it was no longer than shoulder length. She often wore it down, it suited her. Well I thought it suited her, she was indifferent. I always thought it was an interesting contrast against her tanned complexion and vivid hazel eyes. The road abruptly turned to a dry red dust and the car sunk into the soft earth, momentarily slowing before finding the firm ground beneath. I turned my attention back to Casey. She stirred a little adjusting a crocheted blanked across her legs. She wore a low cut white bikini beneath a delicate cheese cloth dress. As if she had sensed I was watching, she gently laid her hand on my legs, giving it a brief stroke, and then, as slow and as gentle as she had touched me she tucked her hand back behind her head.

The long grasses pushed up against the car as we passed through on the two skinny tracks, my eye’s watched the grass in the middle fold under the heavy front bumper, but my mind drifted along to the music, Pink Floyd’s meddle. It was Todd’s new album. We’d played it continually on his request, I looked up at him apparently aware of my own thoughts, his eyes were closed but his lips followed the smooth lyric’s showing he was awake. The afternoon sun baked the scene a hazy golden brown and the warm wind which drifted though the window carried with it the smell of the arid dry earth. At first the heat had been too much, oppressing almost, it dried my lips and burnt my face. Now though it was much cooler, I smiled as it blew the hair into my face. Home, I started to think, I’m not sure why. Was it the road and its vast openness that conjures up the past to dwell, giving time to the most insignificant details of my consciousness. It wasn’t Melbourne, no it was England. It was never this hot back home. Actually it seemed unfair calling it home. It was now so distant I’d hardly have thought of England as anything other than a place where my Dad was from. Like a past which I’d had no part in. Do I really remember it being cold, or had I just been told that it was cold? If there was a home this was it, this moment, this place, it had become my home. Nomadic days, all spent with friends sunning ourselves on the various pearly white beaches we had found. We living in a large tarp and torn blankets. The thin steering wheel jumped though a loose grip. The wagon juddered for a moment then realigned itself with the track. We had been trying to hold fifty miles an hour but some patches were deep and the motor tired quick. Macca was keeping his distance, if not because of the way the car would suddenly slow but because of the dust which exploded behind us like the scenes from Nam.

Stupid fucking thing that was! Pointless, dishonest political bullshit and they had wanted me to take part. ‘You’re fucking kidding me right,’ I jeered as Dad passed me the letter stamped with the federal insignia. I’d be out that door before I’d even had a chance to open it, there was no chance, no, not me. Dad watched as I secured the board too the roof, his hands in his pockets, a steady expression. He passed a few bob through the window as I went to leave. ‘Stay safe son,’ his words lingered, I tried to smile, but instead got caught on a look which confirmed the stiff terms. He knew I wasn’t coming back any time soon and I’d watch him disappear in the rear view with an unsettled look on his face. This was final, ‘good bye dad,’ I mumbled.

The letter, now aware of it was still resting on the dashboard unopened where I had left it. Suddenly the car bedded in, we had hit a particularly soft patch, I dropped the lever on the column, and the car jerked. I’d thought we were good and proper fucked when the car was within an inch of its life. Thankfully the rev’s started to pick up and we were pulled out to safety. We had already been bogged earlier that day when we stopped for lunch. The girls, Casey, Heather, Lucy and Amber had made a small shelter in the bent and twisted braches of a lonely Eucalyptus. The tree lay almost flat, pushed as if by an unseen wind stirred up by the ocean. It was around midday when we pulled off and the wheels sunk beneath us. We hustled with the heavy girth of the wagon as the girls spread pickles on lovely fresh bread. It was a wholesome meal and after we sat in the field smoking dope, admiring the vast nothingness of a continent shivering in the tender breeze, with it, carried the faint sweetness of the ocean too which we longed.

Wow... Just wow.

Soft drinks only $1.20!

"Um yeah, sorry hun, yeah... So you know how you keep telling me to save money and all that, well, yeah, um, you see, the soft drink was so cheap and um yeah, thats why Jed saw me leaving .. Yeah'

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 4

Peta is a little young, seventeen actually. She is wearing a modest red bikini revealing luscious tasty curves, all bosoms and bum. She didn’t look seventeen at all, more like a lady in the mid twenties, exquisite, full and well supported. Marvellous, yes, breasts full of grandeur, big enough to have their own gravitational pull.

The foot ball drops beside the group of inconspicuously alert girls, landing with a light splash. For a moment they make no movement, stalling and huddling like a surprised school of bait fish, it was a well practiced defensive exercise. A move we, the salmon hunters had expected. In an instant our general chatter, which up to this point has been voluminous and playful, dimmed to a noticeably new level which would have scared any parent within earshot. I looked at Twon, he was standing in the shallows with a greedy smile, his eyes transfixed on the play.

In the car park, some two hundred meter’s amongst the sand dune which hugged the bay, Daisy laughes beside his car. From where I was sitting in the water, I could just make out his body jerking with his laugh and he lifts his hand over his eye’s blocking out the warm midday glare, he gazes down amongst the scene like an elite, watching the game from a corporal box.

Like most weekends in the salmon shack, we, the degenerates, wake late with hands supporting our frail minds. Today by all accounts was Sunday, and like all Sunday mornings, it is not a time to engage in political debate, not that I think we were actually capable of a political debate. Anyway today being the morning of a Sunday was no exception. I’m not sure what started our tradition, maybe it was out of boredom, out of habit, out of pure curiosity, but as usual we had slipped into our cleanest unclean shorts, grabbed the football beside the tatted door and marched off towards the beach.

It was beautiful, actually alarmingly beautiful and if I think back now it is the sort of moment which makes you miss a place, or miss a time. It was a warm and languid afternoon. The sea was looking like a glassy flat field of tranquil blue. People all over the beach moved about, adjusting the occasional hungry bum or rearranging the loose bikini strap. We watched on with undignified fascination. While the bay had become our local hang out, local pick up pocket, it had never been this calm, never this festive, and never with this much pure fleshy pink skin. We jittered about with excitement.

She broke from the pack with a sudden movement, premeditated as if she had always intended to fetch the ball, moving like she had always been part of the game. Although, I think she would have liked us to have thought she had never seen, never heard, or ever known who had thrown the well calculated throw.

She grabbed at the ball while treading the deeper water. As she turned to face the shore I stared at her, engrossed by her soft delicate face. Innocent, pretty, symmetrical with wide brown eyes and curly dark hair. She drew a smile and looked about not dropping the unknowing façade and then met my eyes with affirmation. Weak and unconfident I returned the smile. ‘Hi,’ I sputtered and shyly wiped the back of my head almost forcing a wave.

This is when I noticed the Parasite. I hadn’t been watching him up until now. He was just a few meters to the left of her. All I could see was half of his head, from just below his eyes, drifting through the water like a vicious crocodile ready for an attack.

A good centre fielder will always read the play before the balls left his boot. In most cases, he will read three plays ahead from when the tough leathery exterior connects with his highly strung laces. The centre so meticulous in his ways, so sure of his foot work, swings across the goal square, he is open and he is ready for the mark.
Meanwhile the wing man dodges an opponent, fake right, lung left. As he has practiced many times before, just as the coach has drawn it on the chalk board, he snaps a heavy right foot towards centre, not knowing, yet sure his kick is well placed.

The centre throws his arms into the air, the camera pans in, the crowd cheers and the score sheet is marked beside his name. The wing man, uncelebrated, taps his team mate on the shoulder then jogs towards his position on the outer field. This is when I felt the frown break the smile.

‘We’re on schoolies,’ they blathered amongst the table of countless empty Cruiser bottles. Schoolies if I remember correctly is in November. Let’s not drew on all this too much, her friend was equally proportioned.
…………………………………….

It is now February and I’ve just finished adding the Algae solution to the bigger outside tanks. Ensuring they are getting well ventilated, I drop in a weighted hose which is plumbed to the roof. It is part of a bigger, much more intricate and complex system which feeds the entire Oyster farm with oxygen. Checking the covers are over the spat tanks, I clear the room of loose hoses, pumps and filters. As I’m about to turn off the light I notice my phone is flashing, it’s a message.

Mum said I can come up. Peta

I stop, almost forgetting to switch off the light and fall into another incorrigible day dream. Day dreaming, as I have quickly learnt, is a great way to waste the long dry Carnarvon days. It reminds me of Cashback, it isn’t hard to stop time. Usually all it takes is to leave the nest of grotty sheds and stare out over the desolate plains. Nothing moves apart from the silent breeze which stirs within your ears, for a moment, a timeless moment, I would believe that time had actually stopped. Then, maybe I would catch the flick of a fish tail down beside the creek or the call of a bird in the distance. I would be thrown back into reality with a regrettable forcefulness. It’s not hard to know what I’m thinking about this time, a man can only spend so many days out here in this sort of heat.

I can’t be bothered thumbing a reply so I dial her number.
‘Hello.’
‘Hey, how you doing.’ I reply, it’s an easy opener.
‘Good.’
‘Cool, so she said yes?’
‘Yeah, I told her your dad would be there.’
‘Really, why?’
‘I don’t know she wanted a parent to be there, you know so someone was there.’ She didn’t need to explain anymore than this. I was actually surprised her mum had said yes in the first place.
‘Yeah I guess, you are only seventeen!’
She laughed. Peta was always shy about her age, saying things like, ‘I know,’ as a way to ignore that she didn’t know and would go on to say things like, ‘I was thinking’. I didn’t mind so much, I felt like she enjoyed being around an older person, someone she could bounce idea’s off. Ultimately though, I couldn’t make the mistakes for her.
‘Yeah, so she is going to give you a call to confirm a few things.’
‘Like what sort of things,’ I questioned.
‘Well she wants to get to know you a little and just check that your dad will be there.’
‘Oh, okay well that’s cool by me.’
‘Really!’ Peta replied almost surprised.
‘Yeah, for sure, I can’t wait for you to come up.’
‘Cool.’
‘Zac said something about coming up also?’ I questioned.
‘Really,’ she replied, this time acting surprised, but I had already spoken to the Parasite and I knew she knew.
‘I thought you already knew.’
‘Umm, kind of.’ She didn’t need to elaborate on this and I cut her off.
‘I hope that’s not why you’re coming up,’
‘No, I’m over him, don’t worry,’ She stressed.
‘Cool, Well I’ll give you another call when I finish work.’
‘Later Juice.’
I hung up and proceeded down the corridor checking the hydrogen levels on the laboratory as I past. It was midday and it was getting hot outside, some droplets of sweat had formed on my forehead and I passed out into the opening beyond the sheds. The creek was low, must have been low tide I assumed, I watched it for moment thinking about the conversation, only coming to again when the boss emerged from the Lab….

To be continued….

Note: All photo's by: Colby Elliot

Save The Territory... Seriously!

Darwinians are bracing themselves today as reports of an imminent attack approaches. Yowies of various sizes have been rumoured to be converging on the eastern bank of Adelaide River, some 50kms from the town centre. Amongst the nervous, some townsmen armed with pitchforks have been reported to be rallying outside parliament building today, holding banners which read;

‘Feed them the homeless, save the dogs’.

NT self proclaimed Yowie expert, David Doubelivtis has urged Darwinians to stay vigilant, but claims the Yowie may have been misrepresented by the press, ‘They are not here to kill our dogs, just snack on the occasional head’, he has claimed. Later in a press conference with Animal Rights Groups he agreed a clean up of the undesirables may be beneficial too the wider community and may also help save young Baxter, the cheeky G-banger munching pooch and others like him.

One txt to the editor read:

‘50km ban on Yowie’ name withheld

A proposal already being considered by the NT government for the bewildered crocodile, a ban could be extended to the Yowie. The ban, another knee jerk reaction to the two tragic deaths of Territorians who, late last month were taken by large reptilian creatures from the fourth dimension.

These deaths were not so much a surprise as it may seem. One victim, a 20 year old father of two was taken late one night after being warned that drinking other people’s alcohol was bad. Two men, one being the late victim, were reported to have witnessed ‘a big black crocodile stalking them along the bank’ before entering the water in an attempt to swim the gauntlet.

It has been recommended by professional experts that some well placed makers could be the solution to the Crocodile and Yowie epidemic. ‘These markers will be placed amongst the river systems and land marks at the 50km line with large crossed circles. Within the cross, it has been proposed that two well illustrated figures of the Crocodile and Yowie will be placed.’ One expert was reported saying. A Politian of questionable ethic’s confirmed, ‘Darwinians have been around much longer than the crocodile and Yowie alike, it has been a shame to see Darwinian’s forced out of the waters and the focus is to make a safer territory where Darwinians can swim once again’. ‘Just think’, he went on the say. ‘Young lovers will be able to picnic amongst the mangroves once again without fear of the Crocodile or Yowie’.

The public eagerly awaits the decision likely to be passed at the next upcoming election. Meanwhile it is recommended to drive the homeless towards the Crocodiles and Yowies.

MAKING THE TERRITORY A CLEANER SAFER PLACE TO LIVE.



PS. Note for Frank.. what ever did happen to the one with a suggest black swimsuit?
PSS. Note the awesome braid!

Your living in a small place when...

A question to the reader’s, have you ever sat there with a report in your hands, flicking through the countless pages of drab information and thought, who was this nut bag who wrote all this?

I’m thinking this myself as I re-examine my position in life. My title, if I should be titled something other than an office bitch, is a Technical Building Officer.. But before you ask, a technical building officer is one who, refer above, writes tediously long technical reports relating to the legislative requirements one might come across when building a home, a set of stairs or a gargantuan monstrosity in the centre of town.

Someone once told me that I’ve been doing this job for too long (6 odd years), it’s all over for me now, every scent, every itsy bit of creativity, all zapped up by the ‘Creative death ray gun of technicality’ – a mouth full to say the least. All the same, sometimes there seems to be some truth in it. That’s when I come here, the humble blog, with it’s few readers I write ridiculousness in a bid to over power my shame.

So let’s play….

‘Dog Killed By Yowie' - NT researcher says Big Foot beast mauled pup’ ~ Front cover NT NEWS, 21st April 2009

Darwinian’s today are warned of the risk posed by the invasion of the illusive Bigfoot, aka Yowie. Standing an impressive 3027mm tall, covered in a light brown fur with equally large feet, the Yowie is a beast with an inexhaustible appetite for our beloved pet, the dog.

“The way the guy’s dog was killed was typical of a Yowie”, self proclaimed NT Yowie expert is reported to proclaim. “I know it sounds fanciful but over the past 100 years, dogs get killed or decapitated and people report feeling watched, having goats stolen or seeing some tall hairy thing in the days beforehand.”

Alarmed by the sentiment raised by the threat of the Yowie, yours truly, Rambo’s protégé, took it upon himself to undertake an exhaustive investigation to bring an end to this aging mystery. Using state of the art photo identification processes and a marked paddle pop stick, the findings are conclusive.

Bigfoot frolics in the cool cascades of Litchfield

Something tells me this reignited interest in the Yowie story comes at a suspiciously close time to when stoner flick, ‘Strange Wilderness’ a film about a failing film crew who embark on an epic adventure to find the legendary Big foot, was released in Territorian video stands. Coincidence, I’ll let you decide?

Meanwhile, it would seem that the beloved pooch has been up to it again.

“Our Dog Ate My G-String” ~ Front Cover NT News, 15th April 2009

After a serious rescue operation, as reported in Easter Sunday’s NT News, poor pooch is lucky to be alive after he greedily engulfed a ‘ladies black g-string’. The report goes on the say that the cheeky spaniel named Baxter is ‘a real guts and will eat anything’.

From the Crew With Crab's and a wooden chicken.... Peace!

The 'Last Frontier'

So dear readers after many posts in a row that lack a good amount fun, I have decided, rather then bore you, I would compile a few things which are happening around the Northern Territory.

“KILL THEM ALL Victim’s Grandad calls for every croc to be shot dead” ~ NT News Cover 2nd April 09

Despite a late season tropical monsoon, the gang embarks on a lovely picnic. The day after swimming in the lake at said picnic area, some two hundred metre's from the croc infested ocean, the local news reports wondering croc's captured in area. In my defense, I really needed to pee and swimming was easier than public facilities.


“DUI mum was breastfeeding at wheel” ~ NT News, Cover 6th April 09... Nuff said.

Israeli special forces troop spotted in the top end, or is that Jesus himself?

“14 people bashed in NT each day… and that’s GOOD NEWS – last year it was 15” – NT News Cover 7th April 09

Gone are the days of global domination and evil axis, no it would seem modern Germany is much more concerned with Australia’s well being and financial future as thousands arrive by boat. Squandering great riches of delicious Euro’s, young Germans arrive on Australian shores with only one prerogative. With them they bring various cassettes labelled ‘Nena’. But be warned, these dubbed tapes generally do not contain the once loved classic; 99 Luftballons, instead, they are encrypted with various beats played in rhythmic regularity known to cause severe cases of insomnia. Once played, usually by sheer trickery, a German will reach maximum disco within minutes. Such symptoms to look out for are: violent body convulsion, eye’s rolling back into there head and a parched mouth. Australians are advised that it is extremely difficult to diffuse a German once in 'trance', and are advised to feed infected patients with copious amounts of cheap beer whihc they will consume feverishly… Eventually the patient will become restless, fall over and hopefully pass out. If symptoms persist, or you grow impatient with the treatment, users are advised that a gentle ‘clonk’ across the head with a semi weight love stone should speed recovery.
Below is a demonstration of what a patient should look like after treatment…(Note: Bottle used to speed recovery - Improvise)

“Croc Bait anglers put new spin on stupidity” ~ NT News page 5, 7th April 09

"Hopa hopa"

The Novel.. More Unravelling

So here is the next section, again completely unedited an un-finalised.

I have spent some time going back over the first post and changed a few things to help it either flow better or just make more sense. In this second post I have used dialogue to add some characterization, but I’m still very unsure (of myself) if I want to keep it this way, especially between Bruce and Dennis the two main character’s as they come across as one and the same people, which ultimately it is as Dennis is like an alter ego, the can do man.

The piece really slows down in this next section and I’m still very unsure if this is best, but I felt as though I need to add feeling and emotion to the City, or how it is perceived by the characters anyway. At first I was going to have just the one night at the backpackers, they get drunk and in the morning they wake up in a van. As you can see I have extended this so I could add further details. Maybe it’s a repeat of what has already been said, but I’m not totally sure. Your comments would be much appreciated.

Enjoy

........................................................................................................................................................................

3

Given that we hadn’t really had much money in the last few months, we decided to head into town and catch a train out to the bigger city, maybe there we could find a lift north up the coast where the weather promised to be much warmer. Ignoring the fee of a ticket we boarded the long slender carriage. In the days leading up to the move we’d decided to just chase the sun , what ever that may bring.

Three quarter’s into the City the train inspector beckoned us to produce our tickets and when we told him we didn’t have one he demanded we produce some identification. Neither Dennis nor I had identification on us, we had gotten used to concealing it so that in these exact instances we could provide a fake name. The inspector wrote us each a $50 ticket and ordered that we get off at the next station where we waited another fifteen minutes, throwing pebbles at a sign across the tracks.

The next ride on the final leg into the City was uneventful other than a baby who cried for the duration of the trip, the mother it seemed was totally ignorant to the infants plead. I watched her for some time, she seemed as if to be distracted by something else that was far more troublesome than that of a fiercely crying baby, a long heavy look lay across her face and a packed bag sat beside her feet. She fidgeted in her seat and when we went to leave I heard the lady cry out desperately.

“Stop crying damn it, just stop crying”, but the baby, too young to understand his mothers torment kept up his own plea. Dennis and I looked at each other thoughtfully, I could tell what he was thinking and asked if we should help, but instead we walked in the opposite direction to where we were going.

The big towering buildings of the City loomed high above the street, sporadic youths hustled in packs, amused by the music playing from there MP3 players, they walked past silently. Asian tourists snapped joyfully at iconic sights while wheelers greased the empty side streets, thinking, planning, dealing and enviably losing. We made our way through the busy street’s to the east end, on Boughfort Street we found an entrance to a sizable back packer’s, a perfect place to start looking for a lift we decided and checked in for the night.

First of all we decided to get a warm shower, it had been some time sense either Dennis or I had, had the luxury of warm water. At first the public showers had not been a problem in the hot months of summer, but since autumn had kicked in, we had become quiet reluctant. I was the first to finish and went out and found a comfortable seat in the commune lounging area. Some people were sat motionless around a big TV, playing on the screen was some show about fast cars with fancy leather seats. Not really interested in the show, my eye’s wondered around the room.

All sorts of characters with different agenda’s lumbered around, there was those that were passing through. They usually sat in two’s or three’s and made jokes which made no sense to anyone other than themselves and the day after tomorrow they would be gone.

Then there were those which had stayed here long enough to know better, they seem to enjoy the scene and would sit around in the evenings and chill out amongst themselves and talk about work and drink quality beer while the rest of the guesses just settled for the cheapest and most effective.

Finally the third type, these were the one’s who, if asked, may not have even known where they were or where they were going.

They confided in sayings such as, ‘we’re on the road’, or ‘I’m half way between here and there’, and ‘Yeah, maybe I’ll see what happens tomorrow’. I guess if I was going to stereotype Dennis and myself we would have to fit somewhere within this group, two lost soul’s, as we were frequently reminded by those who looked at our sad state and say.

‘You’re just two lost soul’s’.

Dennis came out and sat beside me on the empty brown suede lounge, he was clean shaven and his beach blonde hair jagged where he made a rudimentary attempt to trim it back.

‘So, you want to go out for a beer tonight?’
‘Yeah I guess it would be rude not to’, I replied. ‘Better check the notice board before we get too rowdy though’.
‘I had a quick look just before, didn’t really see anything’
‘Cool, well we’ll check it again on the way out’ I insisted, ‘Guess we might as well have a beer here first’.

Dennis got up to get us some drinks while I stayed seated. Surveying the dimly lit room I noticed two blonde girls sitting and chatting amongst themselves. They both had straight platinum blonde hair which sort of just stiffly sat across there faces, they wore make up and spoke softly to each other. I watched them for a while hoping that one might look up and I’d give her a smile, but they didn’t.

Dennis was standing by the bar chatting to another guy who was tall, slender with long dark hair and next to them were another couple, who looked at each other merrily and held each others hands as they spoke of niceties which had little significance to anyone else. In the far corner I could hear a group of American’s who were playing some sort of drinking game which involved a deck of cards.

When Dennis came back, he was holding out two cans of Emu Bitter. Cringing, I took one of the cans.

‘Three bucks’, he said before I had even asked.
‘Who was that’, I asked, intrigued.
‘Matt, an American dude from Arizona’, He replied. ‘Been over here awhile just thumbing it to and fro, reckons he’s been pretty lucky until he made it to the City. He also said he knew of two German girls who had a van. They were hoping to take off day after next’
‘Did he say where they were going?’
‘Yeah he said they were going to head north, didn’t really say much more then that though’.

I looked up and I noticed Matt was now sitting with the group playing cards so I suggested maybe we should join them for a drink.

‘Bruce’, I held out my hand and introduced myself to the crowd of three girls and two guys. Matt introduced himself first holding out his hand, shaking mine, while the others just gave a shy smile and polite wave. Matt gestured I sit beside him and he moved over leaving a gap on the bench between himself and a pretty New York girl named Jen. Dennis sat at the other side of the table across from me.

The game they were playing was Ring of Death, or that’s the name I know it as. The rules are simple. Every card has a different rule, say for example number night is bust a rhyme. The person who has lifted the card from the circle starts the rhyme. Going clockwise the group keeps the rhyme until someone stumbles, to which they are required to scull there beverage of choice. The idea is that you get drunk, like real drunk, stupid drunk and then you fall down.

Tonight was no exception for the group of tourists, they were a good bunch and we chatted until late into the night. It turned out that they didn’t really know each other but had somehow found themselves hanging out together.

Jen was cute and I talked to her for sometime about her travels, the usual questions for a situation like this. She chatted happily about working in London compared to Sydney, the beach parties in Cambodia and the rafting in the Mekong and home life in a City like Brooklyn, New York.

‘Its bullshit’, she started. ‘It’s like one hundred dollars for a shitty day tour. I’m really sick of all this shit.’ She started when I asked her about Australia.
‘Yeah it’s a rip off alright’, I replied. ‘That’s why Dennis and I are doing what were doing, we don’t need money to see some rock every bodies seein’.
‘Yeah, hey maybe I should come along with you guys’. She declared brazenly.
‘Capre Diam’.
‘Carpe Diam’, she replied smiling back at me.

We chatted some more with the group and asked if any of them were heading north. Matt repeated the stuff he had already told Dennis earlier that night and we asked if he’d be able to get hold of the girls for us. He said they were staying here and would let us know, so we decided to catch up with him in the morning to see what we could arrange.

4

That morning we woke up pretty early, it was drizzling lightly outside. We packed the bags after getting in another shower and then stowed them away down stairs in the locker area of the backpackers. We checked out and went for a walk around the City.

It was a dull morning with gray clouds over head and the constant patter of water on our faces as we stepped from one awning to the next. At one point I went to cross the street and accidentally stepped out in front of a speeding car. It screeched to a halt, and I looked up, through the mirror I could see a fit guy wearing a tight white singlet and dark round shades. Next to him sat a girl, made up all pretty who looked out the side window uninterested at the kerb. Stepping out the way he sped past shouting something from his window.

We ended up at a small groceries were we brought a loaf of wholegrain bread and a litre of milk. Outside we sat on some steps and I watched the water drop to the path in large droplets which formed on the roof above. The water collected itself picking up small amounts of dirt and ran over the rough graduals in the concrete and then down over the kerb and into the gutter where a small stream moved with great vigour, off and down the street to the nearest drain.

The street was busy with car’s driving past. People in black suit’s and expressionless faces, driving to work I’d assume, didn’t notice us sitting on the kerb. They were focussed and consumed by something much larger than two guys sitting on a step eating dry bread and slugging on a box of milk.

‘That was us’, Dennis mumbled to himself.

The Novel Begins..

Okay guys, yesterday I was sitting in the shallow pool with a gorgeous girl. I started out telling her I wanted to write a novel but I didn't have a good plot, a good story and that I didn't know what to write about.

She simply said... Just start writing.

So... The only way to write a novel is too start. With that I present the start of something I hope to develop, its unedited, raw, delightful (Hopefully). Please comment on what you think. (Comment whoring, the greatest bloggers do it the best!)

...............................................................
Untitled
By Matt Dewse
...............................................................

1

It was a lonely evening, a cool rain had been falling for a few days now and when a gust blew up a cold wind could be felt sweep through the shacks modest interior. Huddled in some old blankets we had found, smelling old and musky I watched Dennis caress his warm cup of tea between his palms and forefingers. The shack didn’t have electricity, just a lone candle which burnt silently in the centre of the room.

The small fibro shack was perched among some tall peppermints on a long sandy dune. It was hard to say when it had been abandoned as everything still seemed to be in tact, even the beds had been made, but a calendar with a small reproduced painting of a wooden craft hanging on the wall just above the bunks read April 1981 and we’d assumed this was the last time someone other than us had ever lived here.

The leak in the old rusted tin roof was the most pressing matter when we first arrived but Dennis had gone to work with his resourcefulness and made good the hole with some spare tin which he had found under the floor of the house. Here we lived comfortably for the next four months, collecting water from the public toilets at the end of the street in a good size pot and eating fresh seafood when we could catch it, otherwise we would heat up tins of baked beans over a small gas cooker and we worked when work was available. I had held a good job on a trawler for a month or two before the business had folded.

I could remember this town just two years ago, a great hive of festivity, construction was going on all around, large double story building’s with endless planes of glass which glistened in the sun and people were jubilant, excessive and ignorant. All just enjoying the fruit’s of there labours with champagne and lazy weekends cruising around the coast in powerful motor boats. Even I, like the others had enjoyed these times, soaking up the warm atmosphere of the evening sun and chilling out to the latest pop-rock which played from the in deck CD player.

‘It’s all an illusion’ Dennis had prophesised one day as we sat contently in the sand. We watched the sun hit the horizon and throw up a marvellous orange haze throughout the cloudless sky. I remember the day quiet clearly, we had spent a good deal of time skiing around the headlands behind a friends speedboat, drinking recklessly on cold beers which we stowed in the depths of his built in ice box.

It was rather confusing when he professed that it was just an illusion. It definitely felt real enough as the water had shoot up from the tips of my ski and into my now bloodshot eyes, or the red blotches on my skin where I had forgotten to protect with sunscreen. Actually I would have to say it was one our greatest days we had shared together since we had meet.

‘All this’, he said jerking me from my thought’s. ‘It’s a charade’.
‘You know what I mean’, he protested when I said I did get it and I didn’t and I was just more confused so I changed the subject and made meaningless jokes about how Ryan, who tripped over board earlier in the day, had managed to protect his beer from falling in the drink.

Things soon started changing though, just as Dennis had predicted, friends who worked away started spending more time at home, sitting around the house drinking Jack Daniels in small premixed bottles and joking about what ever uselessness was on TV. When they got bored of that they ordered chilli muscles with a side of a dozen oysters from a restaurant down the road and feasted with great vitality. A month had past and they offered to sell me there TV for a quarter of its cost.

Condemned by our way of life Dennis once again suggested that we leave this rat race, find something a little quieter, a little easier. When he had first asked I made excuses that I was working a good job, I had an apartment and was too busy most days to contemplate leaving, but finally, a week after being fired I agreed to the move on the proviso that we would stay until my lease was up, which fortunately was only one month away. When we checked our bank balances though we had little room to move anyway.

The cost of the apartment sucked up the dregs of my saving’s and Dennis and I struggled to make the last round of bills. When the day had come to move out, Dennis had helped me move all my furniture to my parent’s shed. They argued relentlessly with me as I had predetermined, but I made my case and in the end they came around seeing as there was no sense in getting rid of perfectly good couches. I promised them I’d find a new job, and kissed my mum affectionately on the cheek as I left.

Two weeks later we found the shack. It was a rather great find, although still nestled amongst the big over looking glass monstrosities in the same town as we had decided to leave, it was the right price. Free. Deciding it would be better to just save some cash before we hit the road, arguing that it was summer anyway and it would be a shame to lose out on this great weather.

For the next four months we spent countless hours just frolicking down the beach, in the sun, my board shorts became loose and every day I woke convicted more with something I still could not fully understand. Dennis smiled contently when I told him and just laid buck on his towel to bask in the radiance of the sun. He was of a slim and well built build and by the first month he was well tanned hinting a Mediterranean complexion.

‘You will understand’ he thoughtfully announced after a minute had lapsed. The more we hung out, living like this, the more I noticed him becoming unhurried and he would sit for minutes before answering, more than usual that is. I, myself had even noticed I wasn’t in any sort of rush either. We just went about doing our thing in our own time, fishing, diving, reading and living until at one point I thought time had almost stood still.

2

The rain echo off the thinly lined tin roof, I looked up at the dark mouldy spot on the roof. The patching had worked even after a few day’s had pasted not a drop had come through. Dennis was sitting in the corner apathetically flicking though the box of books we had found in the main bedroom. It was the main room as there weren’t any others. He stopped to for a moment and I thought he was reading the back, then he slapped the book against the ground and squashed a curious roach.

“I’ve read all these”, he moaned. He usually never complained, he was more of a charismatic kind of guy who hops out of bed the second he wakes up, so it was unusual to hear him like this. Though he wasn’t the only one feeling melancholic, I did too. It was the rain, definitely the rain. It seemed to draw the life out of the both of us, we became lifeless and disinterested. Water had seeped in thought under the threshold of the door and destroyed our playing cards.

We tried to go out diving one day, but the swell had come up with the persistent wind and rain, the water being to murky we decided to try do some fishing. After an hour had passed the best we had managed was one thick bull herring, but being so cold we resorted back to the shelter of the shack and shared other the single fish amongst ourselves with a portion of plain rice.

By the sixth day from when the rains had started we busied ourselves packing our rucksacks. Dad had brought me my pack a few years back when I had gone on an extended camping trip with school. It had a large zipper so you could open it out making it easy to fill and a second bag which zipped on and off with ease. With a sturdy metal frame and good set of padded handles it made a great pack for walking.

Dennis offered to carry the cooking gear, which consists of a pot, a pan and the little gas stove, I packed the two bowls, two cups and utensils. When it came to packing the rest of our stuff I didn’t have much, just a couple cloths, an old thin sleeping bag, a well worn book by the title of “The Rum Diary”, a large wrap of plastic and spear gun that strapped to the outside of my pack. Dennis, like me had very little but his bag was bulging with other bits and pieces he thought we might need along the way.

We set out and cleared the small shack. We put the large pot back under the waterless sink, washed the sheets and made the beds. Dennis repaired the leak under the door and locked up all the windows. When we had finished we looked around and then at each other, Dennis looked joyful and we both felt proud. Even though the shack wasn’t ours we felt someway connected to it and we agreed one day we’d return to find it just the way we left it. Neither Dennis nor I ever did though.

3

The day before we’d left we decided to just chase the sun, where ever that may be.

Darwin, Another Day With Dylan

It was some time in the afternoon when I had just finished a solid day’s work and was back at the sanctity of the back packers. Actually to be honest, sanctity, much like solid, is nothing more than words employed to put an intricate spin on rather dull facts. Let’s just say I did go to work.

You see I’m currently sitting across the table from a gorgeous, dark, wild haired, blue eyed, tanned skinned beauty. So to be most frank, I’m laying it on thick, using words cunningly disguised like Château, romance and Italia indirectly for other much more cynical terms such as submissive and sex. She, to my surprise seems somewhat receptive and the conversation soon swings to where it was inevitably going to go.

“Oh no, I think it’s nice to take things slow”, she starts. “You Australian’s are just straight at it”.

“I agree”, I say with seeming delight. She doesn’t want me to think she’s easy. Okay of course, neither am I. I’m a Gemini gorgeous. I’ll be what ever you want me to be… for the night that is and I give her a dedicated grin.

“Juice”, some strange gaunt character starts beckoning from behind, I can just make him out in the peripheral but I refrain from turning as I’m stuck in a sensual lock of eye’s, even Casanova would find it concerning to look away at this point.

“Juice” He rudely interrupts again not sensing the importance of this display ofg affection. This time though, he gently lays his limp fingers on my shoulder and nudges me timidly. God who is this character I think to myself as I hastily rummage through my pockets for some loose change.

“Just take it”. I snap aggressively and hold out what would be three dollars twenty in silver pieces. Fucking beggars, how have they managed to learn my name and what’s more, make it into the building! Where are those useless baboons anyway who always seem to interrupt me when I’m having a good time?

“Excuse me guys, no smoking in the car park”, he, the one in a tight black uniform starts. “What are your names and which room are you staying in?” He continues then quickly scribbles Matt Juice room 37 and I give him a hostile ‘eat shit’ red stained, cock eyed stare as I walk past in the hands of a pretty girl. I ask her if she has any food but she shrugs and leads me to room 48.

I digress.

He’s wearing a small button up which drops off his thinly framed figure. His hair is short, neat and receding while his skin is fair and soft.

“Dylan”, I ask as I take a better look.
“Hey no way”, he replies. “I thought it was you, but I didn’t really know, you know, like when you see some one and you’re not quite sure”.

Damn shame, I haven’t seen this guy since back when I was on the hunt for the great Art Director. For the uninformed that’s some 3500km’s down the road in a crazy little right-wing, Jesus loving freak town. So I tell him.

“I haven’t seen you since back in Albany”.
“Yeah I know”, he starts. “Crazy little right-wing, Jesus loving town of freaks”
I nod approvingly.
“Yeah”
“So I was thinking about getting a beer, maybe check out the casino” he continues unsurprisingly. “You want to come get a drink with me?”
I quickly look back at the stunning scenery. She’s busy talking with some other people at the table and I decide it’s still a salvageable conversation.

“It’s only $8.50 a jug here” I say knowingly to Dylan and his eye’s light up brighter then a loony in a girls wash basket, without another word he beelines to the bar. Bloody journalists are all the same I think to myself and I turn to face my growing interest. She smiles a purely wicked smile of delight.

“We are going now, would you like come”, She says in her sweet accent.
“Oh really’ I confirm, rather dismayed. “Umm well, I’m having a drink here. Maybe we’ll catch up later?”
“Yeah, maybe”

She holds out her hand for a high five, but I snatch it up in my own and I feel the smooth subtle skin of her palm with the tips of my fingers.

“Wow you held my hand” I lie and grin jokingly.
“Yes this is much too fast” she say’s and smiles back cheekily.

Damn, just my luck I think to myself as I watch her walk away dressed in nothing other than a tight black bikini that folds suggestively to her beautiful shape. I turn away when she has disappeared around the corner. Dylan by this stage is already in the crowd of unruly characters weaving back with a disgustingly wild smile, two clean glasses and frothy jug of beer. He looks like a lion in a flock of flamingo’s and better yet, he holds the secret to well being.

We get talking. It’s mostly about the latest happenings and I fumble with my beer, it goes down unappreciated as my head toils with a raucous hangover. Dylan though pours himself another glass.

“It’s paradise up here”, I start.

He looks away mindfully, observing the sounds and smells. The balcony is perched above the main street, car’s bustle by as the Indi-pop music rings from loud speakers. Tradesmen in soggy singlets whistle and young girls with big heels trip clumsily on the jagged roadway to reveal hints of fancy lace. It‘s a smorgasbord of debauchery that spills out from under dark and mouldy crevices and palm tree’s sway lazily in the mid afternoon breeze.

“Yeah, looks like it” he nods.

……………..

Before long we are sitting around a small table in a dingy lit pub. The Victoria Hotel is long known to the frugal traveller, and it’s no surprise to find that a failing journalist would share this common interest, boasting $7 jugs and free food.

The music resonates loudly from speakers which tower above the stage, men hustle and tourist sitting on miniature scooters spin around the island tables, laughing, they are busy chasing the free beer that pours endlessly around these parts. The MC shout’s some god-awful slur over the PA and we watch on with bemusement.

“Bob Dylan”, begins Dylan as a classic starts to play over the crowded room.
“I just want to make money”. His long thin fingers dance through the air leaving whirling tails of thick smoke. His substituted words are purposeful and to the point.
“He was all about making money” Dylan reaffirms as if clarifying what he has just said and our Israeli friend, Hanani, chuckles and when the next chorus begins they break out in a long fried drawl…
“I just want to make money”.

Dylan’s words are severed and disconnected, his body thin, gaunt and awkward. His hands move with his words, but the words being so disengaged find him lost like he were reading ancient braile. If I were drunk I’d imagine him as a great wizard with all this mystical body talk and gibberish murmurs, but alas, he doesn’t have that magnificent telltale beard of many wise men.*

“Kerouac, now he was something”, I start and Dylan nods approvingly. Is this because he’s just agreeing out of pure admiration for Kerouac’s short self destructive life of alcoholism or because he appreciates his works, I wonder. Dylan, across the table slugs at another beverage.

“There was something about Kerouac”, Dylan decides. “In his time he was a lot freer then we are, he never had to worry about the impending doom”. Dylan’s hands hover, palm down midway above his head, his fingers are limp and point to the ground.
“No, even Kerouac had this feeling in Dharma Bums when he reaches a town and is told he will be locked up if he plans to sleep out”. I say. “I guess it was the start of what was to come”.

Hanani listens in carefully. He’s not familiar with Kerouac like Dylan and I, and rather make bogus claim’s like clammy Australian’s he just listens in to our rambling’s.

Should I explain, Hanani is a mellow man with few words. Not that he’s shy, far from it, but rather he is purposeful within his speech. Under a husky dull voice floats peaceful, patient words matching his rough and weather beaten appearrance. His clothes are torn and frayed like the unspoken memories of his past.

“100 Years of Solitude by Gabrial Garcia Marcas” Hanani begins. “Oh, it is a great book”.
“Yeah I’ve heard of that”, Dylan confirms while tilting his head slightly and pushing it further in.
“I haven’t”.
“You haven’t”, Hanani mutters disbelieving. “Oh man you have to read it.

The conversation drifts along like this for some time, listing the, who’s, who and the, who’s read what and who’s the best. It’s a list of modern literature, the Kerouac’s, Boroughs, Thompson, Marquez, Twain…
Were a fag is a fag, and mescaline trip is a lolly for the lost degenerates who seeks more than the delicious findings of a bible reading. A new vision where we can sit at the front of the bus, as Kesey put it, to be and do as we please without recourse. This is writing which reaches to the bowels of society and tries, but ultimately fails to ignore the injustice of the modern world.

“Impending doom”, Dylan’s hands are now more frantic. “Impending dooooooom”.

………………

The next afternoon the air is warm and the sun is lofting just off the horizon. I take a deep breathe and absorb the sweet smell of the salty ocean. Beside the pool I’m sitting when the beautiful girl from the day before swims up to the edge.

“You coming for a swim”, she starts.
“Yeah I think I will”, I reply nonchalantly.

I look around for Dylan to see if he wants to come for a dip, but like he came, he has gone. Bummer, I’ll miss that guy, I think as I slip off the stairs into the clement deeps of the pool.

*****************

Dylans blog - Lament the Dementted


* Which poses a question in itself, do baby wizards have glorious beards when they are born or are there no ‘baby” phase within wizardry lore? I wonder, anyway I hear it’s a prerequisite for this kind of occupation.

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 3

The tall white 4x4 ute comes barrelling down the highway, holding about 120 kilometres and hour, it’s inertia blows up dust as it passes. From inside the cab, the Parasite sucks eagerly at the poisonous port sack, then takes out his rifle from behind the front seat and loads some live shells into the chamber and cocks the level under the trigger..

“Stop the ute when you see a goat”, he exclaims calmly.
“You’ll never get it from the car”, Shane protests. “We need to pull off somewhere and stalk ‘em”.
“Don’t be silly”, the parasite replies confidently, “This is a Winchester lever action 30.30, I could knock over an elephant with this thing”…

Shane shakes his head and peers into the rear view mirror anxiously to see if anyone is coming up from behind. It’s all clear, but up front a few kilometres away he can see an object in the heat blurred horizon…

“Better wait until this car passes”, He say’s.
“Ha hmm, don’t worry about it”, Parasite urges pathetically.

They pass a few goats which are chewing lackadaisically a few metres away on the side of the road. Parasite twitches in his chair and thumbs the handle of his rifle excitedly, almost stroking it like it where an expensive jewel. Shane disapprovingly shakes his head once again but the Parasite is too distracted by the passing shrubbery to notice his disfigurement.

“I bet I’ll hit one”, the Parasite boast’s, breaking the tiresome hum of the roaring tires.
“And what are you going to do with it Zac?”, Shane replies sarcastically, emphasizing his name.
“We’ll eat it!” he affirms earnestly while looking impatiently through the open window.
“You’re not putting that thing in my car”.

The Parasite doesn’t reply and within a few minutes a twin trailer semi rolls past with a burst of sound and momentum. It makes the ute shake violently by the built-up pressure between the two objects. Shane checks the rear view mirror again.

“Stop the car”, The Parasite burst’s with excitement just moments after the truck has passed.

Stones crunch under the heavy wheels, three goats look up distracted by their monotonous task and the car comes to a slow halt. As the car door opens the goat’s turn and bolt sensing some immanent danger. They should - the parasite although a wanker at the best of times, is a bloody good shot, not that they know this. Shane quickly plugs his fingers into his ears, while the Parasite rapidly braces the rifle hard against the corner frame of the window. He balances himself and watches the goats bounce erratically through the open scope. They dart from left to right looking for some shrub to hide under but the land is hard, barren and futile..

The gun sounds with deafening forcefulness and a loud audible crack. The Parasite’s shoulder jerks violently under the recoil and the 80gram lead head explodes from the end of the rifle furiously. The second goat bursts open like an egg in a microwave as the bullet enters its arse and blows out the side of its abdomen the size of a basketball. A bloody mess, it tumbles lifelessly to the ground.

The Parasite grins excitedly and jumps out of the car, rifle in toe.

“Stalking ‘em, pfft” he echo’s. “Haha hmm”.

He bounds through the red dirt on the front balls of his naked feet. His slender body moves naturally against the sterile background. Shane checks the road methodically before stepping out of the cab.

“What are you going to do with it?” Shane asks inquisitively.

The parasite is already standing over the dead creature, flipping it over with his hands and examining his work with pride. It’s a terrible kill shot, but with a bullet as ridiculous as it is, its little work knocking a goat over.

“You’re not putting it in my car”, Shane reinforces again.

The Parasite looks up momentarily at Shane, rather perplexed as to why Shane would be so inconsiderate.

“Well I want its horn’s”, the Parasite decides rather unhappy that he can’t take the whole bloody carcass.
“I have a knife in the car” Shane helpfully suggests.
“Meh, effort!” and with that the Parasite wipes his bloody hands across his shorts, picks up the rifle, cock’s the lever and holds the heavy barrel above the goats skull. Shane turns away and the rifle once again pops like an angry grenade.

When Shane turns back, the Parasite has already reached down and divorced the two horns from the disgusting pool of mush.

“Hehe”, the Parasite sniggers in his own bemusement.
“You are an absolute fucking dickhead”, Shane argues, but he might as well whisper it under his breath as it falls unheard.

Minutes later they are back on the Great Northern Highway, destination Carnarvon. Parasite holds up his trophy and examines them quietly then busies himself again with the Port sack.

It’s not until the next day that the two roll into the Oyster Farm. The Parasite was moving impatiently, all fidgety and smiling as I watch the car pull up. He bursts from the door like an escaping cat, in his hands he’s holding these horns and yabbering on at a speed I can hardly understand, or care to actually listen. I smile and greet Shane as he slowly makes his way from the car.

“Did you have a good drive” I ask, directing the questions towards Shane. He shakes his head disapprovingly.
“Never again”, he exhales, “Not with Zac”.
I look at the Parasite and he’s excited with this statement.
“Feel the bump on my head”, he exclaims as wildly as he had been talking just before. He put’s his hand against the back of his head and feels at an apparent swollen bump. I don’t bother.
“I had to hit him across the head to shut him up”, Shane explains, “He got so drunk last night and he wouldn’t shut up”.
“Yeah and I can’t remember it”, the Parasite interjects then laughs some more and adds, “What did you hit me with?”
“A metal bar”, Shane smiles.
“Fuck”, the Parasite exclaims, ‘No wonder it hurts so much!”.

This makes Shane’s grin grow a little broader and he laughes a little under his breath.

“Well welcome to the farm”, I say, “Make yourselves at home. I have some work to finish off, won’t take long”.

As I turned to head back to work they were arguing about some minor indifference. This was going to be one hell of a weekend, I thought to myself and walked away.