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

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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!)

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Untitled
By Matt Dewse
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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.