Foutre La Merde, Dans

Foutre la merde, dans© (The fuck-up)
a novel by
Aaron Goldberg©, started on the 6th, April, 2010
but really started around the same time but in 1997.
All rights reserved and Copyright Aaron Goldberg 2010
“I let my mind wander. And what did it do?” Willie Nelson.
It felt like 4am. It felt like that moment when on an aeroplane the cruising time is over and the
descent begins. In sleep, it was the time when the R.E.M stops, you know it but you don't. Jean
appeared somewhere, slightly fatter. Or was it her? Is she the muse? Another bitch. It was probably
mum, aged 34, on the beach. Or Judy, or Polly? But the hourglass was wider. It was all of them.
Then the song. Always an addictive tune. 'Bury me deep in love'. Lying on his stomach, his cock
was hard, pressing into the 3.5cm thick mattress of the fold out couch. 'Bury me deep in love' as he
lay on his stomach, his jaw sinking into the pillow. It was total cliche. He was like a flag for the 7
hole rammed against that thin mattress. And then same fantasy: Missionary position. Skin
temperature about 39 Celsius. Comfortable sheets. Nice slightly messy smell. No drama. Another
craving subsides. Next memories: Drugs. Beers. Shit food. Sleep. Shit. Sitting on the dock of the
bay. 'Bury me deep in love'. By the Triffids, a lousy, boring, bloated band. For people who dance in
their heads. For Mr.Averageness who likes 'alternative stuff' on the side. And that fucking lead
singer. David McComb. A 1980s Byron fashion casualty. A 'classier' Michael Hutchence. Australia
was into their Byronesque Michael Hutchence/Nick Cave dandy-pandy private school romantic
poet types, it was either that or drunken sheep shearers. And McComb was another. He wasn't
Leonard Cohen, but he tried. Just some farmer from a rich family, private school education. Lots of
privilege with sunburnt country Colonialist harshness. The sophisticated women liked it, whether
they were rich or poor, the poorer ones generally more fun, but usually Catholic. Bitches.
'Bury me deep in love'. Then he realised it wasn't what he thought it was. It wasn't burying his love
deep in her, it was being 'buried deep in love'. It was like being stuck in the movies 'City of the
Living Dead' or the 'Vanishing' or 'Kill Bill2' – buried deep and alive. Fucken hell! You were getting
'buried deep in love'. All over you. How did that song get in his head? He didn't even like the
fucking Triffids.
In the car it was about coffee. In the car it was about Willie Nelson singing 'pages'. In the car it was
about coffee in the fashionable coffee house that served really good coffee, imported. The staff were
all under 30 and were a mixture of retro chic and American Apparel uniformity. The coffee was
imported from third world climates where the beans tasted better. Everything tastes better when it
isn't replicated. The coffee tastes fine. Pay the extra amount you cheap, ungrateful shit. If you want
something decent you must pay for it. The after-taste of the coffee was still there. It wasn't
unpleasant.
Rejecting the story, here is the email:
rom - Tue Dec 29 20:07:12 2009

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From: "st.dach" <st.dach@internode.on.net>
To: "'Space Traveller'" <valis999@tpg.com.au>
Subject: 100 lightnings sub.
Date: Tue, 29 Dec 2009 15:31:43 +1100
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Dear Aaron,
Thanks for submitting some work to our anthology. I am sorry but the three
pieces that you have sent me are not a good fit for '100 lightnings', a bit
too everyday for me. I need something strange, weird, wonderful, even if it
is in a mundane setting. If you would like to try me with anything along
those lines please feel free to submit again.
Thanks again and good luck with all of your writing endeavours.
Stephen.
------=_NextPart_000_0000_01CA889C.06D99940
Content-Type: text/html;
charset="Aus-ascii-yogurt"
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<html xmlns:o=3D"urn:schemas-microshit-con:of:office" =
xmlns:w=3D"urn:schemas-crocsoft-com:office:word:bottom line:enter" =
xmlns=3D"http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40 – hooray for Open Source!">
<head – can I resist?>

<META HTTP-EQUIV=3D"Content-Type" CONTENT=3D"text/html; =
charset=3Dus-ascii">
<meta name=3DGenerator content=3D"Moccasoft Werd 11 (filtered medium)">

<style>

</style>
</head>
<body lang=3DEN-US link=3Dblue vlink=3Dpurple, nipples?>
<div class=3DSection1 more fun than Marx>
Dear Aaron,<o:p></o:p>

font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p>

font-family:Arial'>Thanks for submitting some work to our anthology. I =
am sorry
but the three pieces that you have sent me are not a good fit for =
‘100
lightnings’, a bit too everyday for me. I need something strange, =
weird,
wonderful, even if it is in a mundane setting. If you would like to try =
me with
anything along those lines please feel free to submit =
again.<o:p></o:p></and burn>

font-family:Arial'><o:p> </o:p>

font-family:Arial'>Thanks again and good luck with all of your writing
endeavours.<o:p></o:p>
 __________ Information from ESET NOD32 Antivirus, version of =

virus signature database 4723 (20091228) __________ The message =
was checked by ESET NOD32 Antivirus and well as some bloke on his computer.
Everything is safe. Here is the print-out. <A =
HREF=3D"http://www.eset.com">http://www.eset.com</A>Some shit antivirus
software, coded into your message of grand importance, you didn't even know
about it, like something out of Blade Runner the movie, then Willam Gibson's
whole career. Too many movies, man </body>
</html>
------=_NextPart_000_ Right here, read on...--
Everyday and mundane. Why read a book about that shit. You live it everyday. You don't want a
reminder do you? You recreated yourself to get away from that shit. The tattoos, piercing, drugs,
merit based boyfriend, closet, sexual politic, art grant, audience, on-line network, Facebook, i-
phone, i-pod, Eastern religious artefacts around the house, indie-rock band, LCD television on
special with an extra Playstation, weekend in the country with liars listening to boring electronic
music, punk rock, post-punk rock, job search, seek.com.au, getting jobs for your mates, getting jobs
for people who agree with you and don't really achieve much, getting jobs for people who listen to
you, do a reasonable job and make you look good, trust, email, Windows XP, 'The Office',
Motorhead, reading Vice Magazine because it's free and you can leave it in the toilet, writing for
Vice magazine and creating some elaborate groovy bio when all you are is just a white kid from a
good suburb from a good home and a cohesive family but you like to take drugs on the weekend
and talk about fashion. Get a job in New York and live in Brooklyn, where it's not much different
from the suburb and scene you came from. At least there's more people there. Live in England and
drink beer in big glasses at Irish concept bars with English guys who work in I.T and seem to have
everything in order, go to Europe where everyone seems to talk Russian and want to be like
Eminem or Paris Hilton, pay the council rates, renege on your child support, watch porn, watch
European porn where people still wear clothes and women are always fucked in the arse. Europeans
always fuck in the arse, even the heterosexual ones. In fact European heterosexuals fuck more in the
arse than European homosexuals. Europeans always seem to have sex in large mansions with lush,
finely manicured gardens in buildings that are hundreds, if not thousands of years old in their porn
movies all that culture and civilisation just to find a good locations to have public sex in. It's like
graffiti. Americans and Australians always seem to have sex in dull, generic hotel rooms, and the
guys seem to have instant hard-ons. They do that because they know they'll never have sex in
mansions with more than one woman, two of which are wearing underwear designed Christian Dior
or Karl Lagerfeld. As opposed to Elle McPherson. I saw Elle McPherson when I arrived at New
York. I didn't sleep on the plane that night and watched 'Don't mess with the Zohan' on the 5 inch
LCD screen. It was funny for the first 20 minutes then was toilet. SO in my eagerness to get off the
plane, I happened to get through customs first. There was a tall, tall woman who to me looked like
your typical New York model generic. It didn't even register, until some Jewish guy phoned his
friend via his all-new multifunction Blackberry, he told his friend you won't believe who is waiting
for their luggage with me. It was Elle McPherson. She was tall and lithe, but her face looked
horrible and mousy. She looked like the type of woman you see at an Albert Park pub here in
Melbourne, or any woman you see in Sydney that are about third generation Aussie. But it was Elle
McPherson. Underwear designer of the mundane and everyday. She had a crazy, lithe, tall body
with a mouses' head on it and probably rode lots of horses as a young girl. Everyday and mundane. I
just ranted total nonsense about the everyday and mundane, but I won't stop there..
Closing down the Tote. Going to South By Southwest with your band and 500 other bands and
getting bucketloads of free junk and newspapers that when you return seem like gold. 'Look at the
good shit they've got'. Richard Hell saying 'thanks' to you on Facebook. French hiphop. French
techno. Going to a German techno night hosted by Goethe Institute so young graphic designers can
imagine what it will be like in Berlin, that is the same size as Melbourne, minus as many migrants
from around the world. In New York, trendy talented young adults start nightclubs reminiscing
about the wild nightclubs they danced at in Berlin. When they get home they start another night-
club, but only their NYU Marketing Undergrads come along, and most of them are either of Indian
and Asian decent with perfect educated American accents and they are all very polite. The
Americans have a word for this – 'multicutli'. Then there is that American guy a DJ, who had a song
called 'I was there' which is like this unfocused rant,book, psychos that you are reading now.
Dumping it from my mind bereft of a soul into yours, right now in real time. This moment. I
continue...Not only was I 'there', I came up with the idea first. And I got no respect for it, in fact I
didn't even get it together enough to capitalise on it, ie being 'there' first, the originator. The
tastemaker. The seminal infleunce. I wasn't even buried 'deep in love'. He got it. And at the end he
tells me: 'You don't know what you really want', like a psychiatrist. The guy who wrote that song
earns more than most New York psychiatrists because he sung: 'You don't know what you really
want'. And the Bhuddists say that your desires, your cravings are what make you unhappy. But the
cravers are out there doing it, getting it, getting what they really want. And if you 'don't know what
you really want' you won't 'always get what you want', but 'I want more' and 'I need all the love I
can't get'. But Chic sang 'I want your love' as well as 'freak out' so they must have not known 'what
you really want'. People who deserve and have the merit and skill and ability and can do things
better than you or I 'know what they really want'. That's why they get the privilege to live there in
the city of refuge. That place that's full of awesome humanity and people and really 'multi-culti'.
You'll never be bored there, Trust me. I know. Paul Stanley sung 'I want you'. His lyrics are more
poetic than LCD Soundsystem who sing pretty much about what this story is about:
You don't know what you really want. (x15)
But back to Paul Stanley the New York city love poet. But they laugh at him, here is the proof:
In the morning I raise my head

And I'm thinkin' of days gone by
And the thing I want out of life is
I want you (I want you)
You can run, you can hide
But you never get away
You can lie and deny
But you know you're gonna pay
Never loved, never thought you could
Treat you right, girl, you know I would
You can fight but tonight
There's nothin' you can do

Baby, baby, babe, I want you (I want you)
You can walk in a haze

You can travel till you die
You can live in a dream
And your life will pass you by
Every day that you hesitate
You're never changin' the hands of fate
You can fight but tonight
There's nothing you can do

Baby, baby, babe I want you (I want you)
In the morning I raise my head

And I'm thinkin' of days gone by
And the thing I want out of life is

Ah (I want you) (I want you)
Back then, Freddie Mercury sung, 'I want it all', when songwriters were more enlightened back in
the 80s. Not just left-field, underground songwriters, the real players. The guys that could slay a
crowd of 20,000 without any effort on the money. The guys that really communicated to the normal
person, not an all-knowing, self-indulgent rent-a-crowd. Freddie sung: 'I want it all'. But where 'you
don't know what you really want' became the song of the decade for readers of Vice magazine, 'I
want it all' became an anthem for 'anti Apartheid' followers as well as an anthem for Gay rights and
even some Afro Americans used it for some reason, apparently. But Freddie didn't write the lyrics,
nor the song, Brian May the guitarist did, and he didn't write it as a protest song either, when you
read the lyrics it's more about being a Yuppie in the 80s. Despite all the calls for rebellion, 'truth',
washing away the lies, they sing 'I want it all, and I want it now'. So Freddie is the legend who died,
and people laugh at Brian May because he looks like a poodle and is boring. And now we have
progressed so far as to sing about 'you don't know what you really want' when back then they
wanted it all.
OK. I. AM.BORING.
Get yer hand off it.
Shake! Shake!
Phillip Roth did it better.

Shake! Shake!
The work lacks maturity.
Lacks cohesion.
Doesn't have a strong narrative thrust.
Quote:
“Dear Aaron,
Thanks for your call regarding your project submitted to STRAND A.
For you (sic) information - the round was quite large 60 projects and the AFC
were only able to fund 6 projects given our budget per round. The projects are
shortlisted by two Outside Assessors and then I read the Shortlist as I was the
Project Manager assigned to this particular round. Gee they do the work and you rubber stamp it.
So three people decide what culture makes it to the public. Kinda fascist don't you think?
Unfortunately your project did not make the shortlist. These projects are then taken
to the Project Committee where the final decisions are made. Erm why did you explain this to me
when you told me I wasn't shortlisted to begin with?
Please find attached below the comments from Assessors John Brousek and Gabrielle Jones.
I hope the comments, although brief are of some use. If you would like to re-sumbit(sic)
this project for a future round please refer to the AFC Guidelines as projects need to
be substantially re-worked. This means that some re-working has occurred in the writing
of the submitted draft as well as the accompanying development notes. It was too hard and I was
too lazy and 'I don't know what I really want'. But that's not your fault. I'm immature and insecure.
If you have any further questions just give me a call. They all say that.
Regards,
Lawrence.
GABRIELLE JONES:
A story about a group of hackers who land in hot water after one of them gets too cocky. I think
this could be an interesting story that could well find an audience. The only reason for me that it is
not on a shortlist is that the current draft was just not as developed as the others that made it. There
is an interesting premise a boy whose father is dying, has an alternative life on the net where he is
all powerful.
That said, this script is based on a book (?copyright clearance) and therefore the story is coming
across as fairly linear without much development of characters and thematic intention for the
screen. The story takes far too long to get going, the stakes are not high enough and the subplots
are not really working with the main narrative. A script of potential that has come in too early. OK,
I have to wait in queue for another ten years. Fair enough, socialism works. But the story is
ultimately shit and I'm not skilled, inspired or just plain gifted enough to fix it. The reason I'm
asking for money is to pay yourself or one of your mates, who has had this happen to them, to assist
in knocking this piece of mediocrity into gear, alas I'll have to pay my own way, once I've sorted the
child support, rent, electricity, mobile and medication bills.
JOHN BROUSEK:
The script is too slow paced for this genre of film. There have been many films made on this subject
so to break through a script needs to be really exciting and innovative. This one doesn't really get
there when compared to an audience's level of knowledge/ familiarity with computers. So you are
an IT expert, from the man who brought the world such 'excitng and innovative' masterpieces as
'the WogBoy' and 'Hating Allison Ashley' a film so bad that not even the fans of Delta Goodrem
could get into it.
The protagonists are very dark for a broader audience appeal. Well I can understand why 'No
Country for Old Men' or even 'Grand Turino' are so unpopular...
The script is competently but un-excitingly written having no really strong hook to get the reader in.
Information is clumsily given and the script needs to hold back more on much of this to create
greater tension. The story is also very static which doesn't help the script. Well I'll give you that, I
mean I am an essentially boring, depressed, mediocre person, and my interface with expressing
drama not as innate as experts like yourself. But yes, the script was shit, that's why it failed...
The characters are underdeveloped and standard while most scenes are playing on one level only.
Unfortunately not of the standard against stronger scripts presented in this round. I'd like to finish
that this information was given to me on my birthday. I guess I need a thicker skin, but I'd really
love to see these same people go through the same judgemental process, would make a great reality
TV show...
Here's an exercise. What do you do when confronted with rejection? Send your replies to
legendtofski@gmail.com.
Chapter 4
Excerpt from 'edgy, grunge, inner-city novel exploring notions of living outside
the dominant paradigm, along with explorations of identity, sexuality, power-
structures, identity, sexuality, power systems and 90s literature which
incidentally makes good toilet paper now that I am a vegetarian. Also to be
adapted into a 'hip, edgy' Australian movie, totally funded by the Government
and designed to provoke religious conservatives and fans of male-dominated
sports.
The blare of the radio provided an apt ambience for their drive into the city, to destination unknown.
Biffy would rev his car, a mid-80’s model 6 -cylinder Ford Ghia, at any opportunity. Adam just
slouched back into the bucket seats and bopped into the groove on the radio. He was feelingly
unquestionably great, and was ready for any action Biffy was ready to throw up. They cruised up
and down Fitzroy Street a few times. Biffy would drag other drivers, starting at the bottom end of
the street near the new-Prince of Wales hotel. He’d floor the accelerator pedal, making sure he
wasn’t speeding too much, and zip past all the yuppies in their convertible sports cars and 4-wheel
drives, who were too busy trying to be noticed anyway. As soon as they’d get to the intersection at
the top of the street, Biffy would hang right, and then zip up Grey St, past all the prostitutes, and
join the slow throng of other hoons and desperadoes who’d cruise the seedy street in search of
thrills and spills. Their little drive would continue up Barkly St, past the Adult bookshops and the
video library, and they’d give a honk to the transvestite hookers that these days seemed to get more
business than the real girls. By this stage, Adam was getting a little bored, speeding and driving
mindlessly around, not really doing much.
“Hey Biffy, can we like settle somewhere, I mean I see this shit everyday, its boring.”
“Well where can we go?”
“I dunno, how about we go into town, have a few beers, maybe check out the Casino or
something.”
“Alright.” He paused and pondered for a moment, then continued,
“I got a better idea. We’ll go into town, to that gay clubby joint. I’ll try and sell some of the shit I
got so we can then go into the casino and try and win more buckage - how’s that sound?”
Adam processed the info he'd just been given.
“You didn't tell me you had more speed!”
“Didn’t ask, did ya?” Replied Biffy. Adam just raised his eyebrows, 'I guess I didn’t', he thought to
himself.
They drove up St.Kilda Road, the main boulevard in Melbourne, and turned off near the Arts centre.
They soon came to a club that was located above a direct factory outlet that sold Office Supplies.
Biffy parked nearby, the two of them got out and headed for the club. On the way Biffy was frisking
himself, making sure that he had his gear with him as they neared the club entrance. The muffled
sound of House beats becoming more distinct as they approached.
“You reckon we’ll get in? I mean are we dressed properly for this place?” Inquired Adam.
They didn’t really look the part, while Adam may have passed as queer, mainly because he was
small, had his blonde hair shaved with only a little quiff at the front, and was wearing baggy pants
and a Red, puffy nylon raincoat. Biffy was also wearing baggy pants and a Nike sports jacket, his
hair was long and shaved at the sides, and threaded though the strap at the back of the baseball cap
he was wearing.
“Yeah, fuck man, no dramas - we’re two young blokes. We look a little bit clubby anyway I reckon.
It’s a fag joint. They gotta let us in.”
“Whatever.” Said Adam.
“Besides, its Wednesday night. It’s not like we’re some fuckin’ yobbos out to do something
different. Most of them have to get up for work tomorrow morning, anyway.”
“Yeah.”
They went up the stairs, and like Biffy predicted, got into the club without any hassles. Inside, the
room had a dark, secretive feel to it. There was a dancefloor packed with young energetic men
dancing with lots of conviction and passion. The music was early 80’s style disco, Kylie Minogue
and Dead or Alive. They were also playing lots of Euro-style high-energy disco, the type of music
with lots of cowbells and hi-pitched female vocals, chanting about things like ‘love’ and ‘devotion’.
There were a few women in the club, most had crew cuts and would have their arms around each
other and were drinking pots of beer like working class men. However, there were also women with
them who were quite beautiful in a very classic and refined way. A lot of these women were
wearing very up-market clothing, their lips painted with deep red matte lipstick. Adam just stood
there checking everything out.
Suddenly, the music was turned up a little louder and the men on the dancefloor started to hoot and
holler, the energy of the place seeming to rise a notch in tandem. Biffy nudged Adam out of his
stupor, and spoke into his ear.
“You want a drink or something?”
“Yeah, a beer. Just a pot of whatever”
“Cool.” Biffy surveyed the room a bit himself and continued. “You wait here. I’ll try and find a few
customers.”
“Yeah.”
Biffy went over to the bar and started talking to a few people, mainly some of the women who were
idling around talking to each other and drinking. He returned with two stubbies, a VB for Adam
and a Cascade for himself. He took a swig and surveyed the pumping environment.
“Gee its goin’ off in here, don’t ya reckon?”
“Yeah, its fuckin’ unreal! Fuckin’ everyone’s having a really full on good time, fuckin, I’m getting
into this shit!”
“Yeah, these gay joints aren’t bad. Lots of partying. Lots of drugs. No dramas. Shit you don’t see
everyday.”
“The vibe here is really fuckin’ loose. Its not like the Espy or those yuppie joints”, replied Adam,
“But its gettin’ a bit more mainstream these days, more 'pigs' around, more trendy types that are in it
for action, rich Jews and St.Kilda types who are into the kicks, you know it doesn’t feel as
dangerous or risky as it used to.”
Biffy looked over at two men who were dressed in very expensive clothes, they were checking
Biffy and Adam out, they were talking to each other and one of the men was smiling at Adam,
unbeknown to him. Biffy nudged him.
“You see those two.” Biffy pointed over at the two conservatively dressed men, he continued,
“Rich cunts. Married blokes who have suddenly decided they’re fags, so they can rip their wives
off in court. Be careful. They are power sharks. They prey on young boys, hustlers. They can be
very, very nasty.”
Adam nodded to himself in understanding.
“How do you know all this shit Biffy? And why tell me about it anyway?”
Biffy smiled to himself in an all-knowing way.
“I’ve been around, I see shit, also, you gotta be careful when you sell shit too. Most of the time its
cunts with money who are gonna lag on you anyway. I’ve been ripped off by those types of cunts
before. You learn quick when you get burned.”
Biffy looked at the two conservative men, and then back at Adam, and continued like he was talking
to himself,
“The dirty bastard wanted me to suck him off. I told him I was only selling shit, not my fuckin’ arse.
He didn’t like that, told a narc. It turned out that he was some hotshot lawyer. I pleaded guilty and
got a bond, I had no other chance. You can’t win with those types. The only way to beat them is to
deny them an audience.”
Adam let Biffy’s words sink in, but he was speeding too much for them to affect him. Biffy realised
this and patted Adam on the back. It was all he could do.
“But don’t let me freak you out too much. Lemme just try and off some gear and then we’ll get out
of here. Alrighty?”
“Yeah, cool, I’ll just be here.”
Biffy left Adam and went back over to the bar. He started talking to two guys wearing jeans and
leather jackets. One of them was really skinny and withered, and had a goatee beard smeared with a
five day growth. The other guy was fat and wore glasses. His face was soft and pimply and he
looked like a computer dork. Biffy got himself a beer and automatically went into his shmooze
mode, talking small talk and using his hands alot to keep his potential customers interested in his
shtick.
Meanwhile Adam stood in a space near the dance-floor on his own. Two women standing near him
were looking over at him. They were whispering things into each other’s ears, then they would stop,
take a sip from their cocktails, and seriously check him out, looking him up and down. Adam
noticed this, but being shy and socially retarded didn’t do much for his cause. And besides this was
a gay bar.
He would look at them, and then quickly look back at the dance-floor as if he didn’t notice them
gazing at him. Eventually one of the women approached him, she was wearing black, and had her
hair cut in a mid-length bob, she was smiling at him in a really obvious way, making it quite clear
that action was on her personal agenda.
“Hey boy. Wanna dance?”
Adam ignored her, and suddenly she elbowed him in the kidneys, her friend coming over to join
her. Adam looked around startled, he tried to find Biffy but was stuck all on his own.
He was terrified. Couldn’t open his mouth, he turned and looked at her and she was giving him an
incredulous, ‘what planet are you on type look’, when he suddenly came to his senses and
responded,
“I can’t really dance. I’m not very coordinated.”
What a stupid thing to say, Adam thought, but he was so uncertain, so alarmed by the strangers’
aggressive-friendliness, that he could only put his foot in it. The other woman started to speak.
“Don’t freak him out too much, Jenny, he looks a bit.... fragile.”
The other woman was tall and heavy set, but not fat. She was a natural redhead, her hair cut short,
and she had large breasts. She was wearing a black one-piece dress that effortlessly highlighted her
best features, and her lips were coated with a matte black lipstick. Most of the women at this club
wore lipstick, matte, either in black or red. It seemed to be the rage around these parts.
Jenny laughed and put her arm around Adam, she started rubbing his lower back and arse, and
Adam got a bit of a hard-on at this sudden sign of affection.
“Oh, isn’t he a cutie. Doesn’t talk, stands on his own, doesn’t look at anyone, and when he does he
looks away. The perfect man!”
Jenny kept rubbing his arse and she was motioning towards her friend to join her, she suddenly
slipped her hand down his back, this startled Adam, but she quickly slid out, her hands gently
caressed him. The warm gentle strokes felt nice, and he instantly grew hard. But this sudden display
of touchy-feely affection by a stranger, and a female one in a gay bar, was quite bizarre.
“So what brings you here shy boy? You looking for fun? A sugar daddy?”
“Umm, I like the music..”
The redhead suddenly beamed to her friend in some kind of intuitive communication,
“And what's your name young one?” She said to him.
Adam looked back at her in a kind of nervous awe, he mumbled feebly,
“Adam.”
“Adam. Like Adam and Eve. How biblical!” Said Jenny. “A nice religious boy I imagine, you went
to a Catholic school?”
“Umm..public actually..”
Jenny put her arm around him once again, and placed her other hand on his chest, in a motherly
way, she made a proposition to him,
“So Adam. Would you like to come outside for a few minutes?”
He stood there thinking, these two women suddenly making serious advances on him, asking him
explicitly to join them, he’d never had this sort of attention, since...well, he’d never had this sort of
attention ever. He jumped into his fear and uncertainty and spoke out.
'What are we gonna do?” He replied. Dumb.Dumb.Dumb question.
Jenny and her friend looked at each other and giggled ironically, as if they had this guy all wrapped
up, liked they possessed an intimate, higher knowledge.
The redhead began to speak,
“Well we were wondering if you’d like to come share a joint with us in our car?”
The word ‘joint’ triggered a response in Adam’s head that wasn’t dissimilar to getting the jackpot in
a poker machine.
“Yeah.” He said. “Why not.”
“Cool” Said Jenny.
They left the club, and soon they were in Jenny’s little red Honda which was parked in a vacant lot
near the club. Adam sat it the front with Jenny, while the redhead sat in the back. Being alone and
intimate with them, suddenly made Adam feel a bit more confident about himself, especially in the
midst of these female strangers, and besides, they were being generous to him as well, which helped
to lower his guard to no end.
Jenny opened the glove box and pulled out a little brown bottle of some strange liquid that looked
like it was eye drops.
“Here Sue, take a sniff”, said Jenny to the red-head. She opened the bottle and gingerly passed it
back who suddenly took two large sniffs. The car was suddenly engulfed in an aroma that wasn’t
much different to nail polish.
“What is it?” Inquired Adam.
“It's called 'Loose' ”, Replied Jenny, “ but it's really some sort of amyl, that doesn’t give you
headaches”.
Sue passed the bottle to back to Jenny, who also took two large sniffs and passed it to Adam.
He took the bottle and tentatively placed it to his nose, the fumes instantly catching him off guard
and making his eyes water. What happened next was a bit of blur, but it went something like this:
The ‘looser’ hit his speeding brain with a rush that made everything around him blurry and
fragmented. He suddenly felt a hand slide down the front of his t-shirt and start rubbing his chest
around the nipple area. Next thing, Sue’s tongue was in his mouth, and it was like she was trying to
eat his face off, such was the intensity of her passion. Her breath smelt a little like vegetable soup,
and he could hear her snort aggressively through her nose as she tongued away at his face. All he
could do was prod his tongue back, and lick away at her probing mouth. She was rubbing his chest
faster, and next thing he knew, his shirt had been pulled up, and she was now licking his chest. The
front seat suddenly fell back but Sue continued licking and rubbing his bare chest, arousing him to
no end. He felt someone suddenly pulling at his pants, it was Jenny, trying to give life to his limp
dick with her hand. He felt tingly and warm all over, the speed and amyl working up a sensual head
cocktail and these two women literally eating him alive. Without even realising it, he came. He
heard the women laugh, and next thing they were at each other, kissing and tonguing away at each
other in an aggressive silence. He could hear them breathing and moaning, and their teeth clacking
as their mutual erotic hungers were taken out on each other. In that primal instant, Adam had
suddenly become meaningless to them, a diversion. He groggily grabbed his shirt, and pulled his
pants back up. He opened the door of the car, and mumbled a little ‘thanks’ to Jenny, but she
ignored him as he slid out into the street. The two women were now clutching at each others
crotches, in their own private orgasmic ritual.
As Adam walked away from the car, he felt quite clear and at ease with himself, even if his head
felt like cotton wool, he was still aware of what was going on around him. He looked back at the
Honda, it was wobbling around, Jenny and Sue still going away at it. The windows had all fogged
up, so no-one could see what was going on inside.
Back at the club, he flashed his entry stamp to the bouncer and door bitch, who both smiled at him,
as if they noticed something he didn’t. He ignored them, as he went back inside the club. This time
there were a lot more men than before, and the vibe was even more intense and pumping than
earlier. There were guys making out with transvestites, other guys, fag-hags trying to get in on the
action, the whole sexuality mix with the lot. It was like sexuality wasn’t just the code, it was the
key, everything around this place revolved around sex, nothing else was an issue.
He had to sift through the bodies and weird faces that were looking him up and down, before he
found Biffy, still at the bar, this time talking to a very tall and sexy looking blonde woman.
Biffy was still talking to the blonde, when Adam tapped him on the shoulder. Adam was all smiles
and words,
“Biff, man, I just got head!” (lying)
Biffy looked over at Adam and back at the blonde.
“What? You got head, good on ya!”
But he said it in a meaningless way, as if Adams’ conquest was just passe. He introduced Adam to
the blonde, who was wearing lots of make-up and purple lipstick, she looked a little like Pamela
Anderson, probably even more attractive, since Pamela Anderson looked a bit weird anyway....
“Ahh, Adam this is Zan-Axe, she’s a ‘friend’ of mine.”
Adam shook Zan’s hand, her grip was quite strong,
“Hi Zan. I’m Adam Koffey, I’m a mate of Biffy.”
He became quite shy and blushed a little, he wasn’t very good around strangers, and he was also in
a bit of awe of Zan, he had never seen a woman who was so tall, so remarkable, so graceful. He was
gawking at her, smiling a bit, when Biffy pulled him to the side and whispered into his ear,
“She’s a bloke mate, don’t get too carried away,” he looked at Adam and then at Zan again, who
was smiling at the two of them, “but she looks good on the outside don’t ya reckon?”
Adam just nodded and looked back at Zan amazed. He whispered back to Biffy,
“Yeah but does she have... ?”
“What?”
“Lips! You know, a pussy?”

“I’m not too sure myself. You wanna find out?”
Adam looked back at Biffy as if he were mad. Biffy just laughed and went back to talking to Zan.
“Sorry about that Zan. My mate Adam, he’s a bit young and inexperienced and stuff, and he can get
really rude to strangers. You know, he cant help it, he went to a Catholic school and stuff.”
“Hey, how sweet,” said Zan in a slightly deep, effeminate voice, “I went to one too, and look how I
turned out!”
They laughed and went back to their small talk. Adam leaned on his elbows, his back to the bar as
Biffy and Zan talked on. Many of men checked him out, and he just smiled back at them in an
awkward way. He watched Biffy and Zan go at it. Biffy was telling him some bullshit story about
how his last girlfriend was a trannie, and how he had to work two jobs and sell drugs on the side to
help her pay for her expensive sex change operation. Zan went on about how she finally finished up
with her sex operation, how liberating it felt to lose your dick and suddenly have a cunt, and how
she doesn’t have to work as a hooker anymore, which was causing her more grief than the actual
sex/identity change itself. In fact the sex change was the most exciting thing in her life, it was better
than sex and winning Tattslotto together, and that now she earns big bucks as a cutting edge fashion
model, and even gets paid big dollars to appear at the opening of chic nightclubs to make them
appear ‘cool’ .
Biffy then went on about how he understood what trannies go through, and how his Dad actually
used to dress in his mum’s clothes, and when she found out she left him and so on. Adam bought
himself a beer, so Biffy and Zan wouldn’t notice him laughing at himself and at all the bullshit that
Biffy was spinning. After a few minutes Biffy changed the topic to drugs, and before long the two
of them went over to the toilets. Biffy came back a few minutes later and stood next to Adam at the
bar.
“Well. How did you go?” Adam inquired.
“Good.”
But Biffy seemed a little apprehensive. He looked around the club, as if there were people watching
him. something seemed a little amiss. Adam noticed this and probed further,
“What’s’ up man? Something wrong?”
Biffy didn’t respond, he turned around toward the bar and Adam followed him. The bar maid was
wiping the bar down, she stopped at Biffy and motioned with her hands about whether he wanted
another, he turned her offer down, and spoke in a secretive manner to Adam, his voice was
controlled, but a little edgy,
“Listen mate, we’ve gotta split from here real fast. Dont’ fuck around, I’ll tell you outside what’s’
going on..”
Suddenly a big burly guy wearing tacky leather pants a tight blue polo shirt and leather jacket stood
next to them at the bar. His hair was cut like a marine, or maybe a cop...
“Hey mate, you don’t know where I can get any Louie do ya?”
And then it all happened really quickly.
Biffy grabbed Adam, and just yelled “Bolt!” Adam ran toward the entrance of the club, with Biffy
not far behind. The cop blew his cover immediately by yelling, “Stop! Police Raid!” Suddenly men
pulled out badges and started pushing people around with little concern for their safety or rights.
Adam was out the door, and Biffy was almost through when the bouncer quickly grabbed his arm.
The cop was closing in, but almost reflexively Biffy gobbed in the bouncer’s face and kicked him
hard and square in the balls. He let go and keeled over as the dull pain rose up to his stomach and
made him fall to his knees. The cop who was right behind, had too much velocity in his run, and
careened over the bouncer toppling down the narrow stairwell. By this stage Biffy was already out
the door and had made it to his car. He got in and revved, Adam barely getting his door closed as
they sped off into the night.
At the club the vibe had instantly died as the police systematically and efficiently locked the place
down. There were only four undercover officers in the club, but they quickly called in backup and
stopped anyone leaving the premises. The only people allowed into the club were police, and they
entered the club like black ants raiding a picnic basket. The patrons were forced to line up against
the wall, while officers would frisk them for drugs or anything else that would make their exercise
worthwhile.
The cop that had failed to catch Biffy and Adam limped back into the club, he looked around for
someone to make up for his failure, and for some absurd reason picked out Zan. He walked over to
her, and looked her up and down, smiling a sinister grin, as if he was going to get something out of
her.
“You!” He pointed. “Come with me!”
He ushered Zan-Axe into the men’s toilets and locked the door behind him.
He pointed at her to stand against the wall of one of the cubicles, she did.
He pushed her forward and proceeded to frisk her, taking no liberty to squeeze and grope her tits
and ass when he came to them. He stopped and ordered her to empty her pockets and handbag. She
did, and he frisked through the contents finding a bottle of pills. He picked them up and looked and
them, then shoving them in Zan-Axe’s face,
“And what are these. Dear?”
Zan-Axe looked at him terrified as she started to speak.
“They’re pills. I have to take them for my condition.”
“Oh.” Said the cop in a sarcastic tone, “and what condition is that?” He looked at her with scorn and
contempt before spitting out:
“BEING A FUCKING COCK SUCKING PIECE OF SHIT FAGGOT! HUH?”
Zan was now terrified, the cop was now staring at her with blood in his eyes, his breath violating
her personal space, and his sour smelling spittle exploding over her face as he continued:
“YOU SHOULD PRAY TO FUCKING GOD FOR YOUR SINS YOU SICK PIECE OF SHIT! I
FUCKIN’ SPEND ALL MY TIME TRYING TO CLEAR THE STREETS OF SHIT LIKE YOU,
BUT I KEEP STEPPING IN IT - STEPPING ON SHIT LIKE YOU, YOU DIRTY FILTHY
FUCKED UP PIECE OF.... FUCK! “....His anger seemed to be faster than his slow working mind,
he finally found the right piece of degradation to spew up,
“I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!”
Zan was now sobbing like a baby, but the cop would not stop.
“LOOK AT YOU, YOU FUCKIN’ POOFTER. CAN’T TAKE IT LIKE A MAN. NEVER
WORKED AN HONEST DAY IN YOUR LIFE. YOU KNOW, YOU FUCKERS ARE THE
PROBLEM. TRYING TO MAKE EVERYONE A POOFTER. THE SHIT’S EVERYWHERE. ON
TV. IN THE STREETS. IN THE NEWS. IN FACT YOU CUNTS RUN THIS FUCKING
COUNTRY. WELL LET ME TELL YOU, I’M GONNA DO YOU A FAVOUR. I’M GONNA
MAKE YOU A MAN!”
Zan was dribbling and spluttering in total terror. Her mascara started to run to run down her face in
black streaks. The cop pulled his jacket back and made sure Zan saw his gun. She saw it, and her
sobbing intensified.
“You..you can’t do this I have rights you know.”
And with this reply the cop landed a fist into Zan’s stomach. She fell to the dirty, wet floor of the
toilet. The cop took his jacket off and hung it on a cubicle door. He took his gun from his holster
and forced it into Zan’s mouth. He whispered into her ear.
“You have no fucken rights now I've got that bottle of those funny pills. Now you are going to find
out who really has power in this world and it's definitely not you faggots and your gay fucking
pride, not in a long shot.”
He pulled the gun out of Zan’s mouth, she gagged and spluttered a bit and started to sob silently.
He then began to unbutton his leather pants,
“I think I’ve been a bit rough on you tonite. I apologise, so I want to make it up to you.”
He pointed the gun at her and motioned her to get on her hands and knees. He grabbed a handful of
her hair and forced her head towards him.
“Like they say on the street”, he continued
“Lips are lips.”
Adam was short of breath, his face turning bright red, and he was coughing and spluttering from all
the tension and anxiety of their getaway. Biffy looked over at him, worried, as they sped up a multi-
lane speedway towards the Casino.
“You alright mate? Sorry about the bolt back there, but we had no choice.”
Adam coughed a few times, and regained his composure, he began to smile, instantly reassuring
Biffy of his well-being.
“Yeah”, he wheezed a bit and then continued..”Yeah, that was pretty fuckin’ sick back there, with
the undercover pigs and stuff, fuck,” he laughed a bit to himself, “it was like we were in a movie or
something!”
Biffy laughed to himself with a trace of irony,
“Yeah...pretty fuckin good movie. It wouldn’t have been so cool if we got caught.”
“Yeah”, replied Adam, and he suddenly turned reflective and tried to imagine the consequences of
getting caught. Getting punched up by some loser cop. Getting a lighter held under your balls by
some other sadistic cop. Going to court and getting humiliated in front of your family by a bunch of
cops trying to act civil. The list of negatives multiplied in Adam’s head. Another by-product of
speed and cutting edge reality. Biffy noticed Adam’s sudden reflective switch, and turned towards
him.
“Hey! Koffey Bean! Snap out of it man. I was joking! Just relax, no fuckin’ pig’s gonna catch us,
and besides we’re going to the Casino, we're payin’ their bills for ‘em, the cunts!”
He focused back on the road, and Adam felt a little more reassured about the whole event.
They continued driving up the speedway, and began to slow down, before entering the underground
catacomb that was the car park of the Casino. The Casino itself was a monstrosity. It was designed
in a modern-brutal-minimal style, with trappings that hinted at glamour and exclusivity, but came
across as pure trash, even to the most naive suburban robot. It was basically a shoe box with bright
lights all around it, and it tried to hide its lucrative decadence behind a shield of entertainment and
excitement. But then, it was just a Casino, nothing more, nothing less, the advertising and pizzazz
attempting to make it seem like so much more.
Biffy parked his car in one of the lower sections of the car park, the neon and uniformity of the
surroundings making it hard to determine the difference between the entrance and the exit. They left
the car near a fire exit, and were immediately engulfed by the cheesy contemporary music that was
pumped through the car park to quickly establish a feeling of excitement to the arriving punter. The
guys found the music hilarious, and were happy to arrive at the escalator that delivered them to the
Asian food court section of the Casino.
“Well, we’re here”, said Biffy as he looked around the food court, all he could see were wall-to-wall
Asian food stands, modern and clean. They were mixed across the spectrum of Asian foods - from
Vietnamese Pho’s to Cantonese Rices and Beefs to Malaysian Satays and even Sushi. The whole
Asian spectrum in one small area - although there were no smells, no dirty alleyways and no busy
Asian people running around muttering to each other in their native tongues. Here everything was
clean, served on a plastic plate with knives and forks.
“Well”, said Biffy , “welcome to One Australia!”
Adam just looked around and absorbed the newness and modernity of everything. They walked
through the food hall and came to another arcade of Cafes and restaurants serving any variety of
food you desired, except that it all tasted the same, just looked different. There were staff
everywhere - security spying on people, information people giving directions, people turning taps
on for you in toilets, girls selling cigarettes to you while you were gambling, cleaners picking
discarded rubbish, in fact there were more staff than actual customers.
They walked through the shopping arcades which were bright more than anything, and most of the
fashion boutiques would stock merely three pieces of clothing, mainly because the clothing would
be outrageously priced.
“Man, this place is like a bad trip, there’s just so much going on, it's doin my head in all this stuff!”
Said Biffy dazzled by lights of all the fashion boutiques and piped subliminal muzak.
“Yeah, its pretty fuckin wild, replied Adam, but there’s so many guards and stuff, you feel like
you’re in a prison or something.”
Biffy laughed.
“Yeah, a fuckin’ prison that encourages you to lose money!”
They came to the entrance hall of the Casino Hotel, there was a crowd of people looking around at
coloured lights and smoke machines. They were all looking at the ceiling and gawking at the light
show, which was basically just lots of blue and purple lights with some average laser lights. At its
best it was just a second rate version of a light show at a rave, but the whole context of the
environment gave a false impression that it was something more.
Adam nudged Biffy and pointed towards the hall.
“What’s going on over there? Is there some amazing spectacle or something?”
“I dunno”, replied Biffy, “Lets go have a gander.”
They entered the hall, and squeezed between the crowds of young Asian families and suburban
Australian mums and dads. They looked around at the ceiling, which was bathed in purple light, and
thousands of glittering chandeliers hung from it. Smoke machines surrounded the lights and Star-
Wars theme music was pumped out from hidden speakers, trying to give the impression of some
awe-inspiring event. Really it was all just bells and whistles, and most of the crowd were actually
trying to figure out what exactly was going on, as opposed to what was happening.
Biffy turned to Adam and surveyed the spectacle with a sweep of his hands.
“So what are we meant to see?”
“Coloured lights I suppose, and some things flashing on the wall.”
“Yeah, but what is supposed to be exciting about that?”
“The colour?” Replied Adam.
“Yeah right. They’re all looking at nothing. This is the biggest fuckin’ dogshit I have ever seen. The
waterfall at Fountain Gate shopping centre is more impressive than that.”
“Don’t be so cynical man. This complex is gonna save us from misery. Its gonna be the financial
saviour of the state.”
“The only thing this will save, is the fuckheads that come here from watching Neighbours. Its like a
creative night out for ‘em. Fuckin lets get out of here.”
They moved out of the entrance hall toward the actual gaming rooms, on the way Biffy stopped
Adam abruptly and pointed towards the syncopated waterfalls. Little spurts of water would flash
from fountains like little leaping snakes. The other waterfall comprised of little blobs of water that
would jump around in little balls.
“You see that?” He pointed towards the little pulsing blobs of water,
“That's the cum shot ballet.”
Adam laughed, Biffy was pretty right. The syncopated spurts of water did have phallic connotations
to them. But then, everyone gets fucked at the Casino.
They left the hall of water fountains and purple chandeliers, and made their way towards the
gaming rooms. The gaming rooms were full of electronic poker machines and slot machines. The
feeling of the place was old, not in that the design was old, but that the room was full of pensioners
and middle aged people who didn’t have the energy left to party and carry on like they did when
they were young. In fact the whole vibe of the gaming room was old, it was like a testament to the
defeat of age.
Biffy and Adam weren't getting excited about the place like the expected to. There were too many
lights, too many people and the place had a strange, dark aura about it. It felt walking into into the
aftermath of an inferno, the embers still hot, ready to burn you slowly but surely if you decided to
walk into the little specs of light they offered. Adam particularly felt weird in the place. He was still
buzzing from the speed and was feeling really up. But the darkness and chronic drone of the place
started to work on his patience and temper.
“Biffy, this place is fucked. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Whattya mean? I wanna have a game, man. Don’t be such a party pooper.”
“Na.” Adam was turning his head indicating negation, he started to get more assertive.
“Na, na, Fuckin bullshit. This is bullshit I gotta go.” He turned and walked away from Biffy towards
the bright lights of the arcades outside. Biffy made after him, caught up and grabbed him by the
arm.
“Wait up!” Adam kept moving trying to break Biffy’s grasp. “WAIT UP YOU FUCKHEAD!” A
few people idly looked around, realised no one was getting shot, and went back to stuffing coins
into their machine. A security guard talked into his walkie-talkie, and then ignored them.
He grabbed Adam harder finally causing him to stop.
“Where you going man. Don’t start tripping out on me. I gotta know where you’re going? How am I
gonna find you and shit?”
Adam looked around the room, and began to get his bearings back. The common sense of Biffy’s
words suddenly breaking his little panic attack.
“Look Biffy, I’m not really in the mood for this place. You...you fuckin’ go have a game, I’ll meet
you out the front in about half-a. How’s that?”
“Alright.” He looked hard at Adam and thought about what he was going to say next and continued.
“Look I wanna have a quick game. I just made a few bucks so I wanna have a game. I don’t wanna
be here long, the place is a fuckin’ shit-hole even if it is brand new. Just mellow a bit man. Chill. I’ll
see you out the front in half-a like you said, but just chill alright..?”
A security guard started walking towards the two. Biffy looked over at him and smiled, the guard
smiled back and spoke into his walkie-talkie again. Biffy made a sign with his hands indicating that
everything was OK. Adam noticed and also smiled at the guard. He turned and walked away.
“Just relax a bit man. Don’t cause a ruckus over bullshit. I’ll see you in half-a.” He glanced at his
watch. “About three OK?”
Adam gave Biffy a look of resignation.
“Ok. Alright. He said. I guess I overreacted a bit. Sorry man. I guess it was the speed and shit.”
Biffy gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and smiled at him.
“Cool?” He asked
“Yeah. Cool.” Replied Adam.
Adam made his way towards the bright entertainment area, as Biffy made his way into the dark
recesses of the gaming room as if nothing had just happened.
At around three Biffy left the Blackjack table he was playing at, he had just won forty dollars and
felt mighty proud of himself. In one night he’d made himself 140 dollars, a good nights work based
on drugs and gambling. It was all part of the modern ideal. He walked over to the bright arcade area
and found Adam looking in the window of a trendy, upmarket boutique, selling modern clothes.
Everything was black or brown. He tapped on Adam’s shoulder, getting his attention, he was
grinning wildly.
“I won!”
“What did you win on?” Said Adam.
“I played a bit of' blackjack. I was up about 100 bucks, then I started losin’. I left with forty bucks.”
Biffy looked at Adam and then around the arcade,
“Well, what do ya wanna do now?” He said, waiting for an answer.
“Nothing. Go home I guess.”
They left the Casino, driving back on the main boulevard back towards Adam’s flat. The night was
starting to fade, the early morning bitterly cold, and the dark blue tranquillity of dawn starting to
appear through the black. Biffy had some late night DJ on the radio playing hits from the early
eighties, the soft glow of his dashboard covering his face and adding to the whole lateness of their
endeavours. Adam felt for something in his jacket pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar note, he
suddenly remembered what the night was supposed to be about.
“Ah fuck!” He yelled at himself. Biffy looked at him startled.
“What’s up man? What’s happened.”
“I completely fucked up.”
Adam was starting to feel disappointed in himself, but more than this, he realised that he’d let Terry
down, the catastrophic negative thoughts started to bombard his speed addled mind
once again, he continued,
“Fuckin, fuck! Terry gave me fifty bucks to score a quarter off you! He wants buds and shit.”
“Well you did fuck up man.” Replied Biffy.
“Fuck! Shit! Fuck!” Adam swore at nothing for a bit longer to cleanse himself of his anger and
frustration of his little fuck up. Biffy smiled to himself as they came to a stop at a large intersection.
“Hey, don’t worry man, I can get some shit at this time, but I’m running a bit short on fuel. I’ll need
some bucks coz we gotta go over the Westgate to score.”
Adam could just agree, he handed Biffy a ten dollar note, they stopped at an all-night petrol station
and filled up, before long they were over the Westgate bridge and were in the industrial part of
Melbourne. They came to a dingy weatherboard house which still had the lights on. Biffy stopped
the car.
“Wait here, I’ll be about ten or fifteen minutes. Just listen to the radio or something.”
Before leaving he turned to Adam to confirm his order.
“You want a quarter of green yeah?”
“Yeah,” replied Adam.
He nodded breifly before slamming the door shut and went towards the house. Adam sat back in the
bucket seats of Biffy’s Ford. He changed the music to some station that was playing techno, and he
lost time for moment in the nice steady beat. Biffy was back pretty quickly, he handed Adam a
brown paper bag wrapped up in a puffy cylinder shape. Adam unravelled and peered inside. He took
a little sniff and frowned as the smell of the skunk-marijuana registered with him.
“Pheeeuw! This shit smells full on. Seems pretty good.”
“Yeah it is. What are we gonna do now?”
“Dunno?” Replied Adam, “We can go back to my place and have a few, and then crash.”
“It's alright I crash a your place tonite?” Asked Biffy.
“Yeah," said Adam. “I guess you can crash on the couch.”
“Cool.”
They drove back over the Westgate Bridge, the huge monolith that connected the West with the
East, for years the dividing line between the haves and the have-nots in Melbourne, although times
were changing, and the west was beginning to grow out of its working class past and mutate into a
middle-class Mecca, bringing with it a strange cultural grass-roots purge. They were soon back in
the overcrowded zoo that was Elwood, and before long were back in Adam’s flat, Biffy quickly
claiming his territory on the couch.
Adam pinched a bit from Terry’s score and rolled the package up. He left a few buds on the table for
Biffy to prepare for smoking and went to Terry’s room.
“Is he home?” Asked Biffy.
“Dunno.”
Adam went over to Terry’s room and slowly opened the door. There was no sound from inside, and
when he turned the light on, found the room empty. He left the package on Terry’s bed and went
back to the lounge room to join Biffy.
They smoked a few bongs together and watched some late-late night television. In fact it wasn’t late
night TV, more like early morning. They watched an aerobics program. There were blonde and
brunette hard-bodies in skimpy gym outfits, jumping up and down, doing splits and leg curls and all
sorts of aerobic exercises. Biffy and Adam could just ogle at the sexy parade in their fuzzy, buzzy
altered state.
“Man, I could do with a head job now.” Said Biffy.
His eyes were now just slits and his body was just limp on the couch. He lazily flung his hand at
Adam to get his attention.
“C’mon Adam, you’ll give me a head-job, ya little fag!” He said in a joking manner.
Adam glared back at him.
“Yeah right! Settle! Why don’t you go around the corner. There’s heaps of hookers that’ll suck you
off there..”
Biffy flopped back in the couch and strained to talk as he looked up at the ceiling half comatose.
“Naa. Fuck it. I couldn’t be fucked. I’ll just have to run the batch off by hand.”
Biffy turned over and suddenly fell into a deep sleep.
Adam got up, turned the TV off and went to bed. He too fell into a deep sleep, his dreams were
fragmented and vivid. The black people were there again. This time there were more of them,
painted in white tribal paints and holding spears. They were stomping in a circle and singing in an
ominous drone. A tribal elder was sitting in a corner puffing on a didgeridoo, and a young tribe
member was beating two rhythm sticks in time with the drone. The rest of the tribe were yelling and
chanting, each cycle of the chant increasing in intensity and volume. They were yelling at the sky
and yelling at Adam, their stares penetrating and accusing. Their rhythms intensifying like they
were screaming to get out of this mortal plane, like they were trying to tell Adam something he did
not already know.
The 'muse', rhymes with 'ruse' and 'spews'. Here we go:
7/01/99
* Burnbaby licks cock

<dropbum> and I thought 'Jee why is she taking notice of me now?'
<Burnbaby> I wasn't really just being friendly normally very friendly
* dropbum stroke Burnbaby's vag
<dropbum> oh, well that just proves how paranoid and negative i am
* Burnbaby slips end of penis into her moist vagina
<Burnbaby> its boring isn't it
* dropbum strokes slowly, passionately tongue kiss burnbaby
<Burnbaby> yum
<Burnbaby> make me come
* dropbum strokes more kissing Burnbaby's neck
* dropbum then licking her hard nipples
* Burnbaby sucks dropbums balls
<dropbum> hang on, i'm still rooting you, unless you've got another head!
* dropbum moans in pleasure!
Burnbaby pushes her finger into dropbum's anus
* dropbum moans as he strokes burnbaby long and hard
* dropbum feels her glistening wetness
<Burnbaby> I've lost the plot
<Burnbaby> too horny
<Burnbaby> finger my clit
* dropbum keeps stroking!!
* dropbum does Burnbaby from behind while rubbing her clit
* Burnbaby rides his cock slowly up and down
<Burnbaby> just like Cassies
* dropbum feels Burnbaby's vagina tighten around his cock
<Burnbaby> sorry
<Burnbaby> ha haa
<dropbum> you had to spoil it
* Burnbaby feels his come squirt into her in warm jets
<Burnbaby> you came
<Burnbaby> first time on the net
* dropbum hears burnbaby yelp and her vagina tightens hard on his cock
<Burnbaby> mmmm can almost feel it thought about that last night
* dropbum keeps plunging his hard cock into her, intensifying her pleasure!
* Burnbaby plunge deeper
<Burnbaby> stick your finger in my ass
* dropbum plunges deep and slow
<Burnbaby> stick it in my ass
* dropbum puts his finger is Burnbabys ass
<dropbum> and pulls out a plum!!
<dropbum> :)
<Burnbaby> I can smell you almost
<dropbum> I can feel you almost
<Burnbaby> kept thinking he does this with other girls on the net
* dropbum pull out, and starts licking Burnbaby's moist pussy
<Burnbaby> then it got spoilt
<Burnbaby> don't feel like it got my period honey
* dropbum then turns her over, sticks his nose in her ass, and licks her from behind
<Burnbaby> your good
<dropbum> what a wank..
<Burnbaby> you can write real sexy talk real sexy
<dropbum> It gets a bit exciting
<Burnbaby> if you want
<Burnbaby> a bit
<Burnbaby> masturbating still is better if I can't have you
<dropbum> I don't masturbate on the net
<Burnbaby> I loved how you used to talk to me all sexy makes me feel lose and wild
<Burnbaby> I know
<dropbum> Jeezus!!! I got all self conscious!!!
<dropbum> You started saying that I treat you like a porn star!!
<dropbum> You see, you keep antagonising me, without realising!!
<Burnbaby> I felt a bit of overload and was getting tired and thought I had to do it to keep you
interested
<dropbum> You generally have a point, but you just come across really
‫صڥڮڜ‬
It had been in the cards for a while now, but Darren J. Bidey had known he was going to leave his
job at Fletcher Engineering. He’d been a worker there for nearly three years, after getting a lucky
break. Before that he’d been working at the Public Service as a mail clerk, another lucky break.
Darren’s whole work life was based on lucky breaks and sweet talking. He was just another naïve
young country boy when he left his little home at Wangaratta and came to the big smoke to make a
buck and find a life. His uncle Billy suggested he come on down to Melbourne, there was work for
him there all organised. Darren was fortunate enough to have done his TOP, an HSC certificate
would have been too difficult, but that was enough to get a job in the ‘service’. So he packed his
bags and left Wangaratta for good. There wasn’t much left for him there. His mother was a salad
maker at the local pub, and received the rest of her income in pension payments. Dad was gone for
good. Nobody ever really knew where Dad ended up. The last time he came back to Wangaratta all
he could offer his two sons were the kind loving words of “Boys, I’m your father”.
One of those periods of your being, where you totally immersed

yourself in the misery of your present. For some reason it was
like a test, a perverse kind of reassessment of who you are, what
you are doing, what you like, a bloody question for every single
moment of your existence. It was what I like to call a self-
inflicted sabotage. A time of total confusion, fear, inability to
cope, ration right from wrong. It was a simple condition to be in.
I call it boredom. Total, utter, insurmountable and fucking
deadly. It meant not having the guts to do anything, placing all
your eggs in the too hard basket, and saying ‘Well my boy, you’ve
come to the last leg, you and the whole world around you is
fucked.' This is the paradox you are in, the everyday lies.
Oh gee, did I hate my condition. I was seeing this quack, really I
don’t know why I went there. It was probably a trick, or a game I
wanted to play, to try and be, well, perfect. Ha! Dumb
motherfucker, you are putting yourself out of the fire and into
the frying pan. He said that I was a ‘reservoir of repressed
emotions’, oh boy! Lets throw another litre of petrol on those
sparks! I had been doubting my own sexuality, mainly coz I
couldn’t hold it together with a girl for more than 4 months, well
it wasn’t always my fault, and nobody was ringing me to do shit
anymore, and I’d been living with a guy who talked like Rasputin
and walked like Ironside. And well, I did do things with boys when
I was little, but then that’s normal, and I was little. Oh boy,
was my head in a tizz, it was like, well fuck me. This is the end.
But before that I needed a dirty little holiday.
Unfortunately that's all he had to say, for he’d spent the three days in Wangaratta completely blind-
drunk. He barged into Ma Bidey’s home, expecting to be fed, fucked and revered. But Ma had
learnt the hard way, and she would not take any of his pleadings, despite the promises that he made
to reunite the family. Ma remembered the days that Pa would go out drinking, coming-on to all the
young ladies in town. She remembered the nights that he wouldn’t come home from the pub or the
RSL. And the rumours would hurt. Sandra Bell, the Bidey’s neighbour, loved gossip, but if she
actually had truth to tell, well that was like gold. She saw Jock Bidey arm-in-arm with young Nelli
Grady one day while coming home from the Safeway. Oh, just wait until Jenny Bidey finds out
about this one! Jenny took the news hard, she broke down in tears, but in those tears she found a
strength that would belie the betrayal Jock had imposed upon her. A week later she had filed for
divorce stating irreconcilable differences. Jock, seeing the challenge, left - as simply and abruptly as
that. He never came back. Stories were told that he’d gone up north, but no-one ever saw Jock
again, until he came back in a blind stupor, begging to be let back in. He failed, and returned to
from where he came. Darren didn’t want to be like Jock. He had ambition.
She zoomed over to the El-Chico, and we got out and I clumsily put
my arm around her, and as we entered the cafe, she pushed it away
and we sat down, and looked at each other, I smiled and looked at
the ashtray, and looked up and she was still smiling this
incredulous, what the fuck am I doing smile, and I smiled back the
same way, but knew that this show must go on, despite the fear and
feelings and heat. To me this is what desire was about, it was all
consuming and most people find it off putting. Why can’t this be
simple like 'Happy Days' or those fuckin’ stupid South Caulfield
feel-good movies like ‘While you were sleeping’.
Uh-uh, this was me, outta control, unassertive, confused and
bumbling. And hot and bothered as fuck. I am here now, no use
fucking shit up, even if it is something you pride.
“I don’t know about you” She said. “You always do this, I could
never live with you, you would drive me really fucking crazy.”
“Sorry.” Was all I could muster. “ I’ll have a beer, Heineken
please”.
We drank and talked about what we did this week. Then we left and
went to lovers lane. As soon as we stopped, she pulled the clutch,
we looked at each other and smiled, and she filled my face with
hers, and plunged deep inside my mouth. I rubbed her incredible
thighs, and fuckin sick arse. She thrummed my hair, and we kissed
and merged and the heat and energy was everywhere, inescapable.
The windows of the car were fogged very quickly. She jumped on top
and went for me harder, as I straddled her and plunged back,
rubbing her awesome back, and letting hers and my saliva drip all
over my chin.
“Ugh, oh man, Cindy, your the fuckin’ best”. Before the plunging
was all there, sucking away my breath, licking, entwining, slowing
down to kiss and tell, while the ‘Rehs’ outside, sitting on their
cars were trying to do what we already were. Hey I was thinking,
fuckin do it, its eeeeassy. Well that’s bullshit, you gotta get
there first.
Social retardation is contagious.

By MasterG
I don’t know if it’s me, but meeting a suitable partner has become a bitch. Really, what do women want these days?
Love? Security? Looks? Intelligence? It’s like, you see shows like ‘Sex in the City’ and ‘Secret Life of Us’ and you
st
think – where are these sexually aggressive women? Do they exist, and is this where chivalry has gone in the 21
century?
Despite all these progressions in feminism, leftism, and other-isms; scientists, psychologists, and social theorists
recently found that chivalry is still the king.
Women want their knight in shining armour (coming for your emotional rescue – are rockstars the kights of today?).
Which gets to my next point – Mick Jagger can say and do this, because he is rich, famous, talented and powerful.
Like it or not, women are turned on by power.
Theses are the guys who get girls:
Rock stars – not matter what you look like or how damaged your psyche is, girls just love them.
Millionaires – money, power, easylife. Can’t lose
Drug dealers – glamour, danger, free drugs.
Famous people – all of the above.
..And the regular shmock of simple decency? Nothing.
When you are under the chivalrous scale of celeb/power/egotistic/apha/beta/gamma/dumma exuberance you have the
following choices:
1. Join a club
2. Psychotherapy
3. Internet
4. Go to one of those single men programs like in the film Magnolia
Then you have to be relaxed and ‘yourself’. If you are too relaxed, you considered impassive and
indifferent and you get nothing - if you are too assertive you get legal. You can go to a club that is
loud, noisy and expensive, and find insignificant transience. Or maybe its simple the individual is
just not interesting, a dag – as simple and effective as that.
I’ve whittled down it down to the perfect pick up line: ‘Hi I’m <so-and-so>, what's your disability?
It was Yuval’s cravings that brought him the rubbish-bin full of misery. Craving after craving after
craving. In the best Freudian tradition, it was the sexual craving that kicked them off. Those primal,
genetically encoded desires for flesh, and more, softer, firmer, smellier, warmer, stupider, whatever.
Being an only son in the Holy Land made it difficult. The Holocaust, the fear of annihilation, the
strong binary, disciplined society, and the Logan’s Run styled realisation that you not only turn a
man at 13, but you repeat it again for real at 18, when compulsory army service came around. But
dickheads in the Diaspora would never know with their upper middle-class liberal existences.
Yuval’s confrontation with death was a daily chore, he’d imparted death, and he died himself on
duty. He was laying a communications dish in the Occupied Territories of Palestine. A routine job,
but he wasn’t aware that the Fatah University Students had decided that this day was the day of the
Martyr Mohammad El Nazir. And so, it was just Yuval’s stupid luck that he copped the arse end of a
Molotov cocktail, the blast knocking him unconscious and rupturing his trachea. He actually died
for about 3 minutes as he stopped breathing, but luckily, the Israeli military doctors, let alone their
standard hospital trauma doctors where the absolute best in the universe. Cutting a hole in his throat
and inserting a straw kept him breathing, and a week later he awoke in hospital to see his teary
mother and his girlfriend. His dad had long left to live in Australia and start a ‘Sour Snake lolly
stall’ in a Melbourne shopping centre. Cheating death, Yuval’s positive lust for life was immense,
but so too was his lust for that other life, sex.
And it was, simply a craving. The girls loved his deep ‘Sabra’ melancholy, his brusque machismo.
Israeli men are the Old Testament’s spit in the eye of that frumpy old Australian feminist’ treatise
‘the Female Eunuch’. Israelis didn’t get bashed by their alcoholic fathers, and if they did, their
mothers would break their father’s nose. Israeli women don't take as much shit as Anglo-Saxon
women who always seemed to take the punches, that’s why they shit things out like ‘the Female
Eunuch’ while Israeli women cavort around holding Uzi's, I mean sheeit, the Israeli's voted a
woman into power well before fucking Australia ever have. But alas, another distraction.
Craving, craving, craving. Aversion, aversion, aversion. Yuval sat in the meditation room, going out
of his mind, as some old, fat, Burmese man, who looked like some weird creation out of a George
Lucas ‘Star Wars’ movie, drummed the words into his head. ‘Craving’. ‘Aversion’. ‘Misery’. That
brunette’s arse wobbled so effortlessly. She must do lots of exercise. I bet she walks around the
suburbs in her ‘skins’ just to accentuate that perfect shape. Then she walks into this room of intense
self-reflection to show us her 'symbols'. Or the hippie with her perfect posture, for instance. She sits
for 5 hours in the same Bhudda posture. Unlike the other losers who hunch and stoop and fidget, her
posture is perfect, sublime. A persons’ body, their posture, their face, their look, will tell you more
than anything that comes out their mouth. And as a result Yuval’s snake began to rise. The venom
filled it’s head, and he became fully aware of the simplicity of his cravings. And then, just as
simply, The Misery. The Misery. Annica. The snake became inert, impotent, and since no-one saw
his interjected humiliation, he started to feel, strangely....calm.
Like all the other Israelis of Gen X/Y/Z he took the ‘spiritual’ path to India, not that he actually
gave three shits about India, since most Israelis went to India because India was Israel's ally, and
one of the few countries in the world they could go to and not get spat on or kidnapped and You-
tube’d of them getting their throat cut. The Indians didn’t hate Israel. Just like the Thais. So the
Israelis went there as well, and the Thais just thought, well at least they aren’t Paedophiles from
Germany or England or Australia.
In Thailand it was like a scene out of Coppola's 'Apocalypse Now'..Weird, beach side parties full of
people completely out of their minds on powerful psychedelics, listening to blaring beat-noise that
sounded like it was hovering around the gates of hell. A thumping head-smash of horrible, horrible
death.
Leaving Thailand he made his way to Australia, Melbourne precisely, and found himself in a
sharehouse in the Jewish fringe suburb of Elsternwick. He found Melbourne oppressive and didn't
want to stay there for long. The reason he found the place oppressive was because the Jewish
community there reminded him of his grandparents. Most of the community in Melbourne were
from first generation Holocaust survivors, and because they were stuck in the arse end of the world
in Australia, were far more conservative and neurotic than Jewish communities elsewhere in the
world. He shared the weatherboard house with two other Israelis, Pini and Fria. Pini was able to get
himself involved with the lucrative ecstasy drug dealing scene, and had set himself up perfectly
amongst the upper middle-class Jewish university students, most of whom would follow their
Israeli brothers and sisters into the spiritual gates-of-hell beat-music listening faddish group of the
Global-consciousness trance disco party scene. Such was the disposable income of his clientele, that
Pini would regularly bring in over $2000 cash per week. Fria found occasional work as a child
minder, working for South African Jews in nearby Caulfield, and orthodox Jewish families with a
minimum of four children, in the nearby borough of Balaclava. She would turn up in their neo-
modernist homes and look after their children, who loved to talk Hebrew with her and ask her about
Israel. Yuval didn't work much, and when he did, he basically did lackey work for Pini. But it
wasn't in vain. Pini had a regular customer called Jake, a 22 year old male Jewish stoner who grew a
beard like Bob Dylan and was really into trance music and Jeff Buckley. Jakes' parents were multi-
millionaires, their family owning a large fruit processing company, as well as owning a substantial
real estate port-folio. Jake had done his year's pilgrimage to Israel where he met his girlfriend and
future wife, Tali. His life was set, and his parents managed to get him into the law school he needed
to go to, and he was planning to have a career in the entertainment industry or 'arts', away from all
that 'corporate bullshit, like my folks'. Jake would often share a bong with Pini and Yuval as thanks
for keeping him supplied with skunk marijuana, and it was during one of these 'peace pipes' that
Yuval was able to use his innate Israeli persuasion to hook up a job at one of Jake's parents
warehouses. Yuvals' tasks were simple and soon he was bringing home around $120 cash per day,
and he worked the odd day over a weekend where he would get double. Yuval shared his
warehouse duties occasionally, with the brother of Jake, a 16 year old called Angus.
Yuval soon noticed that Angus had no idea about life, sex or war. Angus always asked Yuval about
what it was like fighting in the army against the 'fucking Arabs'. Yuval took pride in explaining that
they were 'fucken stupid' people, and that he doesn't understand why the media refers to Palestine as
the 'occupied territories' when they really run their own shop down there, and really, most 18-21
year old Israelis would prefer to be in active action, rather than punch young Palestinians in the
head for throwing rocks and yell at old Arab ladies who can hardly walk. Yuval would ask Angus
about whether he has a girlfriend, of which Angus would reply in the negative. Being Israeli and
forthright, he asked Angus if he's gay, Angus replied in the negative. From there, in order to break
up the monotony and boredom of stacking boxes of cranberry juice, or shifting around palettes of
prune juice with a forklift, Yuval would talk constantly to Jake about sex. He would proudly tell
Jake how horny the young female soldiers were in the Israeli army. About how much fun it was to
spy on the girls as they took their showers, or how kinky it was to fuck a woman in a soldiers
uniform while her Uzi would rattle against door of their jeep. He loved to tell stories how once he
fucked one of the communications officers, a blonde from Petah Tikvah, in the arse just after they
had done a search on a suspected Hamas activists apartment, and how he ejaculated all over the
sheets of the activists' bed. In fact he regarded that the most successful 'covert' operation he had
ever done, and in his words: 'at least no-one got killed, and my point of view was explicitly and
effectively expressed.' Jake thought that was 'pretty rad'. One morning, Jake was instructed to open
the warehouse. Upon arrival, Yuval noticed Jake struggling with the lock. Here let me do it, Yuval
ordered. Jake obligingly gave Yuval the key, and after a few moments of fiddling, the door opened.
Yuval was quick to explain to the bewildered Jake: You have to understand opening a lock is the
same as putting it inside a girls pussy. You have to slide it in the right way first, and you have to
know how to use the key properly once inside. Jake though he was cool as shit. The conversations
between Jake and Yuval would continue, Yuval never had enough stories to tell and Jake never had
enough questions to ask. Yuval promised Jake that when he finally fucked a woman, it would be the
greatest thing he ever experienced. Better than punching and shooting Arabs, better than trying to
dance to undanceable blare from the gates of hell while smashed out of your brains on drugs that
made you impotent anyway, and even better than eating Kosher food. Remember one golden law of
nature Jake: “They want it as much as you.”
Between dealing drugs, working in a warehouse and having half the post-highschool Melbourne
Jewish community come through his life, Yuval wasn't getting as much pussy as he liked. Sure the
local Jewish women always greeted him with a horny smile, and sure, the local Jewish women had
a conservative notion in their head that Israeli men were 'the sexiest and most mature men on the
planet'. Well all the men did have a Bar Mitvah and army duty, so they were fully formed and knew
how to survive and deal with life on the most primal, anti-intellectual manner possible. Hence the
genius of the Israeli society – the men were more mature - and the woman were also more mature as
well coming from such a harsh society, in fact they were so mature that the only interest they had in
diaspora men was for getting a Green card or citizenship or whatever. So Yuval managed to fuck
one hippy girl who thought he was a mature, sexy man, but it didn't last long as she was very
uptight sexually and would not let him cum in her mouth. Besides that one hippy girl, who was
probably of mixed-blood, the rest were the usual parade of spoiled, opinionated rich Jewish girls.
Most were overweight, loud and cockteasers. And then there were the South Africans. Whilst the
South African's weren't as over-weight as the Polish descended ladies, they were inherently
judgemental, myopic, stupid and loud. So one night Yuval and his friend Hezi decided to go to the
inner northern suburbs looking for pussy. The inner-north - the multi-cultural melting pot, full of
anti-Semitic Catholics, Arabs, and socialist/marxist Australians who had an answer for everything
(especially in getting pay rises in their Government or 'creative' jobs as web developers, and having
no gumption in screwing others to put their 'bright ideas' across) and many of whom would
eventually purchase properties from the anti-Semitic Catholics from Mediterranean countries and
Eastern Europe and send their children to public schools in the inner to middle northern suburbs.
Yuval and Hezi decided to try the 'Africa Bar'. The 'Africa Bar' was full of Africans from Eritrea or
Sudan, whilst a South American bongo/jazz band played. The bar was also full of single women in
packs. Single women in their 30s, hunting for a breeder. They were women who were too boring to
be lesbian, too naggy and radical to go with ordinary men of their own stock – usually Italian,
Croatian, Greek or third generation Australian. But seriously, what 'modern woman' would want to
be with guys like that anyway? In many ways these women were exactly like the Jewish women
that drove him nuts, though there was one critical difference. They put out more.
The vibe at the Africa bar was quite upbeat, the African migrants really enjoyed dancing with the
white and Southern European girls and hairy women who worked as social workers. Yuval started
talking to a group of southern-European looking women. One was fat and wore too much lipstick,
the other looked like she was in her mid-50s and still thought she looked like Sofia Loren. The last
looked to be in her late 30s, had a nice figure with wide hips, and was the most talkative of the trio.
To Yuval they seemed like the 3 bears. Without much effort Yuval managed to go home with the
late-30-something, who happened to look sexier in her small hatchback car as she drove him home.
She had a small modest house, and as soon as the front door closed behind them, Yuval made his
tactical move, grabbing the late-30-something tightly around the waist and passionately kissing her
Poppy-King lipsticked mouth. Surprisingly the late-30-something responded with just as much
passionate glee, jumping up and locking her legs around Yuval, literally mounting him where he
stood. Surprised at such an intense counter move, Yuval soon carried her over to her floor-level
futon bed, and parted the late-30-something's Red Sea with his Moses shaft. The late-30-something
had quite large hips, yet a small waist, and while plunging across her parted waters, he reached
under to cup her proportionally large arse, which turned him on even more. Yuval was quite
surprised, shocked even, at how horny this 30-something was, and using his innate tactical
capabilities, slyly slid his middle finger in her coit. The 30-something then bit his ear, and in Middle
Eastern terms, was the sign of something, and feeling her pussy wetter than Lake Kineret, he slid
her over for doggy style, observing a rump that he honestly felt were twin tablets delivered to him
from God. Amazed, he started yelling in Hebrew, which subsequently drove the 30-something wild
for some bizarre reason (maybe the dangerous exoticism and transgressive polyculturalism?), that
she didn't even realise he'd slid his cock into her hairy arse crack. PITZAZOT! He cried as he felt
his orgasm erupt and he quickly pulled his cock out of her crack and ejaculated over the 42cm
diameter of her flesh cushions.
The next morning the 30-something awoke before Yuval, and made him an espresso coffee. He
asked her questions about her job and found out her name was Jennifer. The harsh morning light
didn't make Jennifer look too good, but then Jennifer felt the same way about Yuval. At around
lunchtime she dropped him off at a train station. He managed to get her mobile phone number. Later
that evening Yuval celebrated his conquest with Pini.
In the warehouse Yuval went back to hassling Angus about his inability to get women. Angus
seemed to ignore Yuval, and it seemed that Angus didn't think Yuval was such a legend any more.
Angus started asking Yuval offensive questions like why he didn't make it into the Israeli Airforce,
or even a Golani. Yuval persisted hassling Angus about women and sex, and Angus explained to
Yuval that he is starting to learn how to play electric guitar and that he prefers to listen to angry
punk rock. Angus explained that he's going to start a punk rock band and then he'll be able fuck as
many women as the regular Israeli does. Angus explained to Yuval that since he would never go to
war, learn to shoot a machine gun and 'do it hard' the chicks would never instantly gravitate to his
'immature, soft ass'. Yuval enquired to Angus what his band is going to be called. 'Be'er Sheva'
replied Angus. 'Be'er Sheva?' 'Yeah after the working class and 'ghetto' Israeli city.'
Yuval couldn't get Jennifer out of his mind, and rang her at work. She explained that she was busy,
but he was able to convince her for a coffee later that week. Over the coffee (which Jennifer paid
for), she explained that she had a fun night, but that what she did will 'never happen again'. Yuval
insisted that they go to a movie, but Jennifer said she was busy and she would ring him soon. That
night Yuval dreamt of her arse, and in the morning masturbated furiously at a re-enactment of their
night. He rang her again but she was busy. He waited until after the weekend and rang her again,
managing another coffee. Jennifer explained that he seemed like a nice guy but wasn't her type. He
insisted that he will take her out for an exotic Arabic dinner, she said she'd think about it in a few
weeks. Yuval rang her again three time that week, each time she was busy or didn't answer her
phone. A week later Yuval waited out the front of the Government offices Jennifer worked at until
she finished. He approached her and asked her why she wouldn't take up his offer and she politely
explained to him that he's not quite her type and that he should look for fish elsewhere, before
walking to her car. The next day Yuval was waiting near her car. Jennifer yelled at him and drove
off. Jennifer discussed Yuval with her gay co-workers, one of them Christos, told her to ring the
police straight away because he's a fucked up stalker, and probably a closet case (she explained the
anal sex thing). The next time Yuval turned up a female police officer was with Jennifer. Yuval
didn't turn up again, and two weeks later decided Melbourne wasn't for him.
After conquering Australia, Yuval finally made it to the safe confines of New York City. He found a
relative in Brooklyn, and got free board for as long as he liked, or until they felt like they wanted to
dump him into the East Hudson. On his second day of his arrival, September 11, he saw Patti Smith
present her boring new New York style documentary on her ego. At the end of the screening Patti
came out, and some black Jazzbo-New York hipster guy in the audience asked her if her handbag
was Prada. She had a guitar with her and played a song called 'Trevor' or Iris (Murdoch, get it?) that
she said she wrote that afternoon. The song was an A-minor/G/D type set-up. Dylan, etc....He went
down to the Lower East Side and stumbled across the Katz deli, which was greasy and filthy, and
ordered a kneydlach soup and a pastrami sandwich that gave him a stomach ache. They make a
better one in Jerusalem, and fucked if the fucking Americans can't make a dish that has too much
grease in it and can feed a family of six in Sudan.
Yuval soon got into the New York swing. Taking the A train into Manhattan, actually he had no need
to live in Manhattan or to even go there since all the New York 'action', or what passed as 'action',
actually happened in Brooklyn, not far from the comfortable apartment he was living in. He soon
met other Israelis in the area, some of who were still listening and promoting that lifestyle dedicated
to 'music at the gates of hell', but he found others that had a slightly left, but no less Zionistic
attitude than the others. He even met some cute women who got good gigs as models in the nascent
New York fashion scene. Yuval enjoyed New York - instead of a constant threat of possible death
and war, he got the constant noise of too many people in the one place trying to make a buck. It was
a beautiful and inspiring early Autumn day, the glare through the buildings gave his neighbourhood
a magnificent orange-brown tone, tempered by the melancholy shadows. Arriving to Apt.12 of
W34th Avenue, he checked the mailbox of the building block. Opening the metal box marked '12'
he shuffled through the letters addressed to 'M & O Charnakowski' – his great aunt and uncle – and
was slightly startled to find a letter addressed to himself -'Yuval bar-Zur'. The text on the envelope
was laser printed in dull Times New Roman font, and had a strange watermark labelled 'The Arnd
Group'. There was a 'postage paid' square in the corner, so he couldn't really tell which country it
came from, nor on turning the letter over was there a return address. Curious he ripped open the
letter with his index finger, separating the slit as if it were his last fuck's vagina, minus the natural
lubricant. Inside he finds a Polaroid photo of a black, burning bush.
'The Legend' was a legend in his own lunchbox. Over the years he had managed to cultivate that
lunchbox via various means. Starting with an Arts degree, he'd taken an affinity to the cinema of
hard knocks – American film noir, westerns and war movies. Stories about men and not 'faggots'.
Stories about people with real crises, real problems and moral decisions. Stories about men and not
'faggots'. His literature tastes went along the same lines. Literature of hard knocks. Bukowski the
king, followed by Raymond Chandler, Faulkner, and a few others. As a result 'the Legend' liked to
live vicariously thought the experiences of these dead writers and old movies. Modernity didn't
appeal. Making things even more difficult was the fact that the culture and in the creative industries
'the legend' aspired to, was to a great extent, run by women and even 'faggots'. It wasn't that he was
homophobic in his mind. He respects faggots. He basically respected any men who were 'men', who
were deeply 'honest to themselves' on a very genuine and courageous level. Men who drank a beer,
fucked the women they wanted to, and lived life on their very own terms and didn't answer to any
motherfucker. Yes!
'The legend' got his only gainful job through one of his mates. While he was quite a competent
writer, he didn't like people telling him how to write. Nobody does. He knew his time would come.
He knew he'd get that job in New York and hang out with Nick Tosches. He knew it, and he
managed to convince people of his age that he could do it. The problem was, that after a while all
this talk became just that. Talk, and talk and talk. He never went to jail, or court, fought a war, paid
a fine. In fact his life was probably more lame in reality than most of the 'faggots' he despised, most
of whom were comfortable, successful and lived more compelling, 'dangerous' and transcendent
lives that he ever would. But he was still 'the legend'. Pottering away at the local pub, full of fake
bravura, hot air and ultimately bullshit. 'The Legend' really had to work on his brand. Being a
legend would only take you so far if you actually didn't do anything that made you really legendary.
If you're an artist, what good are you if you're doing no art? But then, maybe doing all this 'bullshit',
the talking, the pose, the ability to convince your best mates to pay your way, treat other people like
condoms, living in exclusive areas well beyond your means and continually get others to believe
you are a 'legend' is an 'art' in it's own right. In that respect, he was an 'artist'.
Like most young, impressionable types that go to University and study 'the arts', 'the legend' was
like the 95% who graduate and never actually become artists themselves. Rather they end up as
'legends' frequenting the inner city bars, pubs and rock venues with other refugees from the suburbs
who haven't easily slotted into the mainstream mediocrity of finding a partner, a secure job, kids
and a mortgage. 'The legend' despised this common mediocrity with a passion. 'That life for bogans'
he would proudly explain to other drinkers at his local trendy, inner city pub that played trendy,
cutting edge contemporary music or country music from the 70s. The Arts degree that fast tracked
him into a job in a service industry was a most excellent mask for the fact that he was in fact
working a more mediocre job that the mediocres he so despised. But that is the genius of the Arts
Degree. It gives one the generalist knowledge that most mediocre types can easily find on the
Internet these days anyway. Regardless 'the legend' had a knowledge of 'school of hard knocks
American pulp' that put him above the other typical drinkers at inner-city trendy bars and pubs that
made him somewhat charming to women. They would initially be charmed by his wise-crack
talking and knowledge of 'school of hard knock American pulp cinema' that went beyond the
commonly held inner-city knowledge of such films by contemporary 'mediocres' like Quentin
Tarantino or acting vehicles for the likes of Russell Crowe. 'The Gift of the Gab' was 'the legend's'
forte, as well as a considerable physical bulk that helped him get his point across, and incidentally
fuck many women.
He lived in a small apartment in an expensive area, the lease was covered by his friend Ernest who
he criticised and constantly bickered about behind his back to other friends. Ernest would quietly
and subserviently carry 'the legend' on his shoulders, whether it was covering 'the legends' inability
to have money for rent and bills on time, chauffeur him around to pubs, or to passively sit with 'the
legend' and listen to his barrage of expert opinions on everything from the football, world politics,
economics – something he knew everything about ie: the Jews are greedy cunts who rip everyone
off, the Gooks (Chinese) are greedy cunts who rip everyone off, and the working class are the only
ones who know the truth yet get ripped off by the Jews and Chinese etc..etc..etc.. His expertise on
'cinema of hard knocks' was in fact his finest skill, yet it bothered him that his knowledge was based
in a critical capacity and not a creative one. As a critic his skills were potentially world class, as an
artist his skills were about on the level of a year 8 English student. As was 'the legends' want, he
aligned himself with other Arts graduates who didn't quite cut it on the ruthless and brutal world of
the creative artist. Along with Ernest was his other good friend, Marvin, who posited himself as a
character actor in the mould of 70s character actors like Warren Oates and Jack Thompson. Marvin
acted in a hammy, hysterical style, despite the fact that he liked to think he was a fine character
actor. While he was reliable and could remember his lines, his awkward physicality, lack of real
passion for actors, let alone a knowledge of any discernibly great cinema or drama didn't augur to
him well. Being a self-taught actor didn't help much either, but hanging around with 'the legend'
inspired him enough to think he had ability. Despite 'the legends' overall misanthropy that was
probably influenced by an unacknowledged hatred of his father, he actually had another ability in
convincing his not so great friends of their greatness via the male bonding love-in. The male
bonding love-in was quite infectious, and despite the relative unpopularity and hijacking by the
post-modernists and ironists of such an essential feature for developing masculinity - 'male bonding'
– 'the legend' was a fair practitioner of that dying art, despite the odds.
So 'the legend' blasted through his myopic life. He hated his job as a copy writer, and fought often
with his editor whom he was convinced was a 'faggot'. So deluded was 'the legend' in his reality, he
felt that the consumer magazine he wrote for was in fact a literary journal. Unfortunately no-one
bought literary journals or magazines of criticisms, except for the Bourgeoisie 'faggots' he so
despised. While the magazine he wrote for gave him the liberty to 'write his own art', quite often the
pieces were incomprehensible gibberish or literal 'cut and paste' jobs of 'New Journalism' classics
by the like of writers 'the legend' worshipped such as Norman Mailer and Terry Southern.
Eventually he could not live with the mediocrity of the magazine that he wrote for, a job that was
pretty much handed to him on a plate via his mate Marvin. 'The Legend' would viciously and
poisonously berate the owners of the magazine who were his drinking buddies, behind their backs,
and when questioned for what would be his dream job, his reply would be 'write for the Murdoch
owned Herald-Sun, at least you get paid and treated well and they don't employ faggots like
everyone else.' Despite saying this, he never read the Herald-Sun, and the magazine he wrote for
did in fact market themselves to the 'Herald-Sun' type reader. One day, 'the legend' realised that his
myopic life was not working the way he planned. While he often told his friends that the magazine
would send him on a junket to 'cover Cannes' this never happened, and in fact his 'drinking mate'
that hired him would take the junkets for himself -and his other drinking mate who he felt did a
better job and wasn't such a complaining bullshitter and drama queen. In an unthought-out fit, and
knowing Ernest would cover his rent, bills and other expenses as was his entitlement, 'the legend'
managed to get a personal loan of five-thousand dollars just like anyone else, and bought himself a
ticket to the USA to realise his dream of being a writer in New York for the Village Voice – the
worlds greatest counter culture magazine, and despite his hatred of them – 'the voice of the faggots'.
Upon arriving in New York, 'the legend' got lost at Newark airport. In his impulsiveness, he didn't
realise the distance of the airport from Manhattan, nor that there was no direct subway there, so he
spent his first US dollars on an expensive taxi-cab to take him all the way to the expensive mid-
town hotel he'd booked for himself the two nights he was in NYC. Considering, or probably
knowing, that he would never return to the city, he felt it his right to do it in style, and hence blow
someone else's borrowed money to get what he wants. Fuck it, you only live once. On the long
flight to New York he starting reading a novel by George V Higgins, an American pulp stylist, who
once said: “If you do not seek to publish what you have written, then you are not a writer and you
never will be." Since 'the legend' had no manuscript, despite the bright bullshit he loved to talk at
length to other listeners in inner-city bars – the only place where if you actually hadn't done
anything in your life, people would listen – the words were a kick in the arse for someone who
hated to be kicked in the arse. He always seemed to have a verbal, and sometimes physical arse
kicking for someone else. Alas, now he had made it to New York, that figured as an achievement of
some sort, while not necessarily creative. The cabbie that took 'the legend' to his hotel was a negro,
and didn't talk much. Immediately 'the legend' had summed up New York, based on his knowledge
from years of 'school of hard knocks' cinema and literature, most of which came from New York. In
his mind New York was an over-rated city, full of rude people who were made hard and mean from
the ravages of capitalism. The city was run by greedy property owners, most of whom were Jewish,
and who had made this over-rated and ugly city the most sought after place in the universe. Aided
by a democratic process that allowed the down trodden from around the world to settle there, the
city acted as a place of refuge for the world's 'outsiders' who managed to make a lot of money – not
just the Jews, the Italians, Irish, Albanians, Africans, anyone – and then fuck everyone else. No
wonder the fucken Arabs bombed the place. He checked into his hotel room, and that night
managed to chat up a plain and ordinary female real-estate agent. They chatted for hours, as he
plied her with alcohol, but unfortunately she didn't go back to his room. Instead she became his
Facebook friend as he found out the next morning.
He only slept a few hours, so deep was his anxiety about why he did this trip in the first place,
which was basically so he could be on par with more successful friends that he hated anyway that
travelled overseas quite frequently. Also he realised how boring he became when he talked at length
about American culture and he actually had never stepped foot in the country. So he awoke and got
himself a New York breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, black coffee and the New York Post
newspaper. He finally felt like he had become Nick Tosches and George V Higgins. He spent the
rest of the day getting hopelessly lost on the subway, but eventually found himself at the foot of the
Empire State building. It was already mid afternoon, and inside the queues were so long that he had
no chance of going to the summit. Angry, and realising he only had one more day in New York, he
walked around mid-town for about an hour, before he hailed an expensive taxi that took him to the
Strand bookstore near Union Square. He finally felt he was somewhere comfortable inside the busy
confines of the Strand, and soon found a plentiful supply of George V Higgins books. He chose 'the
rat on fire' and immediately the story, a black comedy on power, corruption and lies relating to New
York real estate and the injustices parleyed to the poor Negro and alcoholic white tenants was
something he identified with and helped him deflect the anger he started to become aware of
regarding his own myopic and stupidly planned holiday that was quickly become an expensive
indulgence. The wise words of Higgins echoed in his head as the Strand attendant asked him
whether he was paying on MasterCard : “The secret remains that there is no secret. The way to
determine whether you have talent is to rummage through your files and see if you have written
anything; if you have, and quite a lot, then the chances are you have the talent to write more. If you
haven't written anything, you do not have the talent because you don't want to write. Those who do
can't help themselves. We do it for the hell of it, and those who raise a lot of hell, and then get very
lucky, well, we make a living, too. There are worse ways to travel through this vale of tears than by
doing the things you love, and making a living at it." And whilst he took this expensive trip to his
Mecca for 'the hell of it', the trip itself was becoming a brief stay in hell itself. With the more
pressing fact that 'the legend' actually wasn't doing any writing for 'the hell of it', for him it was a
life or death, spiritual endeavour that took serious blood, sweat, tears and pain and insanity, whilst
living it up in a lifestyle well beyond his means.
After two weeks, that included other impulsive choices like staying in Kansas and Oklahoma – two
ugly and characterless cities that only appealed to him via his love of 'school of hard knocks' culture
- and mention in the literature of Steinbeck, and the fact that his favourite actor Dennis Hopper was
from Kansas - he started to realise that the America he dreamed of wasn't much different from the
Australia he came from. He finally ended up in LA, convinced that this last leg of his journey would
find him that pot of gold that he knew was his destiny – he would get his dream of living the
lifestyle portrayed in the television programme 'Entourage'. That's right, 'regular guys' and 'slackers'
– guys like him that wouldn't stoop to the everyday banality of getting a job in the office, like the
TV show 'the Office' - that suddenly find themselves being the centre of attention, getting laid,
getting fame, attention, and treating the world like a condom. L.A. Los Angeles. As the plane banks,
he surprisingly, for the first time, observes the over-developed expanse of suburbia and waste that is
the LA valley, a sight that prompted the Los Angelino lady in the seat next to him to proclaim
'gross, isn't it?'
Landing at LAX he called his ex-pat Australian friend 'Shawsy' who was living in Manhattan
Beach. 'Shawsy' was a z-grade actor who managed to somehow con some investors to make a
'Tarantino-style-small-time-gangster' type movie back in Australia that somehow managed to get in
the theatres for 2 days, get a DVD release that was in the $9.95 pile 4 weeks after release, and still
nobody bought it. The film gave 'Shawsy' some minor fame, but it at least helped in inner city pub-
crawls, where he one night met 'the legend', the two hitting it off in drink-shouting revelry, the
drunkenness adding to the air of ego and bullshit that forged their friendship of convenience.
'Shawsy', having absolutely no talent for screenwriting, and being far too lazy to 'burn the midnight
oil' alone with his thoughts for so long to attempt such an intellectually challenging endeavour,
found someone else who actually enjoyed such boring torment in 'the legend'. And thus began their
on-again-off-again liaison, with 'the legend' following his acutely honed instincts all the way to L.A.
Just like the guys in 'entourage'.
Upon arriving at 'shawsy's' modest apartment in the Manhattan Beach district in LA, not too far
from LAX, 'the legend' had felt he'd finally reach his destiny and this was 'it'. 'Shawsy' took delight
in explaining to 'the legend' that the Manhattan Beach area was in fact where his hero and God,
Quentin Tarantino had 'cut his chops' working in a video rental store. 'Shawsy', had already done his
Quentin Tarantino shtick back in Australia, starring in an inept vehicle that he also produced called
'the lament of the lamingtons' a quirky crime caper that was completely pitch incorrect in its
attempts at humour and wit, and relied on scenes of transgressive violence in a 'splatter stick' mould
to carry the film. 'Shawsy''s father, who had made millions in property and some mining
investments in Western Australia actually acted as the producer in order to give his lazy son a
reasonable vocation, with most of the $250,000 coming interest payments on a trust fund, like most
of these 'investments', all part of a more complex tax dodge. The rest of the money was sourced
from 'private investors' most of whom were 'hospitality industry' types who were essentially
laundering party drug moneys. 'Shawsy' being the party-guy, and mover and shaker that he was,
mixed with and resultantly fled the country from these people after the film failed to make even 1%
of it's budget. His father subsequently paying the rent for his 'exile' and 'career development' over in
Manhattan Beach. Despite having a budget large enough to enable the hiring of professionals to
give the film at least competent production values, the film was described by esteemed and world
renowned film critic Adrian Martin as '..coming across like a film made by teenagers who had just
been inspired by 'Pulp Fiction', yet failed year 11 English....'
The apartment that 'shawsy' lived in was part of a modern condo development. Protected by an
electronic security system, the apartment was a basic 1-bedroom bedsit that had a hotel-style Smeg-
kitchen that spilled into the lounge area. 'Shawsy's' flat had no discerning view but was functional
and modest. 'the legend' liked this type of 'class'- functional and modest - and the fact that he was in
L.A and the weather was sunny, not too hot and quite magnificent. He felt in that instant that the
universe was his oyster. He was happy for once, and was happy that 'shawsy' had put him up for the
two days he would be in L.A. He was inspired by the energy of the place and the fact that he had an
industry 'connection'. His dream of living the 'entourage' lifestyle was actually happening. That
night 'shawsy' took him on the town. They went down the Sunset Strip to the pocket of legendary
rock clubs of LA – the Whiskey, the Viper Room, the Roxy, and they ended up at the 'hardest' of
them all 'the Rainbow'. 'the legend' was awestruck by the sleazy vibe of the 'the Rainbow', the
overweight Italian club-owners who sat around playing video bingo while all these leather and
corduroy wearing poseurs waited around for someone like Lemmy from Motorhead to turn up.
'Shawsy' took delight in recounting the rockstars he met in 'the Rainbow', how he shared cocaine
with Billy Idol, did vodka shots with Dave Grohl, and even spent the night getting hammered with
the guys from Wolfmother and Ad Rock from the Beastie Boys. Unfortunately their night was a
Tuesday, and not much happened on a Tuesday night anywhere in the world for that matter, and
definitely not in modern day LA, post Global Financial Crisis. After they downed their rudimentary
2 free drinks as part of the 10 dollar entry fee, 'the legend' started to shout drinks, and being a rock
bar, they worked themselves into a hedonistic stupor. Before he went to L.A to 'chill out' and 'work
projects', 'Shawsy' had hired 'the legend' without pay to help him develop a killer project, a story
called 'here comes the judge', another crime caper, this time based loosely on a High Court Judge
who was an open homosexual. But the guys felt covering the story would be 'too faggoty' and
would play into the 'limo leftie Jew-mafia hands' that run modern screen entertainment. Instead their
saga was a madcap caper based on a Judge - titled 'here comes the judge' - who is an alcoholic and
has sex with prostitutes. 'the legend' and 'shawsy' both felt their project was better suited to the non-
Liberal studio run by Mel Gibson, Icon. They felt they had a better chance, since he was also a bit
of an Aussie. Despite the fact that Icon didn't make any product he personally liked, in fact 'the
legend' felt that Icon was a film studio equal in artlessness with Dimension Films, he still felt in his
accurate heart that Mel and Icon were the way to go. Finishing the discourse and ego massage 'the
legend', felt so fantastic, and thinking once again it wasn't a matter of if he made it but when, he
managed to chat up a slightly over-weight blonde (after failing dismally with two brunette College
students dressed in American Apparel tights). The blonde was a Foo Fighters and Jet fan, and just
loved Aussie guys like Russell Crowe for their ruggedness, and in her own drunken stupor, felt that
'the legend' reminded her of Crowe. 'Shawsy' well over the limit, drove them home, while 'the
legend' fucked the blonde on 'Shawsy's cheap futon couch. 'Shawsy' vomited his insides out in the
toilet as Snoop Dog sung about 'money and ho's' on the Sony mini component surround-sound
system, just like a scene out of 'entourage'.
The blonde was awoken by a tingle on her i-phone and departed well before 'the legend' awoke, as
was the norm for his remarkably quite common sexual conquests. 'Shawsy' took him for breakfast
to a trendy cafe in Silverlake where gorgeous alternative-looking girls, many of whom were
covered in tattoos, served them. 'The legend' felt like he was in heaven, and enjoyed the
surroundings more than the nasty cosmopolitanism of New York. It also helped to be in a city where
you actually knew someone local, that was universal bonus. They chatted mainly about women and
other men they knew who were 'losers'. They chatted about how much they knew what they were
doing in their lives, and laughed about friends of theirs that were stuck in loveless relationships as
slaves to suburban mundanity. About cowards who never realised their creative dreams. About how
they were actually 'living it'. About how their lives were a triumph. Then they started talking about
'business'. 'The legend' still hadn't developed the pilot beyond the first scene, but the two of them
had plenty of ideas where things would go. 'The legend' explained how his job never gave him the
time to devote to writing, and that he would leave to become a full-time writer, and that within a
years' time he would have a killer script and that together they would make it in L.A, unlike all the
other losers and faggots back home. Well 'the legend' said that. 'Shawsy' just loved his attitude as it
made him laugh.
Before leaving L.A, 'the legend' bought himself the latest 'Film Comment' magazine that he read on
the flight back. Ernest picked him up from the airport, and as usual had nothing to say and agreed
with everything 'the legend' said obsequiously. 'The legend' fell into a deep sleep lasting over 18
hours, during which time Ernest gathered up the unpaid bills and left them on the small kitchen
table in a pile. Upon awaking 'the legend' saw the bills and ignored them, instead he lay on the
couch and watched Mel Gibson's 'Passion of the Christ' which for some reason, he felt was actually
quite an honest, competent movie. 'the legend' soon returned back to work, but something had
changed inside him since he returned from his 2 week jaunt in the USA. He knew that this job
wasn't for him anymore, and realising that he didn't quite get the miraculous break, and that he had
only written one scene, he suddenly felt that it was his job that was causing his genius to not
emerge. So after begging to get the job back after initially being laid off, being offered more
opportunities and squandering them because the weren't 'creative enough', he basically told them all
to get fucked and called the CEO of the company a 'capitalist pig hypocrite'. Receiving no package,
no final pay, nothing, he walked back to his apartment which to his benefit was walking distance
from this ex-job because he didn't have a car. He felt like he was in control of his life once again.
Upon arriving back at his flat, he checked the letter box and found a gas bill addressed to him and
another letter from 'the Arnd Group'. He opened it and inside found a colour photograph of a
burning bush.
“I'm fed up with them bloody bitches. I wish I'd have more money, then I'd be free.” The first
thought that entered the head of Michael Silverhill that morning. It was month four. Month four of
unemployment. Month four that the plan didn't go to schedule. Month four to think about all those
other fuckers that he'd worked with, other fuckers that did fuck all in the job he worked at in I.T,
supporting the desktops of other office drones. Fixing their email. Fixing their 'Internet'. Making
their printer work. Listening to some other talker who said they know what the business needs,
another talker who had mastered the Microsoft Office suite better than he had, who knew how to
layout diagrams better than he did. They knew nothing about an operating system, about a driver or
a codec or clustered networks or open source. It wasn't necessary. An electronics store salesman has
more technical knowledge than a six figured salary 'project manager'. That was the reality he knew.
That wasn't the reality that existed. And his current reality was four months. No business network.
Who were your 'mates', the dudes that would slot you into a job? Jimmy the Exchange guru? Serhan
the desktop guy that didn't know a print job from a head job? Derek the dependable? None of those
guys were management. None of them were 'hirers'. On the contrary these were the guy that did
everything and eventually got fired. The foot-soldiers. The Dorks. No, you are out on your own, like
a Rolling Stone, no direction known, like a complete unknown. The job agencies looked at you like
that. Your resume was a piece of paper, you were just a commodity, a commission. They were paid
to read your resume, hand it to an employer, do the hack work the managers couldn't. They worked
as Schindlers. You were on their list, and if the employer didn't approve, you were worthless, off
their database. They only kept the ones that got them commission. You get nothing. No network
beyond the job he worked at for eleven years that gave him freedom to explore his creative desires
that never eventuated, the breaks that never came, the works that were rejected, and the desire to
beaver away eroded due to lack of validation. Like the Blur song that got them laid and paid more
than he ever would – 'this is a low'. The dice were rolled.
'Passion' is the word of the zeitgeist. Your success in life is based on passion. 'Passion' is the feeling
that Christ felt before he was tortured to death. Who the fuck feels passion whilst they're getting
tortured? Yet millions up millions of modern drones felt this 'passion', their sublimated religious
zeal, bottled and diluted into the corporate model of profit, efficiencies, business plans, restructures,
borrowings, loans, interest rates, drinkies at concept Irish bars, talking about being transgressive,
looking forward to drinkies, a culture of fucking drunks getting paid to produce mediocrity, talk
their way out of a hole, retard progress, use social manipulation to deflect responsibility, purchase
beyond their means, hire and fire, purchase more beyond their means, make the appearance of
progress and on and on. His brother said: “you have to do what they all do: lie.” Nice guys don't
win. Liars do. He'd seen it, he knew it, and yet he followed the creeds 'cheats never prosper',
'honesty is the best policy', 'be true to thine self'. Other people got fame and fortune for that, but the
reality was different. Lying, 'spinning', having the glass 'half full', buttering people you didn't like
up were the key. Look at politics. Look at global warming, look at economic growth, look at
networking. Global warming won't stop as all these truthful-liars need to drive to work because the
truthful public transport system won't get there, or the truthful home they deserved in their truthful
suburb was planned by talented and truthful people who took a few planning shortcuts to finish the
job quicker and get paid quicker so Miss Truthful and happiness could buy a 4WD with quadruple
emissions to truthfully cart around her offspring to truthfully repeat the cycle when they grow up
and want an i-phone and bottled water and have a holiday in a resort where they can truthfully have
a good old time. This is corporate life, this is you.
Unfortunate for Michael was the fact that he predicated his choices in life on loneliness and envy.
The loneliness that he couldn't get laid and the fact that he couldn't formulate meaningful
relationships with many people. In psychiatric terms he was probably a bipolar or borderline
personality case and would probably benefit in the short term from a prescription of medications
like Xanax or Zoloft, though that was such a 90s trend. The envy came from a variety of sources,
initially starting at the private Jewish school he went to. During the transition from Primary school
to Secondary school. In that time a new batch of kids came to the school who had magical Godlike
qualities because their parents were multi-multi millionaires. Soon the simple childhood pecking
order of being the toughest, craziest, best looking or best sportsman or any talent or lack of, was
simply superseded by 'whose Dad is the richest'? These new kids on the block weren't necessarily
smart or good looking, but the power or influence of their parents guaranteed them a life bereft of
deep seated survival anxieties, or the need to worry about getting the chance to tongue kiss the best
looking girl in the class. Their privilege and entitlement made them better sportsmen, better
competitors, for a school that was born out of the ashes and morals of the Holocaust, the notion of a
master race seemed to have been imported via a cruel osmosis. His envy would carry through to his
adult years, when his 'not so privileged' friends from high-school would envy the limited artistic
success he had. That was up until the point where his parents suddenly went broke, and his not so
privileged friends, who for a brief moment lived in decadent poverty via unemployment cheques,
would overcome that passing fad until they matched up with Jewish women of a perfect 'match'.
Michael just couldn't compete, and was too sensitive to have the survival skills to be 'self made' any
other way. As Freud would have said : 'our sense of self all comes from our relationships with our
parents'.
Michael never got over his school-yard envy. His predicament was like something Marx would
have invented. Despite the odds, he got through high-school unscathed, and via the inspiration and
'do it yourself' attitude of punk rock and independent music of the 80s, and the Marxist, anti-
capitalist (though in reality they were hyper capitalistic) views the music, sounds and attitudes
imparted, helped him forge an independent, yet outspoken personality. This took risks, and turning
his back on the safety that his peers had in their religious collectivity, parents wealth and just plain
happiness with their lot in life. Michael always seemed to live in a state of desperation, and at times
abject failure. He quickly learnt in his university years, that the real world wasn't really any
different to the world he experienced in his Jewish high school. Rich people were still venerated,
and those that didn't have the leadership qualities, charisma, talent, ability or simply money to
control things with, simply became passive consumers, purchasing things they couldn't afford to
prove their status and possibly be used as tools to help elevate them. But most of these people, your
typical middle-class suburban strivers, never actually used these tools to transcend themselves –
they never used that 5000-dollar guitar, or that expensive DJ and production kit to become rockstars
or artists or film-makers. They simply found it easier to suck up to middle or senior managers or go
for after work drinks with them at Irish concept bars that lacked any soul. And it wasn't much
different in the artistic circles. He observed how local musicians would venerate Nick Cave to get
on his exclusive European or American tours, or arse lick Barrie Kosky to get into his exclusive
drama troupe. He even went out with a woman who fucked the drug addicted son of a well known
billionaire, and then she would suck the cock of countless local rock 'identities' to forge her valuable
cache of 'connections' to further her own lame artistic career as a photographer of nudes.
Unfortunately Michael didn't have it in him to 'suck up'. Alas, he didn't get far, and when he tried to
'suck up' would be overcome with an intense sense of humiliation and anger. Occasionally his
abilities would get noticed, but his inability to 'suck up' would not augur him well for many of his
pursuits. A vague interest in psychoanalysis linked it to a potential sexual abuse incident he had as a
child, but he knew that despite the scientific correctness of that theory, the real truth was the anger
and hatred he felt when the 'rich kids' suddenly got everything they wanted without having to do
anything. His awkward attempts to improve his stature in high-school was devastated by the
imperial conquests of the rich. And the 'real world' was no different. It was a natural, universal law.
So in his thirties, after establishing himself with a modest property (of which his mother sold her car
to help kick him off, coupled with a few thousand dollars he'd saved himself), and an ordinary, not
too difficult or stressful job at the bottom of the I.T food chain as a Support Analyst, which was
basically a job that entailed rebooting peoples PC's, Michael decided he needed to 'settle down'. His
Jewish friends had all done this and were having children. They had done their three years of
hedonism and failed artistic endeavour, soon found Jewish partners that intensely made their parents
happy, who would lavish them with gifts like purchasing $750,000 modern properties in chic inner
city suburbs so their kids could become creative, or something. Michael was lagging behind in this
imperative, and his sense of envy and loneliness was exacerbated. And it wasn't only his Jewish
friends. His non-Jewish friends who were such anarchists in their 20s and socialists in their 30s
soon shacked up with partners as well, and his mother wouldn't help matters much by stating : 'well,
you've lost another friend'. The anxiety and sense of failure was too much. A solution was required.
The Internet was his lifeblood and to an extent his life. On it, he could view all the porn he liked
and entertain his fantasies of having 3-somes and anal sex with buxom European ravens. He could
order all the DVDs, books, CDs and other junk to fill the loneliness and holes in his life with. He
could entertain explicit sex-chat fantasies with often over-weight depressive women in American
backwaters like Wisconsin. He could explore his artistic side by creating a blog. After witnessing
the temerity of a room-mate in using the Internet to score sex, Michael tried his own hand at it. On
the online singles pages he would see a plethora of ordinary, average, and often down to earth
women looking for a man. What Michael didn't understand until too late, was that these women
were essentially fishing for a sperm donor, especially if they were between the ages of 30-38. For
nearly two years Michael tried to find a woman on the popular RSVP website. He'd managed a few
email liaisons with some women who seemed compatible, and eventually met one or two, with
abject failure. He began to realise that while he might meet a woman online who might be
physically attracted to him, he was pretty certain they would not be intellectually compatible. But
then, that didn't matter to half the population, especially those from conservative migrant
backgrounds, where they all inbred anyway. Then, out of nowhere, one woman replied to his
profile. Her online name was 'Carlotta'. Her photograph was obviously trimmed from a group photo,
she looked happy, vaguely European and attractive enough that Michael masturbated over her
photo, imagining he was ejaculating in her face. He was aware that this Internet dating thing made
the odds better, since a woman replying to your photo was just as potent sexually in the man's eye,
as the 50-100 men that would respond to a photo of a woman who showed cleavage in online
photos. He eagerly and politely responded to her 'wink' and after about three correspondences, she
gave him her phone number. She didn't answer her phone, but the answering machine message had
a voice that sounded female, positive and friendly. Michael didn't feel so existentially alone
anymore when he left her his number, but she didn't return his call, instead opting to communicate
via e-mail. Michael though this strange, what is she trying to hide? The Internet is the place to hide
especially in courtship, while it is perfect for homosexuals to cruise in safety and dignity without
being threatened by a psychotic society, for heterosexuals it often meant the woman was an
overweight blob who read science fiction or a neurotic cockteaeser who never got fucked and was
probably on medication and liked spending beyond her means. If you were a man, it usually meant
you were bald, fat, a middle manager who took pride in his surround sound system and Apple
Macbook or, were of Mediterranean decent and lived with your parents and were probably into
rhoypnol induced date rape. Regardless, a week later they made a rendezvous in a trendy techno bar
that Michael selected. He told her he would be wearing a puffy jacket. She told him she'd be
wearing red lipstick.
The notion of a 'blind date' is often the most pathetic means of meeting a partner. Michael was so
down on his sexual currency, that he would take anything bar going to a prostitute, of which he was
too neurotic and cheap to consider, despite the fact that he masturbated to pornography at least
twice a day. Once he'd ordered his boutique beer, he felt a bit more comfortable, the sophisticated
avant-garde grooves that was the norm of the bar made him feel comfortable, as did the small packs
of city-girls in their individual designer clothes of smocks, stockings and i-phones. The men were
the usual passive-aggressive barrage of left-green voting professionals with more life options than
any of their socialist/Marxist heroes ever had in their miserable lives, wearing expensive nerd
glasses or carrying shitty yet expensive courier bags. Tonight though the dick count was low. A
frowning European woman with striking dark-red lips walked in and looked vaguely around before
approaching Michael and confirming his existence. He was surprised, as the lady looked far better
in real-life than the crudely cropped photo he saw on the Internet. As was his biological imperative,
his penis stiffened in his pants. The woman introduced herself as Jennifer, and despite wearing a
frown, the dark lipstick made her dramatically sexy. They talked quite easily, Michael purchasing
her a vodka and cranberry. They chatted about the difficulties in meeting partners, while really they
were skirting around the edges of the fact that both were socially retarded, and that both were
embarrassed that they had to use something as over-hyped, anti-social and lame as the Internet. It
wasn't so long ago that the world was either of their oysters, both having a relatively exciting and
privileged life of 'travelling the world', minor indie bands or just being a 'local legend' at a
University beer club. Jennifer complained about men, even confessing that she would be better off
being a lesbian, which just made Michael's penis stiffen a few notches more. After two drinks each
they both relaxed a bit, and Michael arranged to meet her again for lunch. That evening her sent her
a positive e-mail, and she responded with interest in another date. He then masturbated over those
dark-red lips over you-know-where.
Their second date was in a large bakery that was converted into a large coffee shop with plenty of
bright natural light. Jennifer was wearing a dull green calico smock, she was again wearing red
lipstick and seemed quite self conscious. Michael was able to freely engage, and the bright light
enabled him to see her features in more detail. She had a square Roman jaw, and while not
strikingly beautiful, carried herself with a sophisticated grace that set her apart from the typical
sexual vulgarity that was the norm for Italian women in Australia, mainly due to the fact that they
were derived from Sicilian or Calabrian peasant stock, usually of a criminal, albiet deeply religious
nature, of which there is no difference. She scratched her wrist and he noticed a hairy arm which
she noticed almost subconsciously and quickly covered up. But as his biological imperative, despite
all the protestation of feminists, his gaze continued to profile her whole body, her modular and
classic designer clothing hiding as much as his eyes could seek, a game that turned him on
enormously, more so than women in black tights and comefuckme boots generic toilet style ever
could. She would eventually slip up as she nervously scratched her neck, and he noticed, in that
subconscious micro-millisecond a hint of a black bra and perfectly formed cleavage, like a bubble
of black oil surfacing in a dense wetland.
The third date was organised to be a meeting at Jennifer's house followed by a lunch at a
cosmopolitan inner city restaurant. Michael's plans were clear and defined: BYO red wine, lunch,
fuck. Arriving at Jennifer's large weatherboard inner-city house, Michael was impressed at this
single woman's financial endeavours. Inside was a semi-renovated environment, they sat together in
the spacious lounge, and awkwardly discussed where they were going to eat. Michael suggested
they have a drink before they go, the bottle was opened and half drunk as he sat next to her or the
large cushioned red couch. The wine had taken charge, as Michael tentatively edged closer with
each glass, and soon asked if he could kiss Jennifer. Yes. A kiss became a grope. Tongues met and a
grope became a squeeze. The kissing intensified, before Michael asked if they could take it to the
bedroom, where he gingerly followed, and a kiss became a grope and a cup and then Michael
reached under and straddled the expanse of her booty with both hands, the final statement being : “I
better get a condom”.
They started to see each other regularly, and each date ended in sex. Michael spent a weekend at
Jennifer's house which comprised of him rolling marijuana joints (marijuana a drug that always
exacerbated his libido and sensuality) and having sex. In fact they had sex six times in one day. To
him she felt like the woman that always got away, she was the girl he never had, she fit like a glove,
seemed to melt into his rhythms and desire him as much he did her, a rarity in his world. Jennifer in
Michaels' eyes had a most excellent body – wide curvacious hips, firm breasts and a big, wobbly
arse. Sure her body was relatively pear shaped, but her physical beauty was unlike women of such
body types, as she had a small waist and flat tummy. Mother nature had been more than kind to her,
although she resented the size of her arse. To Michael it felt like he was granted a strange kind of
cosmic blessing. Maybe it was the fact that he was the son of a Holocaust survivor, the fact that he
was born of first generation slaves not unlike being a negro. In that context, it seemed to him that
he was always blessed, in the rare occasions he actually connected with a woman, with women who
had generous sized booties. It gave him a sense of satisfaction, even though he didn't have a foot
long penis, as was the genetic imperative of black men, in order to actually accommodate such big
booties. Indulging in the momentary confidence that Jennifer was his woman, he asked her if she
had a g-string of which she had only one, as she felt they were uncomfortable. One afternoon, while
he lay on her futon, she slid it on, he'd seen g-strings on lovers before, but on this woman it was
something else. G-strings are about symmetry and some women just don't have it, but this wasn't an
issue here. Her black semi-see through bra didn't match the tacky pale-blue g-string, but it cupped
her breasts perfectly, in fact her breasts reminded him of his favourite porn queens Brigitte Lahaie
and Desiree Cousteau - men are such simple uncomplicated creatures when it comes to sex. For all
the years of sexual frustration, anger, unfulfilled sexual fantasies, sexual confusion, doubt,
loneliness, girls in high-school he never got near, girls who liked him but didn't turn him on, never
getting it when he wanted, masturbating constantly, loneliness, the fear he would be alone his whole
life, reading Freud, having psychiatrists tell him about Freud and relationships and love and
happiness and the roots of his miasma, dysthymia, fucking wanting to kill motherfuckers from
work, people who ridiculed him, envy of co-workers who got promotions, – the whole fucking
shithouse was meaningless now. Remembering a line from the John Belushi movie 'Animal House'
as if he were the teen whose Playmate fantasy had come to life, he proclaimed “thank you God”, as
Jennifer's potent semi-naked form crawled over the futon to kiss him.
“Michele, in Sicily women are more dangerous than shotguns.” But Michael wouldn't know until
too late. While Michael was getting incredibly high, aroused and just plain happy to be alive
admidst the primal pleasures of Jennifer's body, it was not so easy when it came to issue of the
mind, soul, spirit or anything else of that esoteric nature. The problem with people who meet on the
Internet is the same as the problem with the Internet itself, it does not have a soul. After a great
afternoon of sex about a week after they had met, Jennifer took Michael along to her sister's 40th
birthday party. Michael found this quite strange since he hardly knew this person, but went along
anyway because he knew he'd get more sex for obliging. Arriving at the party, at a bowling alley, he
felt the first serious pangs of incompatibility with this woman. Being the only non-Italian person
there made him feel even more the outsider that he was, and whilst the people were quite friendly,
he could not relate to their incestuous, myopic bravado, he'd had more than enough of that with his
ex Jewish friends and associates. The husband of Jennifer's sister was a portly man with an 80s style
moustache, and carried himself with all the authority of a mafia Don. By the end of the night a fist-
fight had broken out over a payment/service dispute. While Michael was quite offended by this
extreme outburst of bullshit, his mind was only focused on licking Jennifer's nipples that night. In
her room, Jennifer had Bhuddist rainbow flags, photos of third-world children and other token
symbols of equality and multiculturalism. In her heart, was the commitment to her family and her
religion – a racket run by paedophiles and extortionists. All Michael saw was the arse of the century
and a respite from the existential loneliness he felt everyday. In this game, only the strong survive.
After a few months the sex became more infrequent, and Michael started to feel this woman wasn't
the right one. In fact her vagina seemed to be dry when they had intercourse and and when he
inquired, Jennifer claimed that she was still having orgasms whilst having a semi-dry vagina.
Jennifer would take him to her parents house where he would be fed amazing home grown meals of
home-made pastas, shnitzels, salads and their own home-made salamis and wine. He started looking
forward to the meals more than Jennifer. He threatened to leave as the relationship started moving
into boredom. As much as he enjoyed having sex with her, the intellectual divide was starting infest
like an amorphous swine flu. Whilst Freud was good at sourcing sexuality and work as part of the
essential internal balance, he was never really good on the mind-body split. Or the sex-intellect split
for that matter. Michael's threats to leave seemed to have started to work, as Jennifer, nearing a
ticking body clock, like most post-feminist women who spent their 20s and 30s gaining 'equality'
then started to go really crazy when they realised their biological imperative to breed may not be
met, got the hint. And so she started getting into sex again. First it was the tight skivvy's she'd wear
under her short-cut bomber jackets, then it was the fishnet and similar patterned stockings. She
would bring home bottles of wine, and request for neck and shoulder massages which would always
end up with Michael groping and rubbing her pussy through her stockings until she couldn't take it
any more. Then one night it was garters and stockings like he'd seen in a European porn movie that
the rules of attractions were flushed down the toilet. It was during a furious doggy style fuck, that
Michael finally tried to slip it into her supine rear that had driven his delirium for nearly six months.
But as soon as he tried to slip it there, she jump flipped over with reflexive reaction and berated him
for about the hygienic issues that posed. He immediately went limp and apologised. As they calmed
down, he tried to express how her felt about her rear and what it meant to him, and whilst she
thought it cute, couldn't help herself but explain to him how immature and regressive it was. They
chatted through the night about their relationship and Jennifer came clean and mentioned that she
had anal sex with a man, some Israeli and he was nuts.
Over the next few weeks Michael could not get out of his head the fact that his lover, a woman
whom he went home and met her family, accepted the lunacy of her relatives and a pussy that was
dry half the time wouldn't let him near her hiney, yet let some Israeli random do it in one night of
lust. But such was the heterosexual obsession with anal sex, the taboo, the transgressive – and like
most taboo and transgressive acts it was actually more exciting in theory than in practice. Sure the
Greek and Roman empires founded themselves on the act but it really wasn't cracked (sic) up to
what it was meant to be. And yet his weak pride and ego were hurt by the fact his partner would not
allow him near it. Maybe it was the years of not achieving his dreams - thwarted ambitions in
writing, film-making, music making, pay rises, promotions, new friends – amongst an objective
reality of dysfunctional brothers, bitchy in-laws and undiagnosed parents amongst other things. A
total lack of control of his life and the people (or lack of) in it. Or maybe he was just gay?
Pornography was everywhere and it wasn't just sex. Reality TV, Xtreme sports, and then of course,
the pornography of easy credit.. His Asian industrialist-greenie friend would ring him to discuss
UFC fighting in which muscular naked men would punch each other until blood splattered over
their faces. The kids on the trains would get drunk into oblivion, jumping on trains, and just
hassling people because they had nothing to do. Fed on on a knowledge of Internet 'facts', I-phone
communications, video games and instant gratification, their interface with reality was either
violence, quick sex or the inevitable banishment to an open plan office space. Hence the
transgressive, 'nigga' behaviour that had become the norm, the fact being they were the inverse of
being a nigga, their anger and lack of respect for anything was based on the realisation that the only
future they new was coming was that they were gonna be the slaves. But back to Michael. And his
obsession, his fears and unhappiness. Michael had become the slave. And he was taking an out.
While love is supposedly the universal glue that keeps the whole fucking shithouse together, and
when it's on is a quite beautiful natural feeling, it doesn't explain away varying intelligences,
jealousy, sloth, Global Warming, Nazism, racism, Global Financial Crises, Marxism, Freud,
'Gangsta culutre' ,a fascination with 'reality TV' and numerous other unexplainables that are part of
the universal toilet of moderm mankind. Essentially all the practitioners of all these concepts of
transferred misery are all loving, caring people in their own way. Of course it's their love and
passion that managed to get these concepts off the ground to begin with. If their ideas don't pass the
'popularity contest' that is essentially what modern life is about, then how could they succeed so
spectacularly? Darwin's survival of the fittest is obviously geared towards survival of the most
popular which seems to be the driving force in today's Internetted, global world. Whilst diversity is
important, it's too difficult to deal with in an atomised, processed universe, diversity is often too
challenging and if there's isn't a rich philanthropist to encourage it while he's monopolising
everything else, it's just be left to rot like the dried out worm bin that has since become a breeding
pit for redback spiders that sits in the backyard of most inner-city, Green voting houses. And so love
is that concept that exists in the most fascist of structures that affects nearly every human being on
the planet – the family.
The family. We all need one. We all are one. All the protest movements talk about being 'family',
and often, the family is the root of all evil, that and money. Families are carnivores, and Michael in
his existential loneliness and as a reaction to fulfilling his own lacking - via his own fucked up
family, his horrible, nasty in-laws and all sort of other familial induced misery that he was too
sensitive to respond to, too insecure, immature and basically couldn't give a fuck to react to -
happened to choose a new family that were based on worshipping paedophiles, extortion, crime,
inbreeding and, well, at least breeding some of the sexiest and horniest women on the planet. If
anything repression can be a most excellent thing. And so, after he made Jennifer pregnant, trying to
be positive and happy at every corner, he was always, always going to be under the thumb of this
new family. Despite his own toiling to provide his own personal financial securty on his own,
despite the lurking Lovecraftian psychotic horror of his own family, he finally succumbs to a more
evil, sinister and controlling family structure than he could ever find. Subconsciously he must have
been a masochist, he loved pain. Women fear weakness in a man. Women strive for the security of
their fathers or lack of gave them. Even in the lesbian situation there is always a 'man' type partner,
a partner that takes the supposedly security giving role. When being brought up in a family situation
where you are embedded with the security that they will always provide, and then see that pulled
from under you, you start to feel: 'fuck the family'. This could never happen in context of the
relationship Michael had with Jennifer. Their communication was so poor, and whilst Michael
toiled, Jennifer never cared to listen. She was programmed like a psychotic robot, any attempt to
communicate or negotiate would be rebuked with claims he was immature, lacks a sense of self,
'your family doesn't give a shit' (true), and the fact that her family were there for nearly every beck
and call. A group therapy session revealed that Jennifer liked to have her man over the barrel, and
that Michael didn't really give a shit about her families 'assistance' since he was pretty much doing
everything in his life himself anyway. Besides his deep seated existential loneliness, and, as his
therapist would identify, 'lack of relationships' that causes this, he didn't want to bow to the
demands of this family and their backward belief systems. When your out on your own like a
rolling stone, with no direction known this is how it feels. He walked out of one jail and into
another.
Out of the open-plan battery-hen farm that was his new 'restructured' office, and into a stinky, over
crowded jumbo-jet flying to Europe. He arrived in Heathrow, a truly modern international structure
full of massive wide-open spaces, electronic gadgets, and a shopping centre with all the major
chains and labels – Marks and Spenser, Dior, Calvin Klein, Apple, HP, Ben Sherman, etc, etc etc –
so that all the transcontinental tourists and middle managers could spend even more of their
borrowed funds on even more glamorous and over-expensive crap to make themselves feel better.
He stayed in England briefly, an Empire long gone, but that seemed excel in supermarkets that
stocked exotic packaged foods as well as up-market sex shops selling kinky 'knickers' to a working
class that had graduated into even more glamorous boredom. His connecting flight took him to
Barcelona to meet relatives he hadn't seen for over 25 years, and probably didn't even know he was
part of their family, so deep was the disconnect, and so far the separation. Regardless, his family in
Spain were wealthy and educated, completely different from the impression he had from his
psychotic mother and the deep seated embarrassment he felt from his old Jewish mates who would
constantly made 'Cookaracha' jokes behind his back. In Barcelona he felt a calm and belonging he
hadn't felt since he last went to Israel nearly 20 years earlier, but had no interest in exploring this
time (maybe next novel). Being mid-summer, the weather was a constant 30 degrees, and his
relatives lived a comfortable 100 metres from the beach. He would awake mid morning, walk down
to the half empty beach, sunbake and swim in the warm Mediterranean. He thought about Jennifer
and her pregnancy, and about how her parents assumed he was a stupid Catholic like them because
his mother was from Spain. In fact even his mother told him his Spanish relatives were Catholics,
only to find they were atheist industrialists who had actually been persecuted by Franco and his
paedophile henchmen who wore those really gay hats. The insanity of his mother knew no bounds,
and it was only when he explored his identity his own way did it unravel. He would never
understand this, and while it would explain his misogyny, sexual self doubts and other anger,
frustration and lack of self-esteem, he could not live his life blaming his mother. It also didn't help
that she was nearly 90 years old and would likely live until 100 at this rate. Sheeeeit!! And so he
slowly walked into the warm Mediterranean sea and lost his footing as the shallows give way to a
deep incline, unlike the Australian beaches he was used to, and he thought to himself that now he
was baptised by the paedophiles like the women in his life were, despite the fact that his penis was
circumcised. What a stupid thought. There was no epiphany. He felt great as a result, splashing
around the shore of the Barcelona beach, admiring the beachside bars serving alcohol and run by
Englishmen. He came out of the water and thought he could live here forever, and be like Roberto
Bolano or Dali or some other legend who lived in these parts. He lay down and let the sun dry him
as he started to read 'crime and punishment' peering over the pages at the 18 year-old Spanish girls
bathing topless, as the drying and possibly horribly polluted sea-water gave him a rash.
He would take the Renfe train to Barcelona in the afternoon, dismounting at the Plaça Catalunya,
and end up at the FNAC department store looking for cult Spanish DVD's while having to trawl
through the latest Tom Hanks and Russell Crowe releases. Then he would walk down the Rambala
and notice the living statues of hydras and zombies, while most women generally gush at the
inherent 'romanticism' of Barcelona and fantasise of some Antonio Banderas type bloke to fuck
them hard, Michael tended to pick up on the gothic elements of the city, from the proliferation of
public performers doing their 'living sculpture' routines as Hydras, zombies and Frankensteins, to
the Barri Gotic with it's ancient castle-like structures that reminded him of all 'Blind Dead' horror
movies from the 70s featuring robed skeletons on horseback. And in amongst these structures were
endless alleyways teeming with tiny cafes, small record stores specialising in particular genres,
whether it be punk, 60s and 70s hippie rock or minimal modern techno. Food was cheap and good,
and classy, intelligent, artistically minded women roamed the streets in little clusters of four,
looking for their own Iberian bookend, yet none of whom were interested in talking with a dull,
depressed Australian, who couldn't speak Spanish or French, didn't have a moustache or wear a
Johnny Cash t-shirt, nor understood the meaning of the surrealism movement post World War2.
Fuck them.
His next two weeks were spent continuing his relaxed routine, though lacking any sex, he would try
to masturbate to porn on the Internet, although the internet in the house he was staying was poor, so
he went back to fantasising about Jennifer or Jeans arse, knowing he would never go there again.
The beach had wide sands, and he loved it even more that it wasn't isolated and full of hippies.
There were bars and people living nearby, at least there was a diverse civilisation which he could
engage with. It was nice to not have to communicate nor worry about mundane shit like whether
someone watched the latest episode of 'Underbelly' or 'Mater Chef' or were worried about the result
of the latest restructure of the customer support area at work, to be replaced by an automated system
that expensive management and hired consultants had no idea how to operate, so the company
would have to spend hundreds, if not millions of dollars down the track to fix the fucking thing the
initial 'experts' were hired to fix and roll out in the first place. Oh the mind wanders he thought,
even out here in Spain, on a holiday, with no responsibility, there was always a worry. Like money
and the infinite shithole of it regularly flowing in to take care of business. When will it stop?
Pressing on, he enjoyed the the daily trips into Barcelona using the modern, air-conditioned high-
speed Renfe trains, watching the beach zip by as it would spit him out at the old, phantasmagoria of
civilisation. He went to the Sagrada Famìla, the never-ending building project, and another stupid
church, as well at the Casa Milà, the other fantastic building Gaudi made, and sat on the roof
pretending he was Jack Nicholson in 'the Passenger'. Wandering around the University precinct he
found some interesting record stores selling indie guitar noise and minimal techno, an interesting,
purely modern mix for a record store that would rarely exist anywhere else in a world taken over by
fucking Virgin Megastores, JB Hifi and Amazon. The local kids were into wearing gothic heavy
metal style clothing, tight black jeans and Motorhead and Iron Maiden t-shirts and riding
skateboards nonchalantly through the mini Arc de Triumf . Alas he could not live here. Money was
running out and his job needed him (it didn't, he needed the money fix). He bade farewell to his
relatives and invited them down to Australia, but they didn't really have much desire to come 'Down
Under' as they knew it was just an ugly, suburbanised wasteland full of Anglo-Saxons who bowed
down to the American and British empires rather than creating their own. A society of delusion.
He returned to his job as an I.T Support Officer, and the initial excitement and sense of 'wisdom'
that international travel seems to impart on the traveller, was soon smashed down into the dull mid-
tempo plod of endless meetings, emails that had to be checked by 'communications managers' in
order to keep things in a comfortable stasis, endless talk about 'change' when nothing ever really
changed except people getting fired, or balding and goateed, or fashionably shaved bald blokes in
suits, or semi-overweight women with dyed hair and an i-phone coming in to address 'change'. His
work offered him a pay rise, albeit under contract that essentially cleared the employer of any need
for redundancy package. Rejecting that, he took a redundancy package and and took a risk in his
miserable life. He had a distinct feeling over the years that he was unemployable, despite the fact
that he did his current job reasonably well. It was the lack of response from agencies, the failure to
get short-listed by their clients, the inability to land a job elsewhere within the organisation that
exacerbated this torpor. He often asked people within the organisation what they thought of him, or
whether they thought he was 'difficult' to work worth, and despite occasionally being regarded as
'outspoken', wasn't regarded as bad. Besides he'd seen other 'colleagues' ramp themselves up, go for
Friday drinks with people they didn't like and then get jobs despite having a current history of
screwing work practices, taking phony 'stress' leave while having photos of themselves on
Facebook holidaying in sunny states, and getting paid 6 months not to turn up whilst getting GP's to
claim their 'malaise', while all Michael got was 'you're being negative'. He left and in his heart
basically thought : FUCK THE LOT OF YA! Alas, the universe must have heard this as what he got
was 4 months and counting of unemployment. Using the Internet to find work, as well as ringing
strangers he didn't even know, he had to go through the degrading, shithouse process of
'networking'. In the 'Career Transition' course he went on he was told by the sprightly and phony
consultants that '80% of people who do our program are happier and get better jobs'. His reality was
that he wasn't part of that stat, or if he was, it was taking it's fucking sweet time to get there. He had
applied for over 100 jobs via SEEK.com, had a resume that was regarded as 'excellent' by these
'career consultants' and still a void. He applied his 'charm' as best he could in the 10 interviews he
had, sizing up these people, effectively thinking he could work with these people, but wondering do
they want to work with him? The constant fiddling with the i-phones of the privileged and god-
given talented balding middle managers that were judging him obviously made him feel he wasn't
one of them. He wasn't anything.
Jennifer had a child, a boy called Michaelangelo, she felt it was a good compromise among their
cultures. In revenge of him leaving her, she would not agree to his requests for more access time,
and her family started threatening him for treating their daughter 'badly', despite the fact that he
never laid a finger on her (she threatened to kill him with a knife twice), always paid his child
support instalments, chipped in for any other payments, as was his duty within his means.
Furthermore she lived in a modern house that was entirely paid for, and was claiming pension
benefits on top of the Child Support payments that Michael always paid for on-time. And yet, he
was denied. The mediation classes fell back on Michael when he admitted he occasionally smoked
drugs and drank, the inexperienced and idiotic case worker reported this, and Jennifer immediately
manufactured this into a drug problem that made him incapable of supporting a child. She'd
obviously forgotten the happier times they had together drinking wine and smoking pot. And now
him quitting his job made him seem even more incapable, and the fact that his precious child
support payments had dropped to welfare level considering he was still u.n.e.m.p.l.o.y.e.d, and
according to market forces, unemployable. His ex refused to go back to the workforce, taking some
twisted feminist credo that she stay at home and support her child as was her right, failing to
recognise that feminism had strived to bring equality between men and women, especially in the
workforce. He had obviously proven her feminist ideals wrong by leaving her, and developing into
a weak, insecure man, all this playing into her plan of denying his right to his child, manipulating
circumstances and make a man who just wants to 'take it easy' have a life develop into a miserable,
anxious hell at every corner. He'd seen a similar thing happen with his step brother, and feared this
happening to himself, in fact his ex showed him articles relating to the radical men's group he was
part of when they initially started dating and fucking. Alas she would use this information against
him when the whole shithouse tumbled down. He was a lover not a fighter. And tried his hardest not
to fight, but the reality in this world is that the passive do not survive, whether you are an artist,
office drone, manager whatever. Whether it's freedom fighters over-throwing oppressive regimes,
new migrants, drug addicts looking for a fix, eventually you go into the system, you manoeuvre
through the bullshit and different desires, abilities and realise that equality is a pipe dream invented
by the rich on an existential guilt trip.
In the height of his depression he spent his days surfing the Internet, purchasing books and DVDs
he'd never watch or read and send endless emails to prospective jobs. He'd go jogging and meditate
which would give brief respite, but it would all come crashing down again with the next rejection
letter. He thought it was bad when trying to get noticed as a screenwriter, it was worse now as an
average shmoe trying to get an average job. His esteem, identity and everything else was shot to hell
into the constant drone/moan of loneliness, lack of being part of something and.... arr fuckit! He
went out to his letterbox and found a padded envelope containing the rare CD by Rev Louis
Overstreet he ordered online, underneath it, was another envelope addressed to him from the 'Arnd
Group'. Curious, he opened it, and inside was a colour photograph of a burning bush.
Alexei Zolkover was a database administrator who started his career in Minsk, Russia working on
platforms such as Orcale, Sybase and then open source systems such as My-SQL and Perst. Russia
has always had a tradition of great mathematicians and computer software experts, and Alexei was
no slouch compared to that average .NET shmuck from the West. As a result he excelled at his
studies and was offered the opportunity to work for Credit Suisse Bank in America where he held a
successful position as Chief Technology Lead for Web Database Infrastructures working in New
York City. He lived in Coney Island in amongst the other Russian migrants, most of whom were
Jewish, and never felt like he was alone. His job paid incredibly well and this allowed him to send
large sums of money back home to his parents, as well as send contributions to an investment
property he bought in a new luxury apartment development in Moscow. He hoped to eventually
move back to Russia and settle there once he found a suitable bride.
His days were spent cycling databases, making sure back-ups worked successfully and that data
integrity was maintained. While his English wasn't sensational, he spent lots of time compiling
disaster recovery documentation, instructing his team of junior and senior DBA's (database
administrators) in all the necessary processes, programs, batch files and hardware needed in order to
maintain healthy functioning databases that would churn through millions if not billions of
transactions per day, counting numbers, transferring numbers and matching them to personal and
business bank accounts all over the world. Essentially business IT was a global language,
essentially all you did was manage massive cash registers, sending money connected to customer
records all over the world in milliseconds. The advent of the Internet just made the cash registers
reach all over the world far quicker and easier than ever before. And the fact that you were dealing
with money meant there was no concern for censorship, political rhetoric or any of that other
nonsense that clogged the bandwidth. Even in the Internet, money talked loudest, and bullshit was
consigned to blogs and Facebook and other inane 'social' networks.
Being technologically literate at a high level, Alexei surrounded himself with tech devices. He had
set up a small LAN in his apartment that not only connected him to the Internet, but his server also
acted as a multimedia centre connected to his 52inch plasma TV that allowed him to watch Internet
and cable TV (he managed to buy a satellite hacking card that decoded commercial satellite feeds
on the fly and enabled him to watch Euro, Arab and South-American channels free, he even
managed to hack FOX, NBC, HBO etc.. networks), play games, Skype his parents back in Minsk,
watch HiDef torrents of all the latest Hollywood movies and so on and so forth. On weekends he
would go to the Meat-packing district in Manhattan and spent his disposable income getting drunk
on fancy vodka drinks with his co-workers and other Russians. Occasionally he would fuck
expensive prostitutes, many of whom were actually Russian like him. His life was actually as
glamorous as a business IT expert could be, in fact he probably lived better than most rockstars did,
and definitely could afford to indulge in the lifestyles and glamorous status symbols they did.
America was going down the toilet and taking the world with it. A president who won via default
started a misdirected war that was sending the country broker and broker. Then there was the
Internet bubble, and the fact that America no longer led the world in technology or any other
progressive invention, rather relying on their trusted arms-development industries to leverage an
economy that didn't really exist. Then there was the bright idea of inventing an other economy, a
welfare state that wasn't actually a welfare state, but rather a stolen booty state, letting any idiot lend
money to buy more shit they couldn't afford. This trend filterted all over the world, to Australia
where middle-low income earners could suddenly live like 'rockstars' or the über-riche by simply
getting easy credit. Where once you had to stay home and save for that electric guitar, now you
could just get it, as well as the i-phone, and the car and the house extension and the second car, and
the investment property and the Apple computer, and the digital editing system and the holiday to
the tropics and on and on and on. Of course, Alexei's job was to maintain the computer systems that
recorded and transferred and cross-transferred all this money or borrowed money or invented
borrowed money or borrowed money sold on to another company made up of borrowed money that
was being used to build super hotels and buildings all over the world in places like Bharain,
Docklands development in Melbourne and on and on and on. And then suddenly the whole thing
went 'pop'!
The 'pop' hit Alexei suddenly but without a sound. For all that time he spent developing his team
and preparing documentation essentially made him redundant when the the time was needed, since
he cost the company most. His team was replaced by a new DBA/Analyst from India who spoke
fluent English and didn't give a shit about anyone, and was paid about 40% less than Alexei. This
new DBA's job was to simply get rid of the rest of the staff and then use Alexei's work to maintain
the job. Little would the employers know was that this DBA would come unstuck within the next 8-
12 months, and they would have to hire expensive consultants to fix the thing up again, and then
maybe hire another team to run the new systems, and on and on. Alexei took a healthy payout, and
considering there weren't any decent jobs in the financial sector for IT since most of the companies
disappeared overnight, and weren't likely to hire anyone new it was better to let the systems go to
shit in order to hide all the forensic evidence they would store. Alexei packed up his belongings,
and flew home to his luxury apartment in Moscow. Using the Internet and a Russian work agency,
he soon got a similar though less paying job for an Internet 'Marketing Campaign and Internet
Strategy' company called 'Fuzzy'. His role, this time, being an 'Online Database Administrator',
where he was required to manage Apache and My-SQL databases amongst other technologies.
'Fuzzy' basically traded in advertising, making deals with legitimate companies using their semi-
legit-to-bogus 'network' of linked sites comprising of regional consumer websites in countries like
Israel, the USSR, Netherlands and Korea. They also managed to broker advertising deals with less
legitimate but more popular websites like torrent and porn sites, ultimately leveraging their ad
income to take ownership of the bandwidth, unique impressions and general traffic of these free
sites and then start charging people to use them. In a short time 'Fuzzy' was able to buy up and
consolidate networks of other websites, including local popular music sites, lifestyle sites,
especially the Gay and Lesbian communities that thrived on Internet communications, drug
smoking sites, popular blogs and the plethora of porn and sex sites that seemed to appeal to a
different fetish on a weekly basis. In fact their inter-links of different companies grew bi-annually,
'Fuzzy Technologies' had sub-companies like the 'BigButt Network', 'Single Gear Bike Network',
'Vegan Cooking Network'. All the networks and affiliations that were made up of blogs, websites,
portals, message boards, and then these were all further interlinked via cross advertising on
Facebook pages, and then creeping into Facebook applications like 'What Parisian poet are you' or
'Can you suck your own dick'. And in amongst these complicated and nefarious networks was 'the
Arnd Group' which is where Alexei comes into the picture. He was the database and system
administrator for the infrastructure that controlled this sub-company/service/chain letter mailing
facility.
The financial crisis didn't kill Alexei, in fact he wasn't really affected that much by it, albeit the fact
he had to move back to Russia. And whilst it fucked and destroyed lots of other people, the system
was too big and dynamic to fall under so quickly. It would hiccup and shudder, the giant pan-global
cash-registers that ruled the planet would keep ticking and counting away as resources slowly ran
out and days got hotter. As long as everyone still had their superannuation, plasma TV-sets, 4WDs
and other status symbols, nothing much would happen. Alexei would eventually find a nice Russian
bride off the internet, have a Russian Orthodox wedding, sell the luxury apartment and buy a bigger
apartment in a comfortable Moscow suburb. He would have three children, and his wife would
desire him less sexually after that. He would go out to American styled clubs on the weekend and
listen to American hiphop, singing about 'bitches, money and guns', whilst getting smashed on
vodka. One night he got horribly drunk and started swearing in a crude English/Russian accent
about 'bitches and hoes'. He told a young man with a sexy raven-haired girlfriend in tight, revealing
clothes to yopt fooya mutt' and split some of his vodka on her FCUK t-shirt. This was observed by
an ex-Chechen serviceman that was now head bouncer in this establishment, who promptly threw
him onto the cold street, kicked him for bore in the arse, and called him a pizda! Stumbling around
the cold Moscow street, he knew he was too drunk to go home, so he eventually found his way back
to the 'Arnd Group' data centre. The cold fluorescent glow of the data centre was comforting, as was
the climate controlled environment that was warmer than the street he was forced to stumble around
in. In his stupor the only thing he could do with his eyes closed, or in this case, do completely blind
drunk, was cycle the database. He typed in the wrong command, and invariably activated the 'mass
mailout' batch-file, before he passed out and slept like a baby until the next morning.
No-one on the planet acknowledged the fuck-up.
Draft completed 20/5/2010 at 20:33pm.

Entire draft done via OpenOffice Writer Ver3.2.0. Open Source.

Foutre La Merde, Dans

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Foutre la merde, dans© (The fuck-up)

All rights reserved and Copyright Aaron Goldberg 2010

“I let my mind wander. And what did it do?” Willie Nelson.

Rejecting the story, here is the email:

rom - Tue Dec 29 20:07:12 2009

This is a multi-part message in MIME format.

<head – can I resist?>

<meta name=3DGenerator content=3D"Moccasoft Werd 11 (filtered medium)">

<body lang=3DEN-US link=3Dblue vlink=3Dpurple, nipples?>

<div class=3DSection1 more fun than Marx>

<p class=3DMsoNormal><font size=3D2 face=3DArial><span =

<p class=3DMsoNormal><font size=3D2 face=3DArial><span =

<p class=3DMsoNormal><font size=3D2 face=3DArial><span =

<p class=3DMsoNormal><font size=3D2 face=3DArial><span =

<p class=3DMsoNormal><font size=3D2 face=3DArial><span =

<BR><BR>__________ Information from ESET NOD32 Antivirus, version of =

------=_NextPart_000_ Right here, read on...--

You don't know what you really want. (x15)

In the morning I raise my head

I want you (I want you)

You can walk in a haze

I want you (I want you)

In the morning I raise my head

I want you (I want you)

Get yer hand off it.

Phillip Roth did it better.

The work lacks maturity.

Doesn't have a strong narrative thrust.

Thanks for your call regarding your project submitted to STRAND A.

“Lips! You know, a pussy?”

The 'muse', rhymes with 'ruse' and 'spews'. Here we go:

* Burnbaby licks cock

One of those periods of your being, where you totally immersed

Social retardation is contagious.

Like it or not, women are turned on by power.

Theses are the guys who get girls:

..And the regular shmock of simple decency? Nothing.

Draft completed 20/5/2010 at 20:33pm.

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