BUNGALOW  MAX

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was a Victorian, which didn’t turn bungalow Max on that much, but then again the Western Australian was extremely keen to rent the family house out. Given that he had spent the last six months renovating it and added more bedrooms to its peripheal edges, he had considerable aspirations that the Victorian should become a suitable tenant. Only the previous evening the prospective landlord had spread by word of mouth at the local pub his desire to rent, and already it was action stations, so that there was a little curl of a smile on his west coast lips. Because who needed a 21st century real estate agency to handle things, in return for a slice of the rental pie? Not Max Eaton, because he had free access to a country made grapevine which was equally as fast, if not faster than the internet.

    Watching the Victorian’s cruiser coming down the freshly gravelled, rust orange u drive at his waiting form, he was not at all surprised by the superbly efficient speed of his particular local grapevine. Rental properties were as scarce as hen’s teeth in the Pemberton district, and on the phone from one of his mates who had arranged the meeting time, Max had learnt that the Victorian was a teacher and a family man. This had pleased the prospective landlord, because he didn’t want any unemployed young punks who were into the drugs and drink and 24/7 yahoo, chase the pussy and party on stuff. He had well and truly had enough of that type in the previous year when he had been living in a small block of flats, two hundred odd miles to the north in the getting bigger by the day big smoke, called Perth city.

    So he had been shooting for an established family man and he’d got one first up, and the brilliantly light to deep blue sky bowl above his head seemed to back up his early Friday morning mood. Bush gay he was, without being in any way a west coast homosexual.

    Max was in his early fifties and the sun was shining its September warmth down upon him, and after enduring a far too cold winter he very much appreciated that. The various types of summer flies weren’t out in their ridiculous droves yet either, and thus no Australian salutes were currently necessary. Which was another bonus for him. He was tremendously enjoying the sun and the scenery and the clean forest air, and the excitement of being alive and maybe of being able to rent the family joint out to a matured soul, instead of a juvenile immature one, was absolutely delighting him. To the point that the existential angst in him had gone into reverse, and he was just about in that space called existential euphoria. The west coast man was a fleshed up lump of momentary satisfaction then. As well as that he was also, just like all or the vast majority of humans are; future death on a pair of legs.

    The Western Australian was about two inches under six feet high and was stockily built, and he had a not so pretty weather beaten face, within which were set two Caucasian blue eyes. Which didn’t see things as well as they used to. He had an expanding bald patch in his crew cut and heavy sprinkles of white hairs in his short ruddy red beard, and was known locally as being a bit of an out there, eccentric type. He was into ufo’s and spirits and dimensions and multidimensionals and Gurus all of that out there stuff, and sometimes to others, it was like he was into everything and nothing at the same time. Which is sometimes the way that it goes with some humans. Whether they are from the east coast, or the west coast, or from out of the out there space.

    The landlord’s sense of humour was also known around the immediate area and the ten odd mile off pretty little tourist town of Pemberton, to be rather wicked. Too. As a matter of fact, some beings reckoned that Max could cut y’to the bone, and take you by the hand and lead y’into heaven, at the same time. He was a bit weird and a bit strange, like the 20th century Doors had sung that people are, and yet again he was kind of special. Like all, or most people are, they reckoned.

    No one that he knew doubted that he liked physical work, and no one doubted that he liked to explore the deeper mysteries of life either. He rarely drank alcohol, and when he did those about always knew that it was either somebody’s birthday, or some other celebrated day. Like xmas. Twice a week however, religiously, Max would meet up with friends in the town pub and with considerable gusto discuss controversial human subjects with them, whilst he slowly sipped away on lime drinks. Or the odd lemonade. He never drank coke, unless it had a double scotch in it, and normally he only did that three or four times a year.

    Max was lucky because he could pick up a poison of choice, and he could just as easily drop it as well. Many of his kind couldn’t, and that was only part of their problems, along with whatever was going down inside of their heads. That could be nice, even pretty, but for far too many of his kind it was rotten and ugly, and full of fear and hate. Or black dogs.

    The peaceful Pembertonian standing on his gorgeously deep green front lawn, in an absolutely magically green forest environment, was a gregarious soul who enjoyed periodic social interaction and conversational banter. Max could talk the superficial for only so long most days though, usually for about sixty seconds, and then he would always delve into the more meaningful stuff. One way or the other, in either a direct or indirect fashion, he would slip something metaphysical into his conversation. Like stuff about who and what one really is and the meaning of life, and not denying things to y’self, and all of that. It was also known however that he was absolutely fanatical about his solitude, and that he had lived by himself hermit like for well over ten years.

    Sometimes his married friends in the pub could not understand that, and at other times they envied the hell out of him for being able to live and endure a partnerless existence. What irked them most was that he always seemed to be in a light hearted and joke cracking mood, and he rarely bad mouthed anybody. He also always staved off any of their attempts to stitch him up with any sort of a blind date. He seemed to them sometimes to be a bit too nice and simply put together, like the Dalai Lama, and they thought him not aggressive enough for this pretty rotten world. He seemed to them somehow to be an untroubled soul, and when they weren’t because of the love and hate roller coaster ride that is imbued in partnership disturbance, or even just life in general, which is very much a love it and hate it corporeal business; then, at such times they were prone to becoming a bit jealous of his apparently tieless happiness.

    How did he do it, and not talk at all about some God or another all day long? None of them knew, despite that partnerless living was becoming more and more common within their ultra stressed out, 21st century society. A lot of people were living solo and on the edge of reality, in the days of the age of superbig trouble and chronic disintergration that these men lived in. Max was only one of them. He wasn’t the prettiest one of them either, and no way in the world could it be said that he was drop dead gorgeous. Then again, he wasn’t the ugliest critter to have ever crawled around and then stood upright upon this rottenly beautiful Earth.

    For a start he was deadset apolitical and he always voted for the pick of the bunch, being the informal Donald Duck, and he was not religious in a conventional sense. His opiate was his lust for the real mystical truth, and nothing but the real mystical truth. Who am I really? He wanted the answer to that. He had had enough of his own imagination when it came to postulating up supernatural supporters, and he just couldn’t use anyone else’s, or their book, because he had his own book. No ma’am. No sir. He was a mystical man, not a God fearing one.

    God looked after the universe and kept it going, and Max looked after Max and kept Max going, or he was supposed to. With a little bit of help from his spirit. That was the bush model that the landlord was operating off, they, his allies reckoned. Intuitively, that is. All in all, they were all of the conviction that Max was one of the good guys and conversely speaking then, he wasn’t a baddie or a violent. He was just Max and he was usually a bit of an uplift for them, when they came across him. Usually did he smile at them, and rarely did he scowl. Real bad weather and stupid idiots could make him scowl, but that was about it, it seemed.

    The Victorian had a foot out of his vehicle very quickly after switching its ignition off. Immediately Max saw from the beaming glow on the being’s face that he was suitably impressed with the property. Again the landlord wasn’t surprised, because the place did look a treat underneath the bright blue sky and the vibrantly alive September sunshine. The brand new orange of the house’s new front rammed Earth walls was contrasting superbly with the freshly mowed, fresh deep green of the surrounding kikuyu lawn, and the limier eucalyptic greens of the adjacent Aussie bush seemed to be perfectly coloured and absolutely in tune with everything else. That wasn’t strictly speaking natural, and was a product or a by product of man’s doings.

    The joint looked like something that McCubbin could have had fun painting, the Victorian thought. Such a masterpiece could also have had him in it getting out of his car, just like he was now. The title of the painting could have been - Just About Roo Ted - he thought. Or it could be a re run of Down On His Luck, if he had to get back into the car, without a score. If ever a Victorian needed a score, this one did. Because he had come a long, long, long way, and he was pretty damn knackered, and he had a couple of long skinny east coast fingers crossed allright. Was this going to be his lucky west coast day? To the peaking depths of his skinny Victorian soul, he mucking hoped so.

    The seven acre ex spud paddock that the house was positioned on the western edge of was bowling green carpet like, and its aura was one of friendly country space galore. In the distance, inbetween some clumps of white headed whispy wild grass, out of the current vision of the two humans, some young buck kangaroos were boxing away. Play jousting they were, to see who would get the choicest females of their kind later on, when they grew up some and could do a lot more damage with their claws.

    If a stadium of ringed concrete stands were to be built around the blissful seven acres, it would have made an absolutely superb football arena, the Victorian thought. The whole scenario, to his sheer delight, was polished off with the indomitable prescence of monster karri trees which ran down the southern border of the property, and were dotted about everywhere in the surrounding bush.

    His new west coast joint, he hoped; also had some pretty hefty Tassie blue gums about the place. Their leaves were a far more brilliant deep green compared to the karris, and as a matter of fact there were seven real big sisters in the frontyard. Within the confines of the u drive and pretty close to the front gate, they were. As pretty as a postcard picture, it all was a representation of a free flowing and uninhibited and unbiased consciousness, that was full of gloriously named shapes, and it was like west coast magic to the Victorian’s desperate for a joint to rent, east coast eye.

    ‘I’m Walley Smith! Call me Woll!’ said the ultra pleasantly pleased east coaster, as he reached Max and forthrightly extended his hand. ‘You’re Mr Eaton, I presume?’ he enquired, as they shook a tightly clenched hand each.

    ‘I am Max! So I am told….so call me Max Woll,’ Max replied jovially back. West coast wicked wizard and a bit lizard tongued he looked, to the Victorian.

    ‘Ok Max! By crikey, this is some spread that you’ve got here mate. It looks like fucken paradise!’ Woll said exuberantly. With considerable gusto and unbridled raw east coast Australian honesty absolutely pouring out of him.

     ‘Ha! Ha!’ exploded the good natured but slightly out there Max, already liking the straightforward east coast language and the vibes of the tall and gaunt, big nosed, nasal twanging Victorian. Looking at him, Max was reminded of the deceased American actor, Jimmy Stewart. A certain east coast pigeon breeder who could block bat for near on two days, for a mere bore of a century at the WACA ground in Perth, also came into his mind as a distinct chunk of a boring memory.

    ‘Well I tell you what Woll, it took six months of sheer building hell to get to bloody paradise!’ the Western Australian fired off at the Victorian.

    ‘Ha! Ha!’ the teacher roared east coast nasally back at him. ‘Well I’ve just had six weeks in an organisational hell, and six days on the highway to hell, and now I’m standing at heaven’s door…so it looks like I got off easy mate!…Maybe….,’ he told. With his skinny tail flaps up at 45 degrees, on account of he thought that he was in like Flynn, as far as renting the idyllic joint in front of his big V of a big Vic nose went.

    ‘Well you’re a Victorian Woll! So that fucken explains the getting off easy business!’ Max barked puppydog playfully back at him. ‘Anyway, come inside and have a coffee and a perve around and see what y’think mate. I’ve done just about everything to this joint, apart from installing a rubber humping doll of the PM in every bloody bedroom!’ the west coaster west coast dryly informed his prospective new east coast tenant.

    So shaking his rather tired and somewhat relieved to get a tour head, and still chortling at what Max had just said, Wally followed Max as that being boldly skipped off like a frisky Skippy, and went underneath the front patio to the house’s main door. Looking about in his following, the Victorian saw some hanging plants with profuse ferns sticking out of them, and there were other potted ground plants about, and even just from the way that he felt about the front patio and its beautiful shaded green light, he had already decided that he would take the place. If kindly west coast offered it, that is.

    In the back of his mind, like an old red brick that’s taking up too much space, was the awareness that his missus Margie would just about piss herself with cerebral delight to live in such an idyllic place, as Max’s joint. Or as Max now made it known to him in a machine gunning of over the shoulder words, as he opened the front door, his family’s joint. That he the Max didn’t own the joint and that his Earth name wasn’t on the deed to the property, and that he was just the universal and terrestrial manager of the place, was made known to Woll by Max.

    Indeed, at a 140 miles per hour, Max humbly explained that he lived sometimes up the track up at his humble bungalow, and that nobody ever bothered him, although when in residence he was always available for emergency purposes. He was not availible for socialisation purposes because someone else was lonely, or they were leach looking for someone else to offload their existential angst and down on the rotten Earth problems to. Anyone who could parlez the mystical, instead of the common victim bullshitorious, was welcome anytime, 24/7. That’s what Woll got told in a barrage of some of the deliberately driest west coast dialect that he had heard since crossing the croweater border, and boring deep into the deep soul of the sandgroper’s big, big, big state.

    The curtly grinning streak from the east who had a deliciously broad east coast smile on his skinny dial, had another strong premonition that he had found the new tribal home, and a nice wooden porch chair to the right, which he thought would go down rather well with some plumped up soft cushions and his sprawled out lanky frame stuffed into it, reinforced his instantaneous decision. Which had actually 99 % happened the moment that he had driven in the front gate. In his mind’s eye, Wally saw a can of beer and his little old transistor radio on the ABC with the footy or cricket blaring out of it, on a little wooden table that was conveniently parked next door to the chair. His west coast ‘dreaming’ then was definitely on the up, and the excitement of a potentially wonderful score was rushing around through his east coast veins. Which were doing the Luna park, and a little bit of a Taronga wobble, inside of him. Some of them that were further away from his skinny brain were also Wollongonging it, something shocking.

    He foresaw no problems in dealing with merry mad Max, whom he had already pegged as being a bit of a likeable true blue, west coast eccentric type, and the space and style of the joint was just too good to be true. For his situation it would be absolutely spot on perfect, and it seemed to him that the Gods of the west must have wholeheartedly approved of his decision to move his family from the getting too congested east. Like one dirty great big black hole it was back east these days, Wally reckoned.

   

    The primary schoolteacher was rapt as he extended for the first ever time a long, lean and lanky leg into Max’s place. He was so high about the prospects of being first up and in like Flynn with the joint, that there were invisible angels buzzing around his east coast ears. They were playing soothing music on their harps, and their theme was that of homely good fortune, and the spin off of that being physical freedom and nips of existential solace.

    The floor that the homeless Wally made contact with felt real good to him, and it was just so easy underfeet. It felt rock solid but it stll had spine accomodating spring in it, and it was made out of polished jarrah floorboards, and he really liked that. It wasn’t concrete and that turned him on some more, because he had gone bush on the west coast and found a chunk of a more pliable paradise, on the planet Earth hellball. He sincerely hoped.

    If Max had have whipped out a six or twelve months contract on the spot like, Woll would have gone for his pen greased lightning like, just like Satan the God of evil goes for ignorantly wayward and stupidly ultraviolent souls. With no questions asked, the streak from the east would have willingly signed on the dotted line. With his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth probably, like he was some excited east coast dog. An ex pat Melbournian, whose ancestors had come from Wollongong one, to boot. What had risen in the far away Scandinavian west ten centuries ago, and then moved to Australia’s east coast, was now definitely in the way out west, as far as his family tree went.

    The two men entered into a largish room which had a tv and a lounge settee in it, and a largish bedroom on either end of it. Max chirpily explained that if any of the furniture in the house was not required, then it could be stored in the shed outside. Wally nodded an ok and poked his head into one of the bedrooms and the spaciousness of it, plus a couple of single beds in there pleased him immensely. When he turned back around however, Max was grimacing like a severely constipated wrestler, and he was pointing through the front window and back down the driveway. For some moments it looked as if he was having a psycho turnabout in his brain, or that a dirty great big inner black dog had got him, or that he had a rock hard constipated turd stuck in his anus, or something.

     He looked as serious as all hell and the red bleached contortions on his face said it all. The stood up veins in his neck looked like they wanted to explode out of his corporeality and run away to Mars. It was potently obvious to the outsider that the eccentric west coaster felt ultra strongly, about whatever it was that he was going to be going on about. Max had a mucking opinion about something or another and it was coming, that was obvious to the streak from the east.

    ‘Now I’ve set it up Woll so that visitors have to use the u drive and come to the front of the bloody house, and not go down the little side driveway to the kitchen side of the house. Like they’ve been doing for the last 25 fucken years! The side driveway is for yourselves to offload supplies, or whatever. It’s not for every Tom, Dick and Harry that comes a calling, it’s not for the Jehovahs, and it’s not for any council officer who comes snooping around. If any bugger uses the side drive and interrupts y’backyard privacy, tell them to bugger off back around to the bloody front!’ the landlord stated emphatically. ‘Even if it’s the police, do your duty and point the fuck off backaroundtothefuckenfront finger at them Woll!’ he yelled. Like a Samurai does, just before they take someone’s head off with their trusty razor sharp sword.

    Wally sensed straightaway deep down in the true nature of his skinny solidified beingness however, in those subtle fields that only matured and lanky Victorian streaks of the very best kind can read and interpret, that Max was really a sweet natured west coast pussy, and that he was just pretending to be a bit of a lion. Who had either a thorn in his foot, or maybe one up his bum. Max was like some south west coast Australian, inbred Dalai Lama type, trying his absolute best to act out the Al Capogne tough guy type of a human being. Whilst just not being able to stop coming across underneath as a really nice pussy of a guy. Woll thought.

    ‘Yeah righto Max!’ the Victorian replied calmly, sussing out exactly what his prospective new landlord was on about physically also, and liking the idea of not being able to be surprised by any unknown callers. Welcome, or unwelcome ones, Wally knew that in the 21st century it was most good to have a definable front door. Maybe a stun gun and a loaded rpg as backup to that, behind the door as well. A tank in the lounge room ready to bust out thru the wall and defend the front or back yards or both of them, wouldn’t go astray either, he felt.

    ‘By the way, I hear that you’re a family man. So how many kids have you got mate?’ Max asked him, all of a sudden and west coast rat a tat tat like.

    ‘Six!’ Wally answered, without flinching and east coast matter of factly like. As skinny as a rake, the Victorian bastard was. Max just couldn’t get over how such a ganglion could survive on a slob planet like Earth.

    ‘Sixxx!’ the new landlord exclaimed, with a totally shocked and ribaldly bemused expression on his face. ‘Sixxx!’ he exclaimed again, thinking and hoping like all hell that he must have heard wrong. Max had expected two point four children, or at an absolute maximum, three. ‘Jesus!’ he sighed, with considerable admiration. That so many could come from something as skinny and beanpolish as as a rake absolutely amazed him. Wally wasn’t the sort who looked like he had more than a teardrop of spunk inside of him, Max didn’t think. ‘You and y’missus have been busy, haven’t y’Woll!’ The simultaneously amazed and terrified west coaster shot Strop dryly out of the left side of his perturbed gob.

    ‘Yep!’ the skinny, smiling Victorian schoolteacher beamed back at him.

    ‘Are you catholics?’ Max asked tentatively, feeling like he was shooting in the dark, on the highway to both hell and heaven. Six kids next door to him and his part time bungalow Max quarters, was weighing heavily on his mind up against a couple of young piss, pot and whatever heads. It was flick the coin stuff for the Western Australian, it really was. It was steer clear of iceheads, versus steer clear of the east coast barbarian hordes, in his brain.

    ‘Nope! We’re not catholics!’ Wally answered. ‘We just like kids, or we used to. Actually, the younger lot of identical twins aren’t ours, they belong to Margie’s younger sister. She was unfortunately killed in a car crash about three months back,’ he said solemnly.

    Max flinched and his face screwed up so that he looked like an old pirate. One with a severe glint and sparkle in one extremely widened eye, and who has just witnessed the old Jolly Roger being hoisted high up into the air. Popeye-ish without a pipe, he was. It occurred to him that not only would he have Wally’s tribe living next door to him, he would also not have a clue which twin of the two sets of identical twins was which. He would be seeing double whether he had his glasses on or off, and that could be dangerous to his solitide loving self. Where he had the time, the space and the place, to do what he loved best. Which was to be quiet and peaceful and explore the mystical, and maybe meditate, and all of that. Weighing up such thoughts and ‘watching’ himself play out the act of being a human landlord, he nodded to the green west coast Victorian to duly and dutifully follow him into the kitchen. For the rest of the magical mystical tour.

    ‘You’re not a fucking fundamentalist are you Woll?’ The landlord enquired exceptionally west coast dryly, as they passed through an open doorway and into a lovely little light filled room that was rather like a largish phone box. It was a Dr Who-ish space, for sure. It had lusciously big viewing windows either side of it, and a smartly varnished little jarrah floor too, and it had little to big garden plants hanging about as well. From out of some of them, friendly love u and beautiful flowers protuded forth, and the perfumed scents of their short term fragranted good deeds could be sensed quite freely in the air. Wally felt like he was dreaming up a west coast heaven, and he was betting that he was in like Flynn, considering that the new landlord hadn’t already told him and his tribe to bugger off. Which, he full well knew, he may have done or would have had at least had to consider, had their role playing situations been reversed.

    ‘I’m no fucking fundamentalist Max!’ he strined chirpily. ‘I’m just a super desperate Victorian!’

    ‘You’re a skinny east coast root rat!…And you are definitely the last of the lucky fucking Victorians, that’s what you fucken are Woll!’ Max barked playfully back at him. Simultaneously he raised an arm out and pointed a finger off into the spacious depths of a pretty groovy rammed earth, down upon this ultra troubled Earth, kitchen. It sure looked like it was set out well, with ample bench working and shelf and cupboard storage space everywhere. If the kitchen sink had have been gleaming one gleam more than it already was, aliens would have abducted it for saucer reproduction purposes. The damn thing looked like Mr Trix had had a heart attack and shit himself, and then died on each side of its bowl.

    ‘Now you’ve got a gas and a brand new slow combustion wood stove,’ the landlord told the east coaster, and Wally grinned back as if that was mighty fine by him. If Max had have been pointing to a pile of old cow bones and a box of jiffy lighters, with a politician’s promise that a secondhand stove would be installed within six months, that still would have been fine by him. If he had to sign his soul over to the devil to get the joint, Faustus like, he had already decided that he would do it.

    Because he just desperately wanted a nice soft chair where he could stick his skinny arse, and witness his tribe do their thing. Like provide for him, as he provided for them. That was all. He didn’t wanna be yesterday’s hero or the Prime Minister either, not Woll. He didn’t want to be a dickhead wanker on Big Brother or Survivor or Idol or any of that mucking crap, and he didn’t want to be a film, rap, AFL footballer or rock star. He just wanted to play out the role of family man and worker, that’s all. He just wanted to do out his sentence time in that humble procreating role, and then relax and enjoy the good life.

    That’s what his dad had done, and his dad’s dad too, and he wanted to continue their venerable tradition. Where you had enough daughters to ensure that later on you got to sit on y’arse and get waited on. Because sons were mucking useless for that kind of fussabout with the food and drink stuff, that gorgeously beautiful women do so well. An added bonus, the daughter’s took the edge off the missus, because she had too many mother knots going on to be bothered about a skinny bastard who epitomised the east coast sloth type. Normally, anyway, she was too busy to play with any black dogs. However, in Woll’s case, there had been a bit of a rotten turnabout in the state of the Vic family since the death of his wife’s younger sister.

    Some Victorians are easily satisfied, and right at the moment, Wally Smith was almost one of them. Melbourne was a long, long, long way away, and this east coast drifter’s soul was super desperate for somewhere to settle his ninety miles an hour tribe down. He was betting that Max was gunna give him the Emperor’s thumbs up, but betting is always a dualistic street where you can lose, and he was hoping like hell that he wasn’t getting the magical west coast mystery tour for nothing. Could life be so cruel? On a planet like this one it could, and being a Victorian, he bloody well knew that.

    Where’s the six month’s contract? Where do I sign? Was all that was on his ever so skinny east coast brain. Wally was a beggar for the good life on a hell planet, just like everybody else. He was runo’the mill Victorian as well and his dirty great big nostrils missed nothing, not when it came to Max’s joint. It wouldn’t bother him in the least to live in a paradise that someone else had created, and he was more than willing to be a rent paying inheritor allright. All that he needed was one little nod from the possibly inbred west coaster, who was called Max.

    Like was said before, the streak from the east did have a couple of long and skinny fingers crossed. He wasn’t religious, like a lot of Victorians aren’t, but in his own kind of a way he was praying to every God and every Goddess in every universe. Like some Victorians and many others from many cultures will do, when their backs are flat up against the Earth wall and they require a little bit of assistance from the universally wide, spirit side of themselves. Namely that a decent break in the terrestrial hell directive should drop down from out of heaven, and things go their way for a change. Because their spirits have ruled that that is their due karma and the way that it should be, upon the wretchedly beautiful planet called Earth.

   

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    The nerved up streak from the east got his nod from both his own gracious Vic spirit, and the gracious spirit of bungalow Max, but it took two coffees and a good half an hour, and when he later reflected back on that, he realised that Max had just made him suffer a bit. Because he the Woll was an east coast root rat, who had a tribe of one missus and six kids. Which was behaviour on the part of Max which he understood, because he himself would have done the same thing and stretched out the nod of approval and the thumbs up, had their playing out Earthmen roles been reversed.

    The dream tour had intensified the more that Max had showed him around, and Wally was now totally in love with the joint. It had a spacious upstairs family room, with sweeping views of the surrounding bush, and he and his wife had their own west coast dunny and shower, and was he ever rapt about that. There was room for all of his kids, providing that one of them was willing to be accommodated with a caravan. That was the current issue as he and the landlord stood back out the front again, with the deliciously luscious September sunshine still beaming down upon them.

    Max was pointing to a three sided shed to the right of the u drive, in which was parked a medium sized caravan. There was a bit of other gear in the shed as well, and its sides were clothed by passionfruit vines which were just starting to power up with bundles of deep green spring leaves. Some hay bales were stuck behind the van, furniture bits and pieces were about, tools of the trade were too, and there was a well used ride on lawnmower parked in there also. All in all, the shed looked like it meant business, and actually, Max had plans to move a lot of the gear out. Up to his other shed, up the track, up at his bungalow.

    ‘I’ve got another van up in m’other shed that’s up the track in the acerage which adjoins this block! So I don’t need that one,’ the landlord was saying, and Wally was musing away inside as to whether or not his eldest boy Brandon would go for such a space. The fact that the lad would be outside and away from the rest of the family madness might just sway it for him, he was thinking. Yes! Having the young rooster out in his own cockshed, could be very advantageous to his own health. That was becoming pretty clear to the streak from the east, who now had verbal confirmation and handshake confirmation that he was in like Flynn, and that he was indeed, the last of the lucky Victorians.

    ‘Can you get internet connection out there Max?’ Woll asked.

    ‘Yeah!’ Max drawled back. ‘I’ve got phone plugs all over this joint mate. I’ve got them everywhere, apart from up me arse! I’m not stupid old son! I may have been in the past, and I may still be in the future if I get dementia or whatever, but I am not right now. No! I am as sane as the PM at the moment.  The age of reason and the age of enlightenment have long gone, I know that. Some sort of historical horror is just around the corner, just like it always is in a human duality, and this is the age of the net. Hey Woll? Despite all of the bombs going off, the ice melting and the pollinator bees and frogs dying off like flies, it is still the age of the net. No net? No spaced out upstairs viewing room. No rentee ol’ plopery so velly flucking easily! Only the rank smell of dead men on my right fist left then Woll.’

    “Yeah Max!’ Wally chortled back, not really knowing what in the hell to make out of Max’s weird west coast humour, and so he did the only thing that he could do to offset that.  He reached for his piece, and flicked its hard plastic cover up. Necessary diversion tactics have saved the mental scalp of many a human being, and the streak from the east was a body burdened up classic that currently epitomised that. Tired and just about out of Victorian gas, he was.

    ‘I’ll just send Margie a sms and let her know what’s gone down Max!’ he told his new landlord.

    ‘Yeah sure Woll! Where is she?’

    ‘She’s in the chookhouse in town.’

    ‘Ayyy?’

    ‘She’s in the local chicken and chips joint!’

    ‘What! With your whole tribe? Jesus Woll! You could have left her at the pub mate. You’re a hard Victorian bastard, you are!’

    ‘Some girls you can leave at the pub, and some you fucking can’t Max!’

    ‘Oh right!’ strined Max, getting the message behind the message. ‘Look!’ he fired off. ‘I’ll just go and fart around in the shed a bit. The van might need a vaccy and I’d better shift those hay bales. The bloody rats love ’em, especially at this time of the year.’

    Wally’s eyelids fluttered up a bit, and this time it was he who was the one being distracted. ‘Are there many rats about Max?’ he asked tentatively, yet with serious intent. Knowing full well that his son would definitely not go for the van, if it had rats.

    ‘Rats of the four legged or two legged kind Woll?” Max asked him.

    ‘Well either!’ Woll shot back.

    ‘There’s always rats about Woll! You of all people, being a Victorian, should fucken know that! I’ll give the kid a couple of traps and show him how to use them. It’s easy! When you get a rattie, then y’just shovel it trap and all around the back of the shed. The crows have a party then, and not one bit of it gets left. They get every hair that was ever part of its fur, those crow buggers do. They’re big black noisy flying fucking maggots, they are!’

    Then Max, having said his piece walked off, leaving a grinning Wally to digest his friendly west coast jibes, and also play with his friendly mobile. He was absolutely east coast euphoric, having only just driven into the town of Pemberton an hour or so ago. He had stopped at a garage for fuel and talked with a friendly bloke, whom he had asked about short and long term rentals in the area. He had had one or two short term places to go to, and somewhere for the furniture truck that was following them to store their gear, but nothing beyond that.

    One thing had led to another, and the garage guy had made the call that had brought him to Max’s joint. He had simply by some quirk of fate been in the right place at the right time, and for a change he had got the family parking spot, and what an absolutely superb parking spot it was. It was lusciously gorgeous, and it was sumptuously beautiful, it was. His cup of existential excitement mucking runneth over, as they say.

    He could not believe his west coast good fortune and as he hit the mobile’s keys he was telling himself that he was indeed, the last of the lucky mucking Victorians. A lot of Victorians would have had to agree with him on that these days, he thought. When he’d finished his message, he made a call to the furniture truck guys and to the short term rental place where they had been going to stay, then he closed his piece back up and slotted it back into a long skinny pocket. He gazed around himself and drank of the manifested delights of his new home, and then he laughed heartily at the wunderbar blue sky. Because five minutes ago he and his tribe had been destitute east coast refugees. Again, his in the nick o’time, east coast, absolutely arseholish luck, simply amazed him. Humbly, like an upright king size Violet Crumble bar, he thanked the God of Collingwood that an ex pat son could have had such a sweet day on this spinning and stinking hellball of a beautiful planet.

    He almost dropped to his knees too, from the sheer stress and monumental mental and physical exhaustion involved in being a human being. One who had just wonderfully completed a mad dash across the Nullabor. What a astronomical relief for him to have a home for his mob again, it was. It was super dooper and rooty tutti or it soon would be, and for the slim Vic it was the stuff that the finest west coast dreams are made out of. For sure, it was scintillatingly brilliant stuff for him. He was Vic jubilant, and not at all Vic bitter.

    ‘I am in a west coast fucken heaven!’ he exuberantly told the seven really tall, seven real big sisters, that were in the dirty great big idyllic front yard. Down by the gate, they still were. Hanging about, like street toughs.

    The imported monster gums looked down upon the Victorian as he walked away towards the shed, and they didn’t flinch a millimetre. The streak from the east didn’t bother them one bit. They just kept swaying slightly, because of a gentle breeze. High up in their blue sky backgrounded branches, some big cockatoos were perched, and when they all screeched together and took off like a mob of downtown Carlton maniacs, well Woll looked back over his shoulder and up, he did. Because of the lunatical noise, his big big big nose became form silhouetted against the blow u out blue sky. What a nose it was too, and did the west coast sky appreciate it? Yes it did! It thought that Woll’s nose was a ripper one, it did.

    The upsky noise wasn’t pleasant and it wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t from gunfire or screaming sirens either, or from helicopters buzzing overhead, or from building or car alarms going off, or from angry people screaming their hell angry guts out, and that pleased the lean lean lean Vic streak somewhat. It was natural noise and he could handle that, because it was unnatural noises that he was absolutely sick to death of.

    In the oncoming distance he could see Max’s mobile and wobbling arse sticking out of the van’s door, and he could hear the sounds of a vaccy cleaner going for it, like it was in a chariot race in the Circus Maximus in ancient Rome. The damn thing was going like the clappers all right, and no wonder that the big birds had buggered off, Woll thought. Crocodile Dundee couldn’t have read the environmental cause and effect situation better, and like was said before, Wally was an exceptionally matured Victorian.

    He had inherited inherent bush skill genes flowing around in his blood, and his ancestors had ridden with Ned Kelly. For about a day and a half the Wollongongians had chatted with Ned and his boys; before they had cut loose to find the horse highway back to Wollongong. There had been a loose sheila amongst their party too, and a bit of hanky panky must have gone down after midnight after the campfire had died down, because that’s where Woll’s great great great granddad had come from. From the hanky panky that went on between one of the Wollongongians, and one of Ned’s boys, that is.

    Some in Woll’s clan even reckoned that it was mucking Ned himself, and that Mr Kelly was a skinny prick without his armour on. Woll reckoned that that was all bullshit though, and that Mr Kelly was just a glorified wanker, like quite a few Victorians are. Particularly some of those that he used to work with, and whom he had now left behind back east. Back east, Woll’s bosses had mostly been overpaid and incompetent dickheads, and that was a fact that even God couldn’t argue with, he still felt. A bit of a rebel and a bit of a working class anti hero, Woll was. He didn’t look it, and he didn’t act like it, but he was deep down the epitomisation of the manifestation of the antithesis of the concept of exertion. An epizoon type from a state that was full of them, was the streak from the east.

    

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

    Margie Smith was definitely not euphoric, and she had absolutely no idea that she was married to the last of the lucky mucking Victorians. She was in fact crammed into the corner of an eating cubicle, and her tribe bar one were starting to give her the horrie Horace shits. What she was seeing in her head was a glorious bottle of gin, not some paradise lost in mucking Western Australia. She missed Collingwood like she would miss her left leg, if it were not there, she did.

    Her two little half caste 3 going on 4 year old wards, who were seated beside her, were squabbling about something or another. Her twin pushing 16 year old daughters who were seated across the table from her, looked as though they were about to expire from west coast boredom. Her 17 year old girl meanwhile was still sad moon faced, and brooding about a steady boyfriend that she’d had to leave in Melbourne. Coming to the abominable desert called Western Australia was the last thing that she had wanted to do, and she was standing outside the chook eating premises and leaning on a wall, looking like she’d just been to a funeral. Namely her own.

    The only one of Margie’s brood who was doing any good and actually entertaining himself was Brandon, her only natural born boy and her eldest child. He may have looked like he’d just stepped out of Valhalla, ready to stomp on anything that walks or talks or slithers or crawls, but he was doing ok. Chatting up the young lass who was behind the counter, he was. With his rooster haircut all jelled jet black and stuck up in the air six inches above his head, and its red and yellow tinged edges just about lighting up the room, he was turning the young lass on allright. With a full forward’s build and more black on him than Mr Sidney Pointier had on him, when he did the film In The Heat Of The Night, young Brandon was giving the young fast food chic sweet dreams allright. Because he was by far the most interesting dude that she’d seen in Pemberton for a long time. They were quite easily chatting away about music and bands, and the scenes in this and that town, and on this and that website, when Margie’s mobile signalled that she had an incoming message.

    ‘Are you emo or goth?’ the lass asked, just as the mobile went off.

    Brandon turned his head quickly towards his mother, and then he turned  back to the young lass. “I’m a bit of both and I am neither!’ he said cooly. ‘Plus I’ve got a bit of the hippie in me too. Mum made sure of that,’ he informed her, as he turned back to see what was the news that his mum was getting.

    The young rooster too, was keen for somewhere to plonk his arse. Somewhere where he could get his computer going and get back on the net. Being on the road with the family wasn’t for him and as a matter of fact, he reckoned that it sucked. Truthfully, before he had met the lass behind the counter, he was beginning to think that the whole of WA sucked. The real truth for him though was that it was about to get wicked. Real wicked too.

     Margie Smith, who unlike Wally Smith, was built like a 43 year old Sophia Loren, was fully expecting to be grossly disappointed by the incoming message. When she read what she read however, her eyes lit up like her massively against the odds horse had just won the Melbourne cup. She couldn’t believe it because there in front of her in plain Australian was the unbelievable message;

    Gidday gorgeous! All is fucken joy! Extreme success. Send Brando out to heaven on Earth. Love u. Woll.

    The long black haired Victorian beauty was so stunned, that for a moment she couldn’t speak. Because inside in her inner woman she was musing that she had the luckiest east coast husband that had ever walked the face of the Earth. How on Earth the skinny prick had pulled off what he had just pulled off, she would never know. Unless heaven on Earth turned out to be the biggest rental dump on the west coast, with an exposed dunny bowl in the middle of the lounge room, and in a way she knew that she had to prepare herself for something like that. Suddenly, she realised that her brood were all speaking to her at once, and as if by magic she snapped out of her trance and her Earthly sense of hearing returned to her.

    ‘What’s dad saying mum?’ her natural born twins were asking her.

    ‘What’s uncle Woll say auntie Margie?’ her dead sister’s little boys were enquiring.

    Margie leaned back as a much younger girl’s countenance rolled across her face. ‘We’ve got a new home kids!’ she told them. ‘Woll reckons that it’s heaven on Earth too!’

    ‘Hohh!’ Brandon snorted. ‘Well you know what that means mum! It just means that he’s already found somewhere to stick his skinny arse, and his little snap, popple and crackle radio.’

    ‘Well he’s not the only one who can get away with being waited on now and again, is he Brando?’ his mother fired back at him.

    ‘Oh get out of it mum! I do m’own bloody dishes!’ the roosterhead retorted, with a little wink to the lass behind the counter. As if to show her that he was the cock in the midst of so many hens, who was really running the show.

    ‘Yeah!’ one of his twin sisters said to him. ‘You do your dishes and no one else’s Brando!’

    ‘Well whod d’y’think I am Michelle? A bloody slave!’ the roosterhead fired back.

    ‘Allright!’ hollered Margie. ‘Stop it! Brando…go out to where your father is and bring the cruiser back into town, like we planned. Ok? Have you got the map that he gave you?’

    ‘Yeah!’ Brandon fired off. ‘Of course I’ve got it!’

    ‘Can we go with him mum?’ the twin girls asked. Dying to go for a spin with their elder brother, the girls were. They didn’t really give a shit that he never washed up anyone else’s dishes. They just wanted to get out of the country chookhouse and into his little red Toyota.

    ‘Us to?’ the youngfellahs echoed them in sentiment.

    In the end the twin girls went and the twin boys stayed, and the twin boys were not happy about that. To buy them off and to let them run around a bit, Margie took them to a park across the road. Her miserable eldest daughter came too and sat on a benchseat beside her, and they watched the boys chasing a funny black and white bird around. It wasn’t much bigger than a pigeon and it was running around hyper fast on its legs, and try as they may, the noisy young boys couldn’t catch it. The wee bird was miles to smart and miles to roadrunner quick for them.

    Margie laughed at the antics going on in front of her, and her daughter did too. The laughter broke the crust of the ice between them, and Margie put her arm around Helen’s shoulders and gave her a bit of a sideways hug. Helen snivelled a bit and some tears rolled down her cheeks, and they just rested their heads together and said nothing. In the way out west park with the two little halfcaste boys stomping around after the black and white bird, they made a picture, and the name of that picture was; Real Life. Sadness, sorrow, pain, and simple affection and simple understanding, and pure joy on behalf of the boys, and all of that were in the picture, and they were a non violent microcosm of the global society.

    A dirty great big truck went up the road, and it made a hell of a mechanised roaring noise in low gear, which just about ripped the guts out of the pissed off locals; but it didn’t bother the east coast girls. Who appeared to be in some sort of timeless state, like single shot, still pictures are. In a way it was eerie, because there wasn’t a puff of wind, and their snapshot was like the calm before a storm. Their spirits were still, but their bodies and minds existed somewhere inbetween beauty and horror, and in the middle of non stop drama, trouble and chaos. On a personal level, and on a family level, and a world level too, there was trouble everywhere. Really, the Earth wasn’t their favourite planet, Venus was, and they were living an existential nightmare, but it was chins up no matter what, and they were pretty gutsy Victorian women really.

    They had come to the way out west, and the next chapter in their wanderer’s story was just up the track a bit, and around the corner of Eagle Rock road, it was. Like a couple of head covered and out of place Muslim girls in a western country for the first ever time, they watched the boys frolicking around, and silently pondered their existential futures. Whether they were divinely engineered or happenstance creations, it just didn’t matter now, because they were in the way out west. In the way out west, anything goes, and being Vic women of substance and still young girls at heart, they both knew that.

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Back out at Max’s Eagle Rock road ranch, Wally was humping another hay bale around, and wondering how come he hadn’t already dropped dead from physical exertion and exhaustion. The bale was as bulky and as cumbersome as all hell and it reeked of west coast mould, and his job was to get it to the other side of the shed, to where bungalow Max wanted it. In effect, they were taking down the wall of bales behind the caravan and rebuilding it on the other side of the shed. Wally had already seen the biggest rat that he had ever seen in his life flee the first wall. The creature had looked like a king Brown job from the Mumbai wharfs, and it had  been obvious that it was holidaying and visiting distant cousins in Australia.

    As Woll lugged his bale towards the new corner, he was shitting himself that another rat was gunna stick its head out of the bale that he was heavy duty carting, and go; ‘Boo!’. East coast minds aren’t immune to a good dabble with the stuff of worst case scenario imagination, and Woll could imagine up a bit of premeditated horror with the best of them.

    As he threw the bale off his shoulder and onto the new pile, he heaved a sigh of relief. They kept going however, because there were lots of bales, and Max was up his arse, and they were still messing around in that shed when a mighty throaty roar alerted them to a killer on the nearby gravel road. Max’s head went up like he owned the universe, and he scowled something shocking. Like some unhappy with the weather Norse God, he was. He knew from the sounds that the car was going miles too fast for the particular pot holed and corrugated gravel road that it was on, and he was waiting to see what would happen at Eagle Rock road corner. Which was the corner that he lived on, albeit part time, in bungalow Max’s bungalow.

    The landlord got his answer quickly as the car rapidly deaccelerated, and a bit of a decent Brockish rally slide was heard as it slid around the corner. It then viciously accelerated all of the way up to the front gate, then turned into the u drive and roared towards them. Max saw something at the driver’s wheel, but he couldn’t make out what it was. From a distance, it looked to him that whatever was at the wheel had something wrong with its head. It looked like a black and white camel, in a red Toyota. There was red and yellow on top of its head too and try as he may, he couldn’t suss out what it was.

    ‘Who is this fucking lunatic?’ the landlord asked the west coast Gods.

    ‘It’s my son Brandon!’ Woll told.

    Max’s head turned sharply and up a bit to make sparkling contact with his new tenant’s skinny eyeballs. The west coaster had his Popeye without a pipe expression on again. The two men were in his goalsquare and he had the ball, because he was the umpire as well as being a player. As a matter of fact, he was the player who lived on a third of the field but strongly desired to control the whole lot of it. By divine right, too. After all, he was the ownerless landlord and the Earth bound up manager of the place, and he wanted to do a good job. He wanted law and order and peace and harmony around the joint maintained, as a definable status quo. He didn’t want it blown away by some young Vic prick in a fancy red Jap machine.

    ‘I hope that you’re gunna have a word with y’boy Woll?’ he said, in his deepest west coast, nice guy voice. ‘I hope that y’are gunna make the punk an offer that he can’t refuse!’ The Mr Hyde side of him sounded off.

    ‘I will Max! I will.’

    ‘The McGoolies live up Eagle Rock road Woll! If he kills any of their kin, I can’t guarantee y’that they won’t come down here with the shottie that they kill tiger snakes in their orchard with.’

    ‘Like that the McGoolies, are they Max?’

    ‘Yeah! There’s hundreds of the bastards too Woll. It wouldn’t be good to get into a feud with those McGoolie motherfuckers mate.’

    ‘I hear y’Max. I’ll tell him!’

    ‘Well if you don’t, I will, and I’ll probably reinforce the message that y’give him anyway Woll. I think that that would be wise.’

    ‘Fair enough Max! Scare the shit out of him if you can, because I can’t.’

    ‘Aw! I’m not into fear and domination Woll. I want to get away from that shit! That shit has been done to death and it doesn’t work. It just re runs hatred and even worse trouble. I’d rather that y’son just saw the commonsense in the situation.’

    ‘Yeah me too Max, but roosters don’t fly that much. Don’t y’remember what was in your head, and how you drove when you’d turned eighteen, and you were on y’way to becoming only nineteen?’

    ‘Woll! I remember when I was young, and I remember mightly fondly every bit of stink finger, and every narrow escape with death that I ever had. But I didn’t have a big bunch of McGoolies living up the road from me, like I do, you do and young Brandon does now!’ The landlord declared, as he took a gulp of some mighty fine west coast air. ‘Even if they just spot him driving around here like that, they’re likely to pull him over and thump him senseless,’ he asserted. ‘The McGoolies out here don’t wait for the police, or existential explanations of unjustifiable idiocy, like they do in Victoria Woll. Their justice out here in the wild west is brute force administered brute quickly, and if they had atomic bombs up there, they’d fucken use them. They’re fucking fundamentalists those McGoolies are Woll! They are not to be toyed with or taunted, because they’ve got toy brains, and too many nasty Canasta toys to play with. Just like McGoolies have all over this rottenly beautiful planet!’

    ‘Well how fucken far away are they Max?’ A getting tremendously worried Wally asked.

    ‘About eight to ten k’s as the crow flies. But don’t worry! They won’t bother you, unless you bother them. Or your son does.’

    The streak from the east grinned wholesomely, and he knew exactly what the landlord was saying. He looked towards his son’s now stationary red Toyota, and wondered about what he was gunna say to the kid. What the landlord had said had resonated within him, and he didn’t want to come across as a dominator power tripper figure either. With a physique like he had, no one could blame him for that. How was he gunna draw the line with the rooster though, when all that he had for ammunition was a bunch of unknown McGoolies? That was his problem and east or west, it kept coming up. It wasn’t nip it in the bud time. It was blow the rally driving bud off the plant time, and what Wally really needed was a Colt 45 strapped to his thigh, and two Vic bitters. How do you get a blood related hoon to slow down? That was his problem.

   

    Max saw a drop dead gorgeous young girl get out of the back of the car, and then he saw the exact same drop dead gorgeous young girl get out of the front passenger side of the car, and then something got out from behind the driver’s wheel that reminded him of the yet to be fought, World War Three. For a moment he went into a kind of catatonic shock, as he wrestled with the memories of having seen a smaller version of the creature from the red Toyota the previous day. When he had visited an ally and they had scrounged around a dirty great big chookyard, hunting for wayward hen’s eggs. He had been expecting a younger version of Wally, but the rugged full forward type with the rooster crown that was red and yellow flame tipped, didn’t look a bit like Wally. He was built like a mutation of Tarzan and the Terminator, but kids could draw Wally easily, Max reckoned. Because he was a stick figure who had the physique of a straw broom. One that has recently been destrawed.

    The mob from the red Toyota came forward and there were introductions all around, and then there was separation. Wally took Brandon away for a chat, and Max gave the girls a tour of the front of the house. Max kept looking out the front window however, and he saw Wally pointing up the track towards the McGoolie stronghold. He saw the kid try to shirk it off, and he saw Woll go a bit blood red and snort a bit, and in the creation that was the Victorian, the landlord was most pleased. So he turned his attention back towards the girls, who delighted him, because they were most pretty. They were also rapt in the joint, and he was rapt that they were rapt with his renovations. They could have been fat Vic slobs, or Vic anorexics, or even young Vic Libs, but he still would have loved them for being applauding the joint girls.

    Looking back out through the front window, Max saw Woll and Brandon heading towards the cruiser. Woll now had a hand on one of the lad’s shoulders, and his other hand was fisted up as if he was coaching the full forward for the last quarter. He saw the Brandon smile and so he knew that it wasn’t all out war between them, and Max surmised that Woll wasn’t a bad father. At least he was putting his soul into it, the landlord felt. His summations proved correct when Brandon got into the cruiser and drove quietly back into town. Or at least, he drove back around Eagle Rock road corner normally. What he did after that, only the west coast Gods knew. Max and Woll didn’t. They just had their fingers crossed, that was all.

 

    Well within the west coast hour the rest of the Victorians rocked up, and then twenty minutes after they arrived a monster removalist’s van turned slowly into the drive. Max met it just inside the gate and with numerous arm curled come ons, he directed it to the sacred side drive, and around to the back of the house. For a gone solo west coast bloke who lived on the edge of reality, the landlord had been having fun with meeting the Vic clan, and all of that.

    The cute little half caste twin boys, Michael and Jack, had amazed him, and they’d also pestered him a bit. With questions about where he lived up the track, and stuff. Because they couldn’t see his bungalow, because it was well hidden by a little bit of an eerie Lord of the Rings type of forest. Which intrigued the boys no end, and sent their curiosity off the deep end.

    Max thought that there was something up with Helen, though she seemed nice. He told Brandon jokingly that he’d shove the red Toyota’s muffler up the kid’s bum so far that all of the mechanics in China wouldn’t be able to get it out again, if he rally drove Eagle Rock road corner again; and the kid had cock laughed back at him. He’d also consented to living in the van quite willingly. So far however, neither the landlord nor his skinny old man had mentioned the rats. Margie, Max got on well with straightaway, and he was simply amazed that something so womanly and so wonderfully put together on the east coast was with a big nosed Vic streak like Wally. How females chose their partners was a subject that he had given up on in his teens, and as far as he was concerned now, that was secret women’s business.

    Normally he would have buggered off quick smart, with so many other humans about. However, the situation called for him to get the Victorians settled in and sorted out and signed up, and observing that they were pretty frazzled, he didn’t have the heart to extract his labour from the current equation.

    So before he knew what was going on, he was part of a four man team that was lugging Margie’s piano out of the back of the truck and into the house. If it was one thing on this wretched bloody Earth that Max absolutely hated doing, it was lugging female’s mucking pianos around, but the stoic Western Australian said nothing. He just gritted his teeth and squeezed the cheeks of his bum real tight, so that both they and the piano and one of the furniture guys could fit through the doors. It was quite a few hours before he headed for his bungalow, with a signed contract in his hands.

    When he had gone thru the little garden gate and crossed the border from what was now rented Victorian ground, and entered the grounds of his manager’s estate, little Mick and Jack had watched him. From behind a dirty great big rainwater tank, and like a couple of resurrected communist spies, they had observed Max disappear into the manifested terror that was the spooky little forest.

    They had been talking excitedly to one another as Max had faded away into the eerie forest, like some dubious character from out of a novel’s last page. Their uncle Woll however had already given them a succint order, and that order from the older was to not bug Max. Indeed, the streak from the east had already told his whole clan to not bug Max, and the last thing that he wanted was for any member of his tribe to upset the landlord. The other side of the little fence gate then was taboo. It was verboten! They were not allowed to cross the border into Maxland and go up to Max’s bungalow, Woll had told them authoratively.

    Already however, the twin boys were absolutely dying to know what was on the other side of the spooky little forest, and what Max’s bungalow looked like. Because neither of them knew what in the hell a bungalow was, and the explanation that they had got from their auntie Margie that it was just a small house, didn’t do anything for them. There was a single slab limestone paved path thru the spooky dank leafed floored forest too, and although there were dead leaves and other squishy stuff on it, it was still a path. High above which, spooky big trees and their densely leaved branches were profusely growing. So that not much sunlight got in to kiss the little forest’s floor, just like it doesn’t in any legislative assembly upon this Earth.

    It was a terrifying path that they wished with all of their little hearts that they could take, but they couldn’t. Not unless they broke the law of the mega high above them, skinny elder. Although they had not lived with their uncle Woll for that long, they had already learnt that it didn’t pay to muck with his rules. There weren’t that many anyway, but they knew the price of crossing the skinny bastard, if they got caught. They knew that he would pull the plug on every piece of technology that they had, for at least a week, and that frightened the hell out of them, just as much as the spooky little forest did.

    No computer games or dvd’s or vids for a week could kill them they thought, and it was hard being a 21st century kid, they reckoned. Brandon had taught them how to play some cool blood and guts games, and they were pretty advanced in computer skills for their age, and they didn’t want to miss out on any computer time, at all. No Ma’am. No sir.

    ‘Don’t bug Max!…Don’t bug Max!…Don’t bug Max!’ they chanted to each other, as they buggered off to explore Brandon’s territory in ratshed alley. ‘Don’t fuck with Woll!….Don’t fuck with Woll!….Don’t fuck with Woll!’ the two little boys sang some more. Cheeky little buggers they were, a bit of a duet as well. They weren’t the Righteous brothers, nor the Cowranup crooners. They were the Middleton boys and they desired like some men desire to know God, the secret knowledge that was the location and nature of Max’s Maxland bungalow.

 

   

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Back in his venerable joint, Max put the contract down on his coffee table, next door to a thick black and gold covered book that was always there, and he collapsed like a being demolished building into the favourite of his two lounge chairs. He grabbed a water bottle that was on the table and guzzled some from it, and as if transfixed and mesmerised by something, he stared at his weatherboarded wall. It was like he was in a kind of shock, because he just couldn’t believe the speed of the amazingly transitory stuff called life on Earth. Within the space of five or so hours, he had gone from having a vacant and profitless property on his hands, to one where he had eight paying Victorians living next door to him. It was unbelievable! With a capital U too.

    Almost west coast trembling, and musing somewhat about the existential implications of letting the tsunami of an east coast barbarian horde of Smiths in the front gate, he reached for his thick black and gold book. For some existential comfort, and soul solace. He read a paragraph or two and laughed, and then he closed the book up and put it back on his coffee table. He took another hit of water and then he closed his eyes, like he had gone into a meditative trance or something. For ten minutes or so it was as if he was dead to this wretchedly beautiful world, and then some rather loud belly growling got him moving, which was so often the case with this particular human being. As it is with the masses of them, and as it is with all planetary jungle dwelling beasts who have a belly and a groin.

    He got up like a born again worker bee and lit some incense and put some quiet relaxation music on, and then he started to do necessary physical things. Like fetching wood, lighting the fires, and carrying the water. All was lusciously peaceful in Max’s bungalow, and that was the way that the west coast lad liked it. There was no filthy dirty slut of a dirty woman around to stir his sexual feelings or his heartbound psychology up, and so it was on with the road to enlightenment, for the west coast spiritual and mystical warrior. Or it was supposed to be, according to the plan that Max had hatched out, to get him thru the long dark night of the soul and roughly speaking, statistically all up; about 25,000 days where he either already had, or would have to wipe his bum at least once. Sometimes more. Quite often more actually, in this particular west coaster’s case. Because he had very efficient bowels, but too much his anus was like a volcano’s ring, and it required frequent washing. He did have a bit of the old irritable bowel syndrome did ol’ Max, but then again he figured, who hasn’t these processed, irradiated and genetically modified days?

    In a funny ha ha kind of a way, and a fuck this rotten planet’s rotten play in consciousness kind of a way, the landlord was looking forward to dying physically, and being reborn existentially. Being dead to the old body and the old mind but very much alive as a spirit again, did have a considerable appeal for him. Because human shit stinks too much, he reckoned, and he really felt that Earthed up body burden on a lunatic’s planet is too restrictive and too bloody boring. Dark versus light, light versus dark, and on and on till bloody doomsday, was a stupid existential premise upon which to base one’s existence, he reckoned. It’s ultra heavy duty time and just so much bother the split into light and dark mind is, he thought. Why he had ever fallen from an angelic grace state to become a mortal in the first place, he had no idea.

    Being on a mad planet where stupid dark idiots and ultraviolent ignorants rule a stupidly dark and corrupt to the core, devoted to living in the dark, stupid dark civilisation, so that they can live high on the hog, like the Godless pigs in Orwell’s Animal Farm did, wasn’t turning him on that much. Just like billions of others amongst his bent on finding hell and not heaven real quick species, weren’t being turned on by it, he wasn’t either. Max also had a bit of deep down anger in him about the fact that his home rock was so chock full of ultraviolent morons. Thru his spirituality and his mysticality however, he was trying to work that shit out. Existential anger, he was trying to fuck it off, that is. A bit of a mystical anti hero he was, and apparently right now according to all of the alternative non mainstream stuff that is about, this planet is chock full of such types.

    He was working on how to treat his fellow man and woman, and he was trying to see their real existential and mystical positions. After 50 odd years on this hellball, one would think that he would have already perfected that, but he hadn’t. Because he was a human being whose ego laced mind had not yet blown up, so that his egoless spirit could take him back to his mystical source. Those were the CSI facts in his case, anyway.

    Whilst he carried out the tasks, he was playing with a mystical mind game that he had learned from the thick book on his coffee table. It involved a path which he very much liked. It was a terrifying but extremely liberating path, where he was not perceiving himself to be ‘in’ the skin bag body. Rather, he was taking it that he was in every point in the wider universal picture, and that he was somehow watching impartially the body and the thought contortions of the mind, within which the body was placed. The dude actually thought that the whole of manifestation was a product of the mind’s holographic projection powers, and that God only took over as a programme manager type, once an entire universal hologram had been set up by the mind. Like his Guru, he was taking it that his real body was the universe, or he was trying to.

    It was an existential path handed down thru many generations of some of India’s finest mystics, who had focused on the sense of ‘I am’ as a means of attaining to enlightenment, and Max was ribaldly in love with it. In fact, inside in his inner man, he was aware that the path had saved his life from going down the existential drain. It had helped him to stick some necessary bullets into his own personal black dogs, and to pull out of the lead heavy seriousness of being nothing but a mortal in name and shape, and as far as he was concerned, his Guru’s path too was unbelievable. With a capital U.

    When both his kitchen and bath fires were going, and there was a kettle and a few pots of water on the stove, and some leftover’s grub in the oven, he went to his woodpile. Just like lady Chatterly’s lover did. He scratched his balls and farted profusely at the bush, like bushmen do, and then as he chopped some kindling up, he farted some more and worked his path. He had been doing it for some years now, and the more that he did it, the more that the path seemed to run itself. Just like his personal farting did.

    I am! I am! I am! Always he was trying to drop back to his sense of I am, the what and who am I really stuff, and he was negating the monstrously abstract alphabetic pile of put down word description conceptualisations that he had for himself and the world, and the universe. Like a machine that is on automatic it was happening, and he was refusing to go I am this or that thing, or description. One by one, he was killing all of his concepts and trying to trust his intuition and existential sense of fair play. So that the character Max was becoming like an actor in some divine movie, run by the one spirit of the one consciousness, or the wider consciousness of the one spirit.

    Max was shooting for a timeless and spaceless and transcended state of beingness, there was no doubt about that. He was chasing the Light before he was dead, and sometimes west coasters and beings from many other cultures and places will do that. It apparently just depends on what happens in their lives, and how soon that they really want to go home to their real existential home. That is in the ground, and in the sky, and in the beyond of those commodities too.

    Bungalow Max was gunning for mystical enlightenment and to tell the truth, this world had lost a lot of its interest for him. He didn’t think much of it, but then again, who really does, and who is just lying thru their teeth? That was the question as far as he was concerned. In the thick book on his table, his book Guru had said that the Earth was a child of love, and he was still thinking about that one. Or trying to just ‘watch’ the thinking about it.

    Because like many do, he had always perceived this solid world to be a rock of pain and suffering, and he had always thought that it was too full of fear and hate. With only the odd few precious drops of love in it, it was hard and tough, and it was a pretty rotten world really. In fact, it had appeared to him and still appeared to him that every bit of pleasure that a human gets from corporeal life, they get against a background of existential pain.

    Like many other dashing and dapper west coast souls, he had come to the ground because of an unstoppable desire for fleshed up sensualness, and to experience the beauteous wonders inherent in that. Like with so many others, that had been blown away by the horrors of the super ignorant dualistic mind, which seeks only to pervert or outrightly destroy fleshed up sensualness. Which, as it had with many others, had given him the existential dilemma of the century in his head. How could he stop his entire universal consciousness from jumping into a matter body in a world like this one, to then become stone ignorant of and blind to his own universal consciousness? Like a sleeper, having a silly and nonsensical dream as a bit part, when they’re not a bit part. That was his existential problem. That was the matrix that he wanted to crush into dust in his west coast hands. Desire! Everybody has it big time, yet he knew that only those who don’t dance with the Goddesses and Gods, before they bugger off into the beyond.

    It wasn’t that he wanted the power over life and death. He wanted the power to control whether or not he had to play with a birth and life and death mindset at all. Because he was aware that existentially he didn’t need it, and like his black and gold book Guru he was betting that his true home was in the timeless and the formless, and that it had nothing to do really with time or form or space, or any of the other illusory matter shit that the mind conjurs up.

    Like many others, he had battled thru many hard slog youthful to mid age years to establish some sort of self worth and self identity, and to generate some sort of existential fluidity within his cosmic system. Like a typical gutsy west coaster will do and a flukey survivor will do, until their dying day. Not always so with Victorians and Queenslanders and the senile English who propogated them however, because they’re another breed they are. He felt. That they were all made out of cosmic light, but hardly any of them knew it, which was a source of great amusement for him.

    Only now was the born again mystic considering that the planet and all of the things in the separated thinged universe that it was in, were really made out of some sort of extremely subtle higher love and Light that permeated everything physically and ethereally, and which was generally blocked out from people’s consciousness awareness. By the severe density of the extremely ignorant human mind, and the attrocious brainwashing and conditioning that humans all experience. Which locks them into a solidified matrix like shit sticking to a shovel, and leads to the conviction that they are just a lump of meat and nothing else. The mystic then was dreaming about fixing up a universe that doesn’t need fixing up, and according to certain individuals and some tribes, so is everybody else.

    Max wasn’t down on his luck however, and every now and again he was sticking some more bullets into his own personal black dogs. The bushman was actually rather euphoric these days that like every human does, he had the higher love and the Light up his arse and on his hammer, so to speak. Don’t waste it this life and find your true self, was the message that he was getting from the brilliantly lit up stars. Which he often gazed at at night, and the dust of which both his body and the planet were made of. He was jubilant that he had been able to turn his life around and discover that the spirit that he had for so long thought was against him, was actually for him. In a big time mystical and a very transcendental way. He was a humble west coast bastard Max was, and like both Gandhi and the Dalai Lama he was committed to non violence, and to reclaiming the subtle and whatever was beyond the subtle too.

    Bungalow Max, he was one hell of a spaced out dude allright. He wasn’t wired for endless heavy duty pain and extinction. He was dewiring and reprogramming himself for an explosive consciousness ascension, using his book Guru’s path. He was attempting to relate to the one life that some people call God, and some people don’t.

   

    A long time ago, critters from one end of his street to the other had pointed the you are just a body identity only finger at him. These days, the out there Max was severely questioning that very institutionalised idea. He had seen a dead body or two in his life, and when you see a dead body Max reckoned, then you know that something else called consciousness has flown the coup. Max wanted to fly the coup before his body died, like his black and gold book Guru had done, and everybody desires something or another. Everybody wants the smarties, be they made of mere chocolate, or mere enlightenment.

    Only he knew now that only those who desired nothing, got everything. They got the key to the existential matrix that is planet Earth. They got liberty and truth all wrapped up in an eternal infinity full of endless wunderbar discoveries. Max wanted some of that, but he was living on a polly waffle’s planet, and still thinking too much that his mind was just polly waffle inbetween his ears. Which was his problem. Maybe on Venus they kissed the real thing’s ring every sixty minutes, but so far upon this Earth, that splendour of splendours had eluded bungalow Max.

    He wasn’t alone as far as that went, and at last count seven odd billion, whether they are awake to it or asleep to it, were in the exact same boat as him. They were in the boat of the existential seeker who seeks the end of all questioning, absolute peace of mind, and the reclamation of the grace Light, that is. They want to live in Nirvana, that is. The west coaster was shooting high, and when you come to a beautiful shithole of a planet like this one, that’s about the only thing that one can do. He reckoned.

    Max wanted to transcend the cyle of human suffering and end the mortal pain charade forever. He wanted to get off the wheel of karmic rebirth, and he didn’t want to ever have to show up on a planet like the Earth again. He wanted to go somewhere else in the mucking universe, where a saintly sanity instead of a devilish insanity prevailed. If only he could crack his black and gold book Guru’s path, he’d be in like Flynn with that, and that’s what the manager was dreaming about.

    As a matter of fact, he’d been dreaming about it his whole life, and his early childhood dreams had fuelled his phenomenal fascination with the supernatural and the mystical. Some come to Earth for gold coin, and others come for gold wisdom, and the eccentric west coaster was struggling to become one of the latter. Was he getting the gist of the ascended consciousness message though? Who could tell, when even he couldn’t?

    Who can exorcise the superselfish ego beast from within their psyche, and fully promote the angelic, all sharing side of the wider self? Jesus did it, Buddha too he knew, but alas, he felt, the vast majority of humans get absolutely nowhere near it. Who can explode their consciousness so that it goes beyond all of the stars, and goes back to its source, riding the wings of enlightenment? Not many can do that, as said, but Max was trying. He was giving his book Guru’s anti trying, just be, get the mind still and quiet path a go, and it was definitely rearranging his picture of reality. Like the Soviet Union got rearranged when communism ended.

    Max had learned a secret, or at least he thought that he had. He thought that he had learnt that the real world apparently wasn’t really real, and that really there is about as much reality in solidified matter as there is in reality tv. It was a source of enormous relief for him to become aware that he was just soul dreaming, and that he wasn’t vexed forever by the poxed Earth life. As it was a mega buzz for him to rediscover that body burden was an ignorant mind’s thing, which in no way confined his spirit. Or anybody else’s spirit. Like millions of other courageous beings were doing in the wild and heady days of the beginnings of the 21st century, Max was slowly waking up from his heavy as lead Earthbound dreaming, or consciousness snoozing within a strictly third dimensional mindset. He had dreamt that he was a human in a world, and now he was undreaming that, and sorting out what was really going on. At least, that’s what he thought was going down; after five odd years on his book Guru’s I am path.

    All up these days, he was a pretty happy west coaster, even though he still had his ups and downs. The difference from his past mindset being that these days he tried to just impartially ‘watch’ his ups and downs, and not give a hoot about them one way or the other. That is, he was trying to enjoy his bad times as much as he enjoyed his good ones. From a neutral and objective wider self entertainment point of view, instead of positioning himself as being totally subjectively trapped inside of a trouble and chaos prone body. Which was perception which generated too much depression and boredom for him, because just feeling nothing but the body burden was lead heavy and dead serious shit. He reckoned, and just like he needed toilet paper, Max needed his spirit to give him a boot up the arse, now and again. He was a west coast human landlord allright.

 

 

 

   

 

   

   

    The next month or so proceeded relatively smoothly. The Victorians settled in without too much fuss, and Max wasn’t called on that much to exercise his managerial responsibilities. When he was in residence that is; as he was coming and going from another of his family’s properties, which he was now renovating. The agent to fetch him became Woll, who much to the chagrin of the twin boys was the one who always got to go thru the eerie little forest to get the manager. So far they had been good little boys and they had not crossed the border into Maxland. The suspense however was just about killing them, and they had inspected every inch of Max’s one hundred metre wide, star picket fence. It was a miracle of unbelievable proportions that they hadn’t already invaded Maxland. They had however spent a great deal of time gazing into the spooky little forest, whilst postulating what was on the other side of its spooky big trees.

    Wally was also now working, and all of the kids except the young twins were back at school. Michael and Jack did kindergarten, but only for a few half days a week. Helen already had a new boyfriend and her spirits had completely changed, and everytime that Max had seen young Brandon he’d seemed to have a different girl with him. He had however instructed the rooster in the usage of rat traps, as the rooster hadn’t taken long to discover that there were one or two of the critters about in the roostershed.

    Max got on extremely well with Brandon, and despite the kid’s haircut they seemed to be almost like brothers in arms. Max detected a deeply hidden, very high inner intelligence in Brandon, and that fascinated him, and Brandon detected that there was a lot more to Max than met the eye, and that fascinated him. The twin girls Michelle and Susan were doing ok, and it seemed as if the Vic family had adjusted easily to their move way out west. The only odd one out was Margie, who was still grieving for her dead sister and screaming at her own personal black dog pack at the same time.

    Indeed, Max had heard her sound off a few times, when the boy twins were at kindergarten, and she had had the joint to herself. She had let a few blood curdling shrieks off outside in the open, the Vic lass had. She had screamed out some love and hate to the Pemberton sky God, she had. The mystical landlord didn’t mind, because he knew that some girls exercised and excorcised their black dogs that way, and he figured that it was far better to do that than to grab a gun and shoot someone. A little bit of bush screaming was a far better karmic workout for the soul than gunning down the neighbours, he reckoned. So long as he could hear Margie screaming or pounding out some voluminous melodramatic piece on her piano, like Sadie The Cleaning Lady, which she sung as Margie The Cleaning Lady, then he knew that she wasn’t creeping thru the spooky little forest. With a balaclava on and some fancy cocked and all ready to go Victorian firearm in her hands.

    So far from his observations of and interactions with the Victorian hordes, he had picked up that Margie and her much younger sister had been extremely close. Woll had told him that Margie had practically brought her sister up after the early death of their mother, and that she had been cut by a trillion razorblades by her kid sister’s death. Especially after they had both had twins, which had seemed to highlight their almost psychic connection. The streak from the east had explained to the landlord that a big part of his decision to move the family way out west, was to get Margie away from the environment where the memories of her sister were lingering so profusely. On account of they only lived around the corner from each other. Apparently Margie had hit the gin dynamite hard, it being her particular forget all about it and turn the mind off poison, and the Woll had had a hell of a time and a World War 3 battle pulling her back to sensible nightime drinking only. His argument for her to cool it being based on the fact that they were parents, and that parenting took considerable daytime energy. Especially with them caring for the twin boys.

    As far as Wally himself went, it had been pretty easy for Max to sus out that the man pretzel was a couch potato. One who carted a crackly old transistor radio around from chair to chair. However, the Woll had taken to sitting mainly out underneath the front patio, whenever the weather was conducive to doing so, and Max had observed that he had some of the plumpest cushions on Earth. Stuffed into his number one chair, they were. Wherever that the skinny bastard went he saw, his girls brought him coffees and teas, milos, beers, water, fags, nibbles, slippers and jumpers and other stuff too. Sometimes it was Helen, who loved to chew the fat with her old man. Sometimes it was the twin girls, who loved to cuddle up to him to get what they wanted. Usually to enlist Woll as their agent in an attempt to get something past their mother.

    Even sometimes Margie herself waited on the Woll, which at first the Max couldn’t understand, given the woman’s fly by night constitution. However, it hadn’t taken him long to sus out that they had a special bond between them, and that Margie didn’t mind kissing the Woll’s arse once in a while. Because he was the skinny cock who was her skinny rock of a man, and he had kept her from drinking gin 24/7, and from sliding completely into the Collingwood gutter. Where her black dogs could cock their legs or squat and piss on her non stop. Maybe even crap on her as well.

    As it was, she still couldn’t work, and with help from her girls she was just coping with the domestics. She was just falling across the line every day with them, and when she had done them and had a gin and tonic in her hands, it lightened her depression somewhat. She was in the lucky country and she knew it, because she had a dirty great big black dog outside barking at her front door, but she was surrounded by the love of her family. Who had and still were supporting her through her mental illness crisis, where she had another pack of black dogs running around of her head inside of her front door, barking their bloody heads off as well.

    Like a lot of other people in the beginning of the 21st century, Margie had more black dogs running around inside of her head than the New York dog pound does on any given New York day. Strewth! Some days it was raining black dogs in Margie’s brain.

    She wasn’t a fundamentalist, but she wasn’t having that much fun with her mucking existential existence either, Margie wasn’t. The Vic beauty was nothing but another tragedy of east coast living, and the lass’s runaway mind was currently running rings around her everloving soul. That happens on the east coast, and it happens on the west coast too, and it happens to the north and south as well. Everybody knows that.

    It this event is called the human personal identity crisis time, and wise are they who can avoid it, whilst in deep shit are the vast majority who don’t. Panic attacks, anxiety, morbid depression, bemusion and suicidal desires, the nineteenth nervous breakdown and so forth, who needs that shit? The Vic lady didn’t, and so far her family had kept her from falling into that abyss where black dogs feast on one’s guts and one’s soul non stop, in some asylum for the insane.

    So, every now and again she brought her partner Woll an opened Vic bitter, and delivered it with a bit of a sloppy smooch on his skinny lips. Woll didn’t mind that either. He was happy way out west and his missus did seem to be on the road to some sort of a recovery. Then he would turn to his radio and the horses, or whatever it was that he could put an astute bet on, and relax. With his new west coast lifestyle, which was basically his old east coast lifestyle transported to different chairs in the west.

    The streak from the east was a deadset Victorian, thru and thru. There have been some lazy bastards who have come from that venerable Australian state, and Woll was definitely in the top ten of them. He was already in their supersloth team of the century for sure, and he was quite capable of sucking the last pinch of paradise out of a granite rock. Which was fair enough Max thought, because that about summed up life on the 21st century Earth.

    All of this and more the landlord saw and watched the thinking and feelings about, when he had dinner with the Vics one night. So far however, the Vics had not received a return invite, and although Woll had described Max’s bungalow to them all in great detail, they were all dying to actually see it and experience it first hand. No one knew when he was there and when he wasn’t however, because he had a real quiet ute that slipped in and out of the property like a submarine on silent running, and they just got used to staying on their side of the fence. Like emus and rabbits from the desert do, and citizens who either visit zoos or live in a globalised one, do.

 

    Margie had actually fallen in love with a relic of a polisher that Max had dragged out of the house shed. The damn thing looked like something that Dick Tracy’s maid could have pushed around, but the Vic lass really liked it, because it reminded her of the 1950’s and 60’s. A couple of past century decades which she was, and her dead sister had been particularly fond of. The ancient technology had an old dull light on the front of it, and a joy stick that could be leant on slightly, but it was the high pitched whirring sound that it made that Margie loved. The very front room of the house was the only one that wasn’t varnished, but Margie spent a quarter of an hour or so on it everyday, and it was tremendously good therapy for her.

    Sometimes she would hit it for five minutes or longer, and at other times she’d just do it for a couple. She’d polish the floor and make high pitched sounds which were as near as she could get them to the sounds of the whirring away polisher. As she made her sounds, she would gaze out of the window at the seven real big sisters in the front yard and wonder how things were going for those very tall ladies, and what they were doing about their black dogs.

    Margie also quite liked Max, and she was developing a peculiar affinity with him. Where she could be free and easy with him, and behave quite naturally and say whatever came out of her throat to him. Somehow woman intuitionally, she sensed that he had walked the ground of morbid depression and neurotic to psychotic bemusion that she was walking, and maybe that he was still walking it and the dogs a bit; and she was absolutely in love with the property and the spirit in the dirt underneath it. Just like he was. They were both Gaia kids. They may have been walking the dualised existential plank, like everybody else on the planet, but they were still little Gaia kids. Who were doing their worst and their best to impersonate grown up human beings.

    Margie was also into gardening and plants and flowers, and so that gave them something in common to solidly talk about. Max in no way appeared to judge her, and it did not take long for the Vic beauty with the long black hair to trust the bungalow dweller, as an amiable ally of a slightly eccentric human being. Max amused Margie no end, and he made her laugh with the way out shit that he came out with, and just like a Victorian, she was a tad existentially curious about the west coaster.

    Because generally speaking, west coasters can shine and blow out a hot gully wind, whilst Victorians usually don’t. Unless it is coming out of their other end, as they are pinching something off someone else. That’s what Max thought anyway, and he wasn’t the only Australian to think that either. Not by a long shot, according to the grass roots polls and intrastate grapevine communications. Next door to the Queenslanders, the Victorians still had a bad reputation amongst the colonialists. Because they bred spin off Ned Kelly types, whilst Queensland kept coughing up dodgey fucking peanuts, Max reckoned.

   

    Despite his predisposition to talking about flying saucers and other out there stuff, Margie thought that their west coast landlord was a bit of an allright human, and the day came when she decided to make the mystic hermit some scones. Not only that, she decided to take them up to his bungalow. She legislated inside that she should walk the sacred track thru the spooky little forest, only she put in a call first, to announce her impending arrival. If a mad woman of the Vic bitch kind wants to see how you’ve got y’bungalow set up, resistance is useless. Max was about to find that out, and with his sixth sense he already knew that to be true blue and fair dinkum, factual stuff.

    He put the phone down and braced himself, because there was a Vic female invasion coming, and then he gently touched his sacred book and went outside and sat on his favourite chunk of log. It had had the top sliced off it, and it was his garden seat and outside ponderer’s spot. Next door to it was his campfire which was ringed with big gravel rocks, over the top of which was placed a half mesh, half flat top barbie plate. He liked to sit outside, because he could see the spirit coming in disguise, as the wind that rustled the high up tree leaves.

    It’s the same old story! He thought. Or rather, he watched the thinking of that. Then; It’s the same old story, it’s the waiting game, and I haven’t had fresh baked scones since I don’t know fucken when! Followed that, as words which flowed thru his head. Then; Bring ’em on Margie! Got typed across bungalow Max’s word congested mindscreen, in big bold letters too.

    ‘Bring on dem damn scones spirit woman!’ He said aloud to the universe, thru the tidy blue and woolpacked cloudy sky above his existentially wayward head. Innate happiness about being a named and shaped human dot on the spot, in the right place at the right time, was flowing around his terrestrial manager’s veins. Indeed. The west coaster had not stuffed a fresh baked scone down his throat for over thirty years, and he was conscious that the drought was about to break, and what a day that he was having. Because the litmus test from the east was on her way up to his divine bungalow, with the baked dough gear.

    In the bush not that far away, a tiger snake slithered across the spooky little path that Margie was about to walk upon. It stopped sliding for a moment, and then cocked its head up like a Martian being reborn, and then it hit the leafy deck again and slithered off like a ground rocket. The tiger snake didn’t want to have anything to do with either bungalow Max or the Victorians. It got the hell out of that spooky little forest, real fast. It was hunting frogs, not half crazy, zany humans. Whether or not they were on the road to enlightenment or on the road to more hell in their lives, it didn’t bother the serpent. Not one bit.

    East coasters or west coasters, south polers or north polers, the snake didn’t give a shit about the psychological and evolutionary state of dualistic in consciousness humans. Who could blame it? Surely not God! Max certainly wouldn’t have. He would have killed it though, if it had got it wrong and tried to slither quietly past his ponderer’s seat. He would have chopped it into three third dimensional bits. His trusty axe was always nearby, because his world was full of rats and snakes, and he was a killer of them. The bastard was 100% west coast human, despite that he desired to go beyond God, to where only the luckiest of the luckiest humans go. Nirvana!

    If Max could have bought it at the Pemberton supermarket, there would never be any of it on the shelves. He’d have a kombi van in the carpark, and he’d be eating a lot of chook, and he’d be crapping in the public toilets in the park around the corner, he would. He’d be buying a roll of dunny paper a day too, because he was a big crapper. Max could shit it out as fast as he could eat it, and he could piss like a Trojan horse as well. He was a west coast landlord cashing in on a boom rental time allright.

    The landlord who was on the road to enlightenment, or thought and hoped that he was, could smell the scones long before the Margie was half way thru the spooky little forest. Because the spirit brought their delectably mouth watering scents to him, in the unseen wind. Not long after that she was standing in front of him, with her plate full of slightly unorthodox goodies in her hands.

    ‘Mornie Maxie!’ she said chirpily to the one who had his arse on the block.

    ‘Gidday Margie!’ Max fired off. ‘My my, hey hey! They smell just like a woman’s touch! They do smell good mate.’

    The Vic bitch whipped a light white see thru cloth off the scones and stuck them under the west coaster’s nose. There were six of them, and they were big fuckers too. Like iceberg shapes some of them were. Others resembled a politician’s brain, because they were severely flattened out blobs which were spread out all over the place. Actually, it was pretty obvious that the Vic cook had pounded them mercilessly with a clenched fist, because Max could see knuckle impressions on their tops.

    ‘Now there’s penis paste on that one!’ she informed him, whilst pointing to the one that had peanut paste on it. ‘There’s vaginamite on that one, honey on that one there, and then the others have fucking apricot yam on them. There’s that little dish of cream there too, so that y’can pull them apart and devonshire the ones that y’want to devonshire.’

    Margie lifted her head up and nodded towards the scone recipient’s quarters. ‘Let’s go into y’bungalow and have them Max,’ she said seductively.

    Knowing full well that the Victorian bitch just wanted to have a perve around, to see what she could dig up on and from him, he took her inside. She had hardly been in there a minute and had time to put her precious parcel down, when she noticed the Guru’s book on Max’s coffee table. It was still black and yellow and it was back up, and it had a picture of the Guru showing, and Margie leant down to it and scrutunised it a bit.

    ‘Who is this old cunt Maxie?’ she asked.

    ‘Ha! Ha!’ laughed Max, with a mouthful of penis pasted scone, that had had a good dob of cream stuffed into it. Margie had known that he’d go for the penis pasted one first. In her business, they always did.

    ‘That’s me book Guru Margie! He may look like an old c, but as far as I’m concerned, he was most definitely an enlightened being. He was the wisest of the wise and he lives in my heart now, the bugger does.’

    The Vic beauty picked the thickish hard cover book up, and she turned it over.

    ‘The real does not die, the unreal never lived!’ she read loudly off the front cover. ‘What in the fuck does that mean Maxie? Is it some sort of Da Vinci code?’

    ‘I’m not sure yet mate, but I’ll let y’know if and when I find out,’ Max drawled back at her. He could see by the shifty look in her eyes that plan X was coming, because he knew that Woll kept her nightime booze in his car. Which he took to work. When the long black haired Vic bitch put the Guru’s book back down and moved to gaze wild child eyed out of his front window, he knew that plan X was imminent. So he did the only thing that he could do in the moment, and polished off the penis pasted scone. Which had had a good dob of cream stuffed into it.

    It was warm and it was tasty, and it was going down his throat like mush food for the Gods. Before he could get the last mouthful of the delicious nutrients down however, Margie unleasched plan X. The landlord had a blitzrieg going on as he reached for the vaginamited scone, and the cream. Margie had known that he’d go for that one second up, in her business they always did. Frankly, the fact that they always creamed their vaginamited one absolutely disgusted her.

    ‘Where’s your fucking scotch Maxie?’ she fired off, like a battleship broadsiding at him. There was raw Vic bitch aggression in her voice too. Phoo! The pussy from the east was playing with mortal power she was, and the pussy from the west was extremely conscious that she was, he was.

    ‘I don’t drink Margie!’ he lied, Strop like. His Popeye without a pipe expression surfing all around his back up against the wall, absolutely helpless west coast face. Mystic or no mystic, he was a cornered rat and he was stuffed and about to be screwed by an off the rails Victorian bitch, and he full well knew it. There’s enlightenment, and then there’s Victorians, and that’s what the landlord was thinking.

    ‘Bullshit you don’t Maxie! I saw you have a double scotch the other night when we had dinner in the pub, and I was drinking bloody boring coke on the rocks!’ She roared like a lioness back at him.

   ‘That was just a one off to toast Dick’s birthday mate!’

    ‘Dick fucking who?’

    ‘Aww! I don’t know Margie. I don’t know his surname. He’s just one of the Tramway lads.’

    ‘Well if you’ve known one Dick, then you’ve known ‘em all! So don’t give me any shit Max. C’mon! Get y’bottle out, y’mongrel!’ Margie hissed, whilst grinning lasciviously and Delilah like, and she even snarled a bit bitch big jaguar pussy like, she did. ‘I know your kind Maxie!’ she drawled huskily, and exceedingly Vic gutterally. A bit like Ms Laureen Bacall used to talk to Mr Bogart, she sounded. ‘You’re the super sleezy kind that keeps a bottle around and has a drink out of it every three months!’ she asserted. With her more than adequate Vic tits thrust boldly out in front of her.

    Sticking out of her red singlet top like woman mountains that can feed man or woman physically or psychologically, they were. Nipples on them like the offensive half of an American football team, they had.

    ‘Your booze hording kind disgust me Max!’ she hissed. ‘C’mon! Drag it out before I rip y’bloody arm off. C’mon! Just one Maxie! Just a taste for a strung out Victorian witchy bitch. C’mon! What are the Gods gunna do? Start off y’transmutational mystical revolution, just because I have one bloody drink?’

    ‘Strung out Victorian my arse Margie!’ Max retorted. ‘Y’re a sneaky and clever Vic witch bitch, y’are! Y’come up here to my peaceful bungalow and buy me off with penis pasted and vaginamited scones, and then yuse lays it on me to pull out m’ fucken booze! In which case, if Woll finds out about it, he’ll skin me alive. I wouldn’t blame him either. You’re all woman Margie! There’s no doubt about that. Kerrist! And people wonder about why I fucking live alone! I know why I live alone Margie! Because I stay out of trouble that way, or I used to before yuse lot became m’neighbours.’

    Here, the landlord let out a deep sigh, like lots of blokes did just before the battle of Waterloo started. Then he fired up again, as the veins in his neck reached for the sky. Again. 

    ‘If it has gots tits or wheels then you have got big trouble, and Margie you haven’t got visible wheels, because I can’t see y’chakras, but mate, you’ve got one hell of a pair of aggressive tits!’ he pussy barked. ‘You should be on CSI, or Medium or Big Brother Margie. My Guru’s path is ueseless against those beauties! Wally is the luckiest skinny bugger on this planet, that I do solemnly declare,’ said merry Max. Hoping like hell that by switching the conversation to her delectable breasts, that it might take her mind off the booze a bit. Like they had definitely done for him. He knew however that it wouldn’t work, and it didn’t.

    ‘The whole of Wally shrinks at night and he foetal sleeps inbetween my tits Max! He doesn’t have to know a thing about today!’ she fired back at him. ‘My lips are sealed, and who are you gunna tell? C’mon! Just one! I mean, I’m hardly gunna be rolling around on the front lawn when Woll gets home, am I? I am hardly gunna strip off and run around naked in the bush, with my boobs bouncing around all liberated and free, like they own the universe, after one fucking scotch. Am I?’

    ‘Margie! Please stop talking about naked women and boobs!’

    ‘What’s the matter Maxie? Do you need a dirty woman? Why don’t you get y’self one, instead of sitting up here and flogging y’self senseless?’

    ‘Hohh! You’ve been here less than five minutes y’ Vic bitch, and already I’m in karmic shit up to m’eyeballs, you accuse me of being a wanker, and then y’ask me if I need a dirty woman. That’s rich Margie, but I’m not chasing dirty women anymore. I’m chasing what’s mystically real!’

    ‘Well I’m fucking not! The spirit in your scotch bottle will do me just fine. Now come on Maxie! Don’t be an old c! Be a good little landlord and go and fetch it, and I’ll do y’a payback dinner tonight. We’re having roast lamb and spuds and peas and pumpkin and gravy and all of that shit. Got a monster trifle that the girls made last night for desserts too. You come on down Maxie! You’re part of the family now mate.’

    Max’s eyebrows went up and he told himself inside that the Victorian was good. She was just so good and she had the belly politics down to a fine art, like lots of Victorians do. The streak from the east’s missus put Delilah to shame she did, he thought. He knew that she knew that he was partial to the old roast, and that a silenced lamb was his favourite meat after raw vagina monologues, and she also knew that he absolutely adored trifle. He knew that she knew that he’d just about kill for a trifle, or sign someone’s death warrant for a half decent lamington. She was a con artist par excellence, and the east coast hadn’t pumped out a girl with her skills in a long long time. Not as far as Max was concerned, anyway.

    Ever so slowly, like a geriatric with piles, after finally succumbing to the delights of her heaving breasts and her solid food promises, and the extent and forcefulness of her happening personality, where he wasn’t alone anymore and he had an entertaining and a pretty sneaky terrestrial friend, instead of a woman’s scorn being directed at him; he made an existentially hesitant move for his grog cupboard. Which was parked like a blow up cop, in his very viable bedroom. She watched him, like a hawk watches their prey after they’ve sunk their claws deep into it.

    She was the power of the mad Vic pussy, and he was easy west coast meat. She knew it, and he knew it too, and they both knew that the other knew it as well. It was high noon on the clock, and high noon in the bungalow also, and the truth was that it was the disgruntled cock who was being fucked senseless by both the mystical and the non mystical, and not the squawking hen.

    ‘Y’got rocks and additive Max?’

    ‘In the fucking fridge woman!’

    ‘I’ll get them!’

    ‘You do that Margie!’

    ‘I will Maxie, I will! I’ll get the glasses ready too!’

    ‘Who in the bloody hell said that I was having one?’

    ‘I fucking did! You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you Maxie? You wouldn’t do a shit of a thing like that to a lady like me, would y’?’

    ‘Oh Margie! You’re a classic, you are! You were born a Victorian female all right. But I am telling y’Margie, this is a one off! Y’hear me? Don’t get it into your head that y’can come up here for tit bits of alcohol. This is a one off! This is a bungalow, not a fucking pub!’

    ‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! I know. Just relax Maxie and get y’sacred bottle.’

    ‘Oh Jesus Kerrist!’ Max puppy barked from his bedroom. ‘You don’t half know how to put me on the karmic spot Margie. I feel like fucking Judas!’

    ‘I don’t! I’ve got Woll and his dick is just about as big as the old Jude was. But come to think of it, you do look a bit like him Maxie. Y’re my Judas touch today anyway mate!’

    ‘Hohh!’ exclaimed Max, as he reappeared with the bottle. ‘You’re just like a woman Margie! Y’know? One of these days I might have to do a Ralph and let fly and go pow, right in y’kisser! Now y’getting one and one only out of this bottle. You got it!’ He told her, whilst pointing to his half full bottle of pretty bloody good scotch. Vintage somewhere or another, and from bloody Scotland where the highlanders and the bravehearts roam all covered in blood after this battle or that battle, it was.

    Margie looked back at him and grinned like she’d just married into billions of dollars worth of booze buying power. She had a sort of Vic peace within her, now that she knew that some WA alcohol was coming. ‘You’re not the sort to throw punches Maxie. You’re too much of a bearded pussy for this shit of a world!’ She said convincingly.

    ‘This shit of a world is inside of the real you Margie! It is not outside of that body that you currently take yourself to be!’

    ‘Is that from your book Guru Maxie?’

    ‘Yeah!’

    ‘What does it mean?’

    ‘It means that before time and space and the universe ever began, that our spirits stuffed a pack of hidden golden smarties up each of our respective existential arses, and that despite that we got taught everything else but that, it is still our job to find our respective hidden boxes of golden smarties that are up our existential arses, and gobble the damn things all up! Gobble gobble gobble like!’

    ‘Really Maxie?’

    ‘Yes Margie! Really! The booze won’t get y’to y’hidden box of gold smarties mate. No drug will, but meditation might. If you play y’cards right with it.’

    ‘Is that what you’re doing up here in y’little bungalow Max?’

    ‘Margie, I’m just like you mate. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing most days! I’m just playing a different game to what I played before, that’s all. In the old game I looked to the outer for salvation, in the new game I look to the completely quietened down inner.’

    ‘My inner is full of fucking black dogs Max!’ Margie spat back at him.

    ‘Your mind is full of them because you dreamed them up mate! But the black dogs are not you! They come from the dark side of your imagination and the day is coming when you’ll undream them.’

    ‘D’y’think so Maxie?’

    ‘Yeah! No worries mate! You can’t stop enlightenment, you can only delay it with adherence to y’ignorant, secondhand inherited stuff. That’s what me Guru reckons, anyway.’

    ‘Well that’s a bit of good news! Now what about that drink Maxie? Are we gunna get it in, before I undream the black dogs?’

    ‘Hohh a hohh! Ha! Ha! You’re a Victorian classic Margie! You really are. Ha! I let the east coast barbarian hordes in the front gate, but at least there was one Victorian classic amongst them. My cup therefore runneth fucken over!’

    ‘Just pour the drinks Maxie! Just be a barman and for shit’s sake, stop trying to be a starman. We’re all just fucked up fucking humans mate, and we’ll never be anything else. Except dead. That’s reality! Get used to it Maxie, I have.’

    So he did, pour the drinks, and that’s what went down in the bungalow. They weren’t reeling and rocking, or sixty ninering it. They were sipping and gulping and they had two drinks each, and then Margie went home, whilst a pretty merry and two big doubles spirited up Max trotted off to feed his chooks. He had forgotten to feed them the previous day, and the girls were all pissed off starving Marvyns, and they made an absolute hell of a racket when the west coast human came into their pen. In their Chookese language they gave him a right hell of a noisy serve for his recent neglect of them, they did.

    ‘Perkerk! Perkerk! Perkerk!….Perkerk! Perkerk! Perkerk!’ They all went together, like they had the number one hit song in town.

    ‘Yes I know girls!’ Max said jovially to them, as he flung chook pellets around their yard. ‘I fucked up yesterday. I’m sorry! I’m a forgetful old cunt sometimes girls, and there’s no denying it. Jesus Kerrist! I fell from grace and came to this hellball and totally forgot who I really am as a spirit, and girls!…..Girls! Girls! Girls! That takes some fucking beating, that does! What can I say my darling birds?’ he asked them, like he was in some Shakesperian play, or some Italian opera, where y’push the sloppy not guilty and guilty emotions to their absolute limits.

    ‘I fell from grace with the best and the worst of them, I can’t deny it! I am, apparently, and no fucking way when I feel like absolute shit unfortunately can I say, I am not. Alas! That is the crux of the human matrix, my dears,’ the sandgroper preacher told his flock.

    In the west, there are many chook whisperers who can speak fluent Chookese, and bungalow Max was only one of them. Many others can be found debating things up near Kings Park in Perth.

    ‘Perkerk! Perkerk! Perkerk!’ the chooks all answered their food distributing Jesus.

    ‘Woof! Woof! Woof!’ went some down the road, neighbour’s dog.

    ‘Caw! Caw! Caw!’ sounded off a crow, as it flew by.

    ‘Ssss! Ssss! Ssss!’ went another slithering serpent, from the nearby bush.

    It was all happening around Maxland and there was no doubt about that, and the D day Victorian invasion hadn’t even started yet. Crikey! It wasn’t even in first gear. Margie had just been a bit of a probe really, and the real heavy Vic armour was yet to cross the border, and negotiate the spooky little forest to Max’s bungalow.

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

    At approximately 1600 hours that afternoon, another of the Victorian Smiths went rogue and broke with convention, and trudged up the spooky little path to Max’s bungalow. It was the roosterhead, or the big kid dressed in all black, who had a bit of a problem with his internet provider, he did.

    ‘Hey Maxie!’ he called out as he past the ponderer’s log. ‘Are y’there, y’old bastard?’

    ‘I am!’ Max called out from inside of his dreamt up dreaming building. ‘Come in, y’young fucker!’ he yelled back. ‘Y’might as well, because everybody else in the fucking south west is.’

    So Brandon did, and he found the hermit sitting like Socrates at his coffee table. Slowly the mystic west coast being opened his eyes, and he smiled amiably at the young Vic trooper, whose red and yellow flame tipped crown was practically scraping the microscopic bugs off his bungalow’s low ceiling. Dust mites were falling to the floor in their droves, but typically neither of the two humans could see what was happening in the far more subtlely small realms. Not many ordinary mortals can spot the fan blades when the fan is in top gear and moving too fast for the human eye, and apparently dust mites fall from the sky to the ground pretty fast, they do. Mimic human souls dropping down into flesh and blood bodies somewhat.

    ‘I need to borrow y’technology Maxie, if’n y’don’t mind. Mine’s out of order, and so are the ones in the house. The whole joint has gone anal and I can’t raise a fucking thing. It’s a critical emergency! That’s why I am here,’ said the roosterhead. At the same time he had noticed Max’s black and gold book on his coffee table, and like he was on automatic and an actor upon some bungalowed up stage, he picked the thick hardcover book up. For a second or two, he stared at the Guru’s picture.

    ‘Who is this old cunt Maxie?’ he asked.

    Max grinned, like one has to do when one has to wear it. ‘You Victorians all speak the same vulgar language! Don’t y’s?’ he shot off.

    ‘Huhh?’ went Brando, in response to that.

    ‘He’s m’Guru, Sri Nisargadatta!’

    ‘Nizzafucken who?’

    ‘Actually, his birth name was the same as one of the Indian monkey gods,’ Max said.

    ‘So he’s the God Guru of the monkies then is he Maxie?’

    ‘That one went beyond God mate! I am telling y’that right now!’

    ‘Well someone had to fucking do it!’ the roosterhead retorted. ‘Now where are y’hiding y’machine mate?’

    ‘In the bedroom,’ Max drawled, with a head nod direction about where to go.

    ‘Ok if I go in and crank it up?’

    ‘Yeah! Go for y’life Brando, everybody else is.’

    ‘Whoaaa!’ exclaimed the roosterhead, as he entered Max’s sleeping quarters. ‘A dinosaur!’ he cock crowed.

    ‘Whad’ya mean? I’ve only had the damn thing six months!’

    ‘Like I said Maxie! A dinosaur. A fucking T Rex!’ the kid crowed back at him.

    ‘I’ve got some work for y’ Brando, if y’interested,’ the landlord said, out of the blue like.

    ‘Work! Whad’y’mean work?’ the roosterhead asked, as Max’s dinosaur of a machine whizzied and beeped and sprung into life, in front of his two mortal eyes.

    ‘I mean work!’ Max barked back at him. ‘A shovel in the hands! Some mud to play with and slop around! Some bricks and some wood and a hammer and some fucking nails. Work Brando! That body that you’re associating in identity with needs exercise. Physical work is good exercise, and it keeps the soul humble.’

    ‘I wouldn’t know the first fucking thing about a shovel Maxie! I’ve never used one!’ Brando called out.

    ‘Whot! Never fucking used one! Oh Brando! You’re a fucking Victorian allright, for sure. You’re a chip off the old block you are. I can easily see a strong vision of you doing a Woll before y’dead.’

    ‘Well where is this work Maxie?’

    ‘Northcliffe! At m’family’s other place. C’mon! School’s out! What about doing a few days with me? I’ll pay y’ 25 dollars an hour. Now y’can’t argue with that, because that’s almost as much as the cops out on the front line get.’

    ‘Ohhh!’ groaned the rooster head, as he sorted out some shit with his rotten internet provider. ‘I’ll think about it Max.’

    ‘Whad’y’mean you’ll think about it? Y’re not doing anything are y’? Except shagging everything within a 50k radius.’

    ‘Hohh! Are y’jealous because I’m getting a sniff Max?’

    ‘Brando! You can have the virgin Mary in y’van if y’want mate, it’s got nothing to do with me. Hey listen, what are y’gunna do next year? Are y’gunna go to uni?’

    ‘Maybe, maybe not. I might bum around for a year or so. Anyway, I have to pass m’exams to be able to get into uni first.’

    ‘You’ll fucken shit it in Brando! No worries! I can tell. So I’ll tell y’what. I’ll be at y’van door at seven tomorrow morning, and I’ll give a little toot on m’horn. I need a labourer, and you’re it! I let y’use my technology and its payback time, and I’ll show y’how to use a shovel. Don’t you worry about that punk! Maxie will sort it out for y’.’

    ‘Seven! Hohh! Y’joking! I’m dead to this world then Max! I’m shooting up and down the tunnel about then. Man I’m flying then, I am very rarely a dead man walking.’

    Max’s ears went up fox like, as if Brandon had said a magic word or something. Quickly the west coaster got up and went to the bedroom doorway, a look of bemused astonishment on his gob. In his childhood, he had had repetetive nightly dreams of flying scorchingly fast up some sort of a tunnel, and the roosterhead’s remark had got him extremely curious. In his entire life, Max had met one other person who knew about the tunnel, however they had not been able to provide him with any new data about it. That somebody who looked like Brandon might know something about it was cause for great concern for the mystic, and the possibility that his labourer might be a lot more than just a labourer intrigued him, no end.

    ‘What do you know about the tunnel punk?’ he asked the young Vic.

    Brandon turned his head sideways and caught the expression on bungalow Max’s face. Immediately he knew that something out of the ordinary was up, and for a moment they just stared at each other. As if they were both lost star beings, dealing with the woefully inadequate vehicle of language, whilst attempting to communicate about a connection to the stars which popped up only in their dreams.

    ‘It’s dark in the tunnel Maxie!’ the kid told him. ‘It’s very very dark, and there’s not much to see. The speeds that I reach in there are unbelievable, and I just feel so weightless and free, and I don’t have a trouble in the universe. I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t fucking care. I just know that I’m going, and if wherever that I’m going is as half as good as m’feelings in the tunnel, then I may just be headed for some sort of bliss.’

    Max, frankly, was absolutely thunderstruck by what Brandon had said, and it was as if the full forward had just shirt fronted him. It was like the young Vic had taken the words from right out of his own mouth. It was like he had been talking to himself, about how he felt about his own tunnel experiences. The kid’s description of them was a priceless one, as far as he was concerned. The landlord couldn’t hold back, and he decided to pop the question that had plagued him his entire life.

    ‘Have you ever got to the end of the tunnel Brando?’ he asked.

    ‘Nah! Does it have an end Max?’

    The west coaster sighed as he had expected as much, because he had never reached the end of the tunnel either. ‘Some of the stuff that I’ve looked at reckons that there are lit up beings at the end of it, who at death assist y’back into the spirit fluidity and guide y’ to where y’supposed to go,’ he told.

     ‘What about if Satan is up there ready to stick his fork up y’ring Maxie?’

    ‘That’s highly unlikely Brando, considering how y’feel whilst y’flying up the tunnel.’

    ‘Y’may have something there Max, but I dunno.’

    ‘What about astral dreams punk? Have y’had any of them?’

    ‘Floaties! Yeah! I have about one a week.’

    ‘One a fucken week!’ Max half roared. He had had regular ones when he was a kid, since then however it had been slim pickings and he was lucky to get a floaty dream in every couple of years. The landlord absolutely loved floating floaty dreams, he did. He adored them, just like he adored breasts, and the scent of a woman, and the scent of her absolutely fantastic crutch area.

    ‘Jesus Kerrist Brando! Do y’dig them? I do. Do y’have fun mate?’ he asked with raw excitement in his veins. Because frankly, the visitors that he was getting these days were just blowing him away. Absolutely. Mystical Max was in the right bungalow at the right time, that’s what he was watching roll across his mindscreen. Here is a fellow starman! That’s what he was thinking about the young Vic roosterhead. No one will ever read such headlined words in any Australian daily newspaper, because east is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet and all of that; but such thoughts about the Victorian being mystically allied to him, were shooting up and down the neurons in his brain all right.

    Brandon told him that he adored his astral dreams, and that he absolutely loved the sensation of weightlessness in them.

    ‘I float around a bit. I go up and I go down, and I go along, sometimes really fast. Then I do it all again Maxie, because it’s just so good, and I feel just like I feel when I’m in the tunnel. I feel free and unbound and I’m not bothered by time or death, and I love it. I fucking love it Maxie, I really do,’ he confessed.

    Max grinned back at him, whalesharkishly. Like he was an old boy who had just found another old boy, who had become tragically across the universal board lost and comdemned to a planetary existence as a human, after the star wars of aeons ago. It was if they had become blood brothers, or something. The landlord was absolutely rapt that he had someone to talk to about the tunnel and stuff, and the young Vic was pretty damn excited by it too. Because he couldn’t talk to any of his crew about such matters, that much. It doesn’t happen that often, but the truth is stranger than fiction by an existential longshot, and the Victorian and the Western Australian started to become staunch allies, who in the near future would just about die for one another. Two little Aussie boys they had been born as body front ups, and two little Aussie boys as body front ups they still were really.

 

    At 1730 hours, bungalow Max cruised down to the house to break bread with his Victorian hosts. Their food was yabba dabba doo and he stuffed his west coast guts full of it for free, and after that he watched a bit of an old movie with the twin boys in the front room. Who were wise to the fact that Brandon had been up to Max’s, and who more than suspected that their auntie Margie had been up there as well. Because she hadn’t been home when the bus from their kindergarten had dropped them off, and she’d just appeared out of nowhere and smooched them all over like she did at night, and they weren’t stupids. Jesus Christ, they were young Vics and their dad Ernie had played for Collingwood. Well, he had had a few games with their rezies anyway.

    The twins had known that something was going on, particularly as Margie had had a couple of dank old wet leaves stuck to the bottom of her left shoe. It was a closed case for them then really. Just about everyone was going up the spooky little path to Max’s bungalow, except them, and there’s fair, and then there’s unfair, and unfair it all was in their little brains. They were well on their way then to viewing the entirety of their lives as being horribly unfair, and maybe taking life to be a personal attack by both the system and the supernatural impersonal upon them, and developing galling limitations and hatreds about that. Like grown ups can do, so well too. Ten out of ten in this department, too many of them get, and everybody knows that these days.

    The old movie was called Malcom and it was an Australian one, and it had a line in it: Get y’hands up y’arsehole, or I’ll blow y’bloody head off! John Hargreaves, a formidable and very likable ex actor, said it, and it had the boys in hysterics. Particularly as they had recently had their combined birthday and been given cowboy gear as presents. They had hats and dacks and vests and toy silver guns, and some plastic American spurs to wear on their boots, and blowing someone’s head off suited them just fine. They were young Vic humans allright! Blowing heads off was right up their alley, and Max got their silver six guns in his face quite a bit, and he got told that he was an arsehole and to shove his hands up into the air more than once, he did.

    He was loving it though because they were so young and vibrant and so super alive, and he played the game with them, and more than once the arsehole stuck his hands up into the air. Scared dude like, and somewhat sodbusterish he looked too, when he did it. Eventually however, Margie gave the order for the twins to do their teeth and hit the sack, and after some mandatory protestations and a bit of mucking around they did so. They brushed their molars and said their goodnights and retired to bed, and Helen followed their little wiggling bums into their room to read them a story. Max meanwhile moved his bum to the upstairs lounge room, where Woll and his missus were sipping on their alcoholic brews. Like Burton and Ms Taylor in Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, the two Vics were.

    The old girl of course had a glass of gin and tonic, and the old man had a stubbie of Vic bitter, that was inside of a Collingwood stubbie holder. When Max saw it he wanted to spit and chuck chunder voluminously on the floor, but he dare not, because he was the bastard who’d nailed the floor there, and later on just about died from the fumes when he’d varnished it. Besides, just like he had up a picture of his Guru Nizza whot’shisname up on his bungalow’s bedroom wall, so Woll had a poster of Eddie whot’shisname up on his rented upstairs wall; and because Max already knew who the Victorian on the wall was, there was no need for him to ask, who is that, you know? The west coaster was cool, and he really did not want to offend anybody’s Guru. Whether they were a, y’know? Or not.

    ‘Ahhh!’ said Margie to Woll, flashing her marvelously seductive eyelids and smiling mischeviously at the mystic, as he reached the top of the stairs. ‘The third drink of the evening goes down like a nectar of the fucking Gods, doesn’t it Rambo?’ She asked her tremendously skinny bloke.

    ‘I’m on me second M!’ Woll snapped back at her. ‘What’smore, I’m quitting at three, and when you’ve reached the devil’s number, I’m hiding the fucken bottle.’

    ‘Y’not leaving me on six Woll! Y’know seven’s m’lucky number, and you wouldn’t want to get y’big Vic dick bit off in the middle of the night, would ya?’ Margie hissed. ‘Y’know that I’ll get seven plus out of y’Woll, I always do. So stop playing twitty mind games and go and sit on a polony knob. Y’fucking animal!’

    ‘Look who’s talking M! At least I’m not a walking distillery with incredibly delicious tits!’

    ‘What would you know about tits Woll?’ Margie cat growled. Her extraordinarily nasal Collingwood accent practically magnetically ripping the little gravel pebbles from out of the rammed Earth walls. ‘You haven’t got any tits, you skinny prick! You’ve just got a couple of woodpecker dots! God fucked up when it came to giving you anything that even slightly resembles a tit Woll. Your tits are on y’fucking arse, because y’cheeks are the only round bits y’ve got, and even they’re hard to spot!’

    ‘Oh fuck off M! At least I’ve got a fucken brain!’ Woll responded to his missus’s jibes.

    Absolutely blown away by the ascended consciousness level of the Victorian’s conversation, and suppressing the desire to laugh his head off at Margie’s aggressive form, like a Woody woodpecker, Max crossed the large floor and gazed out of an extra wide window. There wasn’t that much to see except the darkness, and the lights of a faraway neighbour’s house. Certified organics, they were.

    The window out of which he was looking actually interested Max most, as he recalled some attrocious memories of when he and one of his mates had fitted the thing. Some windows slot in like a dick going a shirtsleeve, but this one hadn’t. This one had been the bitch of the century to get in, and it had been a millimetre by millimetre tap tap tap job, and it had taken them practically half a day to do it. Politicians can work their way around to actually signing a peace treaty faster than they’d got this particular window fitted, but now that it was fitted it was perfect, and a ripple of a smile of satisfaction brushed across the landlord’s face. There’s ecstacy, and then there’s a nice and super securely fitted window, there is.

    ‘Are you an enlightened west coast mongrel yet Maxie?’ Margie suddenly asked him, with flashes of feministic lightning peeling off her appealing face. ‘Did you see God’s burning bush in y’spooky little forest on y’way down here tonight?’

    ‘I’m not chasing God Margie! How many times do I have to say it?’ Max drawled back at her. It was plain to him that with some gins under her belt, that his sneaky Victorian friend wanted to stir the neurotic pot, like some girls do. It was the tora, tora, tora unconditional love stuff that was coming out of the Vic bitch’s mouth, and the landlord knew it too. Woll wasn’t getting it now, he was, and for the first time since the teacher had got home from educating the youth of his day, he was smiling. He had a neighbour knot to divert his missus, it was a bit west coast out there but it did the job, and he was happy.

    ‘Oh that’s right Maxie! You want to go beyond fucking God, don’t you?’ Margie baited the suddenly on the spot and her new focus of attention, bungalow dweller. Who deep down, didn’t mind crossing swords with the Victorian bitch really.

    ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ he pussy growled. Whilst watching himself from somewhere on the ‘outside’, that is supposed to be everybody’s cosmic and mystical and spiritual inner, and smiling about it all from there too. In the terminology of the eastern mystics, he was ‘witnessing’.

    ‘Neither would fucken I!’ Woll quipped, without knowing a thing about what going beyond God involved.

    ‘Oh fuck off Woll!’ Margie hissed. ‘You’ve got about as much chance of going beyond God, as cockroach shit has of talking to an angel!’

    ‘Well thanks a lot M! I guess that the same goes for you too darlin’!’

    ‘Everybody will go beyond God eventually you guys. It is written!’ asserted the landlord, as he eased his west coast bum into a mighty comfortable, imported east coast lounge chair. The Vic bitch grinned devilishly back at him, and it was a bit like she had a crop of snakes growing out of the top of her head, it was. Only she had a pair of angel’s wings busting out of her back at the same time, and it was those that both men were doing their very best to stay focused upon.

    ‘Maxie wants to be a dimensionless point Woll!’ Margie screeched, semi hysterically. ‘He wants to be a formless nothing again, because he’s bored fucking shitless with being a formed up something, and he hates having to wipe the shit out of his arse, and having to handle the human shit that surrounds him. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! You’re about as mystical as a fucking blowfly really Maxie. Really y’fucker, you’re all human!’

    ‘Well who in the fuck isn’t M?’ Woll asked.

    ‘Maxie doesn’t reckon that he is! Maxie reckons that he’s a spirit, don’t y’Maxie?’ Margie asked teasingly.

    ‘We’re all fucking spirits y’Vic bitch!’ the landlord fired back.

    ‘Y’can say that again mate!’ the Vic bitch cackle laughed, just before she drained her extra big, east coast imported, favourite glass. Margie could fit more rocks in her glass than fat politicians can smoke cigars in an entire lifetime, you betcha.

 

    It was at this point that Helen came to fetch the tipsy and bitchy missus for her final goodnight to the boys, and Max followed her to the front room to retrieve his short sleeved jumper. Margie went into the boys bedroom and kissed and hugged them, because they were so special to her because they were her dead sister’s kids, and Max was picking up his jumper off the lounge, when he heard something. It was the first time that the west coaster had ever heard the Middleton boys sing, and in a beautiful and rotten to the core world like this one, it put one hell of a smile on his dial, it did. Actually, it was Jack who had started off the duo.

    ‘Michael row the boat ashore…hallayloolah…Micheal row the boat ashore…hallayloo…ooo…ooo…lah,’ he sung. Absolutely perfectly too, and with just the right modicum of sentiment.

    ‘Oh hit the road Jack!…and don’t y’come back no more, more , more, more!’ Mick bounced back, sounding like a very young Louis Armstrong.

    ‘More! More! More! More!’ echoed Jack.

    The boys sung on a little bit and then Margie came out of the room and left them to it, and a smiling and laughing Max followed her back up to the top deck.

    ‘When did those guys learn to sing like that Margie?’ the west coaster asked, as they climbed back up the stairs. ‘They’re bloody good!’

     ‘My sister was into singing and dancing. She taught them lots of stuff,’ the Victorian told him proudly, with a dirty great big stiff smile on her face.

    Max grinned back in a likewise fashion, and like a wayward dynamic duo, they re entered the top room. Woll had cracked another coldie for himself, and he’d made his mad bitch another gin on the rocks, and being at heart a social animal, he smiled like a Trojan horse when they came back into his space.

    ‘How’s the teaching going Woll?’ Max asked, as he took a hefty slug from his water bottle, and then reclaimed his bum’s former spot. ‘Is there any hope for the youth of today?’

    ‘None at all Maxie!’

    ‘They won’t be saving the world then mate?’

    ‘I don’t think so,’ drawled Woll. “I don’t think that anything can save this world old son, unfortunately. It’s just too far gone now.’

    ‘The world!’ sighed Margie voluminously and depressedly, just before she took yet another big gulp of her poison. ‘She’s just one big fucking black dog! That’s what the dirty bitch is!’

    ‘What about if homofuturus shows up?’ the west coaster said, out of the blue like.

    ‘Homofucking who Maxie?’ Margie and Wally asked him at the same time. With extra curious expressions plastered all over their faces, because they had no idea what the west coast bugger was on about.

    ‘Homofuturus!’ bungalow Max half roared at them. ‘A mutation that out survives homosapiens like homosapiens out survived neanderthal man. You know? With the big skull head and a far larger brain crammed into the back of the cranium, like some aliens are portrayed now,’ he explained.

    ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ exploded Margie, as she shot a grin at her husband which let him know without words that she thought that their neighbour was mighty entertaining, and pretty good west coast value. Woll however was in expression neutral and was wearing an on the mantlepiece skinny non committed smirk, as he had not yet decided whether Max was taking the piss out of them or not. Woll was always a betting man and as near as he could tell it was always fifty fifty in any dualistic situation, especially when dealing with mad Max. Who could be so sharply dualistic with his joking around sometimes, that he was like a borderline schizophrenic.

    Margie meanwhile took another gulp of gin and stared at her extra thin bloke, who was the indomitable streak from the east. In her mind’s eye the back of his head began to grow until it looked like he was nine months pregnant up there, and about to give birth to a superbrain out of one of his skinny earholes. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ she exploded again, totally in love with the image that her imagination had presented to her. Which definitely was not always the case with the lass.

    She then looked at bungalow Max and the same thing happened, and so she cackle laughed a whole lot more. There was no doubt about it, the neurotic to psychotic Victorian mother was having a real good time, for sure. So much so that she drained her big V glass some more and pointed a going this way and then that way, delectable white finger at both of the white boys. Who also had had images of each other as homofuturus types, and found that somewhat amusing. To the point that they were both smiling like freckled faced Milky bar kids, and giggling away like a couple of schoolgirl wankers.

    ‘Even if you dickheads had brains that were three times as big as the ones that you’ve got now, I still don’t know that you could do it for us girls and make a perfect world that suits us too, instead of just y’bloody selves!’ Margie aggressively asserted. ‘You’d probably just build a bomb that blows up half of the universe, so that you can see once and for all who is the top stupid pecking order warrior dog when y’all dead, and which wrathful sky God really rules this rotten bloody planet!’ she told them.

    ‘I don’t think so mate!’ A more than confident bungalow Max cut in. ‘Extinction is the norm and evolution is the exception and homofuturus will be the right human mutation in the right place at the right time, and it’ll be a million times smarter than homosapien,’ he said, with extreme west coast conviction. As if he knew about something that most unfortunately, most humans knew absolutely nothing about. A bit Dr Who – ish he was, as he went on.

    ‘Homofuturus will have surmounted the struggle in the little self between the egoised beast and the mystical angel, and it will be a non violent angelic model that never makes war. It won’t be brute beast dumb and a moronic ultraviolent ignorant, like third dimensional man is now. Oh no!’ declared the landlord. ‘These fourth to fifth dimensional buggers will have full awareness of how to use the mind tool properly, instead of letting the dark side of the egoised imagination dictate the show, as the current model does, and they will have powers and skills that homosapiens haven’t even yet dreamt of. Homofuturus will take the outer to be the inner, and the inner to be the outer, just like Jesus and Buddha and my Guru did, and the Earth story will be a pretty different one when these types get here mate. She’ll be a beaut world then, instead of being a cu…cu…cun….. I mean a crappy nappy fucking one.’

    ‘Well they’d better get here fucking quick Maxie, like tomorrow, or y’can kiss this fucking cunt of a rock goodbye!’ Margie intoned.

    ‘You’re right there M, for fucking once!’ drawled the beer sipping, existentially brooding on it all Woll. In a voice that suggested that his sacred and beloved Collingwood had just lost the AFL grand final by a stinking and lousy point, and not fifty goals. Which is about where he thought that his sacred and beloved planet was sitting. Well into time on in the dying stages of the last quarter, too.

    ‘Homofuturus is inside of you right now Margie, and no hulk or streak of a man or anything that either man or woman ever does or ever will do, can let it loose for you. You’re enlightenment is your job! It is no one else’s. Expect nothing from the outer, because nothing is all that the dreamt up and illusory holographic outer has really got to give,’ mystical Max told her.

    ‘Oh fuck off with y’voodoo talk Maxie!’ the hostess with the mostess roared back at him. The magnificent hairs on the back of her lusciously gorgeous neck as stiff as Margaret River surfing boards, and some of the dicks of some of the boys who ride them. ‘How in the bloody hell am I ever gunna become enlightened with a head full of bloody black dogs?’ she screeched.

    ‘Kill ’em Margie! You can do it! Kill ’em all! Show no mercy! I am a body conceptualisation is the number one black dog, and the spirit is not averse to violence. You know that! Jesus, you’re a woman in an ultraviolent man’s world. How could you not know it? Be ultraviolent and make blitzrieg war against the alphabetically conjured up conceptual descriptions that you stick onto the end of y’I am variable, and you’ll be right mate. Negate them all. Do not cooperate with the mind’s pattern where you slag y’self off, because you’re not slag, because at source you are made from the Light. You’ll be sweet as sweet then gorgeous, and you’ll be smiling and totally and absolutely in love with y’total self again,’ said bungalow Max. With a chirpy and cheery cherry ripe west coast expression on his teasing gob. Bungalow Max was having as much fun with the Vic bitch as she was having with him, there was no doubt about that.

    ‘How though Maxie? How do I kill the demon black dogs? It’s the same old question, isn’t it?’

    ‘I just told y’mate! Just accept them as secondhand inherited mind contortion concepts all rolled up into a shitball of imagination, and not who you really are. Don’t fight with them, watch them and laugh at them instead, and run thru y’psyche; I am killing all of my black dogs, and let the I am do it for you. Because the I am variable rules the psyche, and whatever y’stick on the end of it, happens. Sooner or later,’ the west coast mystic said. ‘The I am is the wretched door in, and it is the beloved door out mate. You can put anything there that y’fucking want, or you can put nothing there. Which I most highly recommend as a good path to the ultimate. You don’t have to put there what you’ve been taught and told to put there. You can break free from all of that nonsensical conceptualised crap, anytime that y’fucking want to!’

    ‘That easy hey Max?’ Margie asked, her tone of disbelief quite evident.

    ‘Eyep! That easy mate! Simple, and not complicated at all.’

    ‘Hey listen Max,’ Woll interjected. ‘ What’s this about Brandon working with y’tomorrow?’

    ‘What!’ went the Vic bitch, who knew absolutely nothing about it.

    ‘Yeah! That’s right Woll. He’s consented to doing a few days with me down at Northcliffe. I’m calling for him at seven in the morning,’ Max told.

    ‘Ha! Ha!’ Margie exploded, just before she took another big sip, and proffered her empty glass to her husband. ‘Same again Spiderman!’ she said to him, before turning back to her very out there metaphysical landlord.

    ‘Maxie!’ she drawled, as if she knew every cell in her son’s body. ‘If you can get Brando out of bed at seven in the morning, I’ll jump over the moon naked and backwards!’

    ‘That won’t be necessary Margie! Leave that for the PM and the yanks to do, when and if they finally save the world from an enemy whom western multinationals have armed to the teeth, for a sky God backed profit. Look! If the Brando gives me any trouble, I’ll just make the punk an offer that he can’t refuse,’ said bungalow Max, with a filthy dirty west coast gangster’s look on his face. ‘I’ll stick a dirty great big dead rat in his bed! That’ll shake him up and get him going!’ The bastard told his Vic hosts.

    Some humans will go to just about any lengths to get themselves a half decent labourer, and Max was one of them allright. The PM’s another. Apparently.

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Regarding dirty great big rats, at 3am the next morning, Brandon was awakened by a noise that sounded like a whole tribe of Tassie devils going off. He was in the middle of one of his floating dreams and had been talking to two crow scouts perched on a high wire dreamgate, when the Earthbound noise dragged him back into his body. With the velocity of a ufo entering the Earth’s atmosphere too, so that there was a shock jolt and a bump within him as he came back into his full forward’s physicalness. As a consequence of that he sat bolt upright, with absolutely no comprehension of the source of the radically frightful noise that was flooding his eardrums. Some pretty loose anxiety was hot up his arse, it was.

    First he could hear an excrutiatingly high pitched Tassie devil type of a yowling, and then there would be a break followed by a clapping type of sound with a wirey tinkle in it. Every massive yowl however was sending a shaft of anxiety fear thru him, but being a gutsy Victorian roosterhead he went outside the van to investigate. Somewhat timidly, the young Vic switched the shed light on, and then he turned around to locate the source of the non stop unbelievable noise.

    It was coming from a rat. A big, big, big rat too. The damn thing had got its snout instead of its neck caught in a dirty great big rodent trap, and it would have been a lot better for it if humans used guillotines to knock rats off. As it was, it was behind a wire bedframe barricade that Max had set up using hay bales as supports, so that it had its own ratring so to speak, and man o man, it was going of its na na. Or what was left of it, because its jaws had been mercilessly pulverised by the cold hard steel of the human invention. Even freed from the steel and wood of the trap it would have died a horrible death from starvation, whilst its mates gorged themselves in a land full of milk and honey, and lots of other far luckier Australian rats too. All of the PM’s horses and all of the PM’s men, couldn’t have put the hapless rodent’s jaw back together again. No way! Even Jesus couldn’t have done it. The rat was fucked and its time upon this Earth was just about up, full stop. The same thing happens to war mongering politicians and other evil doers, it does. Karmically speaking, that is.

    Periodically it was letting out one of its foul loud yowls, and then it would trap and all shock jump vertically a couple of feet up into the air, and then land back down on the shed’s concrete floor. There was nothing wrong with its legs, not yet anyway. As Brandon moved closer to the barrier, the rat jumped and snarled and hissed at him from mid air, and it fully exposed the front of its razor sharp teeth. Alien like, with its front lips pulled back to demonstrate that it was still a very dangerous entity, despite its predicament. Too. The kid new that the rat was a west coast goner, but it was still freaking him out, and he was trying to get it together as to what to do when he heard footsteps, and then a voice. It wasn’t Jesus talking to him from out of the clouds, it was his skinny prick of an old man.

    ‘What in the fuck’s going on out here Brando? What’s that ridiculous fucking noise? It woke me up!’ Woll roared, as he brusquely entered the shed.

    ‘See for yourself dad!’ the roosterhead shot back at him.

    Woll did so and shook his head as once again the rat let out one of its phenomenal yowls, and trap and all ninja jumped a clean three feet up into the air.

    ‘I don’t fucking believe it! This sort of shit never happened in the good old ’Wood!’ the streak from the east exclaimed. ‘Mick and Eddie would never put up with this, and neither would fucking Delilah or Nero! Brando! Grab the fucking shovel!’ he roared, as if he was the onsite foreman.

    ‘Why me?’ Brando fired back at him.

    ‘Why not you? C’mon son, you can do it! All that we have to do is to get it around to the back of the shed. The crows will do the rest, according to Max.’ Woll stated.

     So Brandon got a shovel and they pulled the bedframe barricade back, and gingerly the roosterhead tried to pick the somewhat distressed rat up. It however yowled and jumped and spat and hissed like a snake again, and the two Victorians jumped back mega quickly, and they just about passed a wee east coast turd each. They did. The fact that such a small piece of fur with a little bit of pink to red meat in it, could terrify two near full grown men, was frankly amazing the Pemberton Goddess, it was. The down on its luck west coast rat had the two Victorians bluffed allright.

    Eventually however, after the doomed rat had completed another jump, Brandon got it underneath the shovel and around to the side of the shed, where it jumped again. Luckily the moon was out from behind some drifting clouds, and with the help of some strongish moonlight the young Vic managed to pick it up again and toss it around the back of the shed. Underneath a young four metre tall gum tree, opposite some bushes, he deposited it. Then he and Woll went back to bed, with only the memories of their wicked west coast adventure to bother them. For the rat however, it was a totally different story.

    Because some dirty great big crows were already moving in for the kill, and the feast. They had been alerted long ago by the rat’s distress yowls that there would soon be food upon their bush table, and they had been patiently bird waiting nearby for the oppurtunity to dine on some bush tucker, and that time had now come. Humans may not like eating ratmeat, though it has been recorded that some of them have done, and still do in impoverished places. Crows however consider ratmeat a delicacy, and the fresher and warmer and bloodier the meat the better.

    From out of the bushes the rat’s manifested demons crow waddled into the moonlight, that was highlighting the ground underneath the young gum tree. Spotting the silhouetted big beaked black monster giants coming at him, the doomed rat let out a ferocious yowl, and yet again, it hissed like a snake and ninja jumped up into the air. The crows took a step back, and with their cold murderous eyes glowing in the moonlight, they summed up the situation. Perfectly. With a mild caw or two between them they ringed the rat, as again it yowled and jumped. The rodent however was running out of physical energy and existential support for its manifestation, and in their ferociously brutal brains, the crows could sense that. So that dart like, one of them hopped inwards mega fast as the rat came down from a weak jump, and with its big beak, it bit and ripped the rat super savagely on the back of the neck. The bird then hopped back, and with the others of its kind, it turned its head from side to side and surveyed the damage. But not for long.

    Because the rat, with its mashed jaw and super severed bleeding neck, was now just about history. It had no resistance to the finite death left in it, and it had assumed a politically religious position, and collapsed onto its Porky fat underbelly. One of its eyes had shut, and all that it could see out of the other one was the moonlight silhouetted terrible black monsters, high above it in the sky, all moving in for the kill.

    Indeed, the winged maggots took a step or two forward, and then their crow attack got into full gear. One by one they rushed in and slashed and pecked away super rapidly at the dying rodent, just as its life force consciousness began evaporating back into the unknown, unmanifested and unseen. The killer birds broke open the rat’s fur and dragged it off its flesh, and then they ripped off great chunks of warm and juicy tender, raw meat. Like sharks do from their victims. The rat’s blood soon adorned every big bird’s beak, in good measure. They could have been lions in the jungle feasting on a zebra kill, but they weren’t. They were west coast crows gorging themselves on a fresh dead, fat west coast rat.

    One of them bit its snout off, and another one ripped the remainder of its head off its body and rapidly ate its still warm brains out. A gourmet entrée for a crow, is warm rat brains. Whether they come from a politically religious rat or not, crows absolutely love them, and this particular rat’s brains got wolfed down pretty quick, they did. West coast crows are dynamite when it comes to polishing off rat brains, they are.

    Now that the rat’s severely mutilated corpse was free from the trap, some of the other crows dragged it off into the bushes. There was a bit of squabbling and some gnashing of beaks, but their pecking order prevailed. Like pecking orders do. Another juvenile crow stayed with the trap, and it cleaned every bit of it up. It got the fine hairs where the steel of the trap that ensnared the rodent’s snout, met the wood below. Everything was nutrient packed to it, even the rat’s fur. It got the specks and titbits of red meat that were left, and somehow it sucked up the blood. When it had finished and hopped away to rejoin the crew, even God would not have been able to tell that there had ever been a rat there, caught in the wooden and steel trap.

    It would have taken a CSI team and the dirty rat died an ultra cruel and a wretchedly violent death, that no dirty rat should ever really have to endure. The supernatural unknown and unseen and unmanifested spirit which controls timing, chance and fate, had picked it out as a candidate for existential demanifestation, and there was nought that the rat could have done about it. The spirit of Death had been sent to get it, and just like humans are, the rodent was absolutely powerless against the spirit of Death. It wasn’t the stuff of mice and men. It was the stuff of dirty great big rats and tall Vic men, and mucking dynamic west coast crows, it was.

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    ‘Brando!…Brando!’ Max roared, as he nudged his still dozing passenger and duly elected labourer. It had taken the west coaster nearly half an hour to get the roosterhead into his ute, only then the kid had conked out again, using the passenger door’s window to break the gravity of his tilted head. It was 0800 hours and just like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, Max was late and way behind schedule. Therefore, like the overwhelmingly vast majority of humanity, he was more than slightly stressed out, when he didn’t really need to be.

    ‘Brando!…Brando!’ he yelled again, as again he shook his passenger’s big broad shoulder.

    ‘Uhh!…Uhhh!..Fuuu…ck!’ groaned the young Vic, as his right eye lumbered open, and he took in the excited visage of bungalow Max. His boss for the day. ‘Wha..at?’ the sleepyhead just managed to get out.

    ‘McGoolies!’ Max fired off loudly, as he pointed feverishly to the front left, where an enormous tip truck had broken down in a drive off picnic area. The truck’s tray was stuck full up in the air on its hydraulic pole, and two absolutely massive blokes were going flat out non stop and shovelling the load off the truck. They both had huge Hoss Cartwright type hats on and protuding Roger Ramjet steel jaws, and compared to them the Terminator was a supermarket toy, and Plugger was a midget. They were big, big, big men allright. ‘It’s Josh and Ken! Their truck has broken down and they’re shovelling their load of shale off. Check ’em out Brando!’ Mr Eaton roared. ‘That’s how y’use a shovel punk! Take note.’

    It was at this point that Brandon realised that they were going quite slow, in fact they were crawling. Looking to the front he saw that there were a couple of hired cars which were the cause of their snail’s pace, and it appeared that the occupants of the vehicles were curious Japanese tourists, who were just checking out the two McGoolie boy’s form. Because a couple of them had their heads and cameras hanging out of their car’s widows, and they were rolling, and the action was tremendously live.

    ‘Hohh! Aussie fucking iron men!’ one of the excited Jap camermen exploded to the other, in Japanese.

    ‘Hohh! No wonder we lose fucking war Hiro!’ the other said back to him.

    ‘No matter Fuji! We own a big slice of the economy here now, and we can eat Nippon food three times in a hundred metres in Perth if we wish. Hohh! We win in end! Fuck! Our kids can go to university here now if they want.’

    ‘Hohh! Yeah! We conquer much more in peace than in war Hiro! Fuckwits fight wars, but smart people don’t.’

    ‘Hohh! For sure Fuji! A pity that our stupid bastard ancestors didn’t know that in ’42 too. Hohh! Look at these two giant fuckers go! Look! They still haven’t stopped! They are like machines! Hohh! They are suma samurai! Imagine meeting them on a battlefield with a machine gun spraying hot lead in one hand, and a fucking big fist full of grenades in the other?’

    ‘Oh fuck that Hiro! Fuck that! It’s much much better when we come in peace. Then we can shoot them without them shooting back! Unless they’ve got a pretty good Nippon camera too, that is.’

    ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! You are so right Fuji! What a pity that Aussie and American right wingers don’t understand that yet. Then again, will the barbarians ever get it? I don’t know, and I don’t think that they do either. Hohh! Wait till the boys in the office get a look at this footage. They’ll shit themselves! Look! The giants still haven’t stopped! Buddha fuck me! They must be on that weet bix goo, and that foul black vaginamite fucking stuff that they eat here!’

    ‘Ten thousand yen you fucker Fuji, that they don’t break before they’ve emptied the entire tray!’ said a very excited Hiro.

    Fuji san eyed off how much more of the load that the McGoolies had to get thru. It was significant and he figured that they had absolutely no chance.

    ‘If you want to do y’dough Hiro, you’re on!’ he fired off.

    ‘Hai!’ exploded a stern faced Hiro. ‘C’mon!…C’mon!…C’mon you two big fucking barbarian brutes!’ he said loudly towards the two McGoolies. Who just didn’t hear him and kept on shovelling like they had to get the load off the tray real quick, before the world ended.

   

    Brandon meanwhile opened his other eye and saw the two monster blokes going for their lives, so that piles of shale rock and dust were rapidly building up on each side of their truck. The size of the blue singleted giants and the massive Mt Everest muscles bulging out of their biceps appalled the young Vic, and to tell the truth, the fact that he no longer rally drove Eagle Rock road corner anymore pleased him immensely.

    ‘Aren’t y’glad that y’don’t rally drive Eagle Rock road anymore Brando?’ Max asked him. ‘Because those boys live just up the road from y’! They’re considered to be the runts of the family too, because their elder brothers are a bit bigger than them.’

    Brando turned his head to his west coast boss for the day, and grinned divinely. The lad was beaming and just a slight tad more awake now, he was. ‘Yeah Maxie! I am glad!’ he said and then he laughed, as they passed the now stationary still jabbering and still filming Japanese tourists, and motored away like Batman and Robin in their Maxmobile. Complete with cement mixer and wheelbarrows and cement bags and shovels and Christ knows what else, all bouncing around in the back tray. It looked like they were on their way to rebuild the twin towers, or a whole new neighbourhood in the town of Muckinbudin, or something.

 

    Upon arriving at Max’s Northcliffe property, which was out in the middle of nowhere, high up on a small hill, and overlooked some impressive coastal sand-dunes, Brandon discovered another of Max’s sheds. This one was a half live in, half storage one, and yet another caravan was parked underneath its corrugated iron roof. Max drove straight thru the driveway of the construction and pulled up up on the other side of it. They hopped out like Bill and Ben the puppet stringed flowerpot men playing vertical hopscotch, and bungalow Max told the kid almost from mid air that their job was to cement the driveway. The roosterhead looked at the dirty black and white sand that was the driveway as it now existed, and he was not in the least bit impressed. Because it looked like a hard yakka sandpit to him.

    ‘Oh yeah! Righto boss!’ he grunted, not really wanting to know about.

    His boss was into it pretty quickly however, and after an hour or so they had everything unloaded, and some basic formwork set up. Initially, when they had started they had chatted a bit, then after a while they had just done their work. Quietly, but efficiently also. When bungalow Max announced that it was chai time however, and straight after that Brandon announced that he was gunna have as he called it, a wee smoke, well then the chat started up again. Especially after Brandon had seated himself at the caravan table, and pulled out his weed and his wee Vic peace pipe. On account of Max turned from a kettle that he’d stuck on his gas stove, and stuck his left eyeball right over the top of the kid’s stash. Then he brought his nostrils down and sniffed it three times like Inspector Rex would’ve done, and then he scowled something shocking at the laminated table that it was on.

    ‘That’s not that fucking hydro fucking shit is it punk?’ he asked.

    ‘Yeah! It is,’ the kid answered him.

    ‘That shit will give you brain damage Brando! Put it away, or we’ll all get our throats cut! I’ve got something in the cupboard stashed away that’ll be better for y’ than that shit. That shit will give y’a chronic headache, because it’s chemical. It’s pharmaceutical. Pharmaceutical baa..aad!’ the boss told his labourer. ‘Pharmaceutical not natural! Pharmaceutical is adulterated natural and it sucks Brando. Hydro, ice, pills or whatever, it’s the wrong chemicals for the brains of the whites, the coloureds and the man in the moon too. Just like alcohol is the wrong chemical for the brains of the Aborigines. I thought that y’would have known all of this by now kid! Whot! Are you a slow Vic learner, or something?’

    ‘This is all that I could fucking get up in Perth last week Max!’ Brando retorted defensively.

    ‘Well I’ll fix that kid, if I can find it,’ the boss told, as he started opening little caravan doors left right and centre, and CSI like investigated their contents. He found everything apart from the PM and Dr Who embracing, and got himself into a right infuriated tis. ‘Where are y’? Y’fucken thing!’ he roared at the cupboarded guts of the caravan.

    ‘Don’t worry about it Maxie!’ the roosterhead told him. Brandon was actually just starting to really and truly wake up, on account of he had been on a kind of automatic too early in the morning running, up until this point. The prospects of getting some THC into him and getting his mind going again, was also exciting him. He didn’t give a shit where the shit came from or how in the fuck it was produced, he just wanted to get some of the shit into him, that was all.

    He desired the stoned mind, because for him, the straight mind was just too insipidly boring. It was 20,000 leagues down under in a sea of fear and despair and desire and pain, and it was all bound up in mega tons of trumpted up ignorant human bullshit, and! It was in dire need of a mood change and attitudinal readjustment and existential realignment, with having some fun via a substance induced experience of inherent multidimensionality, as far as the roosterhead was concerned. In that sentiment, he had a very strong ally connection with his boss bungalow Max, who thought that dunny paper had far more worth than the super ignorant 3rd dimensional, I am in the body only mindset did; and! Who these days was trying to get his multidimensional rocks off thru the drug called meditation.

    ‘Ahhh!’ sighed that being voluminously, with a stiff memory chip reascessed finger up in the air. About a minute later, after getting down upon the floor and grunting and groaning like a stuck Queensland pig, as he reached full stretch around a cupboarded corner, he stuck a small old antique lolly tin under the kid’s nose. On the laminated table, that was in his mucking number 3 caravan, he put it. Then he opened it and spilled its guts out and Brandon saw a couple a water absorbtion packets hit the laminated deck, and something that was wrapped ultra tightly in brown paper and thick plastic.

    ‘This is the last of m’weed punk!’ the boss told. ‘It must be nearly ten years old by now, but it is from a bushy. It’s natural stuff and the beautiful bitch of a spirit of the marijuana plant has had the right time and space to weave its amazing chemical thru it. It’s not fucken pharamaceutical! Pharmaceuticals are baa…aad Brando!’ bungalow Max grumpy old man grumped again. ‘They make your mind go too fast and send it out of control, they fill y’up with existential personal runaway mind problem dung regarding the survival of what is nought but a holographic body image sunk super deep into y’own mindscreen, and they fuck y’right up, that pharmaceutical shit does! Natural chemicals are ok, in moderation, but pharmaceutical chemicals are always ba…aad! Don’t take any sort of a lead about them from doc Shed kid, because they suck! I wouldn’t give y’ a brass razoo for the fucking whole lot of them, compared to what I have discovered since I’ve been meditating on me Guru’s I am path.’

    The kid grinned back with a rock solid type of expression on his gob. He wasn’t phased. He knew that one way or the other, as soon as the boss shut up, that he was gunna get a smoke, and how many working class labourers have endured that in their lives? Before, and no doubt again, after morning tea. Millions upon millions, no doubt.

    Meanwhile, having opened up his near ten years old stash and Inspector Rex inspected it, bungalow Max grinned divinely.

   ‘Not a speck of fucken mould!’ he said proudly. ‘Now this is natural gear punk!’ the west coaster told, trying to sound like some sort of role model for and mentor to the young Vic. Like he was coaching the full forward, like the streak from the east did. ‘It hasn’t been pack raped by a bunch of man made artificial chemicals, and it is not a neuron fucker. Now I’m not saying that its goo…ood Brando, because really humans only need a quiet mind to dimensionally buzz out of this shithole of a third dimension. It’s not baa…aad though, like that fucken pharmaceutical shit is! Try it, and put that other poxy shit away, before we both get our fucking throats cut,’ he asserted. Again.

    So the roosterhead did, only being a Victorian he had hatched a plan X to avoid hard work, and if the boss could shoot his mouth off and play mind games, then so could he. They were the rules of the game, as near as he could tell.

    ‘If this natural fucken shit is so fucken good, then why don’t y’ have a smoke with us Maxie?’ he said.

    ‘Naaaaaahhhhhhhh!’ grunted bungalow Max straight back at him. ‘I couldn’t kid! I’d go down like the Titanic, I know that I would. That psychdelic shit is too much for me now laddie!’ he told. ‘Meditating with a quiet mind is all that I need to space out on now mate. That’s how it goes sometimes when y’become an old cunt, y’know?’

    ‘Whot!’ retorted the smart arsed young Vic roosterhead. ‘I thought that you were the last of the drug lords down here, or something Maxie. I mean, y’can knock off a couple of scotch’s with the old girl, but you can’t smoke a bit of this natural pot that y’s is going on about with me….Brando! Y’young Vic mate! What gives y’old prick?’

    ‘Y’know about that scotch drinking episode between me and y’mum punk?’

    ‘Yeah! I know about it!’

    ‘Fuck’n womin!’ spat Max. ‘They couldn’t keep a secret if y’shoved it up their cu…cu…keracks!’ He further spat. ‘Does Woll know?’ he asked, somewhat feverishly.

    ‘Woll knows nothing mate! He never has and he never will either!’ Brandon asserted. ‘Hey! Y’re not the original west coast woos! Are y’Maxie?’ the kid taunted the old boy. He was a clever prick, just like his mum was clever, and he knew that if he could get bungalow Max out of it, then they wouldn’t be doing much heavy duty cementing. They could just hang around and chew the fat then, which was more attune to the young Vic’s lifestyle. He also knew that if you want to get a human to do something that they wouldn’t normally do, just challenge their personal power. Thus his deliberate use of the description ‘west coast woos’. Which not only showed that he was a master’s apprentice, he was a bit Ms Margie’s one as well.

   

    ‘Allright punk!’ drawled Max, as he shoved two chais on the table, and sat down. ‘So y’feeling lucky are y’? Allright! We’ll see who can smoke who under the table laddie. So y’re wondering if I’m a west coast woos or not, are y’? Well we’ll find out who’s the fucking woos, and who is not the fucking woos. Won’t we punk?’

    ‘I ’spose we will Maxie!’ said the roosterhead, who was really chuffed inside. He knew that the boss had bit off more than he could chew, and he knew that if the shit was half as good as it was pupported to be, then the ten year time factor since the last injection of the shit would probably spin the boss out something chronic. With luck the bastard would sleep for a few hours, and he Brando could sit in the shade and space out on the lazy, ever so slowly moving sandhills.

    As he put a little bit of the shit in his wee pipe, whilst half eye up watching bungalow Max roll himself a torpedo of a tobacco and shit super joint, he smiled. Because it sure looked like that he was in like Flynn with his plan X. Just like aliens who are both off and on the planet, Victorians are arch manipulators and one has got to watch them. There’s no doubt about that, and mystical Max wasn’t completely blind to it. He was just banking on being able to do some sort of Babadumras.

    He wasn’t planning on collapsing on the floor, but upon this Earth that’s the way that it goes sometimes, everybody knows, and he did too. Confidently however he lit his cigar of tobacco and marijuana, and eyeballed the young upstart of a Vic kid. Who was choofing away on his wee pipe. To Brandon’s absolute astonishment, Max not only puffed his way thru his huge illegal smoke, he rolled himself another one and made up another wee pipe for his guest. Then he suggested that they head outside to the chairs out underneath the big gum tree, as he called it.

    It was a monster tree to the front right side of the house that had a whitish and light brown trunk, and an absolutely smashed Brandon just managed to keep his consciousness intact and stagger like a real drunk person to his rooster’s spot in the shade. First he went one way and lost a young Vic foot in some soft white sand, and then he went the other way and did the same thing, but hallelujah and praise the lord! Scarecrow fallen off his cross and let loose like, he finally made it to a chair and plonked his too stoned arse into it. Max meanwhile grinned like a polecat as he fiddle farted around with getting their water bottles, and another chai each. He even brought out a tin of biscuits, and some of them had chocolate in their guts, they did. Full of recreational THC and with food and drink for their food bodies, and with a seat each for their arses thrown into the existential bargain, the two Earth beings had it made.

    So did the sand-dunes that were not so far away, and moving in for the kill. Like the ice melting at the poles is, Max thought, as he gazed at the slowly creeping nearer white monsters.

    ‘What was that fucking shit Maxie?’ the roosterhead asked his boss, when finally the boss was in his spot beside him. Frankly, the kid was more out of it than he’d been in quite a while, like since he had been born as a body front up, and he felt like he was tripping and still, that he was in danger of maybe passing out. The fact that bungalow Max was still functioning to all appearances quite normally, was blowing the Vic kid away. It was dial 000, dial 911 and dial every other emergency number that you can think of shit. For sure, the roosterhead reckoned. Mucking hell! Max’s ten tears after shit had belted him for a six, and he was in both the outer and the inner universe now, allright. Cockadoodledoo! He was going inside of his rooster’s head.

    That he had a body that was spread in space and a mind that was spread in time, and which was running completely off its imagination and memory, he had no doubt. Jesus! The kid was just about 4th dimensionally flying, and he was well and truly west coast whacked allright. Lesser Victorians than him would not have been able to ride the incredible shit’s buzzing to the nth storm out, and they would have probably passed away.

    ‘I got some second generation seeds off one on me mates,’ bungalow Max told the kid. As though he was relaying that he’d just been down to the corner shop to buy some milk and a newspaper. ‘He got the mother plants from a mate of his upstate who had a hundred indoor hydros, but was paranoid about getting busted. On account of he had got word that the drug squad knew about him,’ he said.

    ‘Whot!’ ejaculated the roosterhead, as he jerked forward. ‘Are you telling me Max that that shit started out pharmaceutical, which is baa…aad, and that y’mate just converted it back into the natural by growing it in the bush?’

    ‘Yeah! I am!’ Max answered, just before he sipped on some of his chai. ‘It’s a good lesson Brando! The polluted can easily be depolluted by the right conditions, be they physical or psychological, or spiritual or mystical, or all of them. The artificially infused which brings all of one’s shit into the limelight, can be annihilated by the truth of the natural. You just smoked a wee pipe of the proof of it, and you’ve got another one coming to prove that y’not a woos of a Vic kid.’

    ‘You’re a sneaky old cunt Max!’ the young Vic exploded back at him. ‘You should have warned me! You should have told me that it was super blow y’out, dynamite tripping fucking gear! I would have been prepped for it then. I would have been ready, like they were at the Alimo.’

    ‘Well you didn’t ask anything about how strong it was punk, and I didn’t fucken know anyway. It could have done nothing as far as I fucken knew! I mean it has been near ten years stashed away in that cupboard. Anyway! To matters far more important. Who only just made it by their scrotum and rooster hairs to their outside chair? Hey? Who is the woos punk? That is the question. It’s not me! Because I am not playing with an I am a human woos mindset. I am not playing with I am limitation! Fuck that! I will no longer degrade myself. Been there! Done that! Boring! Boring! Boring! That is. Now I am playing with an I am the inner and the outer and the beyond, and I am nothing too, because I come originally from the nothing, mindset.                                                                                                              It’s a lot more fun! It’s not fucking as boring as all fuck, like the strictly 3D headset is, either.’

    ‘Y’re an arsehole Maxie! I just about died in the sand! You’re a sneaky sneaky sneaky old cunt!’ roared the roosterhead, who was still a bit sensitive and put out, because he had so easily been blown away. By a pinch or two of a disgustingly lethal west coast brew.

    ‘Who in the fuck isn’t in this egoed up hell hole kid? C’mon! Y’peacepipe’s waiting. I am gunna light this fucken abominable thing up. It’ll probably be the last bloody one that I ever have in this lifetime too. Listen Brando!’ the host stated emphatically. ‘You tell Margie that we came down here and got fucken stoned out of our brains, and I’ll shove y’muffler so far up y’Vic arse, that all of the Indian surgeons on this fucking horrible and beautiful planet won’t be able to get it out of y’. You got it! This is a one off! This is a shed down here and not an opium den! We’ll get fuck all done today, but we’ll be back. We shall return! We’ll be sober too. Ok? Now you keep y’fucking trap shut, or we’ll all get our fucken throats cut! You know what I mean kid?’

    ‘Yeah Maxie! You can trust me. I won’t let on that y’pulled out the last of y’stash, and smoked y’last superjoint with me. I’ll be a good kid. I won’t tell anybody, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die, if I do.’

    ‘You’d better not! You don’t tell y’mates either. I don’t want any of them thinking that I am old cunt druggie! Because I’m not! I’m nothing and I am not afraid of that anymore. The nothing spurted me and the rest of this abominable holographic universe out as somethings, and I will welcome when the nothing that spurts out abominable holographic somethings, takes me back into itSelf. Like it feels like what is going on in the tunnel. D’y’know what I mean Brando?

    We all came out of the Light mate, and one way or another thru heaven’s door or on the highway to more re run hell, we’re all going back into It. It the Light rules thru the spirit! We just pile up illusions on top of other illusions, and in our dreaming we call that reality. When it is nothing but dreaming. The supposedly awake here are fast asleep to their true origins, and they don’t even know it. The lord be praised! That’s our rock punk, and so long as y’position y’mindtool to be in duality, you’ll love it, and you’ll hate it too, and you’ll re run that into y’fucking grave. If that’s not as boring as all hell to y’divine soul, then I don’t know what is. I know though that I am the inner and the outer isn’t boring. On the contrary, it is the gung ho gear which gets y’back into y’astral body, faster than y’can say Jack shit. Ha! Ha! Ha! Hurr! Hurr! Hurr!’ gurgled the mystical bungalow Max. Who had obviously enjoyed the words that had poured forth from his gob, as much as the roosterhead had.

    Indeed, the full forward lolled his head to the side gorillas in the mist like, and he grinned divinely, like he knew all about it in his subterraneanly subtle zone. He tried to fire up his wee pipe again only it was difficult, on account of a bit of a breeze had blown up from out of nowhere. Like breezes do. Bungalow Max meanwhile was puffing on his last artificial and illegal white cigar, and blowing out copious clouds of billowing grey smoke. Which were drifting off into the rip roaring atmosphere of what was a mighty fine day. It was a cracker of a one actually. It wasn’t oppressively hot, and the bush flies had just about had their time, and the March flies weren’t full on yet. Though there was the odd buzzing scout around, looking for fresh blood. The sky was so lusciously blue, that a free wheeling and hearty soul could’ve just about melted and imploded back into it, and disappeared dot like back into the existential nothing. That is all of the mystical love and the Light in this universe, and all of the others, and the beyond of them too. Apparently. According to Max Eaton’s Guru, Nizza whot’shisname.

   

    The breeze was milder now, like a soft cool fan on the face. Behind the dunes, some giant white wool pack clouds were all puffed up with the glory of owning the horizon. It was a glorious day in a glorious environment, and it was holographic magic to the mortal naked eye. It reinforced that simple human psychology that sometimes, every now and again, there’s magic in the moment, and that it really is exquisite to be spirit backed, heart pumping sentience. That has got worlds galore all set in an infinite universe and the beyond of that to play with, and not just one planet which is in orbit around one little sun. According to the Gurus of this Earth, that is.

    ‘Yeah! I know what y’mean Maxie!’ the Vic punk said. ‘In the tunnel there’s a force and it is drawing y’somewhere, or another.’

    ‘Have you ever heard of Babadumras Brando?’

    ‘Baba dumb fucking who Max?’

    ‘Baba…dum…ras! He was an American!’

    ‘Well that fucking figures!’

    ‘I’m not sure, but he might have been a Californian who abandonned Californication.’

    ‘Well I can believe that Maxie! But what about him?’

    ‘Well he wasn’t always called Babadumras, or whatever. The story I got back in the late sixties, or it could have been the early seventies, was that he changed his name after a trip to India. Apparently he was up in the mountains somewhere over there, when he came across a grinning little Guru, who was sitting on a cloth on the ground, with his legs crossed. Like they do, you know?’

    ‘Yeah! So what? Did they have it off, or something?’

    ‘Ha! Of course not! Well, not as far as I know anyway kid. The facts of the matter are though that ol’ Babadum, or whatever his name was before he changed it, offered the Guru a tab of lsd from his matchbox stash of lots and lots and lots of tabs. The Guru took the matchbox, thinking that it was a simple and useful present from the westerner, and dropped the fucken lot of them. They reckon that he just sat there for the rest of the day, and that his cheeky little grin didn’t change one bit. When he eventually spoke, he just asked in his native tongue; So what? So he must have known a hell of a secret about the mind, to have been able to ignore so many extremely potent chemicals. Because he should have blasted off for a far far far far away galaxy, but he just sat there acting naturally for eight hours. What d’y’reckon that his secret was Brando?’

    The kid thought a bit. It was a curly question. It was a snake headed one as well.

    ‘D’y’think that he just dropped into the tunnel or something, so that he didn’t have to worry about it?’ the roosterhead asked. At the same time he grabbed a chocolate biscuit, and his boss followed suit. Pretty soon there was lush soft chocolate swishing around with thick saliva inside of their mouths, and there could be heard the sounds of soft biscuits being crunched to death. Then Max spoketh again, like he was related to Moses and had got the word from a burning bush of a Guru, in the middle of a burning down the house civilisation. Or something.

    ‘He could have done that Brando, but my guess was that he was just positioning his identity to be one that was outside of his body, and that he was just watching impartially what was going on in the mind. They call that witnessing! They reckon that the mind just throws out a bit of its subjective, and then it cons us into believing that that it is our objective world. Maya! Or illusion, the Guru pricks call that. So they just slip into a kind of reflective self overdrive, and without like or dislike watch both the subjective and the objective, as a means of getting back to the wider, real big picture. Which is the Light and the One life, and all that is really real. Unlike universes, which are concoctions stuck onto the end of the I am concept. Y’know?

    The I am, or the I am sense is the primal chemical! It rules, before any other fucking substance good fun or Barry bummer chemicals get their shot at giving the mind some more piddly dream experiences. Y’know punk?’

     ‘Awww! Phoooo!’ sighed the young Vic. ‘Sort of boss,’ he white lied.

    ‘Babadum’s Guru must have been running his mindset off I am the wider consciousnesss, and not off I am a little bit of the wider consciousness that is trapped inside of a skin bag of a mind projected dreambody. Don’t y’reckon?’ he asked the Vic kid. With his west coast arse jumping around in his chair like he ants up his bum. On account of he was thinking that one day he had to become enlightened. He simply had to! His mates too, because those cunts had put in, he reckoned. They’d survived and endured so far without either killing themselves, or anybody else.

    Or else what had so far come before the point where he was now, was all meaningless holographic mucking junk. Without the concept of enlightenment becoming the eventual one and only true reality, it was nothing. It was just a boring and gruelling sicko and out of touch dream.  It was purposeless poop, and stuff that a free wheeling and happy go lucky soul, like he thought that he was deep down, and Brandon was deep down, and a lot of other dudesses and dudes were deep down, wouldn’t give a mucking runny shit for. Really! Not compared to their lifestyles in the 4th dimensional, everlovingly warm and tender ethereal waters, he sensed.

    That just like him, they had the getting the fuck out of here and going home urge up their arses too. He knew that just like him, they dreamed of being able to stop their wider consciousness from jumping into a matter body and shutting up mucking shop. In a gotten horribly existentially lost and spooked by existential fear, memory based personality. That is stuck inside of a heavy as lead flesh body that has to be fed and watered and toileted and attended to, non mucking stop. They dreamed like Jonathon Livingstone seagull did, that one day the lost its gills long ago human organism would see the truth behind seeing it both ways, and identify with being both the inner and the outer stuff of consciousness, and finally find peace of individual and collective mind, and communal harmony. He looked anything but it, but he was still a bit of a heaven on Earth-er, bungalow Max was. He could be cynically dark about his species and its chances to go another ten to fifty years on this spinning to God know’s where rock, like anyone can, but he was simultaneously and dualistically acutely aware of his brethen’s divinely unlimited, mystical potential.

    ‘I am fucked if I know Maxie! I’m not  fucking Einstein! Or Nizza whot’shisname! I’m just a fucking Victorian! How would I know what the little prick did to stave off the lsd?’ the kid crowed.

    ‘Watch it Brando! It’s hell important whom you say that y’are punk! It’s hell important what you stick on the end of y’sense of I am, and if y’gunna say that y’just a fucking Victorian, then y’won’t win the game of existential and mystical life,’ the boss told him.

    ‘Well who in the fuck am I then Max?’

    ‘I don’t know kid! How in the fuck would I know? I can only tell y’a bit about what y’not, and you are not a Victorian. You are not even a human. You can’t know who you are anyway. You can’t stand outside of who you really are and point to whatever it is and say that is who I am. That just doesn’t make sense, because the subject-object nexus is annihilated by the mystical truth. You can never know who you really are, you can only be who you really are, and when y’do return to y’natural state, y’won’t even need the sense of I am. So they say, you’ll be nothing, and you’ll be everything at the same time. You’ll be what’s beyond that too, and it is in your destiny to go beyond being and non being.

    All I know now is that despite being a Victorian in appearance, you are still made out of the same original mystical source Light as I am, and every other fucker is, and the world and the universe and what is beyond the universe are. All names and shapes are but mind made and projected holographic images placed on top of who each and every one of us really is as Light, at Source.’

    ‘Well I can handle that boss! Jesus! I can gel with that. It’s better than being called a weirdo cunt! Where d’y’get all of this shit from Maxie?’

    ‘A little Guru told me about it punk.’

    ‘Nizza whot’shisname?’

    ‘Eyep! He told me to wake up the inner Guru inside. It’s good to have a Guru kid! Someone to insight y’about what third dimensional life is really all about, and to instruct y’about the correct usage of the mind’s workings, and to show y’ how to do the work inside so that y’can get y’arse back into the Light. We’ve all got our inner Guru Brando. The Sadguru, the Indians call that infinitely and eternally divine bugger. You’ve got a good Sadguru mate, and so’s y’mum,’ the boss asserted.

     ‘Obey and use y’Sadguru punk! Because if you want to avoid re run fuck ups and crisis times in y’life, then you have to. Do not ignore its spirit’s desire to blow the ultraviolent matrix here to smithereens, with its eternal love Light. Don’t run around like a dickhead after material shit that can never make you mystically happy. Sit in the descriptionless sense of I am, and the Sadguru will set up something that is so flipping freewheeling nice for y’, that you’ll be pissing y’pants with ecstacy every sixty minutes.’

    ‘That good…huh….Maxie?’

    ‘Yeah kid! That good! Absolute liberty and absolute truth and all that is really real, that’s what y’get. Or rather, that’s what gets you. It’s matrix fucked up the arse and blown apart time, and the existential juices and cream sploot! All over y’mystical face my son! How to get off the wheel of karma then, and get some of the beloved mystical back into y’so far rotten life, then? Do not run thru y’mindset, I am on the wheel of karma in the first place. Do not run I am human, or I am a body mind machine person thing. Run I am existentially nothing and simple grass roots spirit instead. It’s simple kid! It’s not hard to reprogramme a mind that has been idoctrinated with shitloads of third dimensional conceptualised language crap,’ the boss asserted.

    ‘ You just fuck with y’I am this or that’s and keep fucking the false conceptual this and that’s off, and y’keep dropping back to y’primal I am! Where you are pure as pure, made out of love and Light, absolutely uninvolved in a holographically trumpted up dualistic fight between good and evil, and nothing can even touch you, let alone violate or kill y’. The I am sense is the mind’s mouse Brando, and whatever conceptualisation box that describes the human condition that you move it to and click on, then that’s the show that you will get. Move it to the I am all fucked up box and click it, and you’ll be all fucked up. Move it to the ancestral I am made out of inner-outer love and Light box and click it, and y’problems will start dissolving. So I’ll tell y’this mystical secret punk, and I want y’to remember it for the rest of y’life!’ the mystical bungalow related.

    By kerrist! There’s some far out and way out and out there characters way out west allright, and the old dude on the hill was most certainly one of them; Brandon surmised to himself, as the boss’s gob opened up like the blow hole of the century again. To tell the absolute truth, the Vic kid was experiencing the odd slight pang of regret that he had challenged his boss to smoke a bit of pot again. Jesus! Buddha as well. It was like the bastard had turned into an old tape recorder, or something. Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah! He was going. Just like every other bitch and prick that the young Vic knew.

    ‘Destroy all y’concepts laddie!’ the old cunt of a west coaster yelled at the sand-dunes, more than at the young Vic. ‘They are nought but dollops of an all over thick shaving cream, placed over the face of true reality. Negate the entire mega useless fucking bunch of them! They all spring from the four main conceptual wells of the psyche, being I am fear, I am pain, I am desire and I am pleasure, and source from human language. Which is but an invention of the mindtool, which mixes literally thousands of other degrading limitation concepts with the four main ones. It is all abstraction placed over true reality however, which creates a fucked up person, such as abound in our day and age, and y’have to top all concepts and go beyond them to really get ahead in the real life stakes.

    Exterminate!….Exterminate!…..Exterminate!….Exterminate all of y’fucking concepts Brando!’ bungalow Max sounded off, sounding just like a bloody Dalec too.

    The kid nodded obligingly, because he felt like exterminating somebody. But the boss just kept talking, like bosses do. When their mystical tongues have been considerably loosened up by a drug brewed up in the genital organs of a female plant.

    ‘Because who you really are mate is absolutely conceptless, absolutely indescribable, amazingly inconceivable, unbelievably unknowable and incredibly timeless. It is spaceless, matterless, energyless, a dimensionless point and formless, birthless and deathless, and it is beyond the stupid and cheating, existentially rip y’off blind egoised mind, and its shitpile of made up fucking words,’ he asserted.

    ‘It, who you really are, is even beyond the Goddesses and Gods. Therefore, to find the real you as the spot on the dot of the exact here and now, abandon the false I am the inner third dimensional mindset. Because it couldn’t get a syphylitic flea a ride to the corner shop, on a Gray’s secondhand flying saucer. Because it is a totally flawed mindset, which is programmed only to re run extreme ignorance and extreme violence. Instead, be smart beyond all measure Brando, and wholeheartedly embrace the I am the inner and the outer, fifth dimensional mindset. Like I am humbly doing, as best I can. Because it is far more attuned to your natural mystical state, where ego is not necessary, nor permitted.’

    ‘Whot! What did y’say boss?’ the kid asked him. ‘Come again! Egoless? Oh come on Maxie! Get real boss! How in the fuck would I last even sixty seconds on a dirty shit of a rock like this one, if I didn’t have an ego? Jesus! I’d be taken for a ride before I could get a half decent fart out!’

    ‘There are no egos Brando! Don’t you get it? Can’t you see it? The world is but a dream and it is not real! It’s fake to its core. Look closely thru the sense of pure I am, and you’ll see what the Guru sees. Holographic images blasted out by a mind only live a fake and illusory single life in a dreaming state, in which they appear to have free will. Waves of consciousness stream thru a mindtool, and play up on the surface of an endless ocean of a fluiditic consciousness, and imagine that they are physical independents in a physical world. Why and how?

    Because they can’t stop that process whereby the wider consciousness jumps into a matter body and totally shuts up fucking shop, and because of the potency of the mindtool drug to nullify all pre birth astral memories, and its incredible ability to trick a soul that has an unstoppable craving for sensory experience into believing that its projected holographic junk that we call matter, is actually solid and real. Big fucking deal! Kerrist! Life be in it! Bullshit!’ spat Max at the sand-dunes.

    ‘3D body burden life is a rip off and a tricky fucking Dicky mind con from the very start!’ he roared at the light blue sky, and the woolpack clouds hanging about on the horizon. ‘It is flawed long before y’leave y’good mum’s magnificent fucking womb and vagina behind! Who in their right mind would volunteer for seventy odd years of body burdened up arse wiping in a dump of a dysfunctional dimension like this one? I fucken wouldn’t! I know that!’

    The bungalow was into his rave like he was some sort of a prophet on a sandhill, and getting a sermon’s worth the punk was. The boss could have been a scientologist, or a Jehovah’s Witness, or a Catholic, a Buddhist or Jewish, but he wasn’t. He could have been a Muslim, or a Methodist, or belonged to any number of other groups who worshiped a God, or Gods, but he wasn’t. He was a disciple of Nizza whot’shisname, he was.

    Still a bit mad he was too, that he had remained so existentially duped and so chronically downloaded in consciousness for so long, on a planet where just about everybody apart from the odd Guru was existentially duped and chronically downloaded in consciousness. That was the ol’ bungalow, in a nutshell. Some dirty souls may get off on falling down the grace ladder into a dirty dimension and a make believe hell hole, but he wasn’t one of them.

    ‘The evil here is impure ignorance!’ he fired off, his face as red as Russia used to be. ‘It exists only because baby soul lunatics cannot get that we are collectively the matter. Matter is just downloaded astral fluid, and it is about as real as a shit in a bucket. At Source, as implosion-explosion stuff, each and every one of us is all of the matter, everywhere. Because we all come from the same fluid ocean of the One consciousness, to play as little surface waves. Matter is not separate from who we really are, it is holographically inclusive in it, and our collective job is to raise it up into a higher consciousness level. Ignorants though think that it is separate from them, and that they have some sort of divine right to kill it, non stop. Like they are supernaturally licensed to wipe out some pre judged bad creations, or something.’

    A wrath of a grin such as the Vic kid had never seen, came onto the boss’s face. For a moment the Collingwood roosterhead really felt like he was talking to a descendant of Moses, or Johnny the baptist, or Dr Phil, or Joyce. Or some other psychologically knowledgable prophet type, like the afforementioned.

    ‘Woe to them my son!’ howled the boss. ‘For their baby soul stupidity shall cost them dearly, and they will all be paying off their ultra violent karmas for a long, long, long time to come. With a little bit of luck however mate, slightly evolved souls like you and I, and the rest of the real peace loving crew here, if we use our brains right, may even fly the multidimensional cosmic coup. Long before God even opens the chookhouse door for those other ultraviolent motherfuckers.’

   ‘I fucking hope so Maxie!’ the kid fired back at him. ‘Jesus! How many fucking wars can a species have on one planet? How much hate and ultraviolence can y’stuff into one historical period? If humans don’t hold the record for that in this galaxy, I’ll change me name to fucking Rupert! Or Eddie! Maybe even I’ll end up another Buffalo Bill, and I’ll make up a skin dress out of the ex presidents.’

    ‘Yeah Brando! The angelic descends into a beastly body and is drugged into a rigid I am the inner only consciousness, and forgets absolutely that it is really the angelic inner and outer gear, and so it goes on a beastly mega binge. It unleasches holographic horrors that no minds before it have ever been able to dream up, because nuclear bombs can do a lot more damage than bows and arrows, and swords and Sopwith Camels. Not exactly a Royal Show time planet that we showed up on! Hey?

    More like getting y’fucking arse kicked around non stop in a shitstorm called duality, being a consciousness that is split into light and dark. Or very high vibrational mystical stuff, and very very very dense vibrational egoised mindshit, where hatred in action becomes violence and war. Pretty often too. It’s sad! So sad! The fascination for darkness is such a waste of good human energy! I am better than you is a killer conceptualised virus. But it would be ignorant folly to ignore the endless dynamite potential that is invested in the human spirit. Wise are those who work with their spirits, and in for a shit of a time sooner or later when their karma catches up with them, are those who don’t,’ said the prophet on the hill.

    ‘What does the spirit want?’ he asked the sand-dunes. ‘It wants full access to this dimension. It wants beings here to reprogramme their minds and give it the ol’ thumbs up, so that it can beam the Light into this superdense level, and play with it. Myself! From where I take my stand, I do not think that the human spirit will rest, until it has heaven on Earth going as a happening thing on this rock. It sounds impossible, and it fucking looks impossible too. But then again the spirit can do anything, because it is power that is beyond matter, energy, space, time and dimension. It can do absolutely anything at all, the ol’ spirit can!’ The boss added.

    ‘All that the people have to do, is to switch their mindsets from the 3D I am the inner only one, to the 5D I am inner and outer one. They’ve got to jack off the body identity, get it on with the real holographic truth, and give over to their beloved spirit, and let it impersonally run the show. Instead of busting their guts by trying to let the fucking ego personality run it through mentations and actions. Or crack up, trying to. That’s what too many do these days, hey kid? Y’good mum, it’s her time for that now Brando. Y’know? But she’ll be allright just up the track a bit, I reckon. She’s a good lass! Even if she is a Victorian.’

    ‘Yeah! Right on boss!’ the kid answered him. Knowing full well that the boss was dreaming, and that humans would never give up on seeing themselves as animalised lumps of meat only. Sometimes one has to humour the boss, and for the Brandon it was just one of those times. 

   

    The energy quotient in the THC had sure got the ol’ bungalow going, it had. It hadn’t knocked him out. It had actually woken him up a bit to his deep stuff, and like a common drunk, he was shooting his big booming big boomer of a west coast mouth off. The kid was listening, because there was nothing else that he could do. His boss had hogged the limelight again, but both of their arses were where he’d wanted them to be. He could therefore only claim a partial victory for his Plan X, and with some anxiety, he realised that he didn’t have a plan Y as back up. Yet.

    How do you shut the fucking boss up, and get him or her to stop dribbling inane shit at y’then? If the workers knew how to do that, then they’d be ruling the world. They don’t however, and neither did the roosterhead. As a matter of fact, he was the supreme ruler of absolutely nothing. He was holographically speaking, king of sweet fuck all. Like all men really are.

    ‘Until a human wave dies and subsides back into the ocean, and realises that it is still the endless ocean of pure fluiditic consciousness, and that is was all holographic bullshit what went on up on the surface, then there will be no peace. Not within a restless mindtool!’ Max affirmed. ‘Life which was orchestrated via usage of a misprogrammed mind tool, where the subject would stick any cock and bull concept going on the end of its I am sense, for one little drop of security to kill fear and pain with, and yet never find that sort of inner peace, is a fucking turdy drag! Because all security is in the I am sense alone, and there is none in what the mind imagines with its holographically projected this and that conceptual descriptions.’

    ‘That rings a bit of a bell boss! I can understand that, and identify with it. I’ve lived with and been surrounded by misprogramming all of m’life!’ Brandon roared. ‘Fuck me! I know dysfunctionality well. I inherited it and people are strange. Fuck! They’re fucking weird, if y’want the whole truth. One’s own mind can also be strange and weird, even to oneself. Tell me about it boss! I am young but I am already old, because the world is what it is these days. Jesus! I am the last of the roosterheads Maxie and the times Mr Dylan, they didn’t change fucking enough. They just re ran the same stupid war and a little peace, then more war show, and they’re still re running it. So that the military and the Mike Moore types have got plenty of work! Even if the common slob out on the street hasn’t,’ the kid blurted out. Like he’d been wanting to blurt it out, and get all of that off his chest, for a long long long time.

    ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!….I knew that y’would understand kid. Y’re a tunnel traveller and a mystic floater just like me laddie! On the fringes of the herd fuckers like you and I have gotta stick together and bounce the ol’ insights around. Y’know? We’re not afraid of the real truth, just because it will decapitate us from our egos before death does that to us anyway. Are we superpunk?’ said the host as he grinned impishly at his guest, and his guest grinned equally impilishly back at him.

    ‘So the intuitional and apperceptual true reality here then Brando is that there is only ever the One Real life that is really going on, within which all of the so called single lives are going on in free wheeling mind made up holographically projected movies,’ the boss stated. Emphatically.

    ‘At y’dimensionless point of a Source Brando you are that One life, who has got horribly lost in the grace download from the lot into the little itty bit, and so are your friends and your enemies too. Exactly that. They are the sleeping and dreaming ultra downloaded One life, disguised and lost in a lost soul’s dream world, as a human being. They’re the implosion of an explosion that came out of the primal I am…being I am a shoreless ocean of consciousness. Who, as an ultra downloaded from that human being, is running a turd of and a very outdated 3D, I am strictly the inner, and the fearful and separated outer freaks me out programme, thru the mindtool.

    Which is hell, because you are denying to y’self who you really truthfully are as the inner and the outer and the beyond, where y’projection of a body mind machine person is sourcing from. You are not the projection though. You are the Source of it! You are not the wave, you are the fucking ocean! You put the sun and the stars and the moon up there, and then y’beamed into a human body which peers up at the universal sky and wonders how they fucking got there! What a joke! And you’re fucked totally and absolutely, until you wake up to it,’ sayeth the boss. 

    ‘You lost your real self, and now you have to find y’real self, because nobody else can. Not even God! That’s the way that it goes for all roosters and hens, truly rooly. Ask any Guru worth their salt Brando, and they’ll tell y’that. Crikey! That sort of data shit is common knowledge to those venerable buggers. It’s two plus two stuff. That the painter is in the picture in every point in the picture, they know! That if you cut around any named shape in the picture and pull it out, there’ll be the same common Light of the One life there behind its manifestation, they are aware. Every woefully ignorant mind that they encounter is a terrorist unto themselves and every other fucker too, yet all that they give them is their divine love, whether society has judged them good or bad, and that’s why they’re Gurus lad! God I love my Guru kid! How anybody could reach the level that he reached, and express in human language the quintessential essence of cosmic consciousness, I will never know. I’m fucked if I will mate!’

    ‘Y’re a bit of a Guru boss! Y’sound like one when y’off y’face, anyway Maxie.’

    ‘Bullshit Brando! I’m no fucking Guru! I’m just an old cunt who is finally starting to enjoy their dreaming, after a beastly motherfucking brute of a struggle with a wayward and over imaginative ego, that’s all. I grab insights and I pass them on to punks like you to do with them what you want, that’s all. Insight number one then motherfucker!

    It is a fucking calamity of monumental proportions to forget who you really are, and everybody who is walking the Earth who is not Guru, is absolutely the living proof of that. Such sadness, such sorrow, such suffering, and such existential bemusion and Earthly confusion and so much ultra ultra ultra violence. My God! What a fucking nightmare! Is the dualistic and split into light and dark, abominably programmed, third dimensional mindtool. What an insult to the word life, to call that conglomeration of infantile soul shit, life! Give me roaring up the tunnel like a skybird, or floating around all weightless and fancy fucking free like a skybird, any fucken day!’ roared the host.

    ‘Myself then, I am now declaring that I am absolutely nothing!’ he declared. ‘Because it is the inalienable right of each and every global citizen to be able to stick anything that they fucking want, onto the end of their primal I am concept. Including the concept of nothing, which is inclusive and not exclusive of the concept of everything. I am then punk, absolutely nothing but pure Light at source. Just like you are, and everybody else is, and that lump of crowshit over there is, and this tree giving us shade is, and the sky is, and women’s periods are. From out of the unseen nothing everything came, and into the unseen nothing everything will go back at death or demanifestation point, and so it is the unseen nothing which interests this one, these days,’ sayeth the boss.

    Of somethings. A speckling glow emanating from both of his pupils, as he deeply dreamed about getting the fuck out of his deep deep deep shit of dream world. This beloved Earth, that is. Where everybody eats a bowl of trouble inside the mind and outside of it too cereal for breakfast, every day of their gruelling bloody lives. 

    ‘One day this horrible and beautiful fucking bummer of an Earth movie will be over mate, and you and I will be out of this shit of a hologram and absolutely roaring up the tunnel, like a couple of ufos beaming in on the nipples of the mothership’s lusciously delicious tits. Ohhhhh!’ sighed the ol’ bungalow Max heavily. ‘Bring it on! Hey kid? Like me Guru says. There’s never so much life as after death, and in my case I don’t think that he’ll have any problems being proven correct. Because this body burden getting up in the morning and wiping arse business gives me the shits Brando! God it divinely sucks! It’s the lowest of the low, is solid body burden! It is such an existential and mystical slap in the astral face to be downloaded into the flesh and blood of a mere human being. In a solid nuthouse of a warped mind world, there’s not much joy for joy lovers in it. It’s terrible shit! Fucking terrible! Me Guru reckons that there’s a big payout for mere peace abiding endurance until the body conks out, but give me the astral fucking fluid consciousness waters, any fucking day! Me Guru couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of here anyway, and neither can I, and neither can a hell of a lot of other people. Some whom I know, and a fucking lot whom I don’t. I reckon that I’d put y’good mum on the former list too Brando!’

     ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ roared Brandon, who had been following bungalow Max’s most recent stoned rave, without too many serious problems. Unlike the sand-dunes, and Mr Sky, and Ms Earth. All who couldn’t understand a single word of what had so far been said. Quite possibly, like other entities out there might not understand and get it. Whatever it was that the boss was on about regarding the basic fact that one is already enlightened, because one is always and can never not be at one’s dimensionless point of a source, made out of Light. Just like everything else. That is.

   

    So for the rest of the day, the noble bungalow Max and the noble Brandon holographically and physically farted around. Like boys of all ages are very good at doing. They sat on the hill and chewed the fat some more, and had some lunch. They talked about the world and the universe and women and life, and all of the existentialism that was associated with knowing about the beloved tunnel, and the dreamy feel good floaty astral stuff. Max explained his Guru’s I am path a bit more to the roosterhead, and he pushed its holy worth some more, like he was prone to do.

    They talked as well about Collingwood and Perth and the rest of Brandon’s family, and they took a long circle walk around in the surrounding bush. Later on after that they sat on the hill again and had a coffee each, and a bit of a snooze too. At 18:00 hours Max declared that it was time to split, and they sorted out some stuff and packed up and locked up, and then they took off in the ute. It lumbered down Max’s sandy and hilly driveway like it was a cloaked Martian cybertank on silent running. The birds in the bush didn’t even hear it go, and neither did God.

    They were half way-ish up the bitumen road inbetween Northcliffe and Pemberton, when there was an incident. A bomb of a faded green car came flying around a dangerous hilly bend, like an out of control rocket, and almost ran Max off the road. Max swerved belligerently and pulled over into a picnic bay to catch his breath and slow his heart rate down, and he let out a barrage of expletives directed at someone whom he called; ‘Crazy Barry’. Brandon, who was likewise recovering from the shock of almost being wiped out, had heard about crazy Barry, and he’d seen him around town more than once.

    He was the sort who looked like someone had stuck some dirty great big firecrackers in both his dirty long scraggly red hair, and his dirty long and scraggly ruddish red beard, and lit them. In fact, the bastard looked like a dead ringer for one of the furry Freak brothers. Even from miles up the street, it was easy to tell from the beam coming out of crazy Barry’s eyes that he was a bit of a psycho, the kid reckoned. So when he had settled enough, he pumped the oracle next door to him for more imformation about the Barry dude, and the oracle was only too obliging.

    ‘He’s a fucking Tasmanian!’ bungalow Max spat at the inside of the windscreen, as he pulled his venerable ute back out onto the road again. “Can you believe that? He’s the original Tassie devil and the mongrel’s over here! But don’t get me wrong about Tasmanians Brando. Some of my oldest and best friends are Tasmanians, but crazy Barry is not one of them. Crazy Barry’s a fucking animal!’

    ‘An animal who is made out of mystical Light Maxie!’ quipped the roosterhead. ‘An animal who is sourcing directly from the One life!  According to y’Guru Nizza whot’shisname.’

    Bungalow Max grinned sideways at the kid’s specifics. His jaw looked like it was made out of cat leather, and the nipless and tuckless expression on his face was priceless. He was as happy as a pig is rolling in the proverbial muddy shit, that the kid was on the ball regarding crazy Barry’s true identity.

    ‘He may be made out of Light Brando, at primal Source,’ he said calmly. ‘The maya matter illusion here has however done his mindtool in well and truly, and now he’s got pure liquid shit inbetween his ears, and he junkie rides his death instinct up and down this road. Other ones too. He’ll drink, smoke, snort, pop or shoot up whatever is going, he screams his existential hatred out at the full moon or underneath people’s kitchen windows, and around the full moon he’s deadly dangerous. Because he gets in his car and drives like that!’

    ‘Can’t the cops do anything about him Max?’

    ‘Oh look! Everyone within a hundred k’s has had a word to officer Bruce about fucken Barry! Including myself. Bruce’ll be hearing all about this too tomorrow night, when I go to the pub. The problem is that they can never seem to catch the animal in the act,’ bungalow Max related. ‘They’ve arrested him for being drunk around town, and another night they got him parked out front of his shack in his bush driveway, but he was more out of the car than he was in it. According to Bruce, his driver’s door was wide open and his left foot was all tangled up in his seatbelt, and his arse was squirming on the ground, and he was screaming out rank obscenities at the universe. Tassie devil like. How’s the form on the prick laddie?’

    ‘Oh solid boss! Solid! As solid as all fuck, from the sounds of it.’

    ‘Yeah!’ bungalow drawled back at him. ‘It sure is! Anyway, they stood over him with torches, and they reckon that he yowled non stop for five minutes, and then he shut up and went real quiet and nervy, and asked them if they were either Martians or Venusians. All that they could do him for was for disturbing the peace, as all that they had was a nearby neighbour’s complaint that he’d been screaming his guts out underneath their side window. Of course he was light years over the limit, but they couldn’t prove that he’d actually driven the car. The motor was cool by the time that they’d got there, because it’s forty five minutes from the station to crazy Barry’s bush dive.’

    ‘He sounds like a right case and a half boss!’

    ‘He is Brando! He is! He’s fucking crazy Barry, and his name says it all. One day someone is gunna snot the prick, good and proper too. Kerrist! It might even be me, if he comes within range.’

    ‘Oh get off it Maxie! Y’wouldn’t perpertrate an act of violence. Y’not the sort! You’re a mystical pussy boss! Everybody knows that! Even God.’

    ‘Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t a fucking mystical pussy though kid!’ bungalow exploded back at him.

    ‘Y’know what I mean?’ he roared. ‘Sometimes I wish that I could be the opposite, and sort a shithead or two out. For their good, as much as mine. Because shitheads plumb rile me! You know? Like having a mystical sword that you could just slice rankly dumb, super selfish, ignorant shit for brains heads off at will with, would be nice. I mean, how would you like a shot at ripping crazy Barry’s ignorant and stupidly inconsiderate head off his shoulders, and shoving it up his shitty arse? Because he almost ended your existential shit of a 3D life prematurely punk, as well as mine.’

    ‘Yeah boss! I know what y’mean. He’ll be in trouble if he comes near me too. I’ll make Tassie fucking hamburgers out of the sicko psycho prick!’ Brandon snorted.

    ‘Hur hur hur!’ gurgled bungalow, as he eased the ute around yet another stiffish corner, which was surrounded on both sides by a relatively thick karri forest. Digging the kid’s company, was the old west coast boy. Digging the old boy’s company, was the young Vic lad. Like Batman and Robin going back to the bat cave after another successful existential mission to de activate evil, they were. Confident that crazy Barry’s days were numbered by his karma, was the boss. Confident that the days of all of the Earth’s crazy evil types were numbered by their karmas, he seemed to be. Along for the ride and enjoying the chat, was the kid. Not so confident that humans would stop killing each other, was he.

    Fifty odd years of his Earth sentence he had to go apparently, whilst the driver beside him had pupportedly less than twenty. If you do the crime of absolutely forgetting who you really are, then you do the time associatied with rectifying that, and both of these dudes, one young and one old; they knew that allright. They were in a crazy Barry zone and the proof of that could come around any corner at them again, at any time. Such is life.

 

   

   

   

 

 

   

 

    Meanwhile, further on back down the road which they had just traversed, crazy Barry was closing in on the little village of Northcliffe. He was doing 77 miles per hour on the  strip, he was.

    ‘Arrggghhhhh! Arrrgggghhhhhhhhhh! Fucking cunt of an arsehole of a fucking cunt fucking prick of a fucking cunt of a motherfucker of a world!’ he gut screamed out of his driver’s side window, as his heap of shit little motor thundered down the wrong side of the road. He was now out of the bends and in a long straight, and he could werewolf see for miles in front of him. He was disappointed too, because there wasn’t a single other car on the road to play chicken with.

    ‘Arrggghhhhhhhhhh!…Fu..u..uck!…Horrible stinking fucking cunt of a fucking motherfucking prick of a planet!’ he screamed again, as he deliberately started zig zagging back and forth across strips of white line. The codeine, piss, ice, pot and other substances in him, just about popping his lightstorming and rage filled eyeballs out. He was ultra angry with this fair holographic universe that he was physically dwelling in, he was.

    His face looked like a whole tribe of Apache Indians had rightly just recently massacred it. His long hair and long beard looked like he’d met several demons and danced the electric tango with them in his previous lot of dreaming, the previous night. His anger and hatred for the One life that had downloaded him down the grace ladder, and into an absolutely fucked up little itty bit, in a world full of fear and pain, was absolutely beaming out of his eyeballs. Behind which, his own self-hatred of the I am limitation concept within his distorted and dysfunctional mind, knew no limits.

    He was one hundred percent human, he was, and his chemically overdosed mind was operating off one hundred percent third dimensional programming. There was no light at all in his life, so he misguidedly thought. There was only darkness and pain and shit and chaos, and a perceived ultra exteme lack of love coming his way. It was as if he had no viable future, and more like he was being existentially tortured and teased by the force of the bullshit in his own mindtool, it was. The being had absolutely no idea, like Max and Brandon now did, that he was actually at his primal source, made out of mystical love and Light. Apparently. According to Max’s Guru anyway.

    Like so many within the variations within his type of being, crazy Barry had neglected to cotton onto the fact that at the same time as the One life had dropped him down the grace ladder and into the lower dimensional holographic matter shits, so that his spirit would be challenged beyond belief to stay attuned to the Light, it was also still looking after him. 24/7 too. It was still apparently, via the primal I am, an absolutely impersonal endless ocean of pure fluiditic consciousness that would welcome him back into its unconditional love and Light zone, anytime of the day or night. No worries! According to the Max’s Guru, anyway.

    Once he crazy Barry had done the work that only he could do that is, and thrown off the yoke that was his adopted super ignorant and shit for brains 3D programmed mind, and realised that he was actually always the ocean of consciousness that came out of the Light. He just couldn’t get it together though that only in his soul’s holographic dreaming was he ever ‘really’ the ultra mystically estranged, fear fulled, ultra angry as all hell, non stop desiring and absolutely chock full of pain, and not getting much existential or physical pleasure, except when self administered; wave of a bodymind machine of a human being. Yes! There can be no lies in this fiction citizen.

    Crazy Barry was a bit of a wanker, who had to knock the ol’ snake on the head now and again, and as well, he was wanking his mindtool for all that it was worth. He was flogging the thing senseless, in a back door attempt to get some recognition, attention and love, and to be hailed as a somebody. Or a person of significance. He was just like a lot of other pricks and bitches are on the Earth right now, particularly those that are on reality tv, which is ego tripper’s ice. Just like most of them, he lacked the urge to be self responsible and self investigative, and he blamed beings in or the outer set up for his mindtool’s poor poor poor me, I am a victim of existential circumstances and a problem child, mindset.

    He had the earnestness of a wonky wheeled shopping trolley that cannot find its way back to the shopping trolley home, unless someone else pushes it. He could not sus out that if he simply reprogrammed his mindtool and stopped wanking it with gross imaginations, that were all based on conceptual and alphabetically abstract false premises, as well as being negative attention seeking disasters, then the existential and mystical home would simply draw him back in, without any effort on his part. Apparently.

    Crazy Barry had no path to enlightenment, like the ultra fortunate bungalow Max did. He had never heard of Nisargadatta whot’shisname, and would not have had the interest to pursue his insights, or the capacity to understand them even if he did. He was just another lost and super angry baby soul, whose mystical intelligence level wasn’t that great. He was hell on a pair of legs that were in a motor car, and his mind was like a bulging and too full septic tank with the lid taken off it.

    Some humans with minds like that get to be the so called supreme leader of entire nations. Tribes that number in their millions, and even billions, they supposedly govern, and don’t rip off. So that they and their cut throat mob can live high on the hog at the top of the human pecking and material orders, and play with animalised power. Like Orwell’s pigs did. For a wee while, before the farmer came back and made bacon out of them, anyway. Crazy Barry was definitely no leader however. He was far from that, and he had a dirty grat big lump of bacon inbetween his filthy dirty wax fulled ears, he did.

    He was a common foot slog soldier, and he already had three astral bullets in his head. He was already zombie material, on a planet absolutely chock full of that resource. As much as it is chock full of characters who will eventually become enlightened.

    Unless that is, that they dream a nightmare of a person up, in a collective souls’ nightmare of a dreaming hologram, and then beam their entire wider consciousness into their projected 3D body front up, courtesy of a mindtool. Like crazy Barry and about seven to eight billion other so called humans had, and have done.

    For humans, Max’s Guru knew and now so did Max, soul cyber space is an apparent physical reality, that consciousness wise, is appallingly dualistically based. It’s blood and guts, and love and hate, and a shit load of war and the odd dob of peace re run until death, and it sucks. As he roared along the road, crazy Barry’s guts and his vile biled up hate and his longing for death, were all still coming out of his anti-majestic throat. He had endless pain down there down in that tube, and just like Forrest Gump did, he wanted the world to know about it. Otherwise, who would know about his personal problems with living in the 2000’s? If no one heard him, then how could they come to push his lonely and hard done by turned upside down and inside out soul, back to the wonky wheeled shopping trolley home?

    ‘Arrrrrghhhhhhhh!’ the truly rotten apple of a totally estranged Tasmanian screamed again, as he rounded a sharp right corner and tore up Richardson road. Runaway bullet like. Away from Northcliffe he was going now, and a couple of Northcliffians who were out in their front yards drinking piss, were rather happy about that.

    ‘Arrggggghhhhh!’ he screamed out his belly and sick in the heart chakra pain yet again. As the beginnings of a near full moon rose in front of his blood soaked and bespeckled werewolf’s eyes. Mistaking its gravitational pull to be the dirty rotten and hated, drop y’in the shit One life, trying to draw him back into its Self. Or into the I am existentially nothing and I am an annihilated ego and a I am a nobody conceptualisation, the Barry critter started yowling and howling again. Like a machine gun on automatic, he screamed obscenities out of his window. In a voice that sounded like it had been taped coming out of a Daleck’s arse, and played backwards at fast speed, too.

    ‘Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’ he screamed in that voice, at that wonderful shining rock that is the fair holographic moon. ‘Y’fucking cunt of a fucking cunt of a fucking cunt of a fucking prick of a fucking thing! I hate y! I hate y’! I hate y’! Get away from me! Leave me alone y’motherfucking cunt fucking prick of a fucking thing!’ he spat. Before he started howling like a Steppenwolf type.

    ‘Owrooooooo! Owrooooooooooooooo!’ he howled out the side of his gob, Strop like. ‘Owwwwrrrrooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!’ he went, like a stuck record. ‘Woof! Woof! Woof!’ he barked out of the opened window.

    I am raw human pain and bemusion and existential anger and fear, and I hate that!

    That’s what this Tassie devil was playing with in his very unfertilised mindset. Jesus! Buddha too. What a Barry bummer crazy Barry was having! What a mucking disaster area on a disaster area of a planet, was the lad. Suicide on wheels, the bastard was.

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    On the very next Saturday, when not everyone upon the Earth was praying to some other mindtool’s imagined sky God, or imagining that a book written by mortal men was ‘God’s’ word, at bang on 10 am, little Mick and Jack picked their moment. They had had an absolute gutful of stupid adult prohibitions, set by adult hypocrites who flagrantly broke their own laws, and they had finally decided to do something about that.

    Their auntie Margie was hanging out the washing, and their uncle Woll was sprawled in his back yard chair and sunning his big Vic balls, and chatting with her, and studying the racing guide at the same time. Extraordinarily keen to get a few Saturday bets on at Flemington and Belmont Park was Woll.

    Brandon was still asleep and racing up the tunnel to God know’s where, and the girls were all occupied and out of sight and deep down dreaming of becoming enlightened fifth dimensional princesses again, and getting the muck out of this turd of a dickhead’s third dimension.

    Where lunatical idiot men, who came out of vaginas as little packages that  unfortunately grew up and made it to so called adulthood, perpertrate unbelievable horrors non stop. With their shit for brains, I am inner only and I am top cock in the pecking order, cock and bull, politically religious or psychopathic mindsets completely dominating them. The God or whatever is on my/our side crew, that is.

    So that they fight and war and violate and hurt and kill and live ultra violence. Often whilst raving on about this sky God or that; as they jostle and joust for the ascendancy vantage point in the human pecking order, 24/7. 365 days a year, and 364 days every leap year. Over a span of on average 70 years, that’s roughly 25,500 days that girls will have to put up with them before they die. Not a good situation for those ladies who aspire to be mysticalised princesses, or Earthbound ones who get their silver lined fanny’s waited on non stop, either.

    The Smith girls sitting at their bedrooms’ dressing tables and brushing their hairs, knew that allright. They may have been young Vic bitches, and Collingwood may have been a long long long away from them now, but they knew about that. Just like they knew about their horrible periods. That is was pretty hard to graduate to princess status of any type in a lunatically ultra violent man’s world, they were pretty cognizant of. 

   

    So, left absolutely to themselves, the twin halfcaste boys finally crossed the border into Maxland, and was it ever a sincerely serious relief for them to at long last break the oppressive rule of their elders? Yes, it most certainly was. Laws are made to be broken, and taboos are made to be smashed, and kids will do that rebel without a cause trip forever. It was like they had been born for the experience, and not since the Krakouer brothers had run around this pitch or that pitch for North Melbourne, had Australia, the land down under where men chunder and women do too, seen anything like it. There was absolutely no doubt about it. The heavy Vic armour was rolling, and a coup d’etat at Max’s bungalow was their objective. With their silver six guns out of their holsters and firmly clutched in their sweaty hands, and their plastic American spurs a whirling and a whistlin’ Dixie, the two little cowboys commenced their supremely divine mission.

    Fuck youse! Fuck y’s all! Fuck the fucking lot of y’s! Y’fucking lying hypocrites!

    Said their little wiggling rebel bums symbolically, as they looked over their shoulders one last time. Then they shot through the little gate and down the slippery path like road runners, straight into the depths of the spooky little forest. In a heart beat, they were 37 point five feet in there and gone for all money, but the gate refused to completely shut behind them. It mucking did. It was a dead give away to where the disobedient little buggers had got to too, it was.

 

    Like all of a sudden, the sun was gone. You couldn’t see any blue sky, and the mucking path! The mucking path was as slippery as all hell, because it had wet and moist and decaying leaf matter all over it. It was a miracle, considering the speed at which they had so far covered the mucking path, that the little buggers hadn’t already come a purler and gone halfcaste arse over halfcaste tit. Motionless now, they gazed around at their surrounding environment, and the spookiness of it all fully measured up to their expectations, it did. As a matter of fact, the special holographic effects were a bit too spooky, they were. Had the boys counted on that? Not really.

    Basically it was dank and dark and they could see muck all. Except thick tree stumps interspersed by a floor of dead and rotting leaves. Ganglions of thick vines and a profusely dense and alive solid block of green leaf matter,  were also dangling over their little heads. It was that kind of a real spooky place where one’s imagination could get the better of one pretty fast, and one could invent and conjure up a pretty ugly and a pretty frightening South Park boogie monster to go behind every tree, pretty quickly. They could.

    Would any of the boogie monsters step out from behind any of the trees and expose themselves, or maybe even chase them? That was the question that Mick and Jack now desired an answer to, and to tell the absolute truth, not having the answer to it had put the shits up them somewhat. Classically, they had the atomic freedom and the personal power that they had desired for so so so long, but the danger element inherent in it was freaking them out, it was. So they did the only thing that they could do, and what they had been trained by their dead mother to do, and broke into song. It was reflex stuff, but it gave them back the mental and emotional edge that they so desperately needed.

    ‘Micheal row the boat ashore….hallayloolah!…Micheal row the boat ashore…hallayloooooo…la…ahh!’ sung Jack.

    ‘Hallayloo…ooo…la…ahhh!’ reverberated little Mick solemnly. With the whites of his eyes scouring his surrounds, and just about popping out of his halfcaste eyeballs.

    Christ it’s dark in here! He was thinking.

    Then he grinned divinely and little boy mischeviously and smiled like he was Mighty Mouse, as a positive wave of a transformation came across his face. He transcended fear and turned it into ribald, adrenaline pumping excitement in a millisecond flat, the little bugger did. Have a strong wish to carry on, and go where no other little Mick and Jack had ever gone before.

    ‘Oh hit the road Jack!…and don’t y’come back no more more more more!’ he chorused, with a stiff finger to Jack to get his arse moving again.

    Jack remained deadset motionless however, and a stiffly solid and cheeky grin rolled across his face too. Like in a millisecond he had identified and absorbed Mick’s desire to conquer fear. Not only that, his little legs started pumping up and down a bit, like he was getting ready to be a Jack in the box, and he turned sideways to the path. He also reached for his wee willie and freed it.

    ‘Oh woman oh woman oh woman can’t y’see…that I need a fucking pee!’ he chorused, like he was on Broadway.

   ‘A fucking pee!’ echoed Mick, as he turned sideways too, and also reached for his tiny little dick. It didn’t take him long to get his circumcised wee willie out, because; ladies and gentlemen and others, there was absolutely muck all of it. In fact, it wasn’t much bigger than a grasshopper’s dick, though it was considerably larger than a politician’s. Male or female.

    With their legs going up and down like they were little frogs, and their bums wiggling back and forth like it was xmas time, two wee streams of yellow piss soon gushed forth from their circumcised wee willies. The parabolic arcs of their pisses too, were completely synchronised, and the angles of their dangles were spot on the same. There wasn’t a single degree’s difference between the two of them.

   ‘Oh hit the road Jack!…And don’t y’come back no more more more more!’ they chorused together. Their bodies moving, like Elvis’s body used to move. ‘Oh woman oh woman oh woman can’t y’see…that I need a fucking pee!…A fucking pee!’ They sung, absolutely perfectly in synch with one another.

    Having relieved themselves, they were about to resume their quest, when Jack noticed something of interest upon the ground. It was almost as long as a matchbox and was as fat as an adult human’s little finger, and it was an off yellowy white colour. It had little brown legs everywhere, and a scum of the Earth type of politician’s head on it, and it was curled up like it was sunning itself on Scarborough beach. On taxpayer funded money.

    It was a west coast witchety grub, and having been born and bred in Collingwood, neither of the boys had a clue what it was. Like a couple of young Attenboroughs though, they crouched right down until their little bums almost hit the ground, and visually they inspected the wee forest monster. Jack even picked up a little stiff twig stick, and he poked it some, he did. Every time that he did so, the stiff twig almost punctured the grub’s thinly gladwrapped skin, and it curled up some more. Or tried to.

    Like billions of humans, the witchety grub was absolutely super dreadfully lost. Like, it was totally in the wrong fucking dimension man, woman too; compared to where it should have been, that is. How it had come to be so helplessly exposed up on the surface of the ground floor of a rock hard planet’s spooky little forest, instead of being all snug and secure and cool under the ground in its home basement territory, where it could very slowly swim around, is another story. A story which shall not be told here, because like human politics, it’s too bloody boring. First dead slow one way, then dead slow the other, drop a load of nonsensical shit here, drop a load of nonsensical shit there and burrow on, sort of re run stuff.

    ‘That’s about the ugliest thing that I’ve ever seen, and it’s pretty bloody squishy!’ said Mick excitedly.

    ‘Yeah!’ Jack replied. ‘A jelly bean has got more bloody guts than this thing! Shall we see what it is made of?’

    ‘Yeahhh!’

    So Jack stuck the grub, and wouldn’t y’know it, a pus type yellowy whitish goo came out of it.

    ‘Ooo! Eyuk! Gross!’ they said together, and then without another word between them they turned in synch like a couple of pirouetting ballerinas, and took off. Varrroom like. Pretty quickly they were thru the rest of the spooky little forest, and their objective or what there was of it, loomed before them. Holding their guns in two hands in front of their faces, like cops do, they snuck bullet fast across Max’s yard, and then crouched down behind his ponderer’s log. Puppydog like.

    Bungalow actually had heard their earlier singing wafting out of the spooky forest, and so he’d known that they were invading, and he was thus seated citizen erect at his kitchen table. Pretending to be innocently reading the paper, the arsehole was. The little boys had seen him in their putsch for the log, and so one went tornado right and one went tornado left from the log, and they met on either side of the enemy’s welcoming, wide open back door. It was a straightforward politically correct attack on their part.

    All of a sudden like, their silver guns came freewheeling around the corner of Max’s opened back door, and they were aimed at the back of the seemingly innocent west coaster’s head, they were.

    ‘Get y’hands up y’arsehole! Or we’ll blow y’bloody head off!’ the boys yelled together.

    In a series of jerky stages, the victim slowly raised his arms up into the air. Like that kiwi cricket umpire who takes five and a half minutes to signal a six.

    ‘Don’t plug me boys! I’m just a poor sodbuster…I ain’t got no good looking woman, and I ain’t got no gold!’ he exclaimed.

    ‘Well what have y’got?’ they asked simultaneously.

    ‘Well what would interest y’s?’ their bungalow vic asked them.

    ‘Y’got any biscuits old man?’ the invading perps queried, simultaneously.

    ‘You’d be meaning those shortbread ones with the chocolate coating on the top sides of them, then? The ones that my ex missus tried to cure me of the addiction that I had of eating too many of the damn things.’ Said Max.

    ‘Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! That’s right! They’re the ones we mean!’ the boys fired back, as finally they lowered their guns and came full on into the kitchen. In fact, they pushed past the back of their host’s chair and went even further, and without any sort of an invite at all, they began to explore every room that the west coast arsehole had.

    ‘Hmmm!’ they went as they passed the Guru’s book on the coffee table in the lounge room. ‘Hmmm!’ they went, as they poked their noses into Max’s bedroom and discovered that that was where he kept his computer. Therefore, they computed, his boudoir was the nerve centre and the engine room of his funny little abode. Their landlord also had a blow up plastic alien Gray hanging off a wall near his PC, and they eyed that evil and cute looking bugger’s almond slitted eyes off a bit, before they retreated from there. They did.

    ‘Hmmm!’ they went, as they inspected his simple but effective dunny and bath area. Which was stuffed into a small corner behind his kitchen, like a lost cricket ball, which most of the six stitches had come out of.

   All in all however, the impression that they were getting about Max’s bungalow was that it was just a small house, and that really it wasn’t that special or interesting. It didn’t measure up to their expectations, at all. For a start, it did not have a flying saucer ready to take off up on its roof, and it didn’t have one parked out in the yard. The boys did not know that symbolically speaking, Max’s flying saucer was the black and gold book on his lounge room coffee table. They had no idea about that, because they were only little four year old guys, and their conceptual and apperceptual ranges weren’t that great. Yet. They had looked quickly at the picture of the old guy on the back of the book, but not much had registered in their minds. Apart from – Somebody’s boring old fart grandpop! Not the Hungry Caterpillar! Or the Low Down And Dirty Rotten Snake Of A Human. Not our sort of a book!

    There had been no need for them to ask any questions about the mystic’s magic book then, and they hadn’t. God for these guys was still in the ground and in the sky, and in everything and everybody else. He had not yet been grabbed by his divinity and shoved almost totally into a book written by some very wise men, and possibly the odd alien joker.

 

    Events however moved rapidly to short circuit any dissapointment that the boys had with Max’s bungalow, as Max showed them a huge pile of yellow sand that was around the other side of his wee house. It was next door to a pile of firewood that was made up out of sawn mill ends, which had actually been delivered by Josh McGoolie. As had the yellow sand. Although Max didn’t trust the McGoolie mindset, he was forced by circumstances to do business with them. If y’wanted anything carted in his area, then y’had to deal with the McGoolies, and that’s just the way that it was. All over his rotten, super selfish, super bound up in egosville, super greedy human filled, beautiful people filled beautiful planet, too.

    In the gate and dump the load and grab the cash or the cheque or whatever, was usually the way that the McGoolie’s worked. Some days they were like hell drivers, they had that many loads of this or that to deliver, and rarely did they hang around for anything that even slightly resembled chat. Some days their customers were lucky to get one mucking grunt out of them, and they were like beasts on parade as they strutted around their south west coast catwalk, they were.

    Underneath their big hats, about all that could be seen of them anyway was their stiff as stiff grins, and their severely firm and aloofly stiff dead horizontal lips, and just like McGoolies all over this wretchedly beautiful planet, they were take the money and run types. Max felt. They weren’t mucking charity workers, he reckoned. As a matter of fact, these days it seemed to cost a couple of hundred bucks just for them to drive in the gate. Then there was a 3500% mark up on the cost of the load, whatever it was. Plus a considerable mark up on their fuel and ditto for their labour, plus extras. Which could be anything from the bank manager’s anus scratching fee, to the costs of someone in their gang being treated for venereal disease of the body, and probably of the mind too.

    Life was getting the dollars and stuffing them into y’pocket! That’s what it was all about for those mucking McGoolies, that and procreation, the landlord reckoned. Inbetween, they either mucked with the God concept, or they didn’t, it seemed. The McGoolies however didn’t have a Guru. In fact they had absolutely no idea of the role of a Guru in inspiring the mystical success which could take one way beyond any God, or Goddess. Their entire focus was on more and more material success, and they were a bit of a doomed breed they were, the west coaster felt. Because it sure looked from ground zero that extinction was just up the track for them, and their kill for money and God glory, kill for money and God glory, kill for money and God glory kind.

    About the only thing that the McGoolies had in their favour according to Max, was that deep deep down, they were really a pack of motherfucker atheists. They were pretenders then, when it came to sincerely believing in a God of love and Light and compassionate sharing, who was designed for and destined to nurture any lower consciousness back into a higher and far more subtle one. In fact they were about as compassionate as concentration camp guards, and really they were just disguised gas on – gas off types. Their God was a God of wrath and war and annihilation. He was an I am better than you are, big big big bully of a sky boy. He was a you and the dimwit follow follow follow me crew, are divinely endorsed to get rid of that bad creation over there, so that we can grab what they’ve got, sort of a God.

    He was exactly the sort of God that every ultraviolent and ignorant moronic dickhead or female moron needs, in their war against sensuality, and their fear of and hate of being dropped down the grace ladder, so very very very far. So that in effect, they are fighting not for, but against the God of the One life. They spit in the One life’s ethereal face with their rankly gross ultraviolence, and they deny to their own spirits that the One life is all that is really and truly going on on this wretchedly beautiful rock. At least, that was the landlord’s take on it. Or, that was his view of their sort of human behaviour. Every tribe having more than its fair share of across the board crazy Barry and McGoolie types to deal with, that is.

    The McGoolie God then was the sort of supernatural supporter that every low low low grade baby soul upon the Earth required in their mighty handy, open the door any old time, let’s make war cupboard. He was pure wrathful destruction was their big big big bully boy, and he wasn’t into sharing out the material spoils equally, at all. He was into explosions and killing anybody and everybody, and if he had a divine book that could be interpreted 50,000 different ways, but still told y’who to kill, or who was gunna get killed and who wasn’t when a pupported judgement day cometh, then y’were in like Flynn. In the Kill Anybody and Everybody stakes. He was a pecking order, ego beast driven and a cave man throwback God, the McGoolie God. He was the sort that gives the real God a really bad name, and one that extinction will claim by the dirty ultraviolent balls and intolerably smelly clits, sooner or later. Max reckoned.

    Such so called supernatural supporter types abounded on his rotten bloody planet, the west coaster mused for a moment, as his benevolent chooks sounded off in the background. Frankly, it disgusted him that he was on a rock that was chock full of stupid stupid stupid McGoolie types, and he thought that it was a bloody despicable situation really. Because how in hell was a citizen supposed to get off on the existential exquisiteness inherent in sensualised human life, whilst being surrounded by stupid stupid stupid, killer McGoolie types? He didn’t know. Does anybody know anything really at all? Apart from the matrix buster Guru types, he mused some more.

   

    Max’s God however was a holographic programme that arose spontaneously as a manifested big bang universe, immediately that the I am sense was activated thru the mindtool. His God then wasn’t telling him to kill anybody. He was just pointing at the universe that he was maintaining thru the unconscious principle, and he was telling Max very simply, in a very clear and concise way;

    All of this holographic worlds without end shit, which is all you at your source fucking around with ethereal consciousness, is all  yours to play with. Y’fucker! Be nice to it all then and don’t kill anyone, including y’self, and you will inherit holograms that are a trillion trillion trillion times more fun to play with than this tremendously densely difficult, dualised one. Now bugger off and find a hellhole planet called Earth, download y’consciousness into the human form there, get y’self absolutely lost like witchety grubs do, and see how y’go. Now do remember punk! To remember who you really are as universal spirit, whilst playing with the human form there. Or anywhere else.

    Because you’ll have to answer to your own karma spawned by what thou doth do-est  upon this rock or that, and the denser that y’get, then the denser that you’ll stay. In fact, you could get horribly stuck in a very very very sticky web of desire and fear, and end up like fly bait for every dualistic spider world in this universe. So be wise punk! Be very very very wise, and do stay attuned to and aware of the One life of Light that spawned us both. Do this, no matter how dense that it gets, and all will go well with you. Don’t do it, and you could have an absolute shit of a scare the absolute shit out of y’time, until y’ re orientate and re programme y’self back to staying attuned to the Light. Which has spawned us both.

    Remember always then that you are universal spirit and never ever mind projected flesh, and your inherited dualistic troubles will turn into honeyed wine. Because sooner or later, in this soul spawned and mind projected life or that,  you’ll crack the holographic matrix here. You’ll split the Milky Way down the middle, like a wee fireball of pure Light is designed to do, and you’ll bust out and bugger off back into the beloved beyond. Where originally, from the Source, you came from. It is written my son that that will happen, so long as y’stay cool to, aware of, and serve the Light. Which is all that is really real, and an existential nowhere where souls really really really like to hang out. For unbelievably blissing themselves out purposes. Now go on! Be off with you fuckface!

    I’ve given y’enough clues! Fuck off and have a good play, you little big spirit you! Be a woman, or be a man, if y’want. Frankly, I don’t give a damn! Do them all and be an alien too, if y’want. I don’t care, I really and truly don’t. It is your fucking show, not mine! I’ll keep the heart pumping and the corn growing and send the maggots when you’ve finished with this body or that, but it is your job to explode y’divine love of the Real Self;  and then turn the mind back to face square on to the Light that spawned us both. It’s not mine Max!

    Jesus Christ! I’ve got enough to fucking do without saving any fucker! I am charged with being up every gene’s arse, and that’s no picnic, I’ll tell ya that. Buddha fuck me! What? Do they think that I am a super God or somebody, that I’ve got the mind made time to go around saving wayward souls. Who are deadset refusing to wake themselves up to their real existential reality. Fuck off! Do your own bloody work to break y’I am limitation pattern and cycle! That’s what I say to those buggers.

     The Milky Way isn’t a God save y’hologram Maxie! Don’t fall for that existential crap! Not if you want to get out of the sticky sticky sticky web of fear and desire, and blow the matrix here to smithereens. That sort of God is gunna save me thinking is for baby soul turkeys! On the contrary, this universe is a save y’self by finding your true self again, one. Live that and only that, and you’ll be ok. Bon voyage then Max! Have a good one punk! Find a good path back to the Light, and stick to it like supergloo baby.

    This is God! The big G Train programme! The holographic master of holographic masters! Over and out! C’ya when you are next dead Fred! Have a good one! I Am.The DNA circuit that is up every gene’s arse. Do they get a move on? They do when I get up them! I’ll be up you too Max, if y’snot anyone whilst having holographic adventures. I am the God of karma, I am. You do evil, and you’ll fucking answer to me sunshine! Now piss off y’cunt, and be good! Find the Light behind and beyond the existentialised I am door again son! That’s the game bungalow, and there is no other.

   

    Was what Max’s big big big sky boy was telling him, or had told him long ago, or whatever. A pretty direct talker, Max’s God was. Suddenly, like a perfectly built ding fountain sprung into life again, and remembering something else from his mind made past, the bungalow took the boys over to his shed. Laconicness on the west coast catwalk he was, as he did so. His intentions were to delay their morning tea for a while, however, had he known how deep that he was going to drop himself into the shit, by creating an almost permanent playground next door to his bungalow, he may have well reconsidered his next move. Then again, he probably wouldn’t have traded such an experience for the universe next door to this poxy one. Him still having a dualistic love it and hate it psyche, and all of that. Anyway, the truth is that he introduced the Middleton lads to five beat up old Tonka toys, that his own boys had long ago, just about flogged into the west coast dirt.

    Actually, a couple of them were still ok and still had all of their working parts working, whilst others didn’t even have all of their mucking wheels. But they were good for show pony value and would give the site a touch of authenticity and all of that, and in the instantaneous and simultaneous plan that hatched in the twin’s minds, they were worth their weight in east coast gold. Because they were gunna build a city, they were, and Max’s bungalow was gung ho’sville, it was. They had in their wee heads put abundant yellow sand opposite abundant wooden building material, and added machinery to it, and come up with a thriving metropolis, they had. It was Mick and Jack in wonderland gear, and why shouldn’t it have been when y’can play somewhere over the rainbow and not get shot at? Or blown up, by this dreadfully deceived baby soul lunatic with a septic tank for a mindset, or that idiotically ‘God’ mad stupid mob of them.

    Well the boys grabbed the working models and took off with them naturally, and Max grabbed an armful of the leftover Tonka showponies, and like Drake, Columbus and that ultra horny Vasco de Gama dude, they returned in triumph to the playground area. The boys were all buzzing, they were, including bungalow, who was just as excited as the twins when it came to the prospects of constructing a city. Because the sawn off bits of wood were just the shot for such an endeavour. Some of them were short fat fuckers and could be used as corner supports. Some of them were long fat fuckers and would be the main base supports of the century, they would. Others were long and wide and skinny, and were like pre fab wall and roof material, and they were the stuff of excellent right angle shapes and proportions. A bit like women are with curves of all angles, he thought.

    It was bungalow in wonderland as he put the showponies down, and he was grinning like he was the on site foreman, he was. Which he was soon to find out was a big mistake, and nothing but another delusion of grandeur on the part of his adult west coast ego. He had been graced with the beauty and the horror invested in the grace that had sent the young Vics to his sand and wood piles, to simply play in the finer and fairer sense of that word concept, and that hadn’t fully hit him yet. What’s that? That he was not the boss of the building show playtime zone, that is. The spirit of the project was running it, not him. No human runs anything really and the wider spirit is always the boss, is the lesson that he was currently getting. Who isn’t in this absolutely abominable and absolutely appalling, gorgeously beautiful, terrestrial hellhole?

    Because the young lads got into it pretty quickly, and their planning was rapid and swift as swift. Only, when the landlord heard what they were planning, he intervened like a constipated Stalin type. Stuck stiffly up into the air like a shortarse bronze statue with a head that no pigeon would dare shit on, he was.

   ‘Now hang on! Hang on! Hang on!’ he said in a booming metallic voice. With adult authority and this supposed higher wisdom born of experience dripping off him, like a mustard gas. ‘You should have the housing centre here! The shopping complex here, and the LAN centre here!’ he told them. With a lead heavy forefinger pointing here and there and deleniating where he reckoned that everything should go. A gas mask-ish expression was plastered all over his dominator’s gob too, so that he looked a lot older than a freshly dead man.

    Thought that he was the boss, the prick did. Promoted himself up the order to be number one without anybody else getting a say in it, he had. Just because the other buggers were so much smaller and younger than him, too. A true blue dualistic arsehole the west coast mystic was. First he was the noble good guy dishing out the entertainment, and then without even thinking about it, he went against his own grain and turned into an ego-ed up manupulator-dominator, and a control freak type. That is so commonly found in the 3D realm of the human beings and always has been, ever since man dropped the first ever walled in foul smelling fart, in the first ever cave. On this rotten and rottenly beautiful, lusciousless hell planet.

    ‘No way Max!’ the twins exclaimed simultaneously to the adult’s proposal. ‘Look y’dopey old bugger!’ they exploded in a perfectly synchronised duet at him. With their hands on their hips, their chests all pumped up, and identically indignant expressions on their robustly youthful Vic faces.

    ‘Mum or dad drop the kids off at the games, then they go off down the track to do their shopping,’ they told their host, rather firmly. ‘Hours later, they come back for the kids, but the kids are still happy playing games, so they go home and unload in peace - without having any of the little buggers around. Maybe they even get in a tension relieving quickie or a wank, who knows? Whatever, they nip back down to the centre and get the kids later on, like around tea time. Or even later. Crikey! They can even ring the pizza guy and send some grub and drink down to the centre and stretch out their time home alone to the max, if they want Max. Whatever!’ said the boys together.

    ‘Everybody’s happy, and it’s a win-win situation! Your plan isn’t Max. It’s an everybody bloody loses, disaster re run one! It’s just a recipe for long drive fatigue, lots of speeding fines and bagged dd convictions, lots of stress induced arguments, and lots of prangs. Maybe the odd carjacking, and the occasional hit and run as well,’ they explained. Simultaneously. In perfect synch with one another, so that the bungalow was getting this weird sort of Daleckian-Arcturian feedback in his getting pinged by the superior intelligence, ears.

    It was a bit like he was in a Dr Who episode or something, and it was rather Cisco kid and Pancho weird actually. Like the reality that he knew like he knew his skid marks on his jocks and across the board price rises, was being bent around some existential corner, that he couldn’t see around yet. It was the stuff of dreaming allright. Where sometimes one is really and truly standing upon the Earth, and sometimes one is not. One is curled up in one’s bed, dreaming one’s head off, and sometimes for the bungalow these 21st century days, it was hard to tell which dreaming was which. Especially after five hard slog years on the I am path and just about busting his guts, in a seemingly futile attempt to quieten his motor cycle of a super restless mind down. For good, and forever.

    What was weighing heavily on his mind currently however, was that he had had his trumpted up adult logic blown away by the utterly superb intelligence of a couple of four year old halfcaste punks, so that his old scone drooped somewhat momentarily. Before his I am path boomeranged on him again, that is. Like it now had a very good habit of doing, because he was steadfastly refusing to degrade gimself. Or to run with I am guilt, or I am shame, or I am remorse, or I am sorrow, or I am useless and worthless, or any of that other stupid human conceptual shit.

    So that mystically he lifted his head skywards and took in the very top leaves of some of the surrounding trees, noticing the superb angle of their dangles, and how much wind that they were enduring. The top leaves were his mystical ocean going sails, and whenever he wished to read or tune into or have a chat with the spirit of his I am path, that was always where the esteemed west coaster looked. Sometimes he heard a Voice coming from there too, he did. Was he mad? Not really. Not as much as creature features who invent stuff like atomic bombs, napalm, agent orange, anthrax, earthquake making machines, Ak 47’s and so forth, and use them non stop, so that they can be ‘powerful’ humans, are mad. Mystically speaking, that is.

   

    All are equal as points of Light! Not one is superior or inferior to any other as a point of Light, and I the spirit of the I am of the universal consciousness, am the only boss. There are no fucking others! There are just multitudes upon multitudes of dreamers. The job of the human then is not to be a boss my son! It is to find out who they really are as a point of Light, by surrendering absolutely to the spirit of the One life. Keep going bungalow! Perserverence furthers. Crawl towards the target millimetre by millimetre if you have to, and don’t try to be a boss y’fucker, because you’re just not cut out for it.

    Don’t be a fucking crazy Barry or a Soprano either! Because I’ve well and truly got enough of them. Just be! Who you really are Max. Just be! Without any attached conceptual description, inhibition or fear, blinding y’ to the spiritual and mystical realms. Play with the mystical and magical prime chemical called I am, and leave the rest of the holographic junk conceptualisation alone. For fuck’s sake! Fuck this I am the boss shit off will y’, and let my kids do what they fucking well want to do! Stay out of it! Let ’em build ten thousand opium dens and a hundred and forty four thousand brothels, if they want.

    Have and keep your mystical beingness outside of the body of torturous pain and devilish illusion, and stay neutral aloof to it all, and don’t give a fucking shit for what your mind’s imagined bloodthirsty and power mad ego wants, and all will go well with you fuckface! Now start again Max and re boot with pure I am! Come on! Hop to it

y’ cunt!

   

    Max Eaton, the noble and mystical savage of Eagle Rock road corner, smiled convincingly, as he saw all of the previous existential garb flash across his mindscreen. As if a lightning sms message made out of cerebral lightning, had been delivered from the tops of the trees. Humbly, like an old and lost angel who was still full of love and Light at source, but who was feeling the Earthly pinch of having to deal with and tolerate so much disgustingly aberrant human psychology and behaviour - on his part and on the part of everybody else, he bowed his getting balder and balder head. Albeit, to the top leaves of the surrounding trees. Which, because of a soft and light wind up there, were all almost out at right angles to their very venerable stem cells. From there the Voice had come he thought, and the west coast mystic deeply loved the Voice, he did.

    Moses had had his burning bush, which is the right of every lucky man. Or woman. Max’s fetish these days however was for the very tips of tree tops, where the oxygen that humans suck out of the air, is re released by the trees back into a considerably more friendly atmosphere.

    ‘I understand mate! I understand! All are dead equal as points of Light, and these little guys most certainly are something special as little light beings,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I apologise for the heavy handed ego slip up and the slide towards becoming a dickhead boss. It won’t happen again! I am nothing really! But love and Light, as everything else is. I understand. I understand!’ he mumbled softly softly like, to his beloved Voice.

    ‘What was that Max?’ the kids asked the mystical drunkard.

    ‘Oh nothing boys! Nothing!’ he answered, with a big broad grin on his face again. As if he was aware that to find oneself absolutely in the mystical mortal grace stakes, one periodically needs to be brought down an ultra slow in vibration peg or two. Or three. Or even heaps more. As apparently was the case with third dimensionals like himself, and Margie, and the rest of the life is a panic attack crew. Who apparently had to go down the grace ladder to a certain point below ground zero and wrestle with their black dogs, in a dimensional elevator, before they would start to go back up it again. To play once more on subdued black dog free levels. Which, he thought, being on his Guru’s I am path had enabled him to do. Well, sort of, anyway. Put it this way. He was quietly confident that he wasn’t gunna kill anyone in his current lifetime, and that he would reach death before becoming either a psycho or an assassin, or a ‘Liberal’ party member, or all three.

    ‘Well! Let’s get cracking boys!’ he said jovially, as he spat in his hands and rubbed them together. The kids followed suit, like aces follow kings. The bungalow grabbed a suitable bit of wood and dropped to his knees at the yellow sandpile. Furiously, he began to dig sand out and spread it around. The boys grabbed a still viable machine each, and on hands and knees they helped Max to spread and level the sand out.

    ‘Varroooommmm! Varrooommmmm!’ they went together, as they gave the Tonkas a right hell of a work out.

    ‘Varroooooooooooooooommmmm!’ went the host. Sounding like a Harley Dave, the west coaster was.

    By crikey! The landlord was getting his rocks off allright. He was enjoying being four again. Having some uninhibited fun play which was exclusive of the black dog woes of his own mind, and everybody else’s, was just the kind of therapy that he and every other adult of his kind needed. Jesus! Buddha too! It was saving his rottenly beautiful 21st century life, and the vibrations of being a child at play again were rendering him usunder. It was powerful stuff, like meditation was, he mused; from his very out there witnessing position.

    He was loving the raw energy and the uninhibited enthusiasm for life that was coming off the kids too, and he was a king amongst aces, in a very spiritual and a very mystical sandpit. Because it was all happening on the west coast as far as Max and the boys were concerned. There was plenty of nice and clean yellow sand to spread out and pack down, so that they would have some decent foundations with which to kick start their city off. There was absolutely no shortage of work to do; the biscuits and plastic cups topped full to the brim with delicious lime cordial were coming, and bonus of bonuses, they wouldn’t need to dig any sewers. Because no human shit would flow underneath of or out of their beautiful heaven on Earth city. Indeed, they were designing it to be the shit free zone of the millenium, they were. Howzat?

    Muck with a duck citizen! They had enough work in front of their faces to last them another bloody ten thousand years, and they had more building material en route, they did. None of them knew about it yet, however at a nearby shale pit, a noisy loader was busy dumping shale rock into the back of a McGoolie truck. A McGoolie was standing in the shade of a tree, and he was dragging on a thin crisp rolly cigarette. A cloud of absolutely scared shitless and tremendously terrified exhaled and dense as dense McGoolie smoke, was hanging above his head. The massive brute of a monster extracted the fag from out of his mouth, and underneath his big big big hat, a curl of an amused smile came upon his smouldering lips. Like a busted muscle shell taking a gulp of water in a filthy dirty river it was, so that he looked rather like Nasty Canasta reincarnated.

    Actually, if the existential truth be known, he was reminiscing about a recent incident in his life when two Japanese gentlemen had asked him and his brother for their autographs. He and his bro had just finished a heap of shovel work and unloaded a tray of shale without a break, when the two tourists had approached them and jabbered on excitedly for five minutes. One of them had handed over a shitload of Oz dollars to the other one, and then they’d hit the giants for their autographs.

    Funny little fucking blokes they were! Fuck knows what they were jabbering on about!

    Josh McGoolie thought in his inner man, as another billowing grey cloud of shale dust rose into the air above his big truck, and the loader did a quick reverse and then a quick forward and headed off rapidly. For yet another money making scoop of Earth rock.

    ‘Hurr! Hurr! Hurr!’ the Josh gurgled at the ground.

    Hero! What kind of a fucking name is that for a little runt of a bloke? He asked his inner man.

   

   

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    It was like something that planes land on when they touch down in Hong Kong, but no alien in her or his right mind would try to land their saucer on it. It was like the deck of an aircraft carrier that has been banished to the dark side of the moon, it was just that vast. It was a very long expanse without a ripple in it, and a very unhappy Victorian was looking down it at the still opened gate to Maxland’s spooky little forest. It was Woll’s big big big nose, it was.

    ‘Bloody little buggers!’ he nasal twanged at the ground. As like Daniel Boone’s mate Mingo, he pushed off thru the gate and picked up the trail. He hadn’t gone that far when his crocodile Woll senses picked up something of interest. Like a born again native tracker, a David whot’shisname type, the streak from the east and the old hood from the ’Wood crouched down. So that his skinny as all muck bum cheeks were just about touching the motley ground. He was looking at a gathering of lots and lots and lots of little bush ants around a still squirming witchety grub, that had had a stick stuck thru its guts. Like someone had thought that it was a vampire, or a werewolf, or an evil man or woman, or a politician, or something like that.

    Whatever, it was a pretty grissly crime scene, because the grub was being eaten to death at the tip of the runaway landscape that was his big Vic nose. Killing the squirming doomed grub slowly with their incessant love biting, the ants were.

    It was pretty obvious to crocodile Woll that the two little demons that he was after, had come the way that his unbelievably monstrous snoz was currently pointing. It was like looking out across ten football fields put together, but that wasn’t bothering the ol’ crocodile. Not at the moment. In fact, considerable extensions in the lengths of the hairs that were hanging out of the end of his cave like nostrils betrayed what was on his pissed off mind, and like a Viking on heat he de crouched himself and stood homo erectus. All ready to crocodile rock again, the unbelievably skinny east coast prick was.

    He wasn’t an Appollo or a Tarzan type of homo erectus, and he wouldn’t have got a game with the Collingwood rezies, or anybody else’s rezies either, but he was mucking homo erectus allright. Like a pole vaulter’s pole standing vertically upright in the middle of a spooky little forest, he looked. He was also schoolteacher mad as he took off again on the trail of absolute disobedience, wanton destruction and unbelievable cruelty, and he was in a veritable kick some little arse mood. He was as well, expecting to find a pretty annoyed, kid bugged, bungalow Max.

    Passing the landlord’s thinking and watching the thinking log however, he heard some raucously blended adult and child laughter. Which got him wondering allright, because it most certainly wasn’t what he had expected. A moment or two later, his big big big snoz snuck Stealth bomber like around the side of Max’s main rainwater tank, and his mongrel Vic beedy eyes took in a sight to behold, they did. Curiosity may have killed the innocent pussy, but it was tickling this guilty Victorian cat pink to the nth, it was. For there down on his knees in a pile of yellow sand pushing a two de wheeled and clapped out mucking Tonka toy along, was his possibly inbred west coast landlord.

    ‘This one’s blowing a bit of smoke! I think that its rings are shot! I’ll park the heap of shit over here and we’ll get Dr Shed and the mechanics to have a look at it later on. Ok boys?’ the mystic yelled super excitedly.

    ‘Ok Max! We’ll bring some bits of wood over for the foundations of the LAN centre!’ the boys yelled super excitedly back at him.

    ‘Are you gunna build that first, are y’s?’

    ‘Yeah!’

    ‘Ok! Anything that you say boys! We’ll knock a few foundations off and then we’d better have a smoko though, or we’ll have the union boss after us for doing too much, too fast. Ok?’

    ‘Righto Maxie! We don’t want to upset that fat fucking prick, do we?’

    ‘No boys! We’d don’t want any trouble. We’d better do the right thing then and sit down for a while and knock off some of me lime cordial, and some of me biscuits.’

    ‘They’d be those shortbread ones with the chocolate coating on their top sides then Max! The ones that y’ex missus tried to cure you of y’addiction of eating too many of them.’

    ‘Yeah yeah yeah boys! Those are the ones!’

    ‘Are you still addicted to them then Max?’

    ‘Yeah boys! I am still addicted to them. There isn’t a human on this spinning rock that isn’t addicted to something. Could be a God or a Goddess, could be a substance, could be a belief system or a way of economic thinking, or a particular political party. Or it could be an art form or a sport, or gambling or food or sex or admiring themselves in the mirror, or anything at all. Whatever it is, they’ll be hooked on it though.’

    ‘Y’old missus couldn’t fix y’up then Max?’

    ‘Oh she tried boys, she tried! She was the devil’s advocate in disguise and she did more than any missus really should have done, but alas, in the end it was all to no avail. She realised and I realised that I was the only one who could fix myself up. I look at it this way though you guys. I reckon that I got off pretty easy and that I am a damn lucky creature feature, because biscuits are pretty soft poison really. Unless you’re a 200 kilos plus fat slob and y’skin is lovingly stuck to y’lounge chair, and y’still stuffing them down y’fat throat, that is.’

    ‘They’d better be soft poison Max! Beware of all that makes you dependant! That’s what mum told us.’

    ‘That’s extremely good advice boys! It’s very Guru like actually. You’re mum was a very wise sheila.’

    ‘She was a Victorian princess amongst Victorian princesses! She was the guts and soul and the spirit of the working class in Collingwood, our mum was,’ the twins answered in perfect synch.

    ‘Oh right on! Right on! Right on boys!’ Max exploded. ‘My mum did the same thing in Bedford Park up in Perth. Whenever that the power went off, we used to get mum to stand out on the front lawn, and she practically lit up Shaftesbury Avenue from Walter Road to Beaufort Street, she did.’

   

     So the boys and bungalow Max babbled on in constant chatter about their building site and their mums and ex’s and addictions and what not, and it was pretty self evident to the evesdropping streak from the east that they were all having a really good time. In fact, it was hard for him to tell who in the gang was adult, and who was child. To the point that his big snoz turned back towards the house from whence he had just come, and words of considerable interest flooded into his skinny Victorian mind.

    House quiet! He thought. Then his head turned back around to the unbelievably noisy and spirited commotion going on on the other side of the rainwater tank.

    Bungalow noisy as all fucking  fuck! He thought, as again, as if to check his facts, his head swivelled back towards his rented premises. He couldn’t see it thru the spooky little forest, but he knew that it was there. On the other side of the afforementioned.

    House quiet!…Bungalow noisy as all fucking  fuck! He thought again.

    Then without another word in his head, he backtracked and turtle trotted back off across the yard. Something in the air around his head had sounded a de-bugled self interest retreat, and obediently, like an alien robot, he had responded. Thus he went past the ponderer’s log again, like a stretched out Tiny Tim tiptoeing thru the mucking tulips, and quite willingly he disappeared back into the spooky little forest. Like a streaky Victorian ghost on heat, he was. The east coast scumbag had decided that when y’are on a good thing, that y’oughta stick to it. Here we see the true nature of his type of Victorian, who will strive to get out of any heavy duty labour imaginable, whether they have a moral duty to perform it or not. Some east coast blokes also aren’t that fond of yellow sand, or clapped out Tonka toys, or lime cordial, and Woll was one of them, he was.

    House quiet! Danced across the east coast mongrel’s mindscreen again, as he closed the little gate and merrily trotted off across his rented west coast ground.

    ‘Hurr! Hurr! Hurr!’ he skinny tummy gurgled, as a vision of Max down on his hands and knees in the sandpit materialised in his brain. ‘Phweet! Phweet! Phweet! Rockin’ Robin!…Rockin’ Robin!’ he whistled and sang into the atmosphere. ‘Tum ta tum ta tum! Tum ta tum ta tum! Ohhhh!….It’s a beautiful west coast worlll….dd!….Zippity doo da, zippity dey, me oh my…what a wonderful fucking west coast Saturday!’ he sang super happily. As he simultaneously realised the full implications of the geo-politics of the city building sandpit being up at bungalow Max’s, as well as the significance of the landlord being so very into having a second childhood. In that more of the same sort of Saturdays should follow, and maybe even Sundays too. Blissed out like an east coast bliss bomb, and striding along like the ghost who walks looking for something to mucking do in his Skull cave, he headed super jubilantly for his snap, popple and crackle radio. Once again, his absolutely east coast arseholish luck was simply amazing him. He wasn’t the Tin man, he was Lucky Luciano, he was. He reckoned.

    En route to his preferred technology however, he bumped into Margie, who shanghaid him into carting out another load of washing. Which around the house, apart from opening the odd jar of his favourite marmalade jam, was about as heavy duty as Woll got.

    ‘The boys are up having a good one up with Max!’ he chirped Cupid like to his missus, as he put the washing down at the clothesline and headed for his chair.

    ‘Are y’sure that they’re ok?’ she asked him with concern, just as her bloke neared his snap, popple and crackle radio.

    ‘Yeah! They’re having fun!’

    ‘Well are you sure that they’re not bugging Maxie Woll?’

    ‘I’m sure!’

    ‘Did y’ask him?’

    ‘No!’

    ‘Why fucking not Woll? Christ y’skinny fucking moron! He’s our landlord! He’s not a kindergarten teacher or a child minder, and our bloody lease is coming up soon!’

    ‘Trust me M! There was absolutely no need to ask the bastard anything!’ Woll fair roared back at her. ‘Just relax y’Collingwood pissflaps and enjoy the fucking peace while it lasts. I am!’ He told her. ‘Do a rock steady Eddie - M, and we’ll all have a good day. We’ll make a few bob out of nothing but fucking words in the air, we will.’ He said, a bit too confidently.

    Margie gave her skinny bugger of a husband a peculiar look, which no one could have blamed her for. Suddenly however, like the aliens have landed sort of stuff, a crackling type noise invaded her atmosphere.

    ‘Here is an important news flash for all Milky Way punters!’ said an announcer’s voice on Woll’s now switched on radio. ‘All horse racing meets across the universe today have been cancelled due to outbreaks of equine flu absolutely everyfuckingwhere! No planet in the cosmos, including the stunningly beautiful Venus is safe from it now apparently. The authorities have just issued a warning that any horse caught outside of their stables without a drop dead gorgeous pony tailed blonde or brunette leading it, will be shot on sight. So will whatever is fucking leading it…so be careful watering your horse!’

  

    ‘Oh fuuuu…..ccckkkk!’ exploded Woll. Absolutely. ‘Fuu….uck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ he screamed, as on one leg he did a Collingwood war dance across the kikuyu lawn. Taking it pretty hard that the nags were out of action, he was. Sitting Bull would have been proud of such a dance, and Geronimo too would have been pretty impressed by it. No doubt. It had more twists and turns and 360’s in it than a human snake that’s running away from God and the Light that God came out of does, it did.

    ‘They let ’em run on fucking Elephant juice!’ the extremely pissed off punter screamed wrathful angel like, at this benevolent universe. ‘Why can’t they fucking run with a touch of the fucking flu?’ he screeched at the west coast Gods. ‘Jesus Christ! I reckon that I fucking w’ll could!’

   

    ‘Here is the good news!’ the radio announcer barked. ‘The roaches in parliament house will be racing today, and we’ll be taking you direct to Canberra in ten minutes for the first race. That’ll be the Viagra Stakes! If you’re a punter out there and you’re addicted to gambling and you want to get a bet on something today, then consult the federal government’s emergency roach betting section in your racing guide’s paper. Remember always that a smart punter always hedges their bets, and that they never trust a fucking cockroach or a politician to do anything at all.

    Now it’s over to the news room for more cock and bull nonsense that will absolutely reinforce that you are living on an absolutely mad, infested with lunatic’s planet. Are you there Rhonda! Can y’help us out? How many are dead today mate? I’ve simply got to know darlin’! Help me Rhonda! For Christ’s sake!’

    ‘Oh thousands have died today Sam!’ the beautiful Rhonda answered. ‘Yes! Fucking thousands! But rest easy citizen if you’re hearing this, because you’re not one of them! Not yet anyway. Your time is coming though citizen, because you can’t avoid death, and on a shit of a supersaturated with ultraviolent dickheaded dickhead’s rock like this one, you just never know when the Death card is coming. Do y’s? It’s hanging just around the corner, like the fucking bad smell that y’body is going to make when you passover. Isn’t it?

    Heading the beautiful Earth’s headlines then, a killer imported Chinese toothpaste called; Remember The Opium Wars Darling – continues to kill hundreds of thousands in the UK and the United States. In other news today, the Indian government has outlawed excreting on the street, and so far a hundred and twenty five million people have been arrested and given a code red. Also, owing to the fact that there’s fuck all trees left on this dirty rotten third rock from the sun, the price of dunny paper will be going up a trillion percent next week. A decent roll to wipe y’arse with is gunna cost y’ten to a hundred grand next week, so get out there now and buy! Buy! Buy! Buy y’bastards and bitches! Now! Before the price goes up, or this cunt of a fucking world ends.

    In the latest just in from the United States, at fifty eight years of age, the President has started menstruating again, and an urgent message for assistance has been sent out from the White House for Dr Shed to get his arse over to Washington DC. The message read apparently – Bring the mopflop Aussie Turk, and bring the skinny storage room nympho, but leave the nigger behind. Because we’ll stick a honky tonk chip off the old block white bitch up on the karmic idiot’s podium, before we’ll let a decent Godly black man run our land of the free and the brave, and lunatically armed to the teeth redneck’s show.

    Also just in.…. the last honeybee on Earth died today, at the age of thirty five seconds. A state funeral will be held in Sydney next week, immediately following the one for Freddo frog, where the PM will give a eulogy for his old man at noon. The streets will be painted pink and there will be free imported Chinese candy bars for all of the kids. Which is our sacred democracy in action and the true blue stuff that we all love so much. Isn’t it y’fuckers?’

   

    Furiously, and completely ignoring the dreadfully boring re run and more of the same news, Woll flicked thru his paper looking for the federal government’s emergency roach racing guide. A super relieved Margie watched him. For a moment she had been a bit perturbed that her bloke would have nothing to bet on, which would be like her having nothing to drink, or Max having no One life and I am path to meditate on, or Brandon having no weed to smoke. However, her down under society was now geared so that if the nags were out, or the footballers were too stoned or too iced up to play football, or ditto for any of the other sports, then the federal politicians would run their cockroach races. Basically, to stop the punters from joining up with the trade unionists, the bikies, the Jehovah’s Witnesses, the underworld, and housewives and their kids, and starting off a revolution. Where the ‘lawmakers’ got strung up or decapitated or blown away, or worse still, they lost their pensions.

   

    So Woll Smith phoned his bets in, and he was somewhat impatiently waiting for the race to start, and Margie had just about finished with the washing, when a black skinned dude appeared from down around the corner. Like a shadowed up angelic golliwog, he stepped out of the Pemberton light. It was Ernie Middleton, the boy’s father. He was darker skinned than the boys, and he worked for the government, Ernie did. He had indeed had a couple of games with the Collingwood rezies, and he was a pretty happy bloke at the moment. Because he had succeeded in getting a transfer in his job to the west coast, and he was now in a position to start seeing his kids on weekends. The transfer had come about suddenly, and he had kept the details of it to himself, in order to spring a surprise on the ex pat Collingwood crew. Luckily for him, his plane hadn’t crashed on the way over to the way out west, like they should do whenever politicians travel.

    When Margie saw his gleaming gleaming gleaming ultrabright white toothed smile, highlighted against the visitor’s beautiful dark skin, her face exploded with a serenely pure joy. It was like the Goddesses and Gods were throwing out rose petals for her to walk on.

    ‘Ern!’ she shrieked deleriously as she flew at him. Like half of her dead sister was still stuck in the beautiful black man, it was for Margie. They embraced as Ernie and Woll head up acknowledged each other, each of them grinning like a polecat on heat.

    ‘Gidday M! How’s it goin’? Where’s the boys?’ Ernie asked excitedly, the moment that his embrace with the first lady of the house was over.

    ‘They’re up the track with bungalow Max!’ Woll told him.

    ‘Who?’ Ernie shot back.

    So Margie explained again to Ernie who bungalow Max was, having previously mentioned the west coaster on the phone, and then she pumped him for data regarding what was going on in his life. When Ernie explained that he had been transferred to Perth and that he would be down most weekends, Margie was jubilant, because she knew what that would mean for the twins.

    ‘What do you know about this Manjimup place? I’m hoping as a next step to get a transfer there, then I’ll be able to have the boys with me and live close to you,’ old man Middleton told them.

    Margie smiled some more, because what Ernie was planning had always been their long range plan. Ernie was fully aware that Mrs Smith was a surrogate mother to his boys, and he wanted that relationship maintained for as long as possible. On her part, Margie didn’t want the little guys too far away from her, because they were her dead sister’s boys and she loved them unbelievably, just like she loved her own. Simple human politics without anybody getting hurt or killed, and everybody being looked after, it was.

    ‘Did you come down thru Nannup, did y’Ern?’ Woll asked.

    ‘Yeah! What there was of it,’ Ernie told him.

    ‘Manjimup is the first town towards Perth the other way, up the south western highway. I can tell y’what the kids at my school say about it.’

    ‘What’s that Woll?’

    ‘They say - I’d rather be a dung beetle than live in Manjimup!’

    ‘Oh Woll!’ exclaimed Margie. ‘That’s rubbish! It’s a nice little town!’

    ‘Yeah! Especially when y’are seeing it getting smaller and smaller in y’rear vision mirror,’ Woll drawled back at her.

 

    ‘And they’re about to race in the first in the Canberra bar! It’s over to you Mike!’ Woll’s radio barked.

    ‘Thanks Sammie! All set! No scratches in this the first event of the meet, the Viagra stakes. They’re locked in and the little light is on!…There’s the bell! The barriers are up! I repeat – the barriers are up! And….most unfortunately, they’re not off. In fact, absolutely nothing at all is happening here in Canberra, at the moment.’

    There was a pause in which everybody assembled thought that the station had gone dead, and so Woll picked his little radio up and shook it a bit.

    ‘I’ll say it again!’ said Mike the cockroach caller. ‘The barriers are up!’

    There was another pause.

    ‘We’ll go yet again!…The fucking barriers are fucking up!’ A pretty exasperated roachside Mike informed the punting public, again. ‘Wait a minute ladies and gentlemen and others!’ he absolutely screamed suddenly. ‘Fuckface has got the tip of a feeler out of his box! It’s just come up on the cosmic scope. He’s on the move and there’s mega excitement in the bar, and the minister for defence has quite obviously got a hard on. Hohhhhhh!…. My God!’ roared Mike voluminously, as if someone had just been nuked. ‘Maggot Boy has come full on out of his box! He’s fully exposed! What a beautiful beautiful beautiful brown roach he is! He’s moving! Yes he is! He’s three inches down the track now! Look at him go! He’s shining allright! It’s a superoach performance! There’s pandemonium in the bar and the minister for Absolutely Sweet Fuck All looks pretty fucking pissed already, if y’ask me. The minister for Ripping People Off Blind looks a bit under the weather as well, I do say.’

    ‘Go…ohhhhhhh Maggot boy!…..Go…ohhhhh you little bewty!’ thundered Woll, as he pumped the air like some had their day wanker tennis players do. It was pretty obvious to the black and white crew that Woll had money on Maggot Boy, it was.

    ‘Why do they have such horrible names?’ the lusciously gorgeous east coast Margie asked.

    ‘They code name them after members of the opposition in another party, or members of their opposition within their own party,’ the ultra skinny prick Woll told her. ‘Sometimes they name them after their mum or dad too. Especially if they’re a Western Australian, or a Queenslander,’ he related.

    ‘I think that I’ll go up and see the boys!’ Ernie said.

    ‘Yeah! Around the side and thru the little gate Ern! I’ll just listen to the end of the race. I’ll come up in a moment,’ Woll said.

    Sussing out that it would be good for Ernie to see the boys first up by himself, Margie went back into the house.

    ‘Looksandtalkslikehalfastitchedupvagina is out of her box! She’s away!’ Mike the cockroach caller barked stiffly. ‘She’s right up a considerably slowed down Maggot Boy’s arse! Maggot Girl’s out one and a half body lengths now too! Not a bad looking sheila roach is Maggot Girl. She’s a lovely shining brown she is. She’s exactly the same colour as some horses that I’ve known, and she’s a filthy fucking filly to feast y’eyes on, for sure. Hohhhhh! The lord be praised! Stripperella Boy has just come out two body lengths for a bit of a feel around his own genitals. Or is he praying? I can’t tell! Still no sign of Greasy Grinning Motherfucker, Puke Master, Disgustingly Embarassing Little Runt Rodent Boy, Two Bob Ego, Big Dumb Wolly Of A Shithead, or Simply A Cuntface! Or either Maggot Man or Maggot Woman or Despondency United………Maggot Boy has now completely stopped. He looks to be dead in his tracks! He appears to be existentially meditating on something!’

    ‘Oh fuck the meditating Maggot Boy! Run y’cunt! Run! Domination and the flight from being! That’s what it’s all about! C’mon! Hoon it! Hoon it! Y’shit of a thing!’ Woll screamed at the west coast atmosphere. ‘For fuck’s sake! I’ve got a hundred knickers on y’y’fucker! Run y’legs off y’ motherfucking roach! Kick up some plywood dust y’fucking mongrel!’

    Woll was getting punter satisfaction, he was. It was a bit too drawn out for the streak’s liking, but like all Victorians he knew that in a world like this one, one just has to take what one can get. It was the roaches or nothing, because the horses all maybe had the flu, and the dogs had all died long ago from eating imported pet food. From guess where? A clue? It wasn’t Scandinavia. Or Canada.

    Some stupid down under idiot had even tried to race pussy cats, but as soon as the barriers were up, the pussies kept on taking off in 40,000 different directions. They went anyway but down the plywood straight that they were supposed to go down. They were over the fence and long gone and three quarters feral before any of the stewards could get to them. Such is the nature of the Australian pussy, and so for bet loving blokes like Woll, some dark days it was the slow slow slow roach races, or nothing. It was, the streak from the east reckoned, Clayton’s punting and better than a bullet in the brain, but only just.

    ‘C’mon Maggot Boy! Move! Moooo…ooovvvvve you prick of a fucking thing!’ he roared again. ‘C’mon! You’ve got fucking legs everywhere….so use them!’

 

 

 

   

   

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

    ‘Da….aaad!’ screamed Mick and Jack when they clapped eyes on Ernie.

    Like roadrunners they shot from the sandpit, and like a couple of ferrets with heaven on Earth grins upon their faces, they climbed up either side of him. Ernie locked his sturdy forearms underneath each of their little bums and like a saint on lsd, he smiled like a just gone off firecracker back at them. He did.

    ‘Dad!…Dad!…Dad!’ the twins gushed and gushed, as if seemingly not being able to believe that Ernie was really where he was, and that physically they could feel him. That their closest and much loved ancestor was suddenly so magically near to them was unbelievable, and the youngfellahs were mucking rapt, they were. So was Ernie as he checked his kids out and felt the satisfaction and the relief that they were still in one piece, and that they were so obviously so healthy and happy and carefree. He and a super grinning Max nodded their heads at each other, like they’d known each other all of their lives, and then the bungalow peacefully withdrew and left the Middletons to their touching reunion. Like Casper the friendly ghost, the west coast landlord slipped into his nifty bungalow to rustle up some morning tea. The boys meanwhile fired word after word at their old man, and like he was Paris chasing another Helen of Troy, they dragged him by his hands to their city building sandpit.

    ‘Check it out dad!’ they roared mega excitedly together. ‘We’re gunna rule the world from this city when it’s built and after that, the universe will be putty in our hands!’ they steadfastly proclaimed.

    Like a couple of Collingwood billionaires doing their natural born thing down under, they were. By Christ! Buddha and all of the rest of the ones who have attained to cosmic consciousness and rendered the 3D matrix here usunder too, the twins were absolutely delighted to have their old man around their playful 5D jobsite. He was their angelic golliwog allright. There are, so they say, blood connections, and then there are the ones to do with the astral linkages between the 3D living and all of the ancestors of eternal infinity, and when it came to their old man, that’s what the twins were riding. For sure. Some tribes know more about the spirits than others do, and gazing out of his side window, bungalow Max was left in no doubt about that. When Ernie got down on his hands and knees and started dragging a clapped out Tonka along, whilst making some pretty good machine noises, well Max, he wasn’t surprised at all about that. The city that they would all collectively put together, would be like a New Age Rome, he dreamed profusely; as he got the cordials, and the chais, and the biscuits together.

    He was a happy lad with a building project that was sustaining the communal mind and pumping it full of raw excitement, and what else could a decent human battler ask for? A fair go maybe? From the system, and to be treated nicely by a government that is nothing but a front for ultragreedy and heartless, insanely ultraviolent big business empires? Not likely. Max Eaton was far too aware and far too awake to believe in that unmitigated baby soul shit, and always voting informal for political ghosts, was the societal cancer that he loved. Max wanted the ethereal ghosts of the cosmic consciousness realms in power, and a young evolving one of their type had just walked into his yard, and was that ever dreaming that was turning the mystic’s psychic electrics on? It sure was.

    A divine labourer and fellow servant of the Light had appeared from out of nowhere, and the bastard had got down on his knees straight away, so it was a pretty good dream that he was having. Bungalow thought. Obvious it was to the west coaster that the just arrived being knew all about the way that the spirit really worked, which was a very welcome added bonus in his dreaming. Because most unfortunately a lot more humans didn’t, than did, he felt. The walk in was slightly on the dark side, but the landlord didn't give a mucking shit about that. Kerrist! The white bourgeoise bastard would have openly welcomed a dozen Ernies, and made them all a cup of chai, and provided a spread of chocolate coated shortbread biscuits for the lot of them; if the buggers could have got the city built overnight. Because about now the bungalow was beginning to think that he was living at the Cataby roadhouse, on the Brand highway to Geraldton. Instead of in a snug and secure little bungalow, stuck away in an isolated corner of Eagle Rock road in Oz’s deep south west.

    So did Woll when some twenty minutes later, earplug in his ear and his little radio in one of his pant’s pockets, and still on a super stalled roach race, he again stuck his big snoz around the corner of the landlord’s big rainwater tank. He saw what looked like the Salvation Army doing a job on a big pile of yellow sand, and he heard what sounded like the guns of Navarone pounding away in the near distance. Satan let loose another flaming arrow in his head, and the big juicy ringed worlds dangling off it said; I’m fucking out of here! They did.

    The king Vic bludger hardly had a step retraced however, when the enormous sounds of a big truck headed for Max’s, got him sprung. Because the whole bunch of builders shot around the corner, to check out what new material that they had coming. Of course they said some jovial giddays to the unlucky sprung Woll, and then they trotted off like some frog national assembly.

    ‘It’s Josh McGoolie with our shale!’ roared Max, as if he was about to have an orgasm. Like a Caesar on heat, he broke from the ranks and strode off to greet his driver, and to tell him where to dump the most welcome load. That being in behind the wood and sand piles, Josh McGoolie backed his big truck in there, and then he hit his tip it up button. The tray went up, and every builder looked on like they were riding the stairway to heaven, in the smoky dust that was coming off the being deposited load. Five mile wide grins were plastered on their faces, which was definely not the case with Woll

    ‘This is the most boring fucking race that I have ever fucking seen!’ Mike the cockroach caller said into his ear. ‘It is frankly, quite disgusting. It’s a cosmic disgrace! It’s a shambles of monumental proportions! There is not a single roach down on the plywood in its slot that is doing a fucking thing! It’s like they’re in a field of inert de evolution, or something. Kerrist! I’m lucky if I can see a feeler moving. It’s like they’ve all been spot frozen by some alien’s invisble laser beams. For fuck’s sake my fellow cosmic punters! I’ve heard about testing out the ethereal waters, prior to the transmutation of an entire civilization’s holographics, but quite frankly, this is just plain fucking ridiculous. It is redefining the concept that we all know that is called…insipid. We might as well jack this supercilious crap off, and bet on the odds of our dicks or clits making love to our bumholes in the middle of our deepest deep sleeps. We’re all awake now though, supposedly, and we want some fucking action, but I am telling you what comrades; there’s fuck all of that around here! I feel like I’m underneath the bottom of a vase in a fucking Picasso painting at the moment. Kerrist! My new girlfriend’s tits are a trillion times more exciting than this politician’s racing roaches roach crap. Even just her lusciously gorgeous left nipple leaves this wank the ego cock and clit bullshit for dead.

    Might hand back to the studio for a moment, I think. I’ve got to take a bog and wedge Percy inbetween m’legs and clean the political shit off the porcelain, and get some relief from this….moron’s fucking bar. Fucking hell! I’m oughta here! Back to the studio for now then punters! I’ll get back to yuse as soon as there’s the slightest bit of movement in this wheeler dealer of a lunatical pisshead’s jokebox, and rest easy my good friends out there in punter’s land. Because there is absolutely no chance of me getting a punter’s horn in this dump. Not at the moment, anyway.’

   

    When the load was off the truck, and Josh McGoolie had hit his tray down button and pulled his monster Tonka forward twenty metres or so, Mick and Jack got straight back into it. They ran to the pile of shale and disappeared into the smoky dust that was still enveloping it, and then they reappeared quickly lugging some grey rocks. Jabbering to each other like a couple of Pakies out in the outfield, they were. Having fun! For sure! Why not? After all, that is why they were born both as spirited up souls and physical bodies, and why they had stepped out of the Light for a bit of a manifested multidimensional fuck around, so to speak. Fun! Was their God, and their Goddess too.

    Their little big minds and their little big spirits were so into what they were creating, so that maybe they could destroy it later on for evolutionary purposes, that they didn’t see the giant Josh Mcgoolie get out of his truck and walk over to where Max and their dad, and a cursing this Earth Woll were. The McGoolie had left his truck’s big donk running, and with such a rumbling going on in the background, the twins really didn’t give a shit what the adults were now doing. The show where they had witnessed the pupported real thing was now, as far as they were concerned, over. It had been good, even bloody fascinating, and it had been incredibly dusty and insanely noisy, but it was past history and it was over and dead and done with. It was now focus wise, back to the real business of linking their on the spot imaginations to yellow sand and bits of wood and rock, as far as they were concerned.

    They had no need of bringing cherished memories back from out of the mind computer’s past, to aid them in handling a beguilingly terrible come horrible existential sorrow and feared up state in the present, like so many adults of their kind did. The wee lads lived spot on the dot in the exact here and now with their playing, and the magic for them was stuffed absolutely unlimitedly, dimensionally speaking, into the split moment. Where they jointly reckoned, there was enough room for an infinity of fascinating universes. Like the one that they had found around the corner of Max’s bungalow, and mind blowing discovery after discovery forever and not bring on death, was their creed.

    For them, the free and unbound and pulsating in and out existential magic was never really spread across mind made time and space, nor was it in that machine’s associated projected named and shaped holographics. When the twins played, they played for ethereal keeps, and it was their inner attitudes and dispositions which held sway within their constitutions. They had an insatiable appetite for raw and spontaneous off the cuff life stuff, they treated every moment with due respect, and they played like little Gods who had the universe and the beyond at their fingertips, they did. After all, they were Victorians. Albeit, pretty young ones. The real thing for them however was in the split moment in the pit that is spontaneous life. It always had been, and it always would be, and the little Vic buggers already knew that.

    Intuitively, kids do, and then unfortunately they grow up into miserable adults, because they have lost the subtle art of living magically as a child of the Light. Too much mind made made language in and out and false I am this and that conceptualised crap galore, and an ultra heavy handed and dualised third dimensional brainwashing, blows their natural psychically intuitive states away. They lose their mediumships, and they get 3rd dimensionally shafted from day one. They suffer much worse than dogs do as adults sometimes, and diseases of the body and the mind and the heart and the spirit are the common east-west snakes that surround them. In their personalised heaven and hell pits; love and hate, and good and evil, and Devil and God concepts play, and other concepts like hundreds and thousands on stale and mouldy bread play; I am a guilty of being an existentially lost, sinned up embroglio. Pretty well non stop too, for quite a few.

    It is like a holographic football field in their extremely dualistic minds sometimes. It’s the first one way conceptually, then the other way conceptually, then re run that cock and bull mucking baloney into the grave. Stuff. It is existential angst and anger and existential sorrow and fear, and desires piled upon desires like worms in a shoebox, all wrestling away like crazy in a pit full of runny mind shit. It is. That’s life! Sometimes, for more than the odd human. Too. It is black dogs galore on the loose, and bring on death, for too many. I am going to suicide being a concept that divine ignorance absolutely loves to play with. Max Eaton had had a go once, he had. He knew all about the worms in the head shit from direct experience, he did. He’d had a mucking mindful of word and concept worms in the head, which were all severely limiting him, and that’s why the bastard had gone ultra mystical.

    The 3D system was designed to do anything but sort him out, and it just wanted him to consume for profit making purposes, and then die. The drugs couldn’t sort him out, the shrinks couldn’t sort him out, and the women couldn’t sort him out either, so he had had no choice really. When Guru whot’shisname’s I am path had come along, the mucking just about had enough bungalow Max had fallen for it, hook, like and sinker. So far the I am path had stopped him from topping himself, and it had also prevented him from doing damage to anyone else, and racking up unnecessary negative karma points. Which would have to be worked out in future 3D life games. Flying with the eagles inside about that these days, the west coaster was.

    Luckily for the cute little Middleton twins, that bemusing dualistic conceptual mind bog and lost cosmic identity shit hadn’t happened to them yet, and currently they were bordering on the non dual, in their peaceful down under play. The creator boys were back in town! They were. They were all bungalowed up in a paradise lost full of Margie and Ernie and Max in wonderland types, in a great southern land that used to be full of milk and honey, and for sure, they were mucking Eagle Rock road dreaming. It was raining sweet bliss down their end of the planet, all right.

    ‘Ohhhh! I remember when I was young and the world had just begun…..because of our ethereal mum!’ they sung super happily as they played. Then they broke into a chorus of Tom Dooley, for some God unknown reason.

    ‘Hang down y’head Tom Dooley!…Hang down y’head and cry!…Hang down y’head Tom Doo..oooooley! For boyyyyy…..y’bound to die!’ They sung. Negro bluesy, and black soul like. Cotton picking little Vics from the venerable Collingwood they were, and already the initial building of their mighty LAN centre which would cream the Sydney opera house as far as perfectly weird buildings go, was taking shape. The kids of the universe were gunna absolutely love it, as far as they were concerned. It was gunna blow their rip off and getting ripped off minds. They mucking reckoned.

   

    ‘How’ve yer been keeping Josh?’ Max asked, as with wallet out, he greeted the enormous brute of a McGoolie. Practically blocking out the sun, the bastard’s dirty great big hat was.

    ‘Urrrrrrrrrrr!…Urrrrrrr!’ gurgled Josh, sounding like a hot volcanic geyser was about to erupt either from out of his mouth or his arse, or both of those items. ‘Errrrlllll…right!’ he bass Dalecked eventually.

    Max held out a shipile of Oz notes, and the truckdriver plucked them from out of his grasp and stuffed them into one of his pockets, in a lot less time that it takes for a snake to go…sss! Eaton then introduced the two mute and timid blokes who were standing behind him, and Josh nodded at them Frankensteinishly and gut groaned some more, and then without another word he turned and headed for his truck. Bull elephant like. If he’d have dropped his dacks and jocks and given them a photo shoot of his brown eye, the other boys would have seen that his hairy balls were real musted up, too.

    ‘How’s the missus goin’ Josh?’ the bungalow asked chirpily and innocent like, before the giant had taken four giant paces.

    The enormous McGoolie froze in his tracks, like someone had mentioned somebody that he really didn’t want mentioned, and like a Terminator about to do some damage, he turned back around. It looked like he was armed and primed and ready to go off with a mucking big bang, too. A Nasty Canasta rolly fag was dangling out of one drooped side of his rather hot lips, and what the others could see of the bottom half of his huge hat covered face had turned blood red, along with his lips. So that bungalow Max was sincerely wishing that he’d kept his mucking trap shut. Woll and Ernie were as well, because it was like the west coaster had made a chronic mistake; one that could possibly cost all of them their lives. The McGoolie suddenly looked a lot darker and a hell of a lot more dangerous than Ernie, that was why. Here is the real white golliwog and king redneck! That’s what was so menacingly staring them all in the face, from less than a quarter of a cricket pitch away.

    ‘Urrrrrr…urrrrrrr! Urrrrrrrr!’ gurgled the horrible hot lava noise in Josh’s throat again, and then there was a resounding ptttooooooo sound, as he spat a great wadball of slag goo into the nearby bush. It came out of the other side to where his little fag was dangling, and it fair zinged into the spooky little forest. It damn near made it to the witchety grub’s getting eaten raw ground, too. First it had gone up to say hello to the Gods, and then it had come down without a parachute.

    ‘Wominnnn! Fucking wominnn! They’re all cunning fucking bitches!’ the ferocious looking giant from further up Eagle Rock road thundered, absolutely Thor like. So that the very ground that the other humans present were standing upon, seemed to shake. ‘If they didn’t have cunts inbetween their legs, no one would go fucking near them!…..They’d throw fucking rocks at them!’ the McGoolie bull bellowed.

    So that his rather emphatic statement boomed all around the bungalowed up yard, and all three of the other bloke’s heads swivelled sideways back towards the twins, to check out that they hadn’t heard the McGoolie’s hyperbolic propoganda. Which to their combined relief, the little guys hadn’t.

    ‘Now that’s what I call a misogamistic misogynist!’ whispered Woll to the backs of Max’s and Ernie’s heads. As Josh, having said his piece and got his daily bitch off his big hairy and super agitated chest, headed off again.

    ‘Yeah! That’s one steamed up bloody whitefellah allright!’ Ernie whispered back. Real glad to see the back of the giant mucking white madman walking away from him again, a feeling safe again Ernie was.

    ‘I don’t think that he meant it!’ a smiling and chuckling bungalow Max told them. ‘He’s got a little five foot well built little missus, and he absolutely dotes on her. For some unknown reason, he’s madly in love with the little control freak of a bitch. I’ve seen them in the pub together and I’m telling y’! He stands to attention by her side and it’s yes dear this and yes dear that, it is. If someone was to shove a big palm leaf in his hands, he’d be fanning the side of her chubby little face non stop. No worries! He’d be cooling his musted up balls and his mega stiffy off at the same time with the backwind, most likely. I’d say chaps that they’ve had a bit of a blue recently. Hurr! Hurr! Hurr!’ the bungalowed up bastard gurgled, as the other two bastards grinned stupid nightingale expressions back at him.

    ‘I’d say that it the re run blue is about who wears the pants in their joint and who controls the divine pussygate, and that he’s getting used to the fact again that’s it is not him. I would. Ahh! He was just blowing off steam the McGoolie way, that’s all. Yuse don’t want to be scared of Josh lads! He’s harmless really. He’s just a little boy in a dirty great big body really. He’s all show on the surface, but underneath he’s just ordinary heterosexual pussystruck jelly. Like you fucking are Woll!’

    ‘It must have been one hell of a blue Max for him to speak that way about the state of his woman!’ Woll intoned, very headmasterishly. ‘I’d never say that about M, even if I was maybe fucking thinking it. It takes a fucking lot of guts to form up here in the shape of a woman doing the woman’s biological and psychological thing though. To come to an ultraviolent and lunatical and mad beastman’s world like this one, and have to do what the girls do, with the male ego disease everywhere, on every street fucking corner….well gentlemen…I not only take m’skinny hat of to them, I am just so fucking glad that it wasn’t me! Do y’know what I mean boys? People see me as a typical white coloured conservative male punter walking down the street and funking it as a Wallsy type, and instaneously they calculate the enormous odds against being able to shove anything up me Wallsy tight arse, and then they just fucking walk away. Like meek little fucking pussy cats! Got t’em vibed out, I have.’

    ‘Jesus Woll!’ Ernie fired off. ‘If you were a female and you slipped a kid out of y’ultra skinny twat, you could use a pencil box as a crib! Y’worry me Woll! Y’not gunna go alien on me, are y? Because I worry that the next time that I see y’, y’will have faded away completely. When are y’gunna start eating properly mate? The turds that slide ever so gently outa my arse have got more meat on them that y’have. Fuck Woll! The thin man has got nothing on you couda! Next to you he’s a bloody suma wrestler!’

    ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ erupted Max. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!…..Maybe the McGoolie had something though y’blokes. I mean… if Margie had to dodge a few coondies en route to her gin bottle Woll, it might slow her down a bit. Don’t y’reckon?’

    ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ roared Woll and Ernie together, at the special images that floated into their minds.

    ‘There’s be hell to pay if y’got her in the head though Woll!’ Ernie barked excitedly from the dreamtime.

    ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ Woll and Max erupted.

    ‘I don’t know Ern!’ Woll shot out of his ultra skinny and insanely grinning gob. ‘You’re not allowed to drink gin when y’are in an ambulance and en route to a hospital that probably won’t let you in anyway, are y’?’

    ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ exploded Ernie and Max.

    ‘I wouldn’t like to be you tiptoeing around in the dreamtime the day after that though Wallace! Crikey! You would be in for it, old son! No doghouse would save you then, y’skinny cunt! The bells would be tolling six inches up y’rectum mate!’ The grinning black man with the ultra Colgate smile related.

   ‘Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw!’ they all guffawed together, with non Vic bitter grins on their stupid blokey mugs, and knowing full well that the just hypothetically postulated situation would be world war mucking three point six six six, for mucking sure. ‘Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw!’ they collectively guffawed again.

    That women, like children and men, are present as manifestations to be unconditionally loved no matter what in the long run, like the Light does with them all, was what the trio of Margie mocking bastards were really on about however. Deep, deep, deep down in their etherealised constitutions, that is. They were fairy hairy men really, who were extreme anti-violents, who loved and adored and appreciated the soul of women, whether they were mothers or not. Everyone of them to the last bastard standing, would have by far far far, rather have fought a woman’s slightly evolved soulised body front up business anyday; rather than a global multinational and multicultural, baby soul, shit for brains, east or west, terroristic redkneck type.

    Because there was always a chance east or west that one might get a root in the make up after stages of a fight, with a slightly evolved good woman’s soulised body front up business. Unless it was one’s time to experience necrophilia however, there was no chance of that going down with a dead, demanifested by cosmic evolution, shit for brains, baby soul terroristic redkneck type. Absolutely none at all. Zip! Minus a zipless fuck. That was all. No wonder that these boys were pro women then.

 

   

 

   

   

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    ‘There’s a fight in Canberra! It’s back to roachside Mike!’ Sam the studio host yelled suddenly into Woll’s ear. The streak from the east went stiff, as he almost got a hard on from the long overdue excitement that was powering out of his snap, popple and crappy crackling radio.

    ‘Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggggghhhhhhht…t!’ Mike the cockroach caller absolutely screamed. ‘It’s on! Fight! Fight! Fight!’ he bellowed from the little box of sound technology in Woll’s pocket. Which was sending sounds up a wire and then into a little earpiece, and then into Woll’s skinny mucking eardrum.

    ‘There’s a fight here in Canberra and I’m punter horned up now, well and truly! It’s a bewty too! It’s a humdinger! I knew that it was gunna be on, because the contestants have been giving each other devil eyed looks ever since the meet started. Who is involved? Well on our side is the minister For Common Deceny And The Creation Of A Half Decent Self Contributing Welfare State, whom I must say has just landed a pretty good left hook onto the chin of….yes! You guessed it punters! The minister For Dirty Deeds Done Ultra Fucking Expensively, So That The Fat Cat Bastard Machine Gets Well Overfed. Hohh!

    There’s another juicy little left hook from our good bloke! He’s gunna slaughter the Fat Cat’s evil bastard today, he is. It’s payback time for the spending of too much taxpayer’s dough on war and politician’s glory gratification, and not enough on hospitals, schools and old bugger’s homes, it is! Get to a tv quick punters, if y’want the odds and y’wanna get a bet down on this spontaneous fight. Hohh! The minister for Dirty Deeds has just copped a right fucking smack in the gob, he has. Oh fuck a duck punters! Our good boy is gunna annihilate this evil prick! This promises to be the judgement day and feel good fight of the century, it does. Fuck me! I’m gunna get a hundred g’s down on this! Pardon me punters, whilst I make a little call. I’ll be back in three seconds! Hohh! Our boy has just smacked the other prick smack in the middle of the forehead, he has. Ohhhhh! This is beautiful this is!……….Hello Harry! Are you there? This is roachside Mike and I am roachside where it is definitely all happening, right fucking now! So give me a hundred g’s on the good guy in Canberra, will y?…..Ta Harry! Lock it in mate, lock it in. Hohh! I am gunna make a squillion today mate, I am.’

    Woll absolutely flew into Max’s bungalow and like a chook with its head fresh cut off, he located Max’s remote and pointed it at the landlord’s telie. As he pushed the on button he dragged out his mobile, and with the same hand he flicked it open. It was like he was cocking a gun or something, and raw east coast adrenaline was rocketing around his thin thin thin veins. Gleefully he witnessed the minister for Common Decency land another good Phantom type punch on the evil bastard’s jaw, and simultaneously he rang his divine bookie.

    ‘Harry! It’s Collingwood Woll! Are you still on the fight in Canberra?’ he ejaculated mercilessly into his phone.

    ‘Of course I fucken am Collingwood!’ Harry spatteth backeth, as he scratcheth his fat fucker’s cracketh.

    ‘What are your odds on the good guy Harry?’ Woll asked feverishly.

    As bungalow Max and Ernie came into the tiny lounge room to investigate what in the hell was going on, the streak from the east’s face exploded into the smile of the century. Because he had heard that the odds on the good guy were sky high, on account of so many idiot punters on the punter’s web were betting that the bad guy was gunna stage some sort of a miraculous comeback. Or win some other more dirty, less honourable way. Looking at the Dirty Deeds minister’s bloodied face getting pulverised on the tv screen, Woll assessed that there was absolutely no chance of that, and he promptly put down five big ones on the pro welfare state guy. Having made the deal, he hovered machine like over the tv, making pretend jabs with his skinny as all muck fists. Thought that he was Rambo, the runaway nosed and pretzled up prick did.

    ‘C’mon!….C’mon!’ he punter hissed at the screen. ‘Finish this recalcitrant bastard of a scumbag off!’ he yelled.

    Whack! Whack! Whack!

    Went the sounds coming from out of the box, as the evil guy’s head got used as a punching bag.

    ‘Ye…esss! That’s the way that y’do it! That’s getting some satisfaction! You get your money for nothing and your hits for free!’ howled Woll. ‘Oh you little bewty!’ he roared deleriously, as the minister For Dirty Deeds went flat down on his fat mucking arse, and the good guy promptly sat on the piece of shit’s chest and started bitch slapping him. Something chronic too. A most ultraviolent and bloody affair it all was, which had Woll absolutely mesmerised, but it didn’t interest the other two blokes. Who had far more important things to do, than watching politicians beat the multidimensional shit out of each other.

   

    ‘Fucking baby soul idiots! The dickheads think that they’re bloody gladiators or something!’ Max quipped to Ernie, as they left the tv room.

    ‘Yeah! Their psuedo sacred house is full of cocksuckers and motherfucker hypocrites Maxie!’

    ‘Yeah! Y’re right there Ern! They should feed that white and coloured trash on cane toad stew and toadstool milkshakes 24/7, instead of caviar and booze. That those baby soul dead in the heads are, mystically speaking, actually made out of love and Light…just like crazy Barry is, is simply unbelievable! That so many baby soul morons actually vote them into power is mind boggling! Sometimes Ern, I think that I am never ever going to get over this slow mystical learner’s fucking universe, or the fact that I landed as a slow mystical learner, right in the fucking middle of it. It’s a hard cop mate and don’t bother to bring me down again Goddy Woddy, I saw and heard enough this time to last me a hundred thousand reincarnations, is my venerable theme song.’

    ‘Yeah! Y’re spot on there Max!’ Ernie drawled, as they left the premises. ‘You should be the prime minister with that inalienable truth on y’platform, and somebody should shove their caviar up their arrogant and ignorant fucking mystically incorrect rectums, I reckon.’

    ‘The way that things are going, that could be on the cards Ernest!’

    ‘You mean when homofuturus gets here and shafts the homosapiens with its far larger brain capacity mate?’

    ‘Yeah! Exactly so Ern!’

    ‘Saw one last night in m’dreaming!’ Ernie told.

    ‘Oh really!’ gushed a piss excited Max. ‘Do tell me all about it Ern! There’s a good chap! Do spill the beans laddie! Did it have tits? Was it balless? Did it have a mercilessly demanifest the ultraviolent baby souls….raygun gun in its goldenly lit up astral hands? Did it have the power to just look at a piece of shit for brains ultraviolence, that has a wrathful God concept or some other pathological crap stuffed up its arse, and less mystical intelligence than a tetse fly, and instantaneously demanifest it?’

    The ol’ bungalow was mucking rapt he was. Because the visitors from lands far away, just kept blowing his mind. They did. Christ! He had thought that he had been alone and cosmically isolated with his mystic trip. Well citizen! He was finding out that that simply just was not mucking true. Because he was being merrily Collingwooded and east coast romanced, and it was most enlightening for him, it was. How in the muck Ernie Middleton knew about homofuturus pre his dreaming, he didn’t know, but he was blissed out like nothing on Earth that the walk in black man did know about them. Frankly, who doesn’t these days? Was what he was thinking, for a moment. Or rather, he watched the thinking of that from a cardinally sinless, objective spirit’s perspective. Which was the only place to watch one’s thinking from, as far as he was concerned.

    ‘The homofuturian was more noumenal light than manifested up form Maxie! It was like an angel on cosmic bloody heat!’ the grinning white toothed walk in told.

    ‘One of them hey mate?’

    ‘Yeah! One of them mate! Crikey! They are something those fuckers are! I was just about blinded by the light, and if I was one shade whiter or one shade less darker, I reckon that I would have been.’

    ‘Yeah! I’ve seen them around Ern. The lit up buggers are everywhere these days! How soon mate d’y’reckon, before they step out of their dreaming and shaft the ultraviolent baby soul morons here fair up their multidimensional arses? How soon before they beam all stupidly ultraviolent baby souls away to some other 3D re run back burner rock, so that we can simultaneously redeeem this one, and our angelic selves? You know? So that we saturate Her Majesty and our rock with a luscious 4D and then a glorious 5D overlay. So that we make a real nice heaven on Earth for Her, and all live happily and peacefully together as let loose mystics ever after. Hey?’

    ‘Oh it can’t be much longer Maxie! We must be on the c…cu…cusp of it, I reckon!’

    ‘Yeah! Bring on the third world war, and let the baby soul death trippers get their deaths and their death wish trip and their infantile can’t handle being out of the Light crap, over and done with, and out of the fucking way. Hey Ern? Then the rest of us can get on with whatever it is that we’re gunna do.’

    ‘Yeah! You said it couda! You said it! The spirits of Light won’t wait much longer for the baby soul types to catch up to the big big big Light ship!’

    ‘Why fucking should the cunts Ern? How much mind made time do baby souls need to figure out that the Light rules absolutely, thru the boss agent that we know as spirit?’

    ‘Well apparently Maxie, it takes some a long long long time to wake up to their dreaming in the dreaming. It don’t come easy, y’know?’

    ‘Tell me about it Ern!’ rattled off the mystic. ‘Sometimes one’s own abysmal stupidity and the abysmal stupidity of those around one, is simply mind blowing. It is the you’d never read about it stuff, for sure. Soul wise, this would have to be the planet of youthful folly. Don’t y’think? God knows! I did a long long long apprenticeship with that youthful folly goo. I think that we all do, don’t we?’

    ‘For sure! For sure! For sure! That’s the sort of literature that’s not fit fot the Woman’s Weekly then bungalow?’

    ‘No! I don’t think so Ern. I am not sure if that sort of woman would get the mystic stages angle yet.’

    ‘Well they’d better hurry up and get it Max! If they don’t start living that they are made out of the love Light, and that they are in no way confined consciousness wise to this brute of a third dimensional mindset that we all secondhand inherited and live under, like my girl named Sue did, well they might miss out.’

    ‘No way Ern! They won’t miss out mate! I’d bet m’fucken life on it!’ Max emphatically stated. ‘They will get it mate! They will get it the mystical I am the inner and the outer connection up their mind’s crotches real soon! They’re good girls and they just want to have ethereal fun. Just like you and I do couda! They’re even more sick of this beastman’s dimension than we are, and rightly so too. They won’t fail though! They can’t! No one can when it comes to unstoppable enlightenment, where the source Light eventually gobbles y’back up again, and includes y’in all of that pulsating mystical and spiritual bliss, that It is. Hohh Ern!’ the bungalow sermoned.

    ‘I don’t know much about women mate, I’ll admit it. They’re funny critters and generally speaking, they’re a bit too neurotic for my neuroses to handle, and the psychotic ones don’t do anything at all about buggering my psychoses off. The same as mine doesn’t do a thing for annihilating their’s. I do know one thing about them though Ernest, and that is that they are tired of karmic bullshit delaying the Light bliss gobbling them all back up again, and including them in all of the real cosmic magic. Which is the quite natural them at Source, as the Light that has no sound or holographic imagery projected onto It or in It, at all. Ha! Ha! Ha!’ laughed merry Max.

    ‘That’s their real bitch and number one who am I really bug. Sideshow alley men aren’t, and pretty soon they are gunna really know all about that, too. The same as men will know the vice versa situation, where y’prime love is the source Light, and you have got to get all of that shit right, and fall totally and absolutely madly in love with y’wider mystical self again, or you’ll just never be right. You’ll just be dragging y’beguiled and fucking had it stir fried arse, and y’finally shut down stirfried mindtool, into y’fucken stirfried grave. Because without a decent mystical and spiritual and existential answer to the who am I question, life is hell! Hell is boring and it is full of stupid ultraviolent baby soul idiots, and it is no fun at all, and that’s why so many humans are chasing the mystical source Light these days.’

    Ernie the night tripper grinned wholesomely at what the west coaster was saying.

    The bungalow is talking! Listen up! He saw dart across his mindscreen, and then there was nothing there, so that he was the perfect receiver on the night tripper frequency. Like some character from out of a book, he was.

    ‘They want the real mystical thing and nothing else will do, and when they get that and ascend in consciousness, they are going to exterminate the ultraviolents here, without lifting a fucking finger!’ Max told him With the certainy that later on in the day, he would be wiping shit off his too hairy bumhole again.

    ‘The transmutational homofuturian vibrations are just going to blow all of the baby soul dunces away into melt down mode, and mark my words Ern, the lit up ones are gunna wipe the Earth clean of ultradense in vibration homosapiens. Them having had their third dimensional runs, so to speak. Homofuturus will not spare the rod mate, because it is in their design to replace the faulty and floored I am the inner personality only, 3D model. The new 4D to 5D models that come in will not be playing with that infantile soul junk, at all. They will be strictly one hundred percent I am the inner and the outer, and I am the outer and the inner types, and they will have powers over the entirety of the fluiditic and oceanic consciousness which frankly, will allow them to cream the ultraviolents.

    They will only have to look at a baby soul that already thinks it is, or is dreaming about becoming the Number One power on the Earth, and is prepared to use violence as a means to satiate that desire, and that will be the end of them. Their atoms will drop out of their manifested constitutions like they’ve got a psychotic nuclear reaction going on north of their anal rings, and within sixty seconds they’ll be dust on the ground. Again. There’ll be a lot of political deadhead types amongst them too. Preists who bugger, beings who murder and kill, all rapists, those who vote for war and are involved in the technology to actualise it, and all other violents, they’ll all go. Any human who does not have the necessary subtle vibrations of peace and true awareness within their auras and who is not ready for cosmic consciousness, will be mercilessly demanifested.’

    At this point, the night tripper grinned mysteriously, because he was thinking that he’d be into that. Who wouldn’t?

    ‘It won’t matter whether they come from the top of the human pecking order Ernest, or from the bottom of it, or from the middle of it or anywhere else, the homofuturians are gunna do ’em all! They are gunna stir fry the light out of the lot of them, and banish them and their karmas to another back burner 3D hologram, where they can no longer interfere with the destinies of so many slightly evolved souls here. Their new joint will look like this Earth too, but it won’t be this Earth, and the clayed up dunces of this particular school for souls will simply, have to do it again. Because the real God of karma will demand that of them. Some good news at last couda, and about fucking time too! Hey? It’s not all gloom and doom down here then Ern! It can be quite exciting if one activates one’s awareness, and puts it to work.’

    Happy with his little wrathful and warning rave Max was, and the listener was likewise happy with the sentiment in it, he was. The death of his beautiful white wife had cut Ernie open from his bumhole to the middle of his forehead, and it had gutted him like he had never before in his life been gutted. He knew that instinctively and intuitionally that what the whitefellah was saying about his deceased missus and all other girls, and violent men and women, was pure truth. It wasn’t symbolic noise or political cock and bullshit, that is. It was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Ernie knew that allright. Because his people had come into the dreamtime on the back of a mighty mighty mighty bird spirit, and despite what was currently going on, they would exit the stage of manifestation, exactly the same way that they had entered it. He reckoned.

    ‘In having had enough of karmic bullshit and in not wanting to delay the Light bliss anymore Ern, we blokes are exactly the same as the girls!’ the bungalow asserted. ‘The girls won’t miss the big big big Light ship mate! Some of them will be the first ones there, I bet y’. Never underestimate a fucking woman Ern! She’s got a vast and wonderful multidimensional and dimensionless spirit’s apparatus backing her up. She’s a bloody holographic drop down descendant from all of that mysterious and mystically magical stuff. Be very very very careful when you fuck with a woman then! That’s my fucking motto mate! Better to fuck with the source Light that is really all that is real really. It’s a lot fucking safer! Because you cannot trust any other mind, including y’own, because they’ve all been wrongly programmed with ignorant third dimensional bullshit. You can trust y’spirit that comes in and out of the Light however, one hundred fucking percent! Even when it seems that things are going against y’, it just means that y’spirit is working its divine guts out, to get y’to reorientate and to drop the ego illusion crap, and spread y’fucking ethereal wings. Again! Whilst in the physical fucking body! Why wait for death to astral party? Why not do it while y’are wiping y’fucking arse, and lighten up a bit. Y’fucker! That’s all that spirit is really saying! Well, it appears to be what it is saying to me, anyway.

    Find the fucking answer to who am I then, and all other relationships will click in, like sugar dissolving in water. That’s my creed these days couda! It’s a stay out of trouble one, avoid third dimensional karmic bullshit for the plague that it is, and a get the primal source relationship sorted out one thru the I am sense, and like the Mortein people say to all fuckers; when y’re on a good thing, stick to it!’

    ‘What about if an angelic female representative of the coming homofuturian species walked Cleopatra like into your bedroom at midnight, dropped her astral knickers, and then sat on y’not so pretty face Max?’

    ‘Now that would be an entirely different situation Ern! As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that if that actually happened, that I would be reciting on the good ship lollypop - non stop into the hypothesised divine moosh, before you can say jig a jig Cisco.’

    ‘Every woman is the Light dropped down into a sensualised flesh and blood physical body mate! My girl named Sue was,’ sayeth the Ern. ‘She was the best named and shaped, mentalised and emotionalised mind projection that I have ever been associated with! She had more of the true spirit in her, than all of the politicians on this wunderbarless shithole of a planet put together!’

    The bungalow turned his head sideways and took in the mighty fine countenance of the black skinned walk in. Somehow he had a feeling that there was some secret business that the bastard wasn’t sharing with him. The walk in prick was holding out on something, and the west coast mystic could sense it. You can’t hide a thing from venerable west coasters, and they know all of the mystical mucking tricks they do. So the bungalow took his best stab at what he thought that Ernie the night tripper was most likely holding out on, he did.

    ‘Do y’think that y’missus went back to becoming an ethereal homofuturian, after she dropped her a girl named Sue projection, and that that is who you saw in y’dream last night mate?’ He asked, in German too.

    Ernie grinned Grand Canyonishly and nodded in the affirmative. Bungalow Max did the same thing back at him.

    ‘You’re in good hands then! Aren’t y’y’black bugger? I wish that I had an ethereal dollface like that hanging around me!’

    Ernie grinned Grand Canyonishly once more and nodded in the affirmative again, and the west coast landlord re ran his last scene too. Actually if the truth be known, the west coast pacifist had about 666 ethereal dolls hanging off him, he did. They were astral smooching with him too. He looked a bit Dr Shed-ish as they did it to him too, he did. His resemblance to the Pembertonian Englishman was frightening actually, and in the nearby bush snakes slithered away in all directions, to get way from what could only be described as a mucking west coast circus. There’s dreaming, and then there’s dreaming, and then there’s dreaming, there is. Which one was the bungalow? He was all three naturally, however currently, he was arseshitting the latter. Who isn’t?

   

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    ‘Da…aaaddddd! Maa…..aaaaxxxxxx! Where’ve you’ve been y’bloody bludgers! Come on y’fuckers! Shake an old cunt’s leg, will y’se?’ the twins rattled off. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for blokily swapping symbolic noises later on! C’mon! Get y’fucking heads down and bend y’backs! There’s work to be done! Listen up! We’re thinking of building a whorehouse out the back of the LAN centre, or at least of having some street girls working the back door. What do you blokes reckon about that?’

    ‘What in the hell are y’gunna need them for boys?’ Ernie and Max asked simultaneously. Incredulously, aussi.

    The twin’s eyebrows went up, as if they were dealing with nothing but tamas and rajas, or the chaotically dumb mass of jelly that is the mystically ignorant adult mind.

    ‘Well someone’s gunna have to mix up the milk shakes and the banana smoothies, and sprinkle the fairy floss on the bread, and cream the doughnuts with a single swipe, like mum used to do!’ they roared. ‘We figure that if we get the girls in, then we’d be able to sweet talk them into doing a few low paid, under the counter jobs for us. Because y’know, they’re just about all suckers for cutey cute little boys like us. Our halfcasteness often melts them, it does. So many of them no sooner see us, and they want to grab us and stick us on the end of one of their tits. So! We get some cheap labour free from super or worker’s comp or taxation of any kind…fair enough! We’re democracy and capitalism in action, why not? We deserve the First Up Business Rebate. Tell y’s a secret too lads! We like tits! We like them a lot!’ stated the Middleton twins. Emphatically.

    ‘Tits get the thumbs up from us gentlemen!’ they kid barked, playboyishly. ‘When there’s tits around everybody’s buzzing, and they play a lot better, they do. With wholesome breasts hanging over y’shoulder, you can become Number One in cyberspace. Whereas no one with their feet upon the ground has ever or ever will entirely rule this Earth of physical space, as Number One. Many have tried, but they all failed miserably. Many are still trying, and they will all fail just as miserably too. We want to run a good joint then where our good customers get a great shot at existentially compensating for that imbalance, we do. We want the best! The absolute best! Just like Eddy. We want a plush, firm and cool joint, we do.

    We want a pair of lusciously gorgeous tits every five feet in our place! Big or small or inbetween, we want them all, just as they are. We want the sensuality of the cleavage to give us the leverage, to suck everybody into being blown away by the Middleton Brother’s LAN Centre! We want them to feel like they’re on another world, in another dimension. A dimension that is more suited to their more subtle existential tastes, and their insatiable thirst for peacefully played, never ending holographic games. All of the way back to that elusive butterfly of a dimensionless point, when they do become Number fucking One! It is their first right as an existential citizen to reclaim that lost existentiality and mysticality, and we wanna give it to them, we do! With a little bit of help from you two old cunts, that is.’

    ‘Fair enough boys!’ The old blokes said, simultaneously. ‘We’re looking forward to the grand opening!’

    ‘So are we!’ barked the twins, with devilish little glints in their eyes.

 

   

 

    Wallace Smith was getting worried. Real worried. Like shitfaced worried man. Sister! Whatever he had, he had it real real real bad. Like some blokes seem to do. It was more than missing his mum’s breasts and the rest of her physicaled up approximation of unconditional love too. It was a lot more complex than that, and it had a hell of a lot more to do with the male mindset, than the female one.

    Beads of persperation were dripping down his brow and rolling down his golf course of a nose, before parachuting without a parachute into the abyss, from the last skinpore hole there. He was steel wire tense and his skinny guts had crossed the North Korean border, and gone Barbie dollish. What was bothering him wasn’t that the Dirty Deeds minister was making any sort of a comeback, in fact the evil prick appeared to either be out cold, or dead. What was making the streak from the east extremely nervous was that the other ministers had ganged up on the good guy. Woll knew that if the good guy died, and the evil prick wasn’t dead, then he would lose the bet, naturally; and he really didn’t like the looks in the eyes of the ministers who had surrounded his bloke. Because they looked like mucking Romans, they did. His bloke was still sitting on the piece of shit’s chest, having well and truly dismantled the bastard, but it was potently obvious that he also was more than worried. About his immediate future, that is.

    His head was going left to right over his shoulders pendulum like, and he could sense the foul greed and super selfishness and the petty ego karmic bullshit, and the existentially repugnant and dirty dirty dirty illusory darkness, in the shit headed baby soul beings around him. They had been conned well and truly by their mind’s maya or matter illusory world projection, for sure, and the good guy knew that. Like one hundred and sixty six point six percent’s worth, did they take a hologram that was unreal dreaming to be real blood and guts pecking order stuff; and the good guy knew that. All right. Because he was the sacrificial lamb; and he knew that too. All right. As clear as the fact that he still had an angelic arsehole planted on the piece of shit’s chest, that was to him.

    When the dirty rats and the ministers for this or that dragged out their razor sharp flick knives from underneath their money treed jackets, and flicked them open like Clockwork Orange Droogs do, the minister for Common Decency knew that he was a Julius goner. So did Woll, as he collapsed rag doll like into Max’s number two lounge chair. He looked like Satan had just drop kicked him into the underworld, he did. Morosely depressed and black dogged from here to eternity, he was. He didn’t know who had done it, or how they’d done it, but he sure felt like he’d been conspired against. Because for a while there it had sure looked like the good guy had had it in the bag, and that the fat lady really was for once gunna sing a sweet justice tune for the ordinary people. Who were struggling like muck to keep the bare necesseties of life, like food and water and shelter happening. They were in a World War Three with their bills, and most certainly they had a cash flow problem when it came to being able to stuff any mucking caviar down their throats. Many of the bastards and bitches would be extremely lucky to get the dough together to pay for their own bloody funerals, they would.

    ‘How in the fuck was I supposed to know the real fucking numbers?’ The east coaster passionately lamented to the bungalow’s interior air. Tears were already forming up in the corners of his eyes.

    ‘Oh fu….uck! I should have fucking known!’ he groaned and groaned and groaned, as he whipped himself. Mercilessly. In his skinny mind’s eye he saw his five g’s sprout  a pair of giant wings and fly off into the west coast sunset, he did. Then an overpowering wave of guilt hit him, as he thought about the possibility of Margie finding out what he’d done. In fact, he was quite cognizant that if his missus found out that he had bet on a 21st century good guy again, that she would mucking crucify him. Because she had already told him 50,000 times to not bet on any pupported to be 21st century good guys, because the entire stinking system was riddled with I am the inner personality only mega-egomaniacs, and their whole shitball set up was rigged like the wiring in a crash bound computer. A cold cold cold shudder went up the Woll’s ultra skinny spine as in his mind’s eye, he saw the possible coming confrontation with his lusciously gorgeous missus. She would have his big skinny Vic balls on an enamel plate if she found out about his absolutely monumental fuck up, and he knew it. Christ! Did he ever.

    What a supreme dickhead of a thing have I done? Forgive me father, for I quite obviously didn’t know what in the fuck I was doing! Again! He saw run streaker like across his trembling with anxiety, mindscreen.

   

    As if on cue and straight after he thought that, the minister For Donkey Fucking stepped forward and thrust his gleaming silver blade into the middle of the good guy’s exposed back. The ministers for Duck Rooting, Tickling Turkey Arse and Saving Mystically Retarded And Anally Retentive Scrotums, then stepped forward and did the same thing. It was a politician’s attack and they were in a frenzy all right, as they delivered their cruel blows, and then withdrew to let the next one behind them deliver their’s. Doing the crocodile rock they were, only with a grown up.

    The minister For Absolutely Not So Sweet At Fucking All, But Rather As Bitter As All Hell, one Brutus Lawrence McGoolie, got in there and stuck one in the ribs of the dying good guy, and then the minister For Divine Cock And Bull Existential And Mystical Ignorance, got him from the other side. The bastard did. The minister For Insanely Silly Twats And Old Hags And Stupid Blondes And Unbelievable Female Ugliness, then gave the victim a vicious boot up the arse, with a high heeled pointy shoe. She did. It got rectum stuck for a bit, on account of she had a superfat slob’s foot, and she had a bit of trouble getting it out, she did. Her fat thighs and fat throat and fat cheeks everywhere wobbled big jelly like, as she tried to extract the digit, they did.

    Meanwhile, the crotch bottom of the good guy’s strides was hanging out of his mouth, and so was one of his balls. It was his leftie, actually. The poor bastard was in a bad bad bad way, he was. When a bit of his lower bowel slid down his tongue and fell off it, and made its bid for freedom as it leapt into the abyss, he knew that he didn’t have long left upon this Earth. The good guy didn’t fear death, and he knew that death was a great festival, but the fat lady’s boot up the arse had hurt like mucking hell. It had. To tell the truth, he preferred the knives in his final act. They were a hell of a lot cleaner.

    When the political bitch and female demon did finally get her real pointy shoe out, ten ministers went down on it one after the other, and they gave it an extreme right good licking. They did. All of them were chasing higher paid jobs and being in the ultra conservative’s news a hell of a lot more often, too. They weren’t stupid, they thought. They were just holographically dreaming, without the slightest slightest slightest clue about the mysticism inherent in that. One hundred percent I am the inner personality only, they were. I am the inner and the outer and the outer and the inner and let’s share the cosmic ethereal harmony, they were not. For mucking sure.

    The dirty rotten Roman throw back rats dragged the good guy back up onto his feet and held him up back onto the camera, and Woll watched on with mega remorse and extreme sorrow absolutely dripping out of him. One of his boys was really doing it the hard way, he was. The political demons then brought in a big wooden cross, and they nailed the poor poor poor bastard to it, they did. As a final insult, they made a crown up out of ballot papers and hundred dollar bills, and the pages from their holy book where it says to love one’s enemies, and they sticky taped them all together. Then they all one by one wiped their arses with it and then animal whiffed it like they were descended from Orcs, before they put it on his dying head and lit it. So that his hair went up in a bonfire. That’s what the low down and dirty rotten scumbag bitches and bastards did. The Canberra roach racing zombies from hell, they were. They sizzled the good guy’s brain with duty and the dollar and a hypocrite’s, come here all yee fellow baby souls’ and follow us into more war and false religion, all right.

    Woll covered his eyes with a hand and puppy dog peeked out, and he was whimpering something chronic in front of the box, he was. He was barely able to watch, and he knew exactly what was going to happen. Because it was just another re run that he was watching, and the good guy was gunna get blown away again. It was pretty obvious to him that the minister For Common Decency was gunna lose more than his seat, it was. In fact, Woll reckoned that they would probably blow his head off, again.

    ‘Ohhh fuck! I bet on the good guy! I am a fucking idiot of monumental proportions!’ he told the universe again. A couple of times, too. ‘Why in the fuck did I do that?’ He asked the Pemberton sky God, who had absolutely no idea either.

    Some little shortarse minister that looked like he’d seen better days, stepped from out of the bunch of political demons. It wasn’t Dirty Shortarse Harry, it was Howard. Howard Jenkins, that is. The minister For Dirty Little Up Themselves Dogs, he was, and what was worse, he had a sawn off shottie in his hands. He brought it up and aimed it at the good guy’s upper chest, and as he did so the good guy’s hot head came up, and there was just one speck of life left in the poor poor poor bugger’s, beautiful sky blue eyes. There was. God it was sad, and in the ethereal background trillions of angels were  mega plucking their anti sorrow harps and crying their astral eyes out again.

     They couldn’t believe that another one of their universal good boys was going down, so heavy handedly. Then they saw that it was the Earth where he was being murdered upon, and instantly they all understood and relaxed, and they started making hearty preparations to receive his spirit. Which would, they all knew, no doubt be delerious with being released from the 3D hologram of body burdened up angst, and good versus evil illusion. Because he was out of a that horrible horrible horrible solid shit of an illusion jail again, they knew that the good guy would be pretty happy. Having killed no one and stuck to the twin lights of individual freedom and the common goodness that is inherent in common decency, he would be free to fly around the universe and party on; but the dumb dumb dumb babe soul drongos who had murdered him wouldn’t. They would be back burner planet bound for a long long long time to come, they would. As you soweth so you shall reapeth, sort of 3D stuck in the holographic shit, it all was. Hell on Earth crap and not a very good planet for happy and playful ethereal souls that they were all bound for, once again.

   

    ‘Eh tu Howard?’ The good guy who really did have the people’s welfare at heart said just, with his penultimate dying breath. ‘I always knew that you were an aristocratic bastard Jenkins!’ he added, as his head dropped forever.

    The little red political eye in his left eye went out, and the bugger was gone, he was. It was up the tunnel and party time for him as he watched his body dropping off his spirit, pyjamas like. For sure. Where they’d nailed his wrists to their cross, there was quite a bit of blood. Overall, with his face melted and all of the rest of it, and all of the cameras now on the front of him, and then back behind him again, the good guy; he wasn’t a pretty sight, at all. Well, his former now very dead body most certainly wasn’t, anyway. His spirit however was as wide as this universe and it had tentacles going off into the beyond, it did, and, it was gloriously fine, it was. The sicko bastards of this rotten rock may have been able to kill his body easily, but they couldn’t touch his spirit. They couldn’t even get near it. They couldn’t get within a trillion light years of it, exactly like they couldn’t currently get within a trillion light years of their own spirits.

    Because they had no existential and transcendental mystical receivers inbetween their ears. They just had greed turds and a whole lot of other petty and pathetic infantile ego shit there. Basically, they were just a bunch of baby soul fuckwits who had absolutely no idea how far they had drifted holographically away from the One and only true existential and mystical reality. They were dreaming that they were ‘power’, but for anybody to do that when the mystical spirit is hanging around timelessly and spacelessly as the hidden Light in the background, is a chronically big big big mistake.

   

       ‘I am better than you! Yes I am! I am really something, I am! I am upper class now. I am a worthy up the pecking order servant of this gloriously holy and sacred, sick sick sick, sickly governed and full of 21st century sick citizens’ state. I am gunna get a hefty pension as the proof of that too! War is ok! The ends justifies the means, and so long as that