There had been what could only be described as ribald pandemonium going on in the caravan, ever since the Bambino had turned into the gate. Tess had picked up and identified the engine sounds of the Italian stallion point 666 of a second before the tip of roosterhead’s tongue had touched her already vibrating clitoris, and she had in no uncertain terms announced to her partner that they had a veritable code red on their hands.

    ‘Fucking hell! It’s fucking pop!’ she’d told the most unlucky Victorian cruiser. ‘We’re fucking sprung!’ she’d screamed into his ear.

    From this point onwards they had proceeded to hurriedly redress themselves, with more than a bit of a William Tell overture playing in their ears, only there had been a couple of significant problems with that, and isn’t that always the case. First of all Tess couldn’t find her pink Elle knickers, because Brandon had been kneeling on them and they’d got pushed under the bed, and then the roosterhead couldn’t find his orange jocks. He’d looked high and low, but he had not been able to locate them. He did manage however in the chaos that went down to switch his computer on and get on the net. In the end Tess had told him to forget about his mucking orange jocks, thinking that they were probably stuffed under the bed too, and to just get his black jeans back on, which he did. Only when he’d pulled his zip up lightning fast, it had got anxiety stuck on a pinched fold bit of the shank of his dickskin, and the lad had drawn blood down there, he had. To tell the absolute truth, he’d just about ripped his big Vic cock in half.

    Having no idea where his bright orange jocks were and with a number eight bleeding pain in his groin, and with Tess still fiddling with her own fly, the two of them had only just managed to be seated around the computer, about a second before Big Daddy had called out the first ‘sweetie’ to Tess. Their hands had come out and they’d straightened out each other’s hair and chin up grinned at each other, and then just after Big Daddy’s second call, Brandon had opened the van door.

    ‘Ahhh! There you are sweetie!’ said the massive Tom McGoolie as it opened and his big head came forward and pressed against the doorway, so that it was hidden from Black Betty’s view by the opened door and his scrunched up big hat.

    ‘Hi pop!’ Tess greeted him gaily. ‘Hi nan!’ she called out to the just around the corner and hidden from her view Black Betty.

    ‘Hullo their sweetie!’ Black Betty thundered back, so that the van shook again a bit.

    ‘Gidday Mr McGoolie!’ Brandon yapped. ‘Er!…We’re just Googling on the computer to see who’s Goth-ing it and who’s Emo-ing it and who’s thinking of topping themselves in My Space, and who isn’t! Y’know?’ He related with an apologetic undertone, which the big head outside did not pick up. Woll and Max certainly did though, as they got their first sniff that everything might yet turn out to be ok, after all. They didn’t have the bodily control to tell that to the copious sweatbeads on their foreheads, or their trembling knees however. Knock, knock, knock their knees were going, and if things kept going the way that they were going, then the both of them would need knee reconstructions. For sure. Black Betty McGoolie! She was scaring the mucking shit out of them. Fu…uck! She was a fire breathing dragon on 4 little wheels, was Black Betty.

    ‘I’ve got this c…c…cu…cu….fucking problem with my fucking computer Brandon!’ Big Daddy gravel barked into the van. ‘I was wondering if you could come back up and check it out for us laddie? I just can’t get me e mails up and I’ve got an order coming thru from Canberra for fifty thousand pig’s bollocks! Apparently politicians use them in their drinks instead of iceblocks these days, which I didn’t know, but if they’re willing to pay for them, then those c…c…cu…cu…..feral creeps can have ’em. At the right price, that is. I don’t know about these computers young Brando! They’re supposed to be infallible, but if you ask me, their c…c…cu…cu…crappy fucking things. Just like politicians are, I reckon!’

    ‘Sure Mr M! Sure Mr M! Sure!’ the roosterhead fired off. ‘Do you want to do it now or…?’

    ‘Well we’ve got to go into town first Brando! We’ve run out of milk and we’ve run out of sanitary napkins. So! We’ll say in about an hour then, ok?’

    (Both Black Betty and Big Daddy were chronic diuretics.)

    ‘Sure Mr M! Sure!’ the young Vic answered him happily. Convinced by now that they were off the hook and in the clear, the young Vic was. As was Tess McGoolie, and as were Max and Woll, who were breathing a lot easier and perspiring a hell of a lot less. They didn’t know how the kids had done it and manufactured the illusion that they were sweetly innocent, and not fucking around, and they didn’t care. They were just over the moon that they’d done it, that was all. It was like the bastards had just stepped out of a too hot sauna and into a cold water pool and been reborn at the right body temperature, it was. Woll’s knees were like goalposts again now, and Max’s legs as usual, looked like he’d been born backwards on a syphilitic horse.

    ‘Well! Well! Well!’ bass boomed Black Betty, as she eyed Woll off and the ground underneath the boys shook a bit more. ‘So this is Brandon’s dad!’ she said, as the west and east coast lads stood at attention in front of the Bambino. ‘Hey hey, my my! It’s easy to see where young Brandon gets his qualities from. He does look like the Collingwood version of James Bond, doesn’t he Max? Put him in a tux and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,’ the legally blind Betty boomed across the yard.

    ‘I thought exactly that the first moment that I clapped eyes on him Betty!’ Max bullshitted. Overly keen to agree with the dirty great big, fire breathing, black haired woman, he was.

    ‘Gidday missus McGooley! I’m Woll! I’ve heard a lot about your family too!’ yapped Mr Smith.

    ‘Call me Betty Woll!’ thundered the Bambino bound up lady back.

    ‘Ok Betty! Ok!’ Max’s tenant answered her, rather conservatively. If the McGoolie woman had told him to call her Britney, or Paris, or Elle, or Medusa, or Heather, or Delilah, or Margaret or Liz, he would have said ok to any of them too. If she’d have said to call her Princess Black Betty, or Queen McGoolie, well he would have called her any of that too. If she’d have said to call her Satan’s missus stuffed into a Bambino, well that would have rolled off Woll’s tongue pretty fucking easily too. That sort of shit does on the east coast, and where Woll was concerned, he was east coaster to his unbelievably skinny core. He had been born there, and the experience that he was having was telling him that he was gunna go back and die there too. It was. Kerrist! He’d met a Black Betty or two back east, but they had nothing on the west coast one in front of him. The one in front of him was unbelievable, she was. She had come down Eagle Rock rode like the Queen of Sheba, and she had blown Woll’s mind, for sure.

    Big Daddy meanwhile was about to pull his enormous head from out of the doorway, when he saw something that considerably disturbed him. Tess and Brandon saw the trajectory of his vision, and when they saw what he was looking at their faces sunk and went down like the Titanic had done. For positioned on the top of the roosterhead’s orange coloured microwave, were his bright orange jocks. Tess flushed an exasperated bright red. Like someone had just pulled her pants down and got an illegal snapshot of what was left in her groin, for Project Voyeur purposes, and Brandon froze. Because for a moment, he had no idea what to do about the super giveaway clue. Then, with the blood of some of the most brilliant tacticians that Collingwood has ever produced rushing thru his veins, he had an idea. He turned around and reached over and opened the microwave door, then he grabbed his jocks and threw them into it and closed the door, and then he pressed the control to give them sixty seconds worth of nuking.

    ‘It’s a bit unorthodox Mr M, but it’s the only way to get the bloody things dry in this weather!’ he boldly asserted.

    A look of absolute astonishment such as this world has never ever seen came across Big Daddy’s face, and his gob dropped like a front end loader going over a cliff edge. In all of his born days he had never ever come across anybody who nuked their underwear. It was a first for him, it was. Victorians! Collingwoodians! Would they ever cease to disgust and amaze him at the same time? BD didn’t think so.

    ‘You’ll give y’self cancer of the rectum doing that laddie!’ he prophecised.

    ‘What are you talking about? Who has got cancer of the rectum Tom?’ his missus fired off at him. With her dirty great big head and unruly black mop oscillating from side to side, and jet bursts of fire coming out of her gob. Like she was filling a hot air balloon up.

    Tom McGoolie pulled his head out from behind the door and looked at the love of his life. A considerably forlorn expression was on his lower face.

    ‘Not you love!….Fuck it!’ he whispered into the van. ‘No one has! Rest easy…you’re arsehole is perfect my queen! It’s a ten! We’re just having a Robertson’s hypothetical dear,’ he told her.

    ‘Well what about hypothetically getting y’carcass back into the car Tom? It’s time that we were off! Because I say so! I’m dripping laddie! I am dripping! So let’s get going….pronto!’

    Black Betty was a frightening woman, she was. She had awesome personal power and was an absolute authoriarian and a control freak addict, who had the firey power to back her addiction up. Big Daddy was putty in her maya like hands, he was.

    ‘Yes dear! Coming my love!’ he answered, meekly so too.

    There was quite obviously no way that he wanted to wake up in the early hours with his severed dick in his mouth and half way down his throat, and that was pretty obvious to the two other blokes who were sympathetically hanging about. Because Black Betty appeared as though she could bite God’s cock off, pretty easily. In one quick go, like a T Rex, too. The McGoolies had long had their golden wedding, which was attended by McGoolies from all over this stinking, unbelievably beautiful, low density, dirty world. However, Big Daddy still didn’t trust Black Betty not to open her legs for any dude around the next corner, and Black Betty hated Big Daddy, as much as she loved him. Upon this rotten Earth, that’s what is called a marriage, only Black Betty and Big Daddy had taken the concept of marriage to unparalleled west coast heights. Shit happens, especially when there’s fucking west coast McGoolies around.

    As big Tom clambered back into the Bambino, he had a word with Max and then he looked super curiously at Woll. Both Woll and Max had followed the hypothetical that had happened in the van, and they were just so relieved that Brandon had pulled the unbelievable con off. Some people will believe anything and Big Daddy McGoolie, along with millions of other McGoolies on this rock was just one of them, he was.

    ‘Your boy has got some mighty strange habits Wallace!’ he said, as he ignited the Bambino. Which purred away like an Italian pussy crawling around the back streets of Rome.

    ‘Mama Mia! Mama Mia! Here I go again!’ the wee engine sung.

    The streak from the east grinned wholesomely back. He couldn’t do anything else, or the visiting McGoolie terrorists would have incinerated him on the spot. He knew that. He knew that like Max they were anti Victorian. He wasn’t stupid. He was aware that all west coasters had the anti Victorian prejudice virus in them. He didn’t want to die in a burst of ultra hot west coast McGoolie flame. He really really really didn’t want to be the boy from Collingwood, who got fired in the west. He wanted to stay being a family man, did Woll. He didn’t want his Ned Kelly descended balls to be ashes in the dust, just yet. He knew that the Third World War was coming and breathing down everybody’s neck, but he wanted to party on until it got here, he did. Who doesn’t? There was still more punting to be done, and lots more bets to go down on the table, and the streak from the east was drooling at the mouth to be in on all of that illusory, mind trumpted up, hologographic crap. He was a pretty slick east coast yarn spinner as well. Being Collingwood born, he was a master of the art of deception, and a wizard when it came to manufacturing and wholesale peddling, pure unadulterated, imagined baloney.

    ‘When he was younger Tom….he used to pinch my wife’s hair dryer and use that!’ the fucker bullshitted on. ‘Then from the very first moment that he saw what a microwave could do, we couldn’t stop him from nuking his jocks. In the end we just gave up and bought him one of his own. The last thing that we’d wanted was for him to make a mistake and stick his used jocks in our fucking microwave! Neither of us wanted his skid marks on our tea. I mean y’can take parenting only so far mate. What can you do Tom? Kids these days, you know?’

    ‘Yeaaaahhhh! Tell me about it Woll! Some of mine are post fifty now and they’re still nothing but bloody trouble on fucking legs,’ Big Daddy gravelled out the side of his gob, just as the Bambino slowly took off. Big Daddy did a neat little whippy reverse, like he was in a mucking cartoon, or a dream, or some’in’: and then he shunted off, he did.

     ‘Frarp! Frarp! Frarp! Mama Mia! Mama Mia! Here I go again!’ Went the magnificent ding invention, as it farted and sung its way along.

    When the McGoolies were half way down the drive, Max leant his head close in to Woll’s.

    ‘Mr Smith! You’re a fucking genius!’ he said. ‘That big moron swallowed y’east coast bullshit without a whimper! Next to you Wallace, Einstein was a fucking idiot dreamer, exactly like the rest of us, and I’ll never say anything rotten about anyone from Collingwood ever again mate! I am in love with Collingwood now Woll!’

    ‘Oh pull the fucking other one Max!’ the streak fired off. ‘Oi! You two fuckers in the van!’ he yelled with phenomenal bass, for such an ubelievably skinny bloke. ‘If that ever happens again you little cunts, I’ll skin y’se aliiiiivvvvve…… and then I’ll flush what’s left of y’se down the dunny, and then I’ll make lampshades out of y’skins! You just about cost me and Max our lives, you little shits! You’ll give us both heart attacks in front of the seven big sisters doing that. D’y’hear me?’

    ‘Yes sir dad!’ Brandon responded. ‘Sorry dad! Sorry dad!’

    ‘Yes sir Mr Smith!’ Tess called out. ‘Sorry ’bout that Mr Smith! Sorry!’

    ‘Whoa Black Betty bam ba lam!’ Max roared, as the Bambino turned out of the gate. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!’ he laughed uproariously, as finally he saw the diabolical humour in what had just happpened to them. He had a face like a swimming backwards leatherjacket fish, that’s just narrowly escaped some sharks. He had had another re run close call with death, and well, one gets older, but the re run with death, or the mucking fear of it, doesn’t. It just goes on and on and on until mucking doomsday, and Max Eaton was riding that, like it was an unbroken and bucking stallion, and well; who in the fuck isn’t these dreadfully boring, low life consciousness, too many moronic ultraviolent baby souls on the loose, pre homofuturian, days? He didn’t know.

   He knew sweet fuck all really! He was just playing with words inside and out, and putting them in different orders, like third dimensional humans do. Trumpted up noise inside and out, that shit is. Silence is golden, because it is the Light’s back door. The homofuckingfuturians reckon.

    Only those who know that there’s nothing to know, apart from the fact that the mind has a filthy bad habit of generating and holographically projecting make believe stupid holograms, know anything mucking at all. Eaton knew that, because he had read all about it in his beloved Guru’s book. These liberated mind blown and mind blowing ones that he had read about know that the final answer is that nothing is, and that nothing that is mind made is real, and the west coast landlord actually knew that. Some fucking how, and a bit hidden gene like. Like many many millions of future homofuturians do, these days. He knew it intellectually, and he also had a tad of a taste of instinctively intuitional mystical awareness about it, he did. It was living it that was the fucking problem, because he abided in a third dimensional bizarro land, and by kerrrrist citizen, he reckoned that he’d just witnessed the solid and fired up proof of that. He did.

   

    ‘Fuck the fucking lot of y’se!’ screamed the streak from the east suddently, right into the landlord’s still weeping ear. ‘I’m going around the back of the house to where it’s bloody safer!’ he told, as he about turned sharply like a military man, and took off. Actually, if the truth be known, he needed a Vic crap something chronic, but he didn’t want anyone else to know that. Black Betty McGoolie had scared the shit out of Woll. Literally too. Max meanwhile sauntered over to the van door and stuck his head in it and grinned mightily, like World War Three had just ended. Tess and Brandon grinned back at him, like they felt exactly the same way.

    ‘Y’se weren’t doggying when they rocked up, were y’se?’ he asked, somewhat desperate for a positive answer. So that he could image it more clearly in his mind, and 3D get off on it. A deadset homosapien the bungalow was, sometimes. When he wasn’t ridimentarily fucking with his angelic mystical side, that is.

    The two young lovers with nothing better to do shook their heads, and Max looked a bit third dimensionally sad for a moment.

    ‘Well y’se can go for it now, because I’m off to the safety of doing a spot of cosmic meditation up at me bungalow,’ he told them. ‘Have fun y’little shits!’ he added, as he took off. ‘Next time that you do that to me and Woll, I’ll Soprano ya’s!’

   

   Immediately that he took off, Tess closed the door and Brandon dropped his strides. They went down like the twin towers, they did. He had blood everywhere and his lover who was looking down the barrel of not getting any fucking loving, particularly body wise, was shocked about that. She was. It was obvious to her as Brandon switched his jug on and dragged out his cotton wool balls and Betadine, that they would not be doggying this dirty day. Vegemite had more chance of rooting Weet Bix in the middle of Parliament House, than of that happening. That was pretty obvious to young and pretty, Tess McGoolie.

    ‘Do you have any spot bandaids?’ she asked the roosterhead.

    ‘I think that they’re in that draw there!’ he said, as he collapsed onto a towel that he’d put on the bed. ‘Ohhhh!’ he groaned, as he stared at his poor mutilated, east coast penis. ‘Can you do the honours Tess? Can you play a deadset and 3D embodied up, real live nurse who exists professionally and effeiciently in a soul dreaming state…. for me? I hate the sight of blood! Oh the pain! The pain! The fucking fucking fucking….painnnnn!’ The roosterhead groaned and groaned and groaned.

     Tess grinned somewhat neurotically. She had come to Earth for the cosmic Self fuck of the transmutational transcendental millenium, (5th dimensional enlightenment that is); and ended up nursing a helpless male with a limp as all fuck organ, and how many women have been thru that cycle on this wanker’s planet? Quite a few, hey? They weren’t all religious either. Things brightened up for her considerably whilst she did her nursing however, because Brandon still had ten working fingers. He give her a sloppy thumbless octopussy, the dirty young ex pat Collingwood bastard did. She watered down and cleaned and patched, whilst he fiddled around deep inside of her, and other places as well. It was the least that he could do for her, considering what she was doing for him; because if she couldn’t do it right and stop the blood, he wouldn’t be fathering any more ancestors. At all. He’d be fathering sweet fuck all! He would.

    It wasn’t the Sale Of The century stuff, it was the fair go for everybody gear, and Tess had a hell of a shift she did. One way or another, she’d wanted a good blow down Eagle Rock road, and she got one too. She got a couple plus in actually, but the kid remained limper than a politician’s dog. It was his worst nightmare come true. It was the helter skelter gear. It was irony up the arse and the Wizard Of Oz has turned into Satan, sort of shit. The young Vic still did his duty for the feminist cause however, there was no doubt about that. Listening to young Tess’s shrieks of delight from his lullaboy at the back of the house, and ethereally viewung them pierce the sun, Woll could do nothing but shake his Collingwood scone. The west coast was nuts, the streak reckoned, and it was chock full of screamingly loud McGoolies, for sure.

    I should have been born in the fucking USA! Woll told himself, as his head drooped back to his form guide. I would’ve lived a far quieter fucking life! Frankly my dear, it is getting plain fucking ridiculous around this joint!

 

   

   

    ‘Whoa Black Betty, bam ba lam!’ Max yelled half way up the path to his bungalow. ‘Whoa Black Betty bam ba lam!’ he yelled as he entered his premises and turned right towards his dunny. The lad needed to crap and to change his skid marked to the max jocks, but it wasn’t necessary that anybody else in the world should know about that, he thought. That they needed soaking in a bucket of warm water and napisan, he also kept quiet about. Black Betty McGoolie had scared the maya shit out of Max. Literally too.

    ‘Whoa Black Betty bam ba lam!’ he screamed at the moon, when he was pissing out in his yard at 3am the next morning. ‘Thank y’Goddy Woddy! I am still alive! I survived the McGoolie Godmothers and Godfathers! You are still my good friend mate!’ he’d told the stars. ‘On y’spirit!’ he said to the top tree leaves. ‘On y’mate! I don’t know how that y’dun it, I just know that y’fucken dun it. You got the nuking the jocks idea into the kid’s brain. Good on y’mate! I love y’like I love m’own soul and its stupidly ridiculous bloody fucking holograms, and like I love and admire other souls and their stupidly ridiculous bloody fucking holograms too, I do. Well! They’re all based on the I am, but no one has figured that out yet. Well! Except me Guru! And you Goddy Woddy! Goddy Woddy is great! Goddy Woddy is great! Goddy Woddy is great! Rah rah, for the fucken Guru who lights bush fires in people’s souls too Goddy Woddy! Rah rah! Get the Guru back into y’heart’, and you’re on the winner of winners! Ay Goddy Woddy?’ Bungalow Max enquired of this universe.

    ‘Bungalowwwwwww Maaaa….aaaaaxxxxxxxxxxx!’ exploded a hyper thunderous voice. ‘Listen to Muuu…eeeee! Listen to Muuuu…eeeeeee! Listen to Muuu…eeeeeeeee……You little third dimensional punk! Listen up! Harken ye motherfu…uuuucker!’ the omniversal and omnipotent spirit that stretches into the beyond said back. ‘Follow one code only! Have a good one and find out who in the fuck that y’really really really are Max! Do what the fucking Guru told y’to fucking do, and give up all questions except one. Being who am I really?’

    ‘Ok mate!’ the bungalow chirped. ‘I am!’ he declared. ‘I will!’

    ‘Don’t will my 3D lost motherfucker son! Just be!’

    ‘Ok big S! I’ll try!’

    ‘Don’t try little fellah! Just be!’

    ‘Ok big One! Ok! I be! I be! I be!’

    ‘That’s it! Don’t be a holographic illusory bit part fucking fraud, a projected form shape amongst an endless infinity of them, that’s dreaming up more boring karmic, personal, I am a body only bullshit! Just be your natural and far far far wider roaming in consciousness, inner and outer Self, and who you really and truly are at mystical Source, and all will go supremely well for you punk. Realx and just be y’fucker! Don’t fucking worry about anyfuckingthing, or any fucking thing either! Leave the holographic survival and the creation, evolution and destruction shit to Muuu..ee! Concentrate on where the Light is really coming from, and turn y’mind to it ufo velocity like.

    Be happy with y’infinitely timeless and eternal speck of I am, and spread y’happy, like you’ve never ever spread it before. All of the stuff for you to do that, is already there Max. Use it! Or you’ll go down into the 3D re run again, along with billions of other holographically inexperienced, unaware, baby souls. That’d be a cosmic bummer! Wouldn’t it mein bungalow? You’d have to wipe arse again then! Wouldn’t y’sweetheart! Remember Max! Who am I? Pump the fuck out of it and fuck all else off! Wake up y’bloody third dimensional idiot! Revert to natural Source and feast on the timeless Light that never ends and never sleeps, and stop blocking that eternal side of y’Self, with that third dimensional, I am inner only, fucking holographicised trash! For fuck’s sake! Get in the groove with I am the inner and the outer, and the beyond too laddie: and stop fucking mucking around in an existentially boring to the max, turd of a dimension!’

    Said the warning, omnipotent and indescribable Voice. To the existentially and mystically astonished west coaster. Who was having a good one, sort of, warnings aside… at the moment.

   

    Sometimes one’s desire prayers get answered, and sometimes they don’t, and isn’t that just the way that it goes upon this rottenly beautiful rock? That he had lived however to see Black Betty significantly quieten down that pussy Big Daddy McGoolie, and that he had actually witnessed her stopping her big big big man from using his all time favourite c word, the bungalow had already decided that he would tell everyone in the fourth dimension about. When he’d passed over and returned there, that is. That no big big big cunt did, or could ever tell him which words that he could use and not use whilst he was doing the Earth, he also had plans to divest to his senior angels. Which he was just as likely to call c’s as anything else, because they hadn’t fleshed up, whereas he and six billion other poor junior c’s had. Had too, apparently. At least, that is what it appears to look like, from this side of the mindtool’s screen, he thought..

     Sometimes the bungalow was an animal on this side and on the other side too, and sometimes he wasn’t, and that’s what duality is really all about. Apparently. The animal – angel interchange, on the reeling and a rocking and a rapping, third to fourth dimensional and back again, multidimensional highway. That is. Have a look in the mirror, or around the house or the workplace or the street, or drop dead and see what’s currently happening on the other side, for the proof and the truth. Regarding the real nature of the mindtool’s stupidly beautiful third dimensional projections. Is what the homofuturians are saying. Apparently. They’re fans of the inner and the outer consciousness, and they eat this 3D me the body one Weeties like for breakfast. High ups! Or Lit Ups, I suppose one could call them. Guides along the ethereal and mystical highway types? Maybe. Matrix busters? Yeah! That would have to be included in their CV’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

    About a month or so later, on a wintry type of a Sunday, Brandon drove down to Northcliffe to assist Max with his renovations down there. The sand dunes were still hanging around like they owned the place, and the driveway was now all concreted and they’d done some other stuff and well, the joint was beginning to look pretty sharp it was. They had a pretty good Sunday and a pretty long one doing this and that, and it was coming onto dusk before they packed up and took off. Max’s ute lumbered down the hill after Brandon’s little red Toyota, like the two machines had just fornicated in Hyde Park. Kerrist! It was like they were doing the Swan Lake ballet, or something. Like a dog sniffing another dog’s bum, the bungalow’s ute was. Well. He got off on the kid’s smelly mystics, and the kid got off on his smelly mystics. It was that sort of a carbon monoxide downloaded set up.

    Here’s where their stories turn nasty, because they were in the bends inbetween Northcliffe and Pemberton, and it was dust darkish and raining some, and there was a bit of mist around, when guess who should come flogging around the corner doing a hundred plus k’s, and on on the wrong bloody side of the road. That’s right! ~ It was that crazy mucking Tasmanian animal! It wasn’t Errol’s ghost! It was crazy mucking Barry! Well!

    The bastard had more drugs in him than a Bayer and Bayer warehouse, and he had more piss in him than the Swan Brewery does, and he was having the psychotic episode of the millenium, and as usual he didn’t give a fuck who he killed. Yet if the truth be known, it was death for himself that he was most hoping for, and if that doesn’t define the McGoolie mindset, then nothing will. Because if one is dead and back in the Light, then the oppressive insanity inducing burden of having a body and a mind is over, and everything is allright. Isn’t it? There’s no existential pain or fear and no existential suffering in the Light. Is there? That horrible mucking shit is all gone when one is back in the Light. Hey? Now it can be clearly seen what crazy Barry and so many other fuckers on this holographic rock were and are really really really after. For sure. The way back into the Light then is to destroy everything, and blow away every holographically projected image that one’s mind throws out, real quick. Well. That appears to be the McGoolie way, whilst the homofuturians might not be sticking to that. Apparently. At least not in this fiction.

    Everyone has to destroy to live and one’s body is a battleground full of good and bad bugs, and so’s the Earth, and even Max Eaton was a killer of sorts. Because he was gunning down every concept that he could. Sometimes however, one’s concepts can get the better of one. Can’t they? For instance, the emeshed conceptualisation I am better than you, and I am licensed to label you a bad creation, and I am gunna get some revenge and wipe y’out, is a pretty dangerous mix. Isn’t it? I am better than you is a killer’s ground zero conceptualisation, for sure. If one sees someone with all of the evilly angry and wrathful crap inside of them, that is all mixed up with the illusory I am better than you shit, well one either gets out of their way real quick, or gets into a completely unnecessary ultraviolent war with them. Doesn’t one? From the individual level to the countrified one, that is the way that it goes. To fight or not fight again like animals, for nothing but the love of a profitable animal fight, is the mystically immature baby soul’s prime question. It is not who am I really? For sure.

 

   

    When the bodymind machine presented packaged imagery named Max, saw with horror in his veins what was gunna happen between crazy’s Barry’s heap of shit and Brandon’s little red Toyota, well it all seemed pretty real worldish to him. It mucking did. It didn’t come across as ground zero illusion. It was real blood and guts stuff. Because if it’s one thing that can be said about the human relationship with matter, it’s that humans can make matter make a noise. For a start, Max breaked hard and the wet road sent him screeching right. Brandon went right and bumped across the left side of crazy Barry, who then recorrected momentarily back to the side of the road that he was supposed to be on. The kid went careering into the gravel of one end of a pull off picnic area, whilst the Tasmanian bastard slid sideways towards the other end of it. For a moment Max thought that the Barry was gunna collect him, but his ute stopped just in time to see the Tasmanian’s bullet like slide past him. The bungalow got a glimpse of something that looked like a penny bomb had just gone off in a beady eyed Yosemite Sam’s beard, and then that appearance was gone. Like greased lightning.

    He then heard that horrible sound that only human’s can make with matter. He heard the crunching impact of a motor vehicle hitting a solid object. When he looked left he saw that the front right side of Brandon’s motor had hit a medium sized karri tree. The car’s horn started to sound off and then gracefully stopped, and the bungalow wished that he had never ever been born. As well, he saw two questions flash across his mindscreen. One asked if the roosterhead was dead, and the other asked that if that turned out to be the colder than cold case, would Margie be able to survive the news about his death? Considering that she had only just recently lost her beloved and psychically connected kid sister, in an east coast prang.

    The only way to really describe his mood is to say that the bungalow really didn’t want to fucking know about it, but that the shit was slamming him in the face, so he was feeling quite rightly, like Kosciosko had just melted on top of his head. Eaton was in the mucking 21st century all right, and he was getting blown away by the steel like nature of the vibrational structural density, in this dreadfully beautiful, third dimensional place. That humans call Earth, and homofuturians call a lunatical ball of a mind projected, holographic love child; that’s got a bad habit of playing with an illusory dark side. When all that there is, is the Source Light really. At one’s dimensionless point of Light, beyond the matrix called the conceptual I am programming, they say. That if one finds out who and what one really is, on the other side of the matrix, and thru the mystical hypergate, that it is bliss. Bliss citizen! Fucking bliss! Solid and loving Light, that’s allthatthereis really. In everybody and every body and in everything and every thing too and off into the fucking beyond, they say. Cosmic consciousness! Some dudesses and dudes call it. The One life and the inner and outer consciousness, others refer to It, as the only stuff that can save the humans. From re running another dreadfully boring, dreadfully painful, civilisation implosion. Enter bungalow Max, who was in the middle of eet, at the moment. The old world was dying too slowly, and he was body wise too.

   

    Looking to his right, the west coaster witnessed crazy Barry’s heap of shit slide over the edge of a deepish gulley. It disappeared from view with the sounds of branches galore being broken, and Max turned all of his attention to Brandon. Who had crawled out of the car and was laying on the wet gravel in a sprinkling rain. He was bleeding from his chest area and other places as well, and well, the kid was in a pretty bad way, he was. At the exact moment that Max reached him and stuck a hand under his head, a vehicle that had been en route to Northcliffe pulled up. Of all people, it was officer Bruce, and the scene that was lit up by his headlights was his worst nightmare come true. The big country cop grabbed his radio and called for an ambulance and back up, and then he got out of the car with some towels and a blanket and his big torch, and he and Max did what they could with them.

    Bruce then stepped back and witnessed what he didn’t want to witness, as the kneeling landlord brushed the kid’s wet hair back. Trickles of blood were running down from a cut that the kid had on the top of his head, and they were mixing with the water and well, it was just a mucking nightmare it was. Max’s heart was pumping at a 100,000 light years per second, but the kid’s wasn’t. His had slowed down considerably, after almost burning itself out. 

    Even though it was still raining slightly, the big police officer knew that Max was crying. It was obvious to the lawman that the bungalow’s emotional dam had burst, and that he really didn’t want the roosterhead to die. Bruce also knew however that someone always has to die and looking at the young Victorian, he didn’t fancy his chances as regards him staying away from the other side. The big country cop had been around death a few times, and currently he could smell it thru the fucking trickling rain in his big broad nostrils, he could. He started lamenting that if only he had been a couple of minutes earlier that he might have been able to have pulled crazy Barry over. Deep down however, he knew that if the Tasmanian devil had have spotted his police car in his rear vision mirror, that he most likely would have accelerated.

    Such is life! Bruce heard the travel of that go thru his head, for sure.

 

    ‘Brando! Hang on kid! The ambos are coming!’ Max told the roosterhead, as he kept brushing the watery blood off the youngin’s forehead.

    Brandon’s left eye slid open, egoTerminator like, though only just. There was a beam of light emanating from it that didn’t give a fuck about death, and that saw death as a mighty festival, where one gets into a liberated rejoicing, superbig time. One gets ready for an astral party or two and to getting blotto on the good old subtle and realer home brewed, ethereal love booze, does one. At the source of the beam, smack bang in the middle of the kid’s pupil, was what looked like a dimensionless point of mucking around with holographics something awesome, Light. Max saw it, and he knew that the roosterhead’s spirit was getting ready to leave his body, and well, he was pretty upset about that, he was. Because he didn’t want that, at all. The young Smith’s death was not his desire citizen.

    ‘I’m in the tunnel Maxie!’ the kid whispered ultra excitedly, though only just. ‘I’m in the tunnel and I am gunna be floating and flying something awesome pretty soon, I am. Locked in and ready to rocket, I am. I can see these wonderfully lit up with lotsa Light critters up the fucking tunnel Maxie! It’s different now! I am near the end of it, I am! Yippee! I want to sing! I want to dance! I want to cry a river of eternally infinite bliss! Hohh..oh…ah! This is gorgeous! This is just so so so luscious! What a supremely divine buzzy fucking buzz! I’ve never felt so good in my whole life! This beats sex hands down, and it absolutely shits on piloting ufo’s. This is the lusciously gorgeous stuff all right! This is bliss!’ Croaked the dying roosterhead kid.

    ‘The lit up buggers are welcoming me back with astral curled arm come ons to a dimension that I am far more at home with Maxie, than this ghastly denser than dense matter one,’ he choked out. ‘I’m fucken outa here! I am taking the ticket that the Goddesses and Gods of the multiverses are offering me! Why hang around in an ultrashitforbrainsdickhead’s cunthole, when you can have this wunderbar gear?’ He dribbled out, along with some blood. ‘You were just so right mate! I am gunna go and check the lit up buggers out, I am. Oi!!! Yuse non fucking cunts! Hang on! I’m coming!….I’m coming! I am a coming!’ He gurgled deleriously, to his inner world. ‘Don’t you worry about that y’big lit up with Light buggers! Wait for me y’buggers! Wait! I’ve just gotta have one last word with the bungalow and officer Bruce! Just give me a split moment you fuckers!’ The roosterhead blurted and burbled out. Though only just, as another trickle of blood trickled out of his rapidly dying gob.

    It was dark poetry in motion it was. It was yet another re run unnecessary death, on a mystically unnecessary holographic and holigraphic planet. It was a zone of dreaming, and a zone of a whole lot of dreamers who were dreaming that they were not a dimensional point of the Real and Source One Light. Instead they were dreaming that they were a separate individual and a personalised bodymind machine, and that was their great calamity. Because I am inner only is hell, because it negates the mystical truth of I am the inner and the outer, and the beyond too. That they were really the One life multidimensionally downloaded thru a mindtool, and not that they were not some holographically projected thing that has to eat and drink and shit and piss, and root and carry on like a lunatic on love’s lost highway. Was the calamity of infant mind’s illusions. That the timeless love Light is all that there really is, they had absolutely no idea. The poor poor poor third dimensional being ripped off and ripping themselves off at the same time buggers, and the bungalow was currently just one of six to seven odd billion of them, he was. He was a victim of trash secondhand inherited 3D mind programming, and who isn’t down here? Besides the fucking Guru, that is. Who can pick the illusion of matter and spin it into a transcendental mystical web, and blow the mind matrix to kingdom come? Eaton couldn’t. Not yet. They say that one creates one’s own reality though, don’t they?

    The west coaster was dreaming up some bad bad bad perceptual and conceptual shit then, with his I am in the middle of all of this shit mouse, for sure; and it was the stuff of the movies. It was hyper pulsating, shit fucking drama and trouble. The kid really was dying, and things just couldn’t get any worse. Who was responsible? He was! Everybody else was too. Because he was supposed to be minding the kid, and in an oceanic universal hologram full of impersonater waves, when one dies all die, and when one is born all are born, and he knew that like he knew the skid marks on his jocks. It was like a mystical virus that was floating around in his blood. Look! The dead quickly become the ancestors who have a cosmic ball fucking with the timeless love Light, to earn  a cosmic living. Who doesn’t know that, these hideously accelerating days? Where it is getting hot hot hot….hotter, all mucking right. Too damn hot, for some, like the west coaster.

   

    A look of sheer third dimensional horror came onto bungalow Max’s can’t take much more face, which was hovering over the kid’s like a Gray’s mucking flying saucer.

    ‘You get out of that fucking tunnel Brando! He screamed. ‘You stay away from those lit up cunts! They’re con artists! They’re shifty upper astral wheelers and dealers, those motherfucking guides are! The bitches and bastards con y’ into come into this fucking holigraphic dump, and then they holographically delete y’ without y’getting a say it! You hear me? It is not fair! You get out of there! You get the fuck out of that fucking tunnel kid! Now! Y’hear me?’ he roared. Like the MGM lion.

    ‘It’s not your fucking time for the anti space and time tunnel yet! You hear me? You’ve got living to do yet!’ the thunderstruck landlord rabbitted on ‘You’ve got to get married and divorced six times yet! You’ve got to fight with women like the dirty bitches all had Atilla the Hun for a father, and you did too! You’ve got to go back to Scandinavia and link up with some of y’ancestor’s kids yet! I can feel that in me old cunt bones! I am telling you that y’prick! I feel that strongly! You’ve got to get ripped off by the state for mega bucks yet as well! You’ve got to pay their stinking rip off bills and endure their baby soul ways, and listen up to their stinking third dimensional tripe, on every stinking channel! You’ve got to put up with bastards and bitches blah blah blahing on and on and on and on about God, when they don’t have a fucking clue in hell about how that holigraphic concept is really holographically working! They’ve got no idea that they are the Source of creation thru their I ams, and not God. Fucking hell Brando!’ spat Max, into the kid’s rapidly checking out face.

    ‘You’ve got to be burglared materially and psychologically 666 times yet!’ he roared into the long dark night of the soul. ‘You can’t leave now, because you haven’t done all of that shit yet! Kerrist kid! It should be me that’s in the tunnel, because I’ve done all of that shit! You hear me? It should be me that finds out first what’s up the fucking tunnel! You get out of that fucking dimensional wormhole now Brando, and I’ll hop into it, and death will be satisfied! Ok? I deal with the lit up cunts! I won’t let them touch a hair on y’! We’ll swap my son! Come on! Come on!….Come on!’ Pleaded the bungalow, like he had never before in his life pleaded to anyone, for anything.

    ‘Take me as the blessed medium, not the kid! You fucking reverse swing fuck!’ His soul was absolutely screaming at Death.

   

    Officer Bruce looked on, and although he had to admire the direction of bungalow Max’s pitch to give up his own life for the kid’s, he could clearly see that the pitch was doomed for failure. When Brandon coughed slightly and some more red as red blood flowed from his lips, Bruce had all of the evidence that he needed. It was clear that the young Victorian had internal injuries, and that he was most likely going to die before the ambulance arrived. Being a true and consumate professional, Bruce was already beginning to brace himself for how bungalow Max would be when the moment of death arrived.

   The big cop liked the bungalow, and the bungalow liked the big cop. They had chatted many times over the years and they were mates, and Bruce felt like Max was the sort of law abiding citizen who deserved to have the full weight of the law backing him up. The big cop knew that he really should be checking on what had happened to crazy Barry, but currently he really didn’t give a fuck what had happened to the murdering Tasmanian prick. He wanted to stand by his man and bugger the bad guy, did Bruce. That the good guy should live and the bad guy should die is what the big cop wanted, but why it always kept happening the other way around, he had no idea. Was God a cock and pussy teasing bastard? Bruce didn’t know. He wasn’t what you’d call, a religious type.

 

    ‘What about y’family Brando? Hold on for y’family’s sake!’ the bungalow asked and told the dying youth.

    ‘F…f….f…fuck the fucking family!’ the kid answered, though only just.

    Max’s eyebrows went up and so did the big cop’s. Neither of them had expected to hear what they’d just heard.

   ‘Just t…t…t… fucking tell them all that I fucking love them all to pieces, and that I’ll see them on the other side and that we’ll party something chronic then! The tunnel is just too nice and I have to go now Max,’ Brandon relayed.

    ‘No you fucking don’t!’ Max screamed back at him. ‘You don’t have to go anywhere! You have to stay here and suffer like a dog a hell of a lot more yet! D’y’hear me? It’s not fair that you should get out of a jail before moi! Now you get out of that fucking tunnel! It’s just y’brain winding down anyway, and there’s nothing on the other side! You are still existentially and mystically, holographically dreaming Brando!’

    ‘Ha!’ gasped the near deceased. ‘Sure mate! Sure! If that be the case, then I’ll take this other side dreaming, and you can shove that side’s dreaming up y’old fucker’s arse! Why be a Cheetah monkey, when y’can be a Johnathon Livingstone seagull bird? Love you too Maxie. You too Brucie!’ the roosterhead gurgled. ‘I adore your new haircut mate! It suits y’ just fine with y’hat on or off! It’s beautiful, like Itchycoo Park used to be Bruce. It really is.’

    The young, born in Collingwood Vic’s head, rolled to the side as more blood came out of his had it third dimensional gob. His eye closed and the brilliant light that had come out of it was almost gone. He was near dead. Death had him in its expired Et’s astral wheelbarrow, and one of the old boys was going ethereally home to the old much loved and much adored, ethereal stomping grounds. There’s a universal tee pee in the astral sky, with a few good council mates in it, and a little to big flying saucer parked out the front of it for every human, and the kid was zeroing in on his allocated cosmic one. All right.

    ‘Brandon!’ screamed the bungalow. As he grabbed the roosterhead by the shirt collar. He shook the gung ho young bastard of a mystical young gun around a bit, and said a quick internal prayer to every God that has so far been imagined, and every one who has yet to be imagined too. ‘Brandon! Wake up! Wake up! You can’t die! You can’t die!’ the mortified bungalow dweller yelled, as the tears flowed down his capitalistic, bourgeoise, multidimensional, west coast cheeks. Hohh!

    When they cry on one of the oldest bits of west coast holographic real estate upon this Earth, they cry from dawn to dusk, and on past midnight and into the wee hours. They do. They cry all of the way to where the spirits dance and the faries play, and the astral dandelions and red roses grow, and the majestic, phantasmorgorical and mystical crystal and causal worlds surround one. Annnn..dddddd!

    One is like a fish who has been caught out of the soul and ethereal water, in a web of desire and cleverly deceptive mindtool projected imagination, that has been solidified and subjectively objectified, who has been finally cut loose from a bodymind machine personalised named and shaped thing living solidity ~ which is gross 3D deception; and let loose back into the lusciously glorious, ethereal and astral water. Again. The considerably lightened up, swimming around gear, that is. Where one can float around real fast as a happy go lucky entity, and one’s supporter allies in the service of the Light are myriad and vast. Yes! It was that old happy hunting ground, where astrals can zing around as fast and as freely as the eagle, and roosters can just fly and fly and fly, and do backflip whoopsies with a 360 degree vision. Anytime. Mucking hell dudesesses and dudes! It was winning the mystical lotto! It beat wiping arse and bleeding from every orifice imaginable, and arguing with every fucker on every corner, by mega mucking light years. It did. Resistance to it was useless, and Brandon knew that allright.

    The kid’s eye that was seeing all of that that is the glory and the Light, and the beyond in front of him, slid open again for a sec. He wasn’t looking for marijuana or ice or any other substances. He was saying goodbye to a friend, and looking for sanity and truth; but instead a super stressed out bungalow Max’s bewildered and bemused, and too shocked to be insignificant face, stared back at him.

    ‘I know that I can’t die and that no one else really can either Max! That’s why I’m fucken going!’ he gurgled. ‘The mindtool can shove time and space and name and shape up its fucking arse! My fascination with matter and energy is finished! The me that isn’t and the me that is m’spirit, is busting out again! I’m gunna overdose on the timeless again, and listen to the ancenstors’ infinite jokes! I’ll see you boys back in heaven. Be good! Stay out of trouble and have fun like Robocop told the kids to do!’ ga ga gurgled the kid. With the; a couple of more lung and heart movements left stuff. 

    ‘The Gods are calling me, and they all want me to tickle their ethereal balls!’ he asserted. With a spurt or two of more claret. ‘The Goddesses are calling me, and they all want a sloppy ethereal pash! Or two to the nth ones. I am into that! The Light at the end of the tunnel has just made me an offer that’s too good to refuse lads. I’m fucking outa here, and I’m off to be mercifully de holographicised back into nothing but eternal bliss. Catch y’se bro…ose! Have a good one! I fucking am! This is the roosterhead programming checking out of this turd of a holographic and holigraphic game. This 3D programme is now deleted……Beeeeeeeep! Be…eeeeppppppp!’

    Then his eye shut again and Max felt the spirit of the young Vic vacate his bodily premises. It was over and now young Brando really was dead, and what a waste for the girls of this Earth that was. Such a handsome hulk was the lad. Tess McGoolie wouldn’t be having anymore fucks of the century with him no more, no way. The Collingwood tragedy had already gone a whiter shade of pale, and it was off to the morgue for the carcass that his mighty soul had instantaneously de projected, now. It was sad and it was a crying shame, it was. From the 3D matter point of view, anyway. From where the roosterhead was multidimensionally seeing it, it was more feedom and liberty and the stuff of the painless than he would ever get upon the Earth. Which was death’s great attraction. There’s no doubt about it. Bodies like to be born, and sometimes they like to die too. Like a fish out of the water, the human really is.

   

    ‘Brandon! Brandon! Brandon!’ a distraught and bawling Max screamed, as Bruce knelt down and felt for a pulse. There was none however and it was as clear as clear to the big cop that the show was over, and that Death had collected that soul which it had come to collect. It was clear to the officer that no mortal would ever hug or touch or talk to the roosterhead ever again, and that his former body was now already decomposing. He used to be a bodymind machine person hologram within a universal hologram, but he wasn’t anymore. The universe had pulled its unseen electric plug from out of the kid’s arse and turned off his navel switch, and it was all over now for the Victorian youngin’, it was.

    It was fact one that the lad would not be having anymore third dimensional love and hate relationships in this third dimensional, dualistic, horror and beauty side by side, dump. The kid had gone back to the non dual base again, he had. Big Bruce was a real smart cop, and he knew that allright. Body dead. Mind Dead. It was over for the young Collingwood roosterhead. One of the old ’Wood’s finest was laying deceased in the wet gravel, on the blood soaked west coast ground, and such is life, was etched inside of the lawman’s stone like forehead. In stone. Bruce had long known, good friends in the ’Wood, he did. He had a soft spot for the old ’Wood, having spent time visiting his amigos there, did Bruce. He knew Eddie Whot’shisname, the officer did. A good mate of Eddie whot’shisname’s, was Brucie.

    He was a closet Collingwood supporter, he was. There’s not many of the bastards down under, and they are in fact, extremely rare. Bruce Samson was one of them though. He put himself on the front line daily, where the horror turns into thick black blood pretty quickly, and the zombies zombie out, and the bullets fly. Why he fucking do dat? Sometimes even Bruce didn’t know, and he was living one of those times, he was.

    Because the finality of a permanent separation between the kid and this rottenly beautiful world was utterly complete in front of his mortal bum wiping eyes. It was self evident to the lovable copper, that the character on the ground who was so much loved by so many, had played out his final card. On this appalling shithole of a mucking stupid baby soul idiot’s, evolving homofuturian’s, lovingly beautiful, holographic, child of love and Light rock. Which is phasing out its dark side, in an unbelievable fashion.

    ‘He’s gone Max! He’s gone mate!’ the big boy officer said, as he tried successfully to not choke on his own emotions. Looking behind him, he saw the lights of the ambulance approaching, and he heard its woeful wailing and alert that horror had struck yet again siren, and so he put his big hands around Max’s shoulders and pulled the capitalistic bastard of a landlord upwards. It was self evident to him that the bungalow was in mystical and existential shock. Which is so often the essence of the quintessential, third dimensional human being. That has been conned by a mucking mindtool that the dark shit is actually physically real, and that one is not simply soul dreaming in some infant and infinitely accelerating mindtool’s stupid bloody, third dimensional bloody hologram. The stuff of the cosmically boring and the exquisitely painful, that is. The good, the bad, and the unbelievably ugly, that is. Only one way out! Enlightenment and matrix busting thru the I am, that is. They say. The homofuckingfuturians do.

    ‘Take a walk Maxie! Take a walk mate! Go on! Go over there and let the ambos do what they’ve gotta do,’ the professionally kind Bruce yelled, into the soft but incredibly persistent rain. Tenderer than the tendererist fucking night, the big vested with institutionalised community authority lad was. Some blokes have got big hearts, who can run the Light’s gauntlet of illusory fire, and the big cop was one of them, he was. Born in Leederville and humped the beat there for thirty years his old man was still kicking, and well the big bastard had inherited a traditon, he had. Woman has got it too, and its called the endurance principle in the spirit of the Light. By some homofuturians out there. Apparently. Bruce was mutating homofuturian, he was. There was no doubt about that. He was a cosmic spot fly on the ethereal wall, behind his third dimensional programming. Who isn’t these cruddy programming mucking days?

    Pointing the temporarily destroyed west coaster in the direction of where crazy Barry had gone over the edge, the lawman gave that being a gentle shove, and like a zombie Max walked off. He had not gone five paces however when the agony in him surfaced, and he screamed at this beningly benevolent universe.

    ‘Fu….uuuuucccckkkkkk1’ he yelled at that hologram which confuses and bemuses and perplexes so many good and bad homosapiens. ‘Fu…uuccckkkk!’ he cried out again, as his own tears and those from heaven cascaded down his cheeks. ‘Fu…uucckkk!’ He yelled into the soft but incredibly persistent rain, again.

    What was etched into his brain was the sadness and sorrow that Brandon’s family would now have to endure, because a fuckwit death wish tripper had killed their brethen. His heart particularly went out to Margie, whom he knew would be the one in the Smith family who would feel the weight of the death of the young Vic the most. He was actually acutely aware that such horrible bad news could tip the Vic beauty over the edge of the abyss, just when it seemed that she had got her arse back on top of the existential cliff that humans call ‘life’.

    ‘Oh kerrrist!…..Kerrrist!’ he spat at the rain, as his feet shuffled along thru wet gravel like really, they had nowhere to go. Except to where Brandon had just gone, and really Max was just killing time and waiting for that, he was. Who isn’t these mad mad mad, going to get a lot mucking madder real soon, days?

    To be really into the One and only One life that is really going on and be It that which is indescribable and inconcievable and beyond the mind, but which is the inner and outer of us as all as the mystical One life, one has to be completely dead to both the body and the mind illusion ‘life’, and Max’s Guru had proved that. Max’s Guru had stuck it so far up the matrix, that the matrix had dissolved and melted back into eternal infinity.

    As the sodden in out of the head third dimensional west coaster dragged himself morbidly and angrily along, that sure sure sure was, about where he was wishing that he was right now. Dead to both the drag around body and the tremendously restless 3D mind, that is. Back in the 5th dimensional and tenth dimensional Light where one just hasn’t got a worry or a problem in the universe, that is. Where everything is perfect, instead of being rooted in some fucking mindtool’s conceptualised karmic bullshit, to its ultra mega fucked up fucking third dimensional core. He wanted to be there where where no there exists, the bungalow did. Instead of being stuck in the middle of the action packed and shit up to the eyeballs 3D set, where there was non strop drama and trouble, and the chaos piled up upon chaos and just went on and and on and fucking on. Where he was currently getting a good demonstration of the such is life stuff. Where a duality programming runs and projects the good and bad gear 24/7, as it dreams up holigraphic crap and fucks around with consciousness bubbles, within which mindtools dance in an endless play. In an eternally endless ethereal ocean of the consciousness stuff, the timeless play goes on.

    When it comes to humans, the shit just doesn’t stop going down. Max knew that and he really was wishing like all hell that the kid had not expired, was the bungalowed up bloke. The sorrow and the pain and the anger at the unnecessary loss of a true friend was stormtrooping thru his veins, and sticking little daggers into his heart. Max was chain gang sad, and at the same time he wanted to tear the universe apart and stuff it down a toilet, and then flush the mucking thing away. The lad had crossed the emotional line again, big time, and his mysticalness had gone away, it had. Leaving behind it, just another morbidly angry beast, who had a black dog for a mindset. The angel in him had flown off again and was temporarily disconnected from him, which happens with human beings. For sure.

    ‘If only I could get my hands on that fucking Tasmanian cunt…t…t!’ he swore at the ground. ‘I’d murder the bastard!’ he spat at the universe. By kerrist! The west coast bugger had a head of steam up, he did. He was knock knock knocking on his snapping point door, he was. He had the darker pent up emotions powering thru him, for sure.

    He was mystically glad that the kid was out of a shitfucker’s holographic soul’s game, where souls stretch out that which is in them that is attuned to the Light, but he was mortified for himself, because he would miss the rooster. There’s theory and then there’s the actual, and Max was still very third dimensional, and very much that which encomparses that concept that is called, das human. He was feeling the kid’s death like it was a bullet shot into his soul’s heart, and he was absolutely dreading the impact that it was gunna have on Margie and co. The anger in him towards crazy Barry had turned into venom and mixed with his blood, and he would have given absolutely anything for one last shot at the Tasmanian. From the outside of him, it looked like mystical Max had turned into Mad Max. It sure did. His neck veins were stuck varicosely up in the air, like they wanted to run away to Mars again, and his face was more blood red than it was skin. Kerrist! He looked like Geronimo with a mucking wet fucking crewcut.

    For the first time in over five years, his I am path had deserted him, and he was all a beast inside, and he was fired up some for some revenge, he was. He was riding Hyde pretty hard, he was. He was not sitting at his usual I am door that is always open, where one way is this manifested universe, and the other way isn’t. He wasn’t witnessing the perceptual and the perceptually subjective, and seeing it from the outside in and inside out again, at all. He was mucking around with the conceptual karmic bullshit stuff again, and taking himself to be just a shut up shop ego body again. He was having a re run, and if anything at all defines a human, it’s the re run. The bungalow had been born a third dimensional, and right at the moment his mood was conducive to him dying like one, and getting nowhere near the inner and the outer 5th dimensional stuff. Boy! Crikey! He was mad allright. He was Mad Max, west coast style. He was an atom bomb of wrath on legs, he was. All that he needed was a decent trigger, and he’d be spitting the existential mucking dummy something chronic, allright. We all need someone or some mob to vent out our own self hatred and lust for existential revenge, for being dropped in the third dimensional shit, don’t we?

      

    Because Max wasn’t in a loving the enemy mood. No way! He wasn’t in a turning the other cheek mood either. He wasn’t gunna carry no old ladies down the road, or bless the meek, or be compassionate, at all. He wasn’t gunna forgive and what was out there wasn’t the One life of his Real Self; it was created madness, and the created madness required terminating, it did. If it hadn’t already been terminated, then he would have to see to it that it was, that’s what his darker Hydish emotions were wordlessly telling him. That was all that he was thinking emotionally, and he wasn’t thinking about Goddy Woddy. He was just too fired up and too angry to give Goddy Woddy a thought at all. Likewise, he clean forgot about his Guru, and broke his vow that he would never ever do that. Fifty odd years of adherence to peaceful non violence flashed out of his demonically taken over Hydish eyes, and he was programmed for ultraviolence allright. He wasn’t no Dalai Lama, and he wasn’t no Guru’s apprentice. Not this dark and dirty, death hanging in the air and revenge for that required, piddling with rain, south west coast night. Bungalow Max wasn’t mystical any more, he was just a human acting naturally. He was a mucking monkey in a fucking animal suit, he was.

    Walking into a bit of mist, he heard a morbid groan, which he knew wasn’t coming from behind him, and his eyes lit up, as they say. Not far away and by some miracle or another, a still alive crazy Barry was clambering up out of the gully. He looked like a wayward zombie on a movie set, and as usual he had absolutely no idea who he was, or where he was. Holographically and holigraphically, and dimensionally speaking, that is. He had just emerged half dead back up on the edge of the picnic bay pull off, with myriad cuts and bruises all over him, when a mindtool projected, holographic triplicate of Mad Max emerged from out of the mist. The Tasmanian strained his drunk and stoned, two thirds psychotic eyeballs to the max, but he didn’t know what in the hell was going down.

    ‘Who in the fuck are you cunts?’ he barked at the three bungalows.

    ‘I’m Satan! You piece of  Tasmanian shit!’ the images growled death heavily back. ‘I am your worst ever nightmare come true Barry!’ Max gut roared. “I’ve got some great Tassie allies, but you’re not one of them son!’

    ‘Huhh!’ went crazy Barry at the ten feet away and getting closer agro images. ‘What d’y’want…y’fuckin’ mongrels?’

    ‘It’s not about what I want punk!’ Max drawled back. ‘It’s about what I am gunna get, and what I am gunna get is to oversee your total and absolute destruction and annihilation. You killed the Brando you piece of shit, and now I’m a gunna kill you!’ Spat the fired up bungalow. ‘I’ve killed flies, mossies, spiders, fish, bugs that I can’t even name, rabbits, foxes, roos, mice, ducks, owls, feral pussies, rats, chooks, sheep, cows, emus and snakes and numerous lizards, and just about everything that walks or slithers of flys or swims around down here, and now I am gunna kill you! You piece of Tassie shit! You’re real bad bad bad stuff Barry, and you have to go! You have to dissolve away back into the nothing, because that is where 3D abominations and pieces of shit really belong.’

    ‘Says fucking who?’ barked Barry, with absolutely no idea what in the muck a 3D abomination was. Perhaps then citizen, it would have been better if Max had have said…..third dimensional abomination.

    ‘Says me Sunshine!’ yelled the bungalow, as he strode forward and devil stared the Barry in the face. At the same time he began super flexing his right fingers, and then curling them into a fistball. Of monumental proportions too. He had his popeye without a pipe grin on again, and his eyes were sparkling a river of revenge bliss, because he knew what was coming next, but the bastard in front of him didn’t. There was a king hit coming, but only one hombre who was still standing was aware of it.

 

    Looking at the wretched Tasmanian, Mad Max was infinitely disgusted and absolutely repulsed, and he was blaming the creature for everything that was wrong in the universe. The fact that as a soul, he himself had ended up playing with 3D limitation in a 3D limitation programme called Earth, as a blood and bone mind projected entity with an attention seeking arsehole, was all crazy Barry’s fault. The dude felt obsessively and compulsively, within his gone Hydish being. The fact that they couldn’t sort the middle east out, that was all Barry’s doing too. Obviously the shithead was in regular mobile phone contact with both Osama and George, and their mums and dads and dead ancestors too, he thought. He didn’t watch the thinking of that gruesomeness from an impartial mystical position either, he thought it and felt it as though it had happened inbetween his ears, and that it was him. As who he really was as just a west coast body! You know citizen? He was being normal and not mystical and the me me me, I me mine third dimensional programming runs ever so river deep in the common psyche. For sure is it made of a granited, mindtool projected, holographic illusion.

    When his first ever girlfriend Cheryl had given him the jack off, when he was sweet 16, that was all Barry’s fault as well, Max reckoned. Obviously the evil prick had had his evil spirit in the air, and it had whispered a heap of shit about him into Cheryl’s ear, it had. On and on went the accusations in Max’s psyche, and he was refusing to see Barry as an articled up and horribly lost aspect of the One life. It was escaping him that Barry was nothing but a mindtool projected subjectified object, upon which he was venting his existential self and species hate. Which was the root cause of his hyperdrivish, ultrafoul anger.

    He was not seeing his wider oceanic Self, as yet another projection up on yet another mindscreen. He was just seeing a solid named and shaped piece of Tasmanian shit, that needed prompt exterminating. Both men were waves of the same mystical ocean, and both men were neglecting to acknowledge the oceanic mystical side of themselves. Max’s I am path, where he had awareness of the mystical ocean, had shot thru with the angelic side of him, and he was playing I am the inner ego wave only, now. Big time and with the best of them too, because with Barry’s limited awareness, that was all that the Tasmanian could play with. To try to convince Barry that he was spirit and not flesh based, would be akin to trying to tell a cockroach that they’re really a disguised fairy. It would.

    The gone agro landlord was not running I am the inner and the outer thru his psyche at all. He was having the re run 3D flashback relapse of the century he was. With I am the inner dreadfully angry beast only, who obsessive compulsively desires to flatten a Van Diemen lander, ( A Tasmanian that is), and in a mucking duality consciousness, that’s the sort of mucking shit that can happen. Any mucking time of the day or night. Everybody knows that the Jekyll and the Hyde inside live side by side, and whilst the good Doctor is peaceful and gets all of the love and respect, Hyde scares the absolute shit out of people. Because he’s raw anger and he’s full of wrath, and he reckons that he has the right to destroy life and property willy nilly, he does. Sometimes he gets the power to do that, and then one really has to watch out. Especially if the perp has been elected and has the power to order that good people be blown away, for no real reason at all. Which is Hyde’s thing, to a T.

    It has to be faced that as far as inviting mega negative karmic payback into one’s life, that Hyde is the most stupidly ridiculous cosmic entity in the entire universe. From stardust to Hyde, and Hyde back into stardust again, is a hell of a trip. Everybody knows that. Many millions bust a gut to stay out of Hyde’s dirty deeds club, and they are the real meek terrorists on this forlorn rock, and crazy Barry definitely wasn’t one of them. Neither currently, was Max.

   

    When Eaton looked again at the Tasmanian, all of his current mode and mood thinking taking a long time to explain with mere words, but happening in seconds in his chemicalised brain, he went straight into Hyde destroyer mode. He had a target for those purposes, and it looked like a ruddy red bearded east coast turd to him. He wasn’t wanting to co create anything like a heaven on Earth, with the abominable piece of shit in front of him. He wasn’t interested in evolving side by side with it that he was perceiving to be evil, at mucking all. He wanted it dead and buried forever in eternal infinity, so that it could never harm anyone good ever again, he did. He wanted it taken out of the holographic picture, and shoved up the universe’s mucking arse, did the snapped west coast lad. Phoo! He had bits of ethereal fire coming out of his ears, he did. Who doesn’t these ultra low down and shit hitting the dirty fan, mega accelerating days?

    The last hour before the dawning of enlightenment, thru that passage that is called the last dark night of the soul, is tough! Isn’t it? It is mega tough going for the common duality bound up psyche, for sure. By Christ! Buddha too. It is the challenge of challenges, for any soul who has aspirations to stay attuned to the Light, no matter which dimension within consciousness that they may haphazardly, or habitually mucking wander into. Everybody fucking knows that!

    That staying peaceful in an ultraviolent world, is art. Of the very highest kind and quality, too.

   

    As Mad Max started to ball up the right fistball of the century, because of his snapped slide to the extreme extreme extreme right, officer Bruce, who had been crouching and assisting the ambos, saw what was going on. The lawman sprung up on his bionic legs, as his policeman’s trained x ray vision took him thru the mist, and he professionally spotted what was gunna happen.

    ‘Ma…aaaaaxxxxxx!’ he screamed out so loudly that the roosterhead just about came back to life, and the two Bob ambos nearly shit themselves. ‘No…ooohhhhhhhhhhh Max!’ he thundered, like only the law can thunder.

    With his x ray copper’s vision, Bruce saw that Max had heard him. Because Max’s left eye peeled back, and there was a gleam beam coming out of it, and the officer read the gleam beam, he did. The gleam beam said; Fuck off y’ khakeed cunt! Stick y’psuedo authority and y’big big big authoritarian ego up y’fucking arse Bruce!

    It did. Eureka Stockading it, the west coaster was flying an unseen, rebel with a definite cause flag, he was.

    The landlord’s fist was also mucking Koscioskoish, it was that mucking heavy. Rocket like, as though it was trigger set on a cosmic spring, the bungalow let fly with a universe buster. So that he planted an absolutely phenomenal something, that both the Phantom and Mr Eastwood would have been mighty mighty mighty proud of, fair in the middle of crazy Barry’s forehead. The delivered galactic blockbuster thundereth into the wretchedly unlucky Tasmanian wretch with missileth like velocity, and knocketh him just about instantaneously absolutely mucking senseless. It diddeth.

    ‘Arrrggghhhhh!’ screamed the victim, as Max started yeodling; ‘I…Still…Call Westernnnnn… Ostraleeeeee….a….ho……o……o….ome!’

    Crazy Barry’s arms flung rapidly up in the air to signal an immaculate six, and he literally took off in a backwards arc, like he was in a Chinese kung fu movie. He had absolutely no unconscious idea what had happened to him, having not even seen the lightning fast punch, and bummer of bummers, he spun around in mid air and landed face first in an Ijjymagijjymagubbujji bush. Which as every Australian knows, is Aboriginal for ‘cunt of a plant’, and one little spike of can mean a dreadful pus sore happening, wherever that the spike went in. Yes! Most Australians stay clear of the dreaded Ijjy bush, but not Barry. He had had an unconscious shave in one, and if ever a dude needed an unconscious shave, Barry did.

    Bruce come a runnin’ over, as a screamingingly loud Mad Max shouted obscenity after obscenity down the gully.

    ‘I an gunna killeth you! I am gunna exterminateth you senseless! You won’t be getting out on no fucking parole that gives the forked tongue lawyers and the sit on their arse judges and so forth more overpaid work! You rotten roten rotten, scumbag of a Tasmanian shit!’ he thunder roared down the hill. The bungalow had well and truly snapped, and he was like a volcano that’s spitting the dummy, he was. Hot hot hot lava, his words were. Hate in action, the west coast prick was.

    He was also trying to ring out a mighty sore wrist and fist, when the law pulled up alongside of him. The law took a look down the gulley, and in the torchlight it was clear that crazy Barry was out cold, with his face smack in the middle of an Ijjy bush. Bruce cringed and shivered inside, as he thought what Barry’s face was gunna look like in a few days time.

    ‘Kerrriiiissstttt almighty!’ the big officer spat at the wet gravel. ‘What in the fuck have y’done Max?’

    ‘I hit the fucking useless and worthless killer of a prick Bruce! I can’t tell a lie, I ultra violented him. That’s what I fucking well did!’ Max barked back, like a rotweiller. ‘Arrest me and lock me up, but I just had the time of me life! I’ve never felt so good, not even in my deepest 5D meditations. I enjoyed that punch Bruce, and I am gunna remember it until my dying day and never feel guilty about delivering it. Why don’t you stick a bullet in that piece of shit down in that gulley and finish it off? Then my dream of a beautiful and surrep…tit…iously swift karmic justice delivered superswiftly, will be complete.’

    ‘You know that I can’t do that Max!

    ‘You don’t have to! You don’t even have to admit that you wanna do it! Just cock y’fucking gun and give it to me laddie! I willingly blow that piece of shit clean into the next fucking universe! I’ll take the 8 years and the parole, and the cable tv and my bunkside computer, and the hairy farting and masturbating arse on the top bunk! Just give me ya fucking piece Brucie! I’ll save y’some paperwork lad, don’t you worry about that! There’s no need to get y’khakees dirty tonight Brucie, because 3D Maxie will attend to all 3D dirty business for y’!’

    ‘Out of the multidimensional question Max! Who are you to say that Barry is beyond redemption, and that in ten years time he may not turn out to be citizen of the year? You can’t deny him those rights!’

    ‘I will if y’give me y’fucking gun Bruce! He just took a life and it is only right that he should now forfeit his! An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth for a tooth son, that’s the world that we really live in!’

    ‘No it’s not Max! Don’t bullshit me! What in the hell has gotten into y’, with all of this talk about murder? Murder is for animaled up baby souls! People can also be non animal and be unselfishly kind, generous and angelically good. How many times have you fucking told me that?’

    ‘Too fucking many Bruce! I’ve changed me mind and being dualistic, that’s m’first right! If we do him now, he’ll take out no more Brandos. C’mon! They missed Saddam in the first round, but we don’t have to miss that piece of shit down there. C’mon Bruce! Don’t be a big khakeed cunt and give me y’gun! Let me do my sacred duty!’ Max screeched at the big cop. Hopping around like a psycho Hyde, the bastard was. Pretty keen to send the Tasmanian to the big pub in the sky, was he.

 

     He was still flicking his punching hand around however, because it hurt like hell. Unknown to Max, Barry had a quarter inch metal plate in his forehead from a past car accident, and already the landlord’s fist was starting to considerably swell up. Bungalow Max, he wasn’t Fight Club material. He was good for one king punch only apparently, and that was becoming more evident from moment to moment. Crikey! His fighting hand was beginning to look like a balloon.

    Then the west coast bastard really really really snapped, and went into hyper drive insanity thinking, because the law wasn’t giving way to him; and Ijjy bush or no Ijjy bush, he really desired with his gone Hyde heart to blow the mucking crazy Barry awayeth. Into eternal infinity. Like a well trained flipping Ninja, he somehow grabbed Bruce’s gun from out of its holster with his good left hand, and backward jumped sixty feet in an arc thru the wet night air. Like he’d been born backwards on a Geisha girl’s back in bloody downtown Tokyo, in Japan. He snap flat landed perfectly on his feet, near the two Bob ambos, who were just shoving the deceased into their van, and madly swished the gun around above his Hyde exploded head. The night went psycho, before the two Bobs knew what in the fuck was going on.

    ‘I’ll kill y’s fucking all! I’ll put y’s all out of y’existential fucking misery, I will! I’ll fix your dualism up for y’s!’ the Hyde aspect of the bungalow thunder roared to all and sundry. ‘I am fucking Hyde, and I do people a favour really. I send ’em back to the 4th dimension quick smart, and 99.99 percent of  ’em are absolutely ecstatic to be back there, and oughta this 3D motherfucker’s and fucking shit for brains fuckwit’s….ultraviolent dying third dimensional shithole!’

    The west coaster who had snapped and gone Hyde wasn’t mincing his words, there was no doubt about that. The Hyde part of him knew that for humans there was far far far more life after death, than there was trying to be an ‘alive’ arsehole on this stupid bloody mindtool projected rock. Because verily, he had lived that experience, this terribly terribly terribly dark night. Because the dying kid had told him all about how good it is to be dead, and released from a cock and bull nightmare.

    With his superb policeman’s bionic eye, Bruce could clearly see, as well as distinctly hear, that Max had gone over to the Hyde side just about completely; but he also spotted that the blown his top bungalow was holding the gun by its stock, and that the safety catch was still on. He knew that his gone dualistically schizophrenic ally Max had never before in his life held a handgun, and he could see that the ultraidiot’s finger was nowhere near the weapon’s trigger. He figured, and rightly so too, that the last bit of the angelic that was left in the bungalow dweller, would not allow him to put his finger on the trigger. Even though the beast part of the animal was putting on quite a huff and puff blow of a show, he knew instinctively that Max would never actually fire the weapon. There was no doubt however in his state backed astute mind, that the normally angelically peaceful and reasonably tolerant angelic Max, had almost well and truly mucked off to some other universe. The officer was having a c of a night, and he knew it.

   

    ‘Oh shit! Shit! Shit!’ he spat at some pretty wet west coast gravel. ‘I’m having a cunt of a night!’ he told the universe. ‘Bob!!!’ he roared at one of the petrified ambos, as both of their heads went up. ‘Get in the fucking ambulance and close up shop!…. Bob!!!’ he thunder roared at the other ambo. ‘Get in the fucking van with Bob! Eaton has gone fucking Hyde! I’ll handle the cheaky, off his nut, extremely dangerous, insolent and ultra ignorant lawbreaking bastard!’ The officer absolutely mucking screamed into the long dark night of the ultraviolent soul. ‘I’ll be the hero! You pricks just watch from a safety first position! You fucking Bobs leave everything to me! I’ve dealt with this unruly, non complying and recalcitrant type before! I eat them for breakfast, I fucking well do!’

    Before one could get ‘Jack shit’ past one’s lips, the two Bobs were in their van with the doors firmly shut, and their noses pressed flat against its right side window. Bob 1 was on the left, and Bob 2 was on the right, and they were being as politically correct as a goanna’s arsehole that’s shitting out the odd bit of blue metal roughage, they were. The two Bobs didn’t mind watching and staying right out of it. They didn’t mind being political. They were cool and they were mesmerised, as a Magilla gorilla armed ground zero Bruce, strode confidently towards the gone mad, Mad Max.

    ‘Yuse fucking humans dissssss…..guuuuuussst me!’ the bungalow screamed, as he pointed the gun all over the place. The surrounding karri trees would have ducked, if they could’ve. ‘You’re all fucked in the third dimensional head! You are more moron, than you are mystical. Yuse has been programmed with fucking conceptual mind made alphabetic bullshit, from the very first day that y’mums spurted y’se out of their fine fannies and into this attrociously baa..aaaad, 3D hologram. Y’just a big bunch of fornicating and masturbating, thick as a fucking brick, animal types! Y’haven’t got a fucking clue in fucking Hades, what’s really existentially and mystically going on! You are pecking order, dimwitted, follow the shit for brains leader addicts, y’are!’ he preached ultra severely. Like some fire and brimstone preacher from hell.

    ‘You cunts are all existential sinners to the max, and y’se is stupid drop down from grace types and multidimensional arsesliding idiots, and you’ve got the missing link shoved so far up y’fucking arses, that you just can’t see what is real, and what is not….anymore. You’re no fucking good for anyfuckingthing, except re running - re running war and peace holographic bullshit! Me! Me! Me! I me mine, I me mine, I me mine… gangsters you are! Super greedy profit making shiiiii….iiiiittttttttsss! On fucking legs! You’re a ba…aaaaddddddddd to the bone and an imperfect to the core, creation! You came out of Goddy Woddy’s fucking arse! You’re naughty naughty naughty mind projections, and oh so fucking limited upstairs! Yuse is nothing but an ultragreedy, ultra selfish, ultaviolent and ultra hypocritical pack of mad dog fucking animals! If ever a block of solid cosmic scum needed exterminating, you fucking dickheaded cunts do! I’ll ethereally cream the fucking lot of ya’s! I’ll have y’se all back in the 4th, and knock knock knocking on the heavenly door to the 5th, before you know what in the fuck is going on!’ He preached like a mad mad mad fire and brimstone head, some more.

    ‘I’ll sort y’se out! I’ve got a cosmic bullet in me barrel for every one of yuse, and I’ve got one for this wretchedly false, mind made universe too! My Goddy Woddy says that you all need to be dead and buried, so that the green grass and the crystal clear river waters can flow again, and I am Goddy Woddy’s boy, I am. I am Hyde I am, and if you fuck with Hyde you’ll go down, you will!’

    ‘Yeah Hyde! I’ll go down on me missus when I get home tonight, I will! Straight after I’ve told her what a fucking massive cosmic idiot that you were this long, dark and fucking wet night!’ Bruce thundered, with the deep deep deep bass of a big bull lawman.

    ‘Whatever happened to your Goddy Woddy’s direct order to not kill Hyde, and His counsel to love one’s fellows and be compassionately kind to them? So that evolution can unfold with liberty and freedom for all….towards the ultimate? Being cosmic consciousness for every Tom, Dick and Harry, and Wendy, Sue and Elizabeth.’

    ‘Haw! Haw! Haw!’ sniggered the two Bobs. As their noses changed in colour from red to blue. ‘Get out of that dualistic Catch 22 Hyde!’ they told each other. Never in their born days had the two Bobs seen a more professional cop on the job. Never! The Bruce was their mucking hero allright. He was their Phantom, only he was wearing wet khakees, and not a jump suit.

    ‘Huhh! My Goddy Woddy never said that!’ the gone mad bungalow exploded.

    ‘He did so!’

    ‘He did not!’

 

( Owing to lack of interest in this story I have put on hold the writing of it. The truth is though that Max is dreaming and that therefore the kid is not dead. )