Otto

Otto and I worked together during that time.

We drove around in a white ex-rental van, the old company logo spraypainted over, scoping out opportunities in the housing estates and industrial areas near the airport. At various times we sold high-end sound systems (fakes), computer software and electronic goods such as phones (reasonable quality knock-offs). Sometimes we sold iced down seafood in large styrofoam boxes (always stressful because you were on the clock to move these perishable items as quickly as possible). We'd pull up next to a potential customer and then I’d jump out and get to work. I slide open the side door and hey presto, you were in the middle of my pitch. No cash? No problems. We'd take you to an ATM.
I liked existing anonymously in that bland suburban grid, remaining lost for weeks on end among the strip malls and cookie-cutter tract housing. In another part of the world, I had ongoing legal difficulties and an ex-father-in-law who, through some insane misunderstanding was out for my blood. I had learnt something very important from these prior mistakes: self-confidence is essential to get ahead in this life but too much can cloud your judgement. It becomes like a drug. Anyway, in order to remain at liberty, I had temporarily borrowed someone else's identity until these matters resolved themselves.

All this trouble stemmed from my fondness (and skill) at getting caught up in life's multitude of possibilities. Or 'The unknown flow of opportunity' as I liked to refer to it. The miraculous process of unveiling a mark's greedy little heart's desire. I had always been good at improvisation and at pinpointing what people needed or wanted. Part of the skill of my profession was, in fact, being able to make 'want' and 'need' interchangeable.

How did Otto fit into all this? While I took care of sales, Otto functioned as my driver and muscle, for those rare occasions when things went off script. The split was 80/20 in my favour. I considered this to be more than fair. After all, I was doing all the brain work and if we're being honest here, Otto needed someone to keep him in line. Not to mention the fact that I covered all of his expenses: microwaveable burritos, beer, cigarettes, accommodation, gas...etc, etc. Without me, Otto would have been lost, an innocent child wandering through the world without any real plan or purpose.
I found it very easy to work with Otto even though (or perhaps because) he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the draw. With Otto, there seemed to be a circuit breaker, a delay switch, that affected his thinking. It was as if he momentarily powered down when it came to processing new and challenging information. And I knew his judgement was at times....questionable. If I had to put a number to it, I’d say his ability to assess and decide on the best option in a critical situation was about 40 percent effective.

I had nicknamed him ‘Auto’ because, in terms of common (or uncommon) sense, there was nothing automatic about Otto. No sir. In terms of knives, tools, sandwiches, decks of cards and the like...he was neither the sharpest or what you might call complete. Otto's most valuable attribute was his body. Physically he was a fucking monster. A machine. The man could deadlift 430 lbs, no problems. And that is a valuable resource to have in my line of work. The point is....we had each other's backs. Symbiosis. Two creatures helping each other out in the big, bad jungle. So as far as I was concerned it was an equal trade-off. You see I could still operate my business without him but the same could not be said in regards to his money-making opportunities. He'd be relocated back to the car wash, where I found him. Hense the 80/20 split.

I was good at talking and Otto was good at breaking bones. Not that I encouraged that kind of thing. It was always best to operate without stepping on people's toes. Although I was technically classified as a criminal, I wished no malice towards any man, woman or child other than lightning their financial load a little bit. However, if things did get nasty, Otto would be on hand to work his magic. A believe me, once he got going, he was fucking David Copperfield. Once I saw him demolish four men in an alleyway without breaking a sweat. It was...masterful. Effortless.

Funnily enough, the only book I every liked in school was Of Mice and Men and all these years later I find myself with my very own lumbering Lennie. Minus the rabbits.

We lived in discount hotels and in cheap Airbnb's. We dealt with people face-to-face (I don’t trust computers. Never have. For me it's all about the eyes, the face). On rare occasions, we would sleep in the van but that was always the last resort (Otto is a snorer. Jesus but you should hear him after a few beers. I'd taken to wearing noise-cancelling headphones when I slept. Top of the line).
Generally speaking, my days were rather straightforward. Sales. Appointments. Follow up appointments. Receiving new merchandise. I met and talked to people. In shopping centre car parks, in restaurants and in bars.

Last summer I met a woman in a theme bar. She was a piece of work. (Meaning she was feisty. Meaning life had not panned out the way it probably should have for someone of her intelligence and personality. Meaning she had some Mickey Mouse marketing job with a software company. Meaning she was stuck all day in a beige cubical with a computer and a grubby phone to keep her company. Meaning she was looking for something to happen, something beyond numbing out on happy hour margaritas and flirting with corporate doughboys. Meaning she was receptive to me). No doubt about it, she was treading water. Professionally and in her private life. And her marriage was slowly unravelling. Or so she said. She and her husband had a ‘no questions asked’ policy when it came to other sexual partners. That strange suburban depravity lurking just beneath the shiny surface of things. They had scheduled specific days when they were free to do what they liked.

After that initial drunken assessment back at her place, she pencilled me in for regular Tuesday afternoon sessions. I would turn up around 3 in the afternoon, have a drink and then we'd fuck. The husband won't have cared even if he did find out. She told me he liked boys. Her own sexual proclivities were very conventional. Light S&M. She was just happy that she no longer had to peg her hubby with a strap-on. Now that he'd drummed up the confidence to pick up men on his own. She told me that she had been his proxy for gay sex for years and she was tired of dominating him in that way. Judging from the photographs in the living room, the husband looked like a square to me. Mixed up sexual orientation aside, just another Anthony Robbins clone going down a fairly predictable track of self-actualisation chaffing against his actual abilities. For the first couple of weeks, I thought that was it, end of story. But then I learned about the husband's diamond business. This interesting little fact came to light when I found an uncut diamond in the doorway of the wife's walk-in closet, lying there on the carpet. I asked her about it. Got the story while she was in the shower. Or at least part of the story.

And as time went by, I started to gently dig deeper (invoices on the husband's desk, printouts of emails, receipts). Every time the wife was in the shower (how could I have been so stupid?) I’d sneak down to the study and have a look around. She.....(I should give her a name, shouldn't I? Gina. There go. Gina. Blonde. 35 years old. 5'11. Along with margaritas, Gina liked Zumba, kite-surfing and as I said, a good hard spanking to placate her daddy issues).....Gina couldn't see what her husband was up to but I could. She thought that he simply sold low-quality synthetic diamonds online to shopaholics, almost as a hobby. In point of fact, her husband was getting almost 600 percent mark up on some of these inferior diamonds. He was exaggerating their colour and clarity through radiation treatment and laser drilling. He had set up a jeweller in a strip mall for the purposes of authenticity. A convincing looking character who would produce counterfeit certificates to persuade nervous customers. In some cases, the husband was going so far as replacing real diamonds with fakes when his customers brought their jewellery in for a cleaning. Quite risky but then again, most of his older clientele would have kept their major pieces locked away for years on end. It's not like you head off to the supermarket wearing your valuable diamond necklace every weekend. (I had a feeling about this all along. A gut feeling that I ignored. Why? When I was younger I'd have acted on that kind of internal alarm. A younger me would have walked right out the door, moved on to the next thing).

I got Otto to start tracking the husband’s movements. I needed to figure out two things: what he was doing with the money he was making from these sales. (It certainly wasn’t going into a bank account, I knew that much from his statements) and I needed to figure out where the angle was for me in all of this. The crack I could exploit. Men like this, small-time operators, just like me, keep their money somewhere safe, outside of the system. They have a place. A storage facility, an attic, their antie Maybell's garage.... like good little squirrels socking away nuts for winter, they all have a place. I should know. I have one.

So Otto followed the husband around for about month while I kept the wife occupied in the bedroom. Twice sometimes three times a week now. This was perfect. It meant we were able to keep track of the husband both in his domestic and public life. We had him covered. And when the husbands routine became predictable to the point of waisting Otto's time, Otto began to follow the jeweller. Otto got to know both their routines inside and out. He had everything written down in his little blue notebook. Written in his tight little cursive script which was odd for such a big man. With this information, I was able to figure it where the money was ending up.

In his legitimate life, the husband owned a small restaurant. I say 'restaurant' but really it was a franchise doling out heart attack food to the obese. Plastic chairs and Formica tabletops, a business staffed by nervous high school kids. The husband would drop in a couple of times a month. Otherwise, the place practically ran itself. The elephantine families and the old age pensioners would come in, paid their money and gobbled down their food. When the husband did drop by, sometimes he would bring a duffle bag. And when he left, that duffle bag always seemed a fair bit lighter if not completely depleted of its original content.

One day I went into the restaurant, sat near the back and ordered the lunch special. Halfway through my meal, I got up and walked out back to the storeroom/office as if I were simply a customer who’d lost their way to the bathroom. I had to pick the door lock. It was only a cheap little domestic model, the kind you'd see on a bathroom door. In the storeroom/office, I found an oversized strong box half buried among the stacked up furniture and supplies. It was heavy. Too heavy for one man to carry any real distance. An old army footlocker secured with two large Masters padlocks, chained to a shelving rack. So it was a situation of hiding in plain sight.

I slipped out, went back to my meal. I paid and left a small tip. Nothing to outrageous so as to be noticed. A week later Otto and I returned. Same thing. Halfway through our meals, we got up separately as if to use the bathroom but we both ended up in the storeroom. The box was heavy but like I say, Otto can deadlift 420 lbs. We just walk out with it. Sometimes the best plan is to simply pick up the desired object and walk directly out the front door as if you own the place. The assistant manager was a young girl with braces. I called the restaurant on my cell phone so that she was distracted as we walked past the register. She was confused that she could hear my voice simultaneously on the phone but also echoed against the clatter and mummer of the dining area. I gently badgered her about the sixteen person reservation moments away from turning up which she had no record of. It kept her eyes down, pinned to the reservation book as we headed out the door.
We had a hand truck waiting near the elevator. From there all we need to do was go down four floors and wheel the box out through the parking structure. We loaded it into the van and we were gone. Too easy.

Otto used a miniature sledgehammer to break the locks. There was a good deal of money in that box. Along with a handgun and a small sack of uncut diamonds. Presumably, these were the real deal, the diamonds he'd swapped out for his fakes. I would still need to confirm this but why else would he keep these rocks locked away? As far as hauls go, it wasn't enough for me to retire on but it would certainly help.

I went to sleep that night feeling elated. It's always a good buzz when you fatten your own pockets on some other small time operator's ill-gotten gains. Almost feels right. Like justice. I put on my headphones and went out like a light. I was gonna miss Gina but you have to know when to move on. This is crucial.

When I woke up the following morning it took me a while to realise everything was gone. I mean everything important. The van. The haul. My ID. My entire fucking wardrobe. My cell phone. Dressed in a sheet, I went to the reception. The guy behind the counter gave me the once-over without much of a reaction. I suppose he'd seen it all before. People come, people go, he shrugged. A philosophical mother. Standing in front of the postcard rack, I suddenly realised I had a new, more pressing set of problems to address before I even contemplated the missing loot. I needed clothes, spending money and transport. More importantly, I needed to put distance between myself and this place before the husband realised what was going on.

Outside in the carpark, everything was weighed down by carefully balanced raindrops. Clouds hung low in the sky. Rainy day, I thought. Now, why did that seem so significant? Then it occurred to me.
I made my way to my own rainy-day-cash-stash hidden in Calum Sear's garage. It was double wrapped in black plastic and stuffed deep in a wall cavity, way back in the dust and wiring and the rat turds. I'd hidden it there awhile ago, while I was helping out with some renovation work. It took me all morning to get to Calum's place, public transport moving like molasses while I fumbled for change. I wasn't really in a rush. I pretty much knew what to expect.

Calum was shaken up after being pinned to the wall by his throat and slapped around a bit. His cellphone had been stamped flat, a swift and effective warning that there would be more physical repercussions if he didn't follow instruction. Otto. The sly bastard. Not only had he taken our diamond money score, he'd also had the conviction to pilfered my personal stash, my Margaretta fund. Otto! I'd missed something alright. I'd completely underestimated him. That old overload of confidence once again catapulting me forward without proper consideration of all the details. The thing that set me apart from the herd was the same thing that had undone me.

I saw Otto years later in a different city. He was reading a newspaper in a cafe, a little espresso cup on a little saucer at his elbow. I had nothing to lose. I just wandered up to him. Why did you do it? I asked. He looked about the same, maybe a bit more zest in his comportment. Money will do that for you.

I wasn't happy with 20 percent, he said, slowly folding his newspaper.
Well, why didn’t you say something? I asked.
I did. You never listened. Besides....I outgrew you. we both know that....
We could have worked something out.
I did.
You should have come to me man. I would have listened. A solid team is better than going it alone.
I have my own people now.
You hobbled me good. After all, I did for you....
You would have done the same. Besides, I figured you owed me that in back pay.
Yeah well.....

Otto sat there for a time, hands folded on his lap, eye locked into mine with a kind of impersonal menace as if to say, now what? But I didn't have anything else up my sleeve. Maybe I just wanted to show him I was capable of catching up with him even though it had been a complete fluke. A bit of dumb luck that I couldn't even use to my advantage.

Nothing left to say, Otto got to his feet and left just as the kid behind the counter called out my name for the triple shot soy latte I'd ordered.

And that was about it.

The End

You have to hand it to the Americans. Their version of the apocalypse was pretty impressive. In America, there were people on fire, buildings sinking into gaping fissures, chemical plants exploding, thrusting huge fireballs up into the atmosphere. Meanwhile, down here in Australia, the lead up to the apocalypse was fairly pedestrian by comparison. I haven’t felt the cultural cringe for a while but there it was. You know that feeling? Like it was all so second-rate here? Like everything was bigger and better in the US of A. 

 Around our neighborhood, everything had just kind of stopped. You look out the window and the streets were empty. In other words, it was sorta felt like Christmas. Granted the heat was horrific but then again, that’s nothing new this time of year. Australian scientists kept saying the same thing....we don’t know what is going on. Not a clue. The scientists in America were lashing out all kinds of wild theories. It was embarrassing. As Australians we had invented the black box flight recorder and the bionic ear but why was the Australian scientific community being so.....reserved now? On telly in America, the religious right were the most vocal with their fear mongering. Those assholes loved the fire and brimstone when it was all theoretical and now, facing real extinction, they were ecstatic…..

 Anyway we all waited and watched TV. Up on the main drag, the Thai Palace was still open for business. We'd gone up there earlier. The entire Thai family was in the restaurant, just waiting around like the rest of us. In their eyes people still had to eat, right?....besides, what else were they supposed to do? They took our money and threw it uncounted on the table. We ordered Chicken Pad Thai and prawn salad.    

Later on, Don and his family came over from next door. I suppose we were all expected to huddle together in fear but that didn’t happen. I didn’t mind Don. He was alright. Over time he'd proven himself to be a decent neighbor. Anyway, this little get together was more to give the kids something to do in those remaining hours. Don and I...we worked our way through the last cold beers and watched the American coverage on CNN. How long is this gonna take? That was the question on everyone's minds. No one really knew. Typical. Information scrawled across the bottom of the screen. England was in disarray. Images of smoldering buildings and riots. Europe was having a fucking heart attack. And a stroke. And a brain aneurysm. All at the same time. It was all rape and mayhem in the Middle East and Africa. Asia was being very introspective about the whole thing. Henry, my oldest, thrust a device into my hands. Look at this dad! There was a video of some guy near the Baltic Sea fighting a polar bear. This was on YouTube. It was one of those bucket list compilations. You know....people flying planes into volcanoes, swan diving off skyscrapers….stuff like that. I didn't watch it to the end. I didn't want to see the guy getting torn apart. I handed the device back to Henry. 

Any last business? I asked Don a bit later on. Not really caring either way. 
Nah, said Don. I think I’ve covered everything. 
I meant to ask you....did you ever sleep with my wife?
No mate, said Don.
Well then, that's okay then, I said. 
What about you?
Well...yeah….once, I said. Sorry about that mate.
Don shrugged. You know what? I could kill you right now but it's too hot.
It didn’t mean anything, I said. 
It never does, he said.
We just sat there, sweat making the back of our legs stick to the leather sectional. 

The women were in the kitchen getting drunk. The kids out in the back garden getting drunk. And look, I’d thought about remaining sober to the end but why? I mean really, why? So you could experience extinction with a clear head? There didn’t seem to be any point to that. Now that we were all going together, it made everything seem so arbitrary while at the same time quite fair. Here today, gone this afternoon, I muttered. 
What's that mate? asked Don. 
Nothing, I said. 

In America, most of California broke off from the mainland along the fault line. Los Angeleans were either drowning or on fire. Or a combination of both. ‘Oh, the humanity’ shrieked the TV commentator from a hovering helicopter. 
Hold on, said Don, unless I am mistaken, they already used that one for the Hindenburg, didn’t they?
Yes…they did....you’re right, I said. 
Being a professional television presenter….you would have thought he’d have something up his sleeve for such an occasion. A real zinger. 
You would have thought, I said.  
Through the window, I could see the sky beginning to darken. 
What are you....I started laughing.
What? Asks Don.
I was about to say….doing this weekend.
We were both laughed now.
In the kitchen, Don’s wife Margo dropped her glass of wine and started laughing herself. I could smell something burning. Outside the deteriorating atmosphere was continuing to change the colour of the sky. Then the television went black. I raised the bottle of beer to my mouth. 
Any time now, said Don. 
That’d be….


But that was as far as I got. 

Saint Francis and Saint Keegan (2nd draft)

And Francis had promised no drinking (solemn oath, not a drop to cross these lips). To which Keegan Young had replied, alright mate....I am trusting you. And so Francis had been left in charge of the winery over that hot, muggy bank holiday while Keegan went off to attend to a family emergency in Melbourne. Francis set up in the sagging tutor style gatehouse, which was nested in the middle of all that beautiful vineyard land. An area comprised of low hills sectioned up in row upon row of uniform grape vines. Francis had the full range of wines on display, all five, including the Chardonnay, the Sav Blanc, the Merlot, the Pino, the Cab Sav and the Merlot....all displayed on a wooden table, plastic glasses at the ready, napkins and a spittoon for the connoisseurs. And he was telling himself with 100 percent conviction that, as of today, he would set about quietly rectifying his reputation in the community after many, many years of self-inflicted damage. He would meet the tourists and flog the wine and that would be it. No shenanigans. He would showcase the range, of which he had extensive knowledge, and his own newfound sobriety at the same time.

The first family to show up was an Indian family in a minivan. They were polite and tech-ed up with Bluetooth earpieces and tablets. They were from Mumbai. Francis had a good chat with this likeable bunch, joked around with the kids, talking knowledgeably about the range, explaining the various notes at play in the profile of each wine. Francis had grown up wine country. His parents had owned a small vineyard back in the 80's so he could talk the talk. The Indian family, while congenial enough, opted not to purchase anything. This was their prerogative after all they had paid the tasting fee. After they had departed, it occurred to Francis that being stone cold sober was, in fact, inhibiting his sales abilities by not allowing him to relax and really let fly. His mojo had been muzzled. The truth was, with one or two drinks under his belt, he would be able to strut his stuff. This is what he told himself.
More visitors began to show up, their vehicles creaking up the gravel driveway, the occupants getting out, flexing road-weary muscles and stiff joints. There was one guy who was freakishly tall and barely fit into the tasting room, stooping through the doorway like an adult entering a child's playhouse. Francis went through the whole pitch again, talking up the wines. By then he had lubricated himself up with a few cheeky glasses of Pino. Big deal. You had to, didn’t you? The customers want to see you indulge a little bit. It was part of the show. Francis convinced the freakishly giant and his wife to buy two cases. And right there was the difference. The inhibited version of Francis compared to the lubricated one.

As the morning stretched on into midday and then early afternoon, more vehicles arrived, the slamming of their doors loud against the surrounding silence. Families, young couples, friends of indeterminable connection all came crowding into the little tasting room with its warped wooden door frames and floors. Francis held court, pouring out increasingly generous samples of the wine, for himself and the tourists alike. He was really hitting his stride now, oh yes, talking about the vineyard's microclimate and the move towards biodynamics but.....wait....how did he get that stain on his white polo shirt? Fuck. It just takes one little.....He tried to scrub it clean at the sink, smashing his hip into the metal countertop in the process, a sharp angular pain that resulted in an unexpected and iridescent anger. But no matter. Cut to more scenes of frivolity with the tourists, Francis really lighting up the room now, his cheeks flushed as he sang the praises of the wine, the words coming out deftly at first, his brain a factory of poetic language. At that moment E.E Cummings had nothing on Francis. No sir.

But later on, things became more difficult, muddy, and it seemed like he was tripping over his own fat tongue in his efforts to express himself. His mind was still firing off provocative messages but the delivery was falling short. And the tourists, especially some of the wives who it seemed had little patience for public drunkenness, were beginning to look a bit aggravated by this display. The men seemed alright. A little bemused perhaps but basically sympathetic. But then later, even the men's smiles began to falter. Somehow Francis had crossed the line. The demons had begun to rise up from the dirt, from the grapes, drifting in through the cracks in the floors. Demons that filled the room, promising liberation, whispering sweet nothings into Francis's ear, coercing and spurring him into action. This is your moment, they whispered. Tell it like it is Brother. Let's dispense with all these formalities and games. Let's do it to it. Let's get some fucking music going and then let's wake these walking corpses and their zombie wives up. And so Francis dived in head first, like a daredevil jack-knifing off a high tower into a very shallow barrel. As always he had overlooked something crucial. Ultimately his delivery would come at a price. After he'd had his fun, once the dust had settled, Francis would find himself back in hell. The demons would wipe their little round asses on his dignity. Change? they would whisper, later on, when there was no more fun to be had. You fat little git. You'll never 'change'. You are still the same person you always were. The same hideous collection of human malfunctions. You are just marinating in the failure of your existence. Don’t you see that buddy? Change! Don't make us laugh.

And wow, speaking of change. Somewhere along the line, the vibe with the tourists had defiantly changed. Oh man, something had gone wrong. Mass psychosis perhaps? People were leaving almost as soon as they arrived. No thanks, we're fine.....yeah...um... we...we....um....better shoot off. Is that the time? Didn't realise it was so late. Thank you! Goodbye. Francis wasn't an idiot. He could tell when people were lying to him. And then, unless he was remembering incorrectly, he nearly dragged somebody out of their car such was his determination to make them tasted the fucking wine. After all, they had driven all that way. Why else were they there? What the hell was wrong with these people? The women and children were practically cowering behind the menfolk. You would think Francis was walking around naked, covered in his own filth. And oh man, the demons, they were really out for blood today, propelling him forward, into new moments of raw confusion, scenes that started to make no sense what-so-ever. It was as if someone has suddenly and without warning changed the rules of acceptable behaviour so that every pissy little gesture and word that he uttered was wrong or offensive to all these lofty fuckers that turning up. And the frustrating thing was, all Francis good intentions kept blowing up in his face like a novelty gun in a cartoon. Why? How? And the little demons, like the uncorked fumes from the multiple bottles he had on the go, filled his head and somehow it was dark outside. And now Francis was moving through the darkness. He had entered into a sort animal state, wallowing and lost in the rows of trellises that supported the vines and the grapes, his shirt having been ripped off. The lights from the gatehouse were burning in the distance and music played loudly through an open window. His ex-wife was laughing at him. She wasn't physically there of course. No. She was miles away yet he could still hear her condemning laughter. It was the song of his failure as a husband and as a man. And her laughter was joined by all the other people he’d tried to expunge from his life but couldn't. Then he was shouting at them, making his point of view known. Except he wasn't using words anymore...just sounds. Poor Francis! Saint Francis of animals was now himself a beast. Down on all fours, his hands plunged into the rich soil, he was a dog, a pig searching for a truffle, he was sobbing and screaming, running his tongue over a newly chipped tooth, drawing a faint taste of iron blood. Everything seemed to be transpiring against him, driving him further down into the muck, blocking him at every turn. What did they want from him? To transform into an earthworm? To go down into the roots and soil. Would that satisfy them?
The real and very personal shame of all this was that Keegan, perfect Keegan, his school friend (they had gone K to year 9 together before Francis had been sent away to a posh boarding school) had suffered real setbacks in his life and yet he had managed to become a productive and happy individual, turning his family's ailing winery into a successful business. The prick. Saint Keegan. Saint of what? The grape? Tragedy only making him stronger, Keegan was forever climbing Mount Adversity, never complaining, always exuding goodwill towards his fellow man. How could two human beings, who had basically come from the same background and had the same opportunities be so different? How was this possible? This mystery above all else, in the three days that followed, pushed Francis again and again into becoming a willing slave to his primary and secondary vices. The wine flowed, washing away the connective reasoning that explained how one event related to another. Things just happened with an obstinate will of their own. Much like stepping on a rake in the dark. Bang! Like hitting yourself in the face with a stick. A sharp pain and stars. Rage. But not just one rake. Oh no. Francis was lost is a field full of rakes. Bang! Bang! Bang! They went. Over the course of those three days, Francis made twenty-seven calls to his x-wife, each attempt at contact getting progressively worse. He called other people as well. He often forgot who he was talking mid-conversation. Then a drug dealer paid him a visit. A scrawny local guy in a tracksuit. Little crystals appeared on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. A baggie was procured. Crystals that when burnt and inhaled through a little glass pipe, snapped Francis back into the cold here and now, while simultaneously shooting him forward in time at an accelerated rate. This was followed by a woman who materialised out of the internet and was eager for sexual degradation, both her own and Frances's. And man, this was no ordinary farmer's wife with a taste for online sexual escapades. No sir. This woman was a proper deviant with proper deviant requirements. What a find, thought Francis as he chomped down on the leather bit and received his fair share of erotic brutality. Sometimes you just get lucky, right? Maybe. Then again maybe not. It was only later when she explained that money was required for her services that things got ugly. What? What are you talking about? muttered Francis, genuinely confused, a sheet wrapped around his belly and lower body. Somehow an entire day had passed him by and it was night again. The windows were black. Again. Francis was tapping out some more tiny crystals, getting ready to smoke some more of that gak. The woman, clipped and professional in her demeanour now, insisted that the terms of the arrangement had been clearly established and agreed upon prior to commencement. Francis shrugged. He had no memory of agreeing to anything like this. The poor woman must be delusional, he thought. She was already on the phone, talking to someone named Rick, saying, yeah....we have a problem here. He's refusing to pay. And then her husband, this Rick guy, had turned up. Rick had a laid-back but dangerous aspect to his character. He was coiled tight. Mr. snake eyes. Mr quiet-but-suddenly-right-up-in-your-face. There was a short discussion. And then a very amicable solution was arrived at after Francis had been slapped hard, a smart pain that brought the reality of his situation back into clear focus. Ah yes. Of course. He had made a mistake. Suddenly, it was entirely clear to him. But nothing is easy, is it? Because of course, Francis had no cash. The whereabouts of his wallet was a complete mystery.
In the end, the husband and wife team took off with five hundred dollars worth of wine, well above her agreed on rate, packing the jangling boxes into the boot of the husband's Subaru, leaving Francis standing on the gravel driveway. He was still in his stained bedsheet toga. He had a fresh bottle of wine on the go and a cigarette. He watched the husband and wife team drive off into the dark, their taillights fading. It had been good while it lasted, he thought. Music was blaring out of the top floor window. Who the fuck had put on a Sting album? He wondered. Incensed, he went back in the house, killed the music, threw the Sting CD out the window and resumed his debauchery.

And at the end of the three day weekend, after more derailment of his senses, after draining the bottles and licking the baggies clean, Francis's gathering memories of the events now began pushing him headlong into the guilt and self-recrimination. Which meant the cycle became more vicious.
On Tuesday morning Keegan returned from Melbourne. He found Francis asleep in the shed around back, in a kind of nest of bedding and other items that had been dragged out of the gatehouse for reasons only a drunken lunatic could fathom. Unfortunately, Francis was now naked and caked in his own filth. Keegan left him there to sleep and went off to assess the overall damage. Half drunk bottles, broken trellises, drug paraphernalia, strewn miscellaneous objects, clothing on the grass and the gravel, smeared food, vomit, blood, a tractor parked in the middle of the entrance to the estate, music still playing from the gatehouse...evidence of Francis's rampage was abundant.

Keegan spent the rest of that day cleaning up and moving Francis back from the animal to the human state. Keegan cleaned him up with a cold hose, a scrubbing brush, then helped him expel the remaining poisonous bile from his stomach, replacing it with fluids and vitamin B. Solid food followed. And slowly Francis developed the capacity for coherent speech and then he was back on his feet again. And by the time evening came around, he had stopped hearing tiny devil voices in his head. And Keegan managed to resurrect his friend. The damage was done and it was completely unforgivable.

But that was nothing new.

Monsters

The Station Chief, a benign man by the name of Brookes, sent out the memo on Monday morning. We all knew what we had to do...we’d been through all the training modules countless times by then. We needed to destroy everything in the building, basically all the books in the library. It was very disheartening. I don't like destroying books.

Starting at 7 am, we began removing books from the shelves and dumping them in large piles near the shredder which had been set up in the main foyer. Then someone had to feed the books into the spinning jaws of this machine at which point the books were chewed up before being spat out the other end in piles of clotted ribbons.

Mrs Karloff decided the best thing was to work through the entire library in alphabetically and in a rare moment of spontaneous personal revelation, she also told me that she had once had an affair with Hemingway. No shit? I said. That’s right, she replied. He was quite a man but he had lots of problems.

The sheer quantity of shredded material produced by the shredded books kept piling up. It began to fill the ground floor rooms, climbed the staircase, rising up to the second floor, pushing against the windows. It was as if we were filling the entire building with a giant birds nest. Impeding our progress, the damn Station Chief kept demanding that we attend meetings in the main hall. In these meetings, updates were provided concerning the volatile political situation beyond the walls. Ms Karloff, Mrs Chaney, Mrs Lee, Mrs Lugosi….they were all in attendance. And they all had some long-winded piece of intel they wanted to share. By that point, we were all stripped down to our underwear because it was so damn hot inside the building what with all the extra insulation provided by the growing piles of shredded paper. It’s a real shame, announced Mrs Karloff. What? I said. She showed me a letter written by Pappa. A love letter written in his clipped, staccato style. We have been ordered to shred every scrap of paper in this building, said Mrs Karloff. Personal correspondences as well? I asked. Yep, she said. When I read this letter aloud, she continued, I can hear his voice coming back to me from all those years ago. Did you know I was the girl in the ‘Hills like White Elephants’? She said. Shut the front door, I said, truly amazed. I had always liked Mrs Karloff.

As the days proceeded, you could smell burning jet fuel in the air and see columns of black smoke twisting up into the sky. You could also hear angry crowds gathering beyond the embassy walls. We were completely cut off. The airport was only five km away but it might as well have been the moon for all the good it did us. Strangely, the gardens just beyond the embassy windows remained pristine and peaceful. Over the wall, looking to the east, I could see the snow-capped mountains.

After four days, the entire building, or near enough, was full of shredded paper. You could barely move. It was at this point that Mrs Karloff and Mrs Cushin were getting ready to evacuate. Their evacuation plan had been finalised by Brookes. Sometime later, I received my instructions, neatly typed on a piece of paper. That was how I found myself dressed in a blue stripped jellibra while moving through the crowded marketplace. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with the military personnel, all of whom were relaxed yet still alert for insurgent activities. Down at the harbour, people were gathered at the barricade, their possessions in hand as they fought to secure passage out of the country on the rusted ocean liner that was moored to the dock. I reached into the pocket of my jellibra for my passport inadvertently removing a handful of shredded paper. And this was how I was caught. A child spotted me and began screaming.

They marched me back to the embassy. They told me I would oversee a team of women who would reassemble the entire library, piece by piece, page by page. I knew it would take years. It took me five years to reconstruct a single page of Ulysses. Eventually, I found fragments of Mrs Karloff's love letter. It began My dearest girl.....and it continued in this way, the words stamped onto the delicate sheets of paper like continual gunshots.

Giant Logic Gain LTD.

For the most part, we did point of sales stuff. And we were exactly like you people: hungry at inappropriate times, exhausted, staggering through the consumer landscape, tagged and being electronically tracked like wounded animals, only we were more cognizant of this fact. We had the data.

I worked for Giant Logic Gain LTD. And what we did was collect and collate information and prepare reports. We operated out of a dumpy little skyscraper in the CBD just off Pitt Street. We used all this precious data to make you, dear consumer, buy breath mints and gut-rotting energy drinks and extra batteries at the petrol station cash register. At the supermarket checkout. You had done so well up until this point. You had dragged your screaming, brand-loyal kids through the maze of bad food choices and eye-popping marketing lures. You were in the home stretch. The checkout was your last hurdle but your defences were down and we were waiting for you. In ambush. Waiting to make you buy some last minute crap. We employed whatever marketing strategies were required. We hooked you in. We found your weaknesses.

And don't get me wrong, I used to absolutely love my job. I did. I couldn't wait to figure out new ways to make you buy shite. It was all very arrogant. I thought of myself as having a deep insight into human psychology. We were the temple priests, casting spells over the populous. But more recently? I wasn't so sure. I had lost my faith. More recently, I had slumped into a sort of mild existential quagmire. Was it the early onset of middle age? The layer of fat accumulating around my midsection? The unnerving fact that new blood was surging through the front door on a daily basis. New fucking wonder boys and wonder girls. Influencers of the influencers no less.

This quagmire didn't result in anything too dramatic. We're not talking radical, life-changing action here. Not like one of those 90's movies where the main character has a meltdown and tells everyone where to stick it, marching definitely out of the office with a box under his arm. No. There were bills to be paid. And I liked my Sydney lifestyle. Having said this, there were a few minor acts of rebellion on my part. For example...one morning, after a particularly gut-pummeling double latte, I was indisposed in the men's toilets and I wrote something on the partition wall, right under the toilet paper dispenser. Using my black Sharpie, I wrote….‘What are we doing? I mean really, what the hell are we doing?’ A simple request for clarity in the face of a cold, unknowable universe. Sure. Why not.
As time when by others in my building began to add their own comments. And being the men's toilet, this improvised public message board quickly degenerated into profanity and crude cartoons of dicks and naked women. In effect, it became a mind map of discontent, a dangling man-o-war of malignant graffiti. It stands to reason: we were all creative people competing to be heard. We had egos to wield. It was funny, crude, immature, profound, offensive...all of the above. You put boys in groups together their individual IQ's seem to plummet. This was never going to be the ladies where the discourse might have included long, carefully crafted debates covering a range of topics. No. This was cave painting with dung.

The CEO became extremely angry when he caught wind of this. Basically, he deemed it anti everything he stood for. The man was determined to stamp out this explosion of character deformation and bitching. He had the vandalised section of stall removed, set up in the main meeting room and, like the bad dogs we were, he rubbed our wet noses in this shameful act during a long, male-only staff meeting. We all sat there, scolded, eyes down on the carpet, as the CEO shouted and rattled on about the importance of maintaining morale in the workplace. Things are going to change around here, he screamed, mark my words gentlemen. If you are all so fucking unhappy....there is the door.

No one moved. The CEO continued to pace from one side of the room to the other, past the section of the toilet stall, eyes sweeping over us, looking for malcontents. He was fucking furious: vein-popping, brain aneurism furious. The senior members of staff sat on the sidelines, their arms folded, looking stern and disappointed, aping the CEO as best they could. We all waited. No one but the CEO spoke. Tonally, his lecture went up and down like an unpredictable roller coaster ride. He'd start off, addressing us in his composed, stern voice but then, suddenly, he would hit upon a flash point of extreme irritation and he would explode, his frustration booming out along with his spittle. This went on for quite awhile. It was like watching a man repeatedly come apart at the seams.
A few days later Alice Gilstrap appeared. Alice was beautiful in numerous ways. Alice was a hired gun, an efficiency expert. She was neat and precise. She glided. Nothing was wasted with Alice. Her beauty was clipped efficiency itself.

Alice remained superglued to my ass for about two whole weeks. During that time she followed me around the office, assessing everything I did down to the smallest detail. She was so good, I completely forgot she was there after the first few days. I'd go a whole morning, meetings and emails, not thinking about her. Then I'd turn around and nearly jump out of my skin because fucking Alice Gilstrap was lurking behind me. She recorded all her observations on her iPad. She wore a mask of neutrality. And then, when Friday afternoon rolled around, after drinks with the lads, she followed me off into my private life, assessing my performance at the gym, analysing a clumsy date I went on with a girl named Sophie. The three of us went off to a pricy vegetarian restaurant in Newtown. The sort of place where they serve you up a twenty dollar lump of tofu in a molten hot ceramic dish while wearing a straight face. Alice sat at the next table over appraising my romantic strategies. It was quite nerve-wracking.

Later on that same night, despite my best efforts and a fair amount of wine, Sophie refused to have sex with me, saying, no way buster, not with the efficiency expert sitting over there in the corner. You must be joking. Sophia rebuttoned her blouse and left, the echo of her heels receding along my street. Alice just looked at me, the iPad screen underlighting her mask of neutrality like some sort of spook that come to haunt my living room. Look, I said to her, don’t you think this might be a little artificial? I mean, I could be putting on a show for you at work and tonight....with Sophie....I certainly felt intimidated in the old love arena. I can assure you, tonight I was not at my best.
The act of being monitored, as an external influence, will be factored into your report, replied Alice, tapping her lovely fingernails against the screen of her iPad.

In the end, my role at Giant Logic Gain was consolidated with another member of staff. I was lucky enough to keep my job. The other poor fucker was canned which meant suddenly I was extremely busy. My days became an exhausting blur of activity. Gone were the long lunches spent swanning around the food court downstairs or streaming the latest Arcade Fire album while I stared dreamily out the window on the eleventh floor. Now I was under the hammer. Alice had set up evil little KPI's and other dangling characters. Not only this, my private life had also become streamlined and meta-organised. I was sent on dates with women who were more closely identified as my ‘type’. I was required to supply each woman with a survey after these dates with the intention of further honing my chances compatibility. My shopping list included more fruit and vegetables. Some of the more adolescent influences in my CD collection and iTunes account were removed. Well-being apps appeared magically on my phone. The copious quantities of alcohol consumption, when the working day was done and boys just wanted to have fun, ceased, eliminating hangovers and backstabbing. Like me, my co-workers were too busy with their major life overhauls. A personal trainer was assigned to me, a mean looking ex-military type guy with a crewcut. “Alice says ‘hi asshole'”, said my new unsmiling trainer the first morning I met him in the park. I knew he was going to make my life a living hell over the weeks to come. He had all his torture devices set up on the grass. Ropes, weights and hoops to jump through. Some sort of hellish duff-duff music to motive me and the other poor bastards who turned up.

Anyway, I adjusted to these changes. And in doing so, I have developed a new approximation of happiness. Every morning, after my affirmations in the mirror, I go to work feeling fresh and positive. Every night I make love to a girl who, although I don't really like as a person, I am assured I will eventually fall in love will. I hold her in my weary, bulked up arms and coo in her ear but secretly I dream of Alice Gilstrap. I wonder if Alice's private life is as efficient as her professional one. I think those two weeks under her beady-eyed scrutiny was the happiest time of my adult life. I felt contained and controlled. Is this what love is?

When I make love to my girlfriend, sometimes I fantasise about Alice. In my dirtiest fantasies, I imagine Alice Gilstrap having this secret inner life. I imagine entering her house, coming through the front door. Underfoot there are layers of papers, food, underwear, shoes, books, clothes, house plants, kitchen spices, pots and pans and receipts. This is not to mention the granular minutia found at the bottom of drawers and cupboards. All of it split out on the floor in gritty piles and drifts. The rooms are choked with this shit. And sitting naked and alluring in the middle of this mess is Alice Gilstrap herself. As I enter the room she is in, I smell something burning. I have wood worthy of an old growth forest my pants. Alice Gilstrap in the middle of this landfill. Alice Gilstrap is helplessly lost in a blizzard of garbage. This is unacceptable, I say. Alice Gilstrap nods her head. She had chocolate cake on her face and hands. Something will have to be done, she relies.

Chin

One

I went under the knife the morning I arrived in South Korea. "Now count backwards from ten", said the anesthetist. I was so heavily drugged that when I regained consciousness, it took me a long time to realise I had woken up in a different location. I would later come to learn that I had been moved to an isolated medical facility and I was being held under heightened security. The medical company's customer service rep, an over-earnest little bundle of nerves named Jenny seem to have lost all her initial congeniality. My nurse was more like an ex-professional wrestler. "Where am I?" I croaked.
"You are safe," said Jenny the medical consultant. "There were....complications but now you are safe. You must sleep".

Two

As I slowly became more familiar with my surroundings, I also began to realise there were no mirrors in my room and that my face and head were tightly bandaged. Of course, this was of some concern to me considering I had originally signed on for a simple jaw augmentation.

Three

Three times a day pain medication was administered through an IV drip. When I asked my doctor or Jenny questions such as where this facility was located, where my phone was or when could I leave, they would simply up the dosage. When this happened I would nod out and stop worrying about attaining the answers to these questions. When I touched my face, inadvertently or otherwise, they would appear at my bedside and restrain my hands, saying, "We must allow healing to occur. Do not touch.". Through the window, I could see a distant line of winter trees raking the edges of a slate coloured sky. At 3 pm every afternoon, the IV released another dose of medication into my system regardless of my behaviour and an explosion of pleasure would hit the back of my brain, simmering me right down.

Four

How long had I been asleep? This was a question I kept asking myself. When they finally removed the bandages, the extent of my facial reconstruction became apparent. I looked completely different. Chin, jawline, brow, nose...everything had been altered. My initial reaction was one of anger, fear, and defiance. Of course. I demanded an explanation. And when none was forthcoming, I tried to leave. I didn't get very far. So from this point on, I was forced to make the huge psychological adjustment to the fact I was being held against my will and that for some unknown reason my appearance had been drastically altered. I had a stranger's face.

Five

I would test the boundaries of my prison. With each subsequent attempt at escape, I would be restrained and returned to my room in a wheelchair by my ex-professional wrestler nurse. Each time I tried to escape or resist, I was punished. They would delay the cocktail of opiates that they were pumping through my system until I was sweating and pleading for relief from the withdrawal. The same thing went for their physical program which I was forced to participate in. This meant working with a personal trainer. "You must maintain muscle tone and prevent atrophy", said Jenny. In this way, they quickly trained me to be completely obedient yet physically strong.

Six

Once my face was healed, they changed my medication. "You will have nice sleep with no dreams now", said the nurse. At first, I felt the usual narcotic rush but this time, instead of floating off into the hazy either, I blacked out completely. This began to happen on a regular basis. It was difficult to know exactly how much time elapsed during these blackouts although I began to get the distinct feeling that great chunks of my life were being stolen away from me. When I regained consciousness, it was like surfacing from a swimming pool full of crude black oil.

Seven

One time I was covered in sweat, sitting in the chair by the window when I surfaced. The time after that I had a new tattoo on my arm. And the time after that, I had another tattoo, this time on my neck. Each time I surfaced I would find two or three fresh tattoos on my body. Images of knives, skulls, stars and spider webs. Outside the window, the seasons begin to change. The snow melted. The trees gained and then lost their foliage. Then the cycle began again. I surface out of the black with more tattoos. With deep scratches on my face. I surfaced completely exhausted. I surfaced with my face covered in tears. I surfaced with the growing certainty that large sections of my life were being lost in a chemical void. I surfaced with stitches in my head. In the mirror, the stitches looked like a black centipede crawling across my scalp. I came to with a hole in my bicep. I surfaced with the lingering sensation of an excess of adrenaline burning off. I surfaced with partial hearing loss in one ear. With a urinary tract infection. With a broken finger. I surfaced with jet lag. I came to shaking with grief and something that felt like PTSD.

Eight

What are the missing prices? Are they nice dreams? Or bad ones? The medication was so heavy there was no way I could tell. An animal in captivity adapts and learns to live in its cage. This is what I did. I stopped questioning. I stop worrying about the missing pieces. Or whose face I had. Or why I was being held captive in this remote mountainous medical facility. Or why I was covered in tattoos that looked like they had been taken from a spooky children's book. It is amazing what you can get used to. This new pattern light and dark, of what is known and what is not, went on for a while. Then, one day, everything changed.

Nine

At first, I heard what sounded like distant fireworks. As this noise got closer, I realized the rapid succession popping sounds was probably automatic gunfire. Still, it didn't matter. The only thing I worried about at that moment was who was going to administer my three o'clock fix? Through a side window, I saw four staff members in a different part of the building, people who had become familiar to me, become grotesquely animated by automatic weapon fire before they dropped dead to the ground. At this point, I decided I should probably escape. I got up and started moving. I kept moving away from the sound of gunfire and explosions. Something had compromised the facility's central electronic locking system. I walked out a side access door, crossed a field and then moved into the woods I'd seen from my window. I was wearing my standard daytime tracksuit which did not provide sufficient warmth against the elements at that time of year. Dead leaves crumbled beneath my feet. Branches scraped at my face. In recent times, I had been permitted to walk in these woods but only when accompanied by my lumbering ex-professional wrestler nurse. As I progressed deeper into the woods, I noticed the shadow of what looked like large scarab beetle moving across the ground. This turned out to be a drone hovering silently above the treetops, tracking my movements with ease. After twenty minutes, I came to a logging road. And as I came out of the vertical maze of tree trunks, I realized that there were men in ski masks waiting to meet me.

Ten

I was sitting in a perfectly ordinary office with a desk, two wing chairs, a lamp and a door. The walls were divided into grid patterns by dark wood panelling and there was a coffered ceiling overhead. Several pictures of woodland scenes hung in the place of windows. A man entered the room and sat behind the desk. He was dressed in a suit. I noticed for the first time that I was restrained. "Now I will talk and you will listen", said the man. "I will tell you what has been happening. You can ask questions later but for now, I would prefer for you to listen and then save questions for the end, yes? This will save time. It will help me explain these things without obstruction. Okay? Okay....here we go.....So you have been given the face of a well-known Russian Oligarch's first and only son.....Vladamir Aleksey Vasiliev. You have his same age and bone structure so you were a good...how you say? Template? The people who did this to you, they are the sworn enemies of my employer, understand? So, they have given you Vladamir's face exactly, down to smallest mole and they have also given you exact copies of Vladamir's tattoos.....These are traditional Russian criminal tattoos....only Vladamir was never in gulag or was he a real gangster. The tattoos were like designer tattoos to make young Vladamir feel like tough guy for ladies in Moscow discotheque.... When he was taking Instagram photos of himself and showing off. Basically, Vladamir is spoiled rich playboy. He was sent to the best schools...etc, etc.....between you and me....he is lazy little shit but he is not a psychopath".

At this point, the man in the suit took a sip of water and cleared his throat before continuing.
"Now.....speaking of 'psychopaths'....after you were made into splitting image of Vladimir....into walking, talking forgery......you were a very busy boy, doing many bad things. So many bad things. How you say? They have given you 'Scopolamine'...you know 'Scopolamine'?....anyway it is very powerful drug made from the Borrachero tree, from the flower of this tree. The enemies of my employer have made a new compound combining Scopolamine and Phencyclidine. Or PCP. This compound I refer to made you very....easy to control....'suggestible' is perhaps better English word, yes? Anyway.... you were very easy to control...like zombie but at the same time, also very aggressive. From what I understand, the trick is to not make subject too crazy and not too dopey, yes? You must get the balance right.....Okay, so now we take a break from talking. Now I will show you video footage. It will help you understand you what you have done. They say a picture tells a thousand words, yes? Well, now you will understand."

The man in the suit showed me a montage of security footage shot in different locations. He continued to comment while I watched myself doing things on the laptop screen, things I had no memory of. "Here you are robbing a bank in Zurich. Very violent.....Here you are a few weeks later assassinating famous philanthropist billionaire in France. Broad daylight. Bang bang! Not cool man. Everyone in the world liked that guy for his big humanitarian soft heart.....Here you are in pornographic movie made in a beautiful mansion. Undisclosed location. Big deal you say...except wait for it, keep watching....wait....porno movie has surprise ending, yes? The surprise is....porno becomes grizzly snuff movie with horrible scenes like from Caligula times.....Sex and death mixed together. Very sick stuff man. And the other actors? They did not know this. Look at genuine horror in this close up. You are worse than Idi Amin man! And there is more. Much more footage of you doing terrible things. The worst kind of things. And the whole time, you have the face of my employer's son....so you see? So, we have big problem. There were two Vladamir Aleksey Vasiliev's running around. You made him infamous when before he only used to be normal famous guy. You have taken his image and reputation and you have twisted it. You have made him into a nasty fellow. A monster. Imagine if Mr. George Cloonie went psycho-bonkers-ballistic. It is like this! Vladamir Aleksey Vasiliev already had many followers on social media before you hacked his account and began posting terrible pictures. So you see problem, yes?"

The man in the suit took another drink of water. I watched his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
"So....we have arrived at big question..." he continued, "....why ruin Vladamir Aleksey Vasiliev's public image? What is the purpose of this?.....I will tell you. The Oligarch, my famous employer, has many powerful enemies. And his enemies want to cause instability. They want to ruin Vasiliev family name for all history. Past history and future history. So these enemies decided to play with reality. Basically, they make a new type of reality TV. Imagine if famous Kardashian girl killed everyone with a chainsaw one day.....whoa! Big scandal! Is like that. And there are cameras are everywhere now. CCTV. Bystanders with cell phones.....for high-profile smear action, there is no need for camera crew because amateur footage of Vladimir went viral. This is how enemies destroyed my employer's family name and his future. No son, no continuation of family name.....Shame on family for all time. And father's reputation is forever stained by terrible son.....you see? This is revenge my employer's enemies made happen. This is what you have been doing, crazy boy....this is real reason you have been made into psycho version of Vladamir Aleksey Vasiliev.....So now what? You are asking yourself this, yes? Well, now we must make right what is wrong. Already we have taken control of the narrative....Of course, now Vladamir Aleksey Vasiliev is wanted man by Interpol and CIA....to name but a few agencies....so real Vasiliev has had face changed. Now he looks completely different. Now he has brand new secret life....and he will make babies in private to carry on family name. So what does this mean for you crazy boy? For the new narrative? Well....for public purposes you must remain Vladamir Aleksey Vasiliev forever. Understand? This is the only way. And Vladamir Aleksey Vasiliev must do public penance. He must be reformed. Any questions? No? Okay then....I think we are good".

It's hard to ask questions when you are wearing a ball gag.

Eleven

They kept me sedated throughout the trial. I eventually ended up in a place with white walls, industrial furniture and harsh strip lighting. Through the window, I can see the lights of a small industrial town and a grey river twisting through a patchy wooded landscape. They all think I am the criminal son of this famous Russian industrialist, this Oligarch. They said the trauma I went through had altered my hardwiring to such an extent that I lost my mother tongue. They say I am insane. Every day is pretty the same in here. The orderlies tell me that my rampage in the Kyoto theme park is still one of the most popular videos on YouTube. Well, at least the bits they can legally show. I have been encouraged to write this account of what happened in the hope that, once set down in black and white, I will recognize my story to be an intricately constructed paranoid delusion. I will endeavour to provide as much detail as I can. With this in mind, I will start at the beginning.

Twelve

In the beginning, I was a totally normal American guy. No, that's not exactly true. I was blessed with above average looks. My good looks carried me through my early life and college. I did some modelling on the side, to pay for my tuition. I enjoyed the attention. Eventually, I moved to a large city. I intended to keep working as a model. I began applying at agencies. After a few weeks in this city, I came to the realization that I was one of many above-average-looking people. My dreams of a lucrative modelling career began to falter. I ended up stuck in a very lowly, demeaning corporate job. I felt the one thing that consistently let me down in my modelling career was my chin. I felt my slightly underwhelming chin compromised the overall symmetry of my face. It began to really bother me. I began noticing chins in bars and down at the beach. Rock solid chins and cleft chins. Heroic and stoic chins. I began to research how I would go about improving my chin.
One day I received an email explaining that I'd won a competition, a competition I did not remember entering. The prize was a voucher for $6000 worth of plastic surgery to be performed by a famous cosmetic surgeon in South Korea. So I packed my bag and early one morning I headed to the airport.

Shellac

Richie's is my twin brother. He's exactly three minutes younger than me. Richie lives in the attic now. And he wears his blue dressing gown. He won't buy a new one. No way! He loves that old dressing gown even though it’s covered with food stains and ciggie holes. Richie has been living up in the attic ever since back before the nasty new millennium began, back when we all thought the poo was really going to hit the fan. That was the year when Richie had his big nervous breakdown. The pressure was just too much for him, you see. He was there at Sydney Uni one day and he just started shouting and shouting and shouting. That’s what mamma said. Then, after the hospital people calmed him down with some pills, they tried to repair his brain (or at least to stop him from carrying on like a pork chop). And when that didn't work, he came back to live in our house on Ormond street with me and Mamma. And he hasn’t left since. Not once.! Not since that day at uni. Richie doesn't even like coming down the stairs much. This is my world now, he says, meaning the attic. This is enough for me. Poor Richie. Mamma says he couldn't leave the damn house even if he wanted to, his fear of the world being the crippling agent. It's up to Mamma and me to bring everything back now. All the food and grog and whatever. And the ciggies of course. And now that mamma has hurt her leg it's all up to me. I gotta do everything! Mamma sleeps all day on the sofa and Richie's up in the attic with his computers so the only one who can fetch stuff is me. This morning Richie was shouting at me through the mail slot after he kicked me out of the house. I don't want to see your dumb face back here until you have at least twenty ciggies worth of tobacco, he says! Twenty! You know the deal! Get to it! Like I say, Mamma is too sick to walk around so it’s down to me. This is my job today. You know what Richie says about ciggies? He says the government is phasing us smokers out, which isn't fair. Not when you think about it. Like Richie says, they made our bodies into their rubbish dumps with all their processed foods and their stupid rock and roll and their smokes. Our bodies became their factories and dumping grounds. They got us hooked on all that shit while it suited them. Our lives were less important than the big fat bottom line, you see. And now? Well, now they want to clean up the mess. Why? Because they ran the numbers and it turns out their happy-go-lucky genocide program was too expensive in the long run. Get it? So now we have to live for extra twenty years like gruesome puppets so they can push new drugs through our systems, right? New dope with fine print so small you can’t hardly read it! They want us alive and kicking like a big Hollywood musical for the big pharmaceutical companies. They have every stage planned out. What we eat. What we drink. What we listen to. When we fart! And now, what with all the new phones, they have us all completely tagged and bagged. We are in a controlled system. They even know what we poop out! This is what Richie tells me usually before he gets so mad at me that he can't speak anymore. Poor Richie. He has all these theories and ideas. Sometimes it’s like his thoughts start go'in backwards. Mamma says he also gets frustrated cause I'm a dummy. I came out three minutes later you see. I practically kicked him out of the womb. For three minutes I was still stuck inside mamma without the right amount of oxygen. Something went wrong. As a result, Richie got all the brains. Maybe he got too much in the old brains department! That’s what mamma says sometimes. Today I counted 78 happy faces and 168 frown down faces on Oxford street. This is a new world record!

The young girl and her brother? He's....well he was some kind maths genius. Or he was before he went tropo. And the sister? She's an idiot. I'm not trying to be cruel here. Technically speaking, she is. Can you imagine? Having those two in your family? They are both completely useless, in their own way. Like I say, the brother is what you'd call ‘incapacitated’. Meaning he is stuck in their house all day because he has these….episodes. These mental issues I was telling you about. The young girl is.....hold on, hold on, hold on. Don't go getting any ideas now. I say 'young girl' but really she's pushing forty. What I mean is...she is young compared to me. A spring chicken! Listen, I talk to her now and then. Or I try to. On me way up to the RSL or when I'm waiting for the bus to go into the city to have a look around. The whole family, the brother, the sister and their mum, they live in that big old place halfway down Ormond Street. The double terrace that looks like a fuck'n haunted house. The one with the rusted wrought-iron railing, the broken shutters and the peeling paint. It's pitiful. It’s a beautiful little street but their house stands out like a sore thumb. Ho, ho! A thumb with gangrene! It's a hovel. And from what I've gathered, they live no better than a pack of animals inside. It's a shame, a real shame. And listen, when I say the girl is an ‘idiot’ I assure you, I'm not saying this to be unkind. No! The fact is….she is simple. And I should know. I've met people like this before, in the boxing world eh? Fighters who end up punch drunk, you know? Blokes who get knocked about a bit too much. Brain damage! Anyway, the girl walks around all day, lips blistered from the sun, dirty, picking up cigarette ends. Off the ground! She puts ‘em in her pockets. It's disgusting! Pockets full of dirty, half smoked ciggie ends. She finds them outside the pub mainly. Or in the smoking area at the RSL. Or sometimes she'll beg for gold coins. She's not too effective on that front, let me tell you. You can't bloody well hear what she is saying most of the time. My point is, she’s a fucking mess, hitching up her pants, wiping her sleeve across her nose...this kind of thing. And get this: she puts the human race into two distinct categories. They...we....are all either 'smiley face people' or 'frown-down faces". Her words, not mine. Imagine seeing the world that way, eh? As only two types of people. Happy or sad. She keeps count under her breath. Obsessed with it….as she walks along the street. I have been trying to develop a relationship with her. To help her. I have been trying to convince her to have a word with her mum. To consider the possibility of selling their house on Ormond St. I mean….really….what good is it? All run down like that? The place needs to be cleaned up. Get some decent people in there, eh? I mean what do they need with all that space? The problem is Kate (that's the idiot's name)….not being the full quid….it’s difficult for her to make sense of what I'm saying. My intentions…so to speak. It goes in one ear and out the other. Honestly, sometimes I feel it won't make any difference to her if she was talking to a lamp post or a human being. I'll tell ya….it makes getting to know somebody very difficult. Anyway, Kate and I have a chat every couple of days. Last week I suggested that she could come back to my place which is only around the corner…and take a nice hot shower. I said look…darling….I have a good selection of smelly soaps and body washes. Then I told her...I said listen, if you have a really good scrub and wash your hair....if you are willing...well, I could show you a few things. I made an offer of me services. Seriously! I can't imagine a man has touched her recently. Not in the state she’s currently in. And being a woman of her age…the years getting away from her…I consider a crime that she doesn't have a boyfriend. I mean she ain't much to look at but then again…neither am I these days. You get old…..is what happens. You do! Anyway, I may be old but everything still works. Downstairs. I told her, I said, look….Kate, let's not play games...what I'm offering is....I will show you what can happen in the boudoir between a man and a woman. On the condition that you have a shower first, of course, because...the state of her hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. I was willing put up with all the crazy talk but soap and water are required beforehand. I even offered her a carton of smokes if she came back to my gaff. Not cheap these days! As a sweetener, you know? As I explained to her…you get older and these kinds of opportunities dry up. Even though the equipment still works, the opportunities just ain't there any more. So why not take advent of a little mutual comfort? It’s a crime against masculinity….is what it is...the way it all dries up.  Anyway, when I made the offer but it didn't really seem to sink in….off she went….on her merry way. I'll have another crack later....  

My uncle? Jesus. He lives in Paddington in this horrible little apartment. This ‘heritage listed’ place if you can believe it. The kind of place that really gives me the shits. The kind of place that is in dire need of the wrecking ball. One of these damp little monstrosities taking up prime real estate. You know the style...those 60's apartments? I mean they truly are shit. They were all built with substandard materials. I suppose you could, maybe, update them but why bother? Knock them down and start again. That’s what I think. Don't piss about. Anyway, my uncle is like his apartment….he’s bloody ’heritage listed’. He’s one of these local guys, you see? One of these guys that got stuck in place…became a fixture of the neighbourhood. The kind of guy who never bothered to get married and never had kids. He keeps things simple. And I can respect that. Simplicity. He is a simple man with a simple routine. He brushes his teeth every day at 7:49. Never has more than three light beers in one sitting. Yes. Without a doubt, he is stuck in his ways. And the thing about him….you know how some people age gracefully whereas others are just....they become indignant about the whole process, they fight it? My uncle is like that. My uncle…he feels robbed. Like he was personally ripped off by the aging process. He actually gets annoyed when he is forced to acknowledge the fact that he is getting on. He's 70 years old. This bandy-legged old guy standing on a street corner, talking your ear off. Always talking at you. Talking away like he's running out of oxygen and his life depends getting out every. Last. Word. Thinks that just because he's been alive for so long, he actually knows something. Don't make me fucking laugh. He's a nervous old man afraid of death. Granted he was a boxer back in the day. Amateur bouts mainly. Here and in England. He lived in London for a while. In the 1970’s. He says that he hated England but I suspect that was the best time of his life. His glory days.You get a few beers in him and he'll tell you all about it. In his stories….he makes himself out to be Rocky Balboa or something. I don't know. Maybe he was? Maybe I'm being too hard on the old cunt? Mum has a great photo of him, his hair pompadoured, his fists held up at the ready. Classic boxer pose. He was ripped....had the whole 'eye of the tiger'. I gotta admit, back then, he looked pretty bad-ass. To this day, you can still see he was a boxer. The way his nose is smashed flat and the damage to his ears. His face looks like it got run over by a truck. Hamburger meat. One thing he’s retained…he’s got a lot of confidence. He’s still convinced that every woman on the planet is attracted to him. It's amazing. Young and old women. It doesn't matter… I never met anyone so old and still so…pussy obsessed. Admittedly, he does have  blue eyes, his most striking feature. I can say that. And, he can be a charming guy. He knows how to put women at ease. Recently his thing is…Jesus...he's got himself involved with this….family. It's all very murky but from what I gather, these people are lunatics. Two grown children, twins, and their pisshead mother. They’re a bunch of deros. And my uncle has been pestering this girl, trying to convince her to get the mum to their sell house. He keeps leaving messages for me to come down and inspect the property. I keep telling him that…without the owner's consent there is nothing to ‘inspect’. Besides, the way I understand it, the family has no intention of selling. And I got too much on my plate as it is. Way too much. My uncle wants...he thinks we're going to become business partners or something. He wants us to buy this place, gut it, renovate and then flip it. There is no way. No chance. I don't want to get into anything like that. I keep telling him I'm not a developer. The message won’t sink in. I sell houses, sure, but I'm not going to front up the capital for a project like that. I won’t. I can't. I already have two fucking mortgages. Yes, the place has potential (I looked it up online) but I can't go into business with uncle Roy. That would be a disaster. He's got a lot of heart but I think it is well-known….in my family at least…that my uncle is a disaster when it comes to money. And he wants to get involved with this shit show? Thanks, but no thanks.  

Worst date. Every. First of all, this guy...he was late. And as soon as he walked through the door, I could see he wasn't into it. I'm not even sure why he bothered. Maybe I have what they call option fatigue? Online burnout? Maybe it shows? Maybe we're all burnt out and cynical? All this choice and opportunity to meet a partner and yet...and yet...the irony is…none of them turn out to be any good. Is that irony? I forget. Anyway, these guys, they’re all either weird or needy or I don't know what....there is always something wrong. I am telling you....you only need to scratch the surface and there is always, without fail, some problem. I don't want to sound pessimistic but this is my experience. With online dating. You wouldn't think getting two compatible individuals together would be so….difficult. I think it's because men play the numbers game. The more women they come into contact with, the more chance they have of casual sex. That is the mentality, right? The strategy. Me? I'm looking for something more lasting. So right there you have a fundamental problem of perspective. We are playing two separate games with two separate desired outcomes. Anyway, this guy...like I say, he comes in late. He is unapologetic. And arrogant to boot. Like, so what? I'm late! deal with it. It's a shame because physically he is my type. Masculine. Stocky. Neat but not too fussy.....Not too metrosexual. Handsome enough without being a model....you get the idea. Anyway, he sits down and I can see...almost immediately...that he is just going through the motions. He gives me the once over, an expression on his face like…now I gotta deal with this. Then he actually says, sorry…I don't think I have the energy for this tonight.My bad. Like he is doing me a huge favour by being so direct, so candid. Like I am supposed to respond favourably to all this shit. Then he starts talking about himself. He hunkers over, loosens his tie, aftershave wafting out of his clothes and he goes, listen, I have an idea....I propose that we keep each other company for the duration of this drink (he had ordered some drinks by then). Since we have both made the effort to show up, he continues, I say we sit here and have our brief chat with no pretences. Once we have finished our drinks, then we shake hands, say goodbye and resume our lives. No harm, no foul. So what do you think? I shrug. What the hell? I mean what the hell? But then I think, hold on a minute...is this part of his approach? His technique for getting women into bed? Does he think that by cutting through the games and crap...or at least pretending to...that by starting from a base level of honesty, I will be….attracted to him? Mr. straight-shooter. To be honest with you, it does throw off my usual expectations. Despite myself, I did think, well at least this is something different. Anyway, he starts talking. And the more he talks, the more I begin to relax because obviously nothing is a stake here. He's repulsive. Obviously. But whatever. We'll have our drink, then…'see you later’. The truth is, he informs me, it's highly unlikely you gonna to find Prince Charming online. I mean…I’m no Prince Charming, he laughs. This is the difference between men and women, he says, mirroring my own pessimism. He looks at me and asks, what do you want? What do you really want? And I tell him. I want love. Real love. And all the rest of those cliches that us girls pick up from the pages of our Cosmo magazines. This guy-his name is Pablo-goes well you may have to settle for something less than ideal. Before it's too late. Implying what? That I’m getting on? That the clock is running down? That he has the assurance of becoming a silver fox? Of having the perfectly valid third season of masculinity being ahead. Then he tells me all about his life. The stuff that, under ordinary circumstances, he would have concealed until maybe…my god! Actually no! This is the kind of stuff that maybe you’d never tell anyone about? The kind of stuff you’d save for your theorist. He tells me that he had what amounted to a drug overdose last week. He took a combination of performance enhancement and recreative drugs over a three-day period. It got to a point where his heart was racing wildly in his chest and he couldn't sleep. But the main thing was that he had an erection that wouldn't go down (I know, I know....it sounds very….sordid...but you had to be there. The way he was telling me all this....I'm sorry but it was funny. He was a funny guy. And there was this odd voyeuristic thrill peeking into someone else's messy life without having to be part of it). Anyway, by the time he got to the emergency room, he was a complete jabbering mess, clutching his chest, convinced he was on the verge of a heart attack. They had to drain the blood from his erection with a needle. They did an EKG on him and kept him overnight for observation. The doctor told him he might have damaged his heart. He told me this was just the tip of the iceberg. The harder I work, the harder I play, he said. The pressure was incredible. He proceeded to tell me about his uncle, an ex-boxer, who was trying to swindle this family of 'deros' our of their home in Paddington. The uncle used to scare him when he was a kid but now things had changed. Now, this uncle was a little wrinkly guy desperate for money. You know what I have learned in life? he said. The sad truth is... they talk all this shit about ‘family’…how great it is. They tell us what it should be like....like one of those extended Mediterranean family in a movie.....but the truth is…most people, including me, have to keep their family at arm's length. Otherwise? It's take....take....take. Look, he said, I made something out of my life. I made my money. I didn't ask for a hand up and I never expected anything for free. I work hard and play hard. What did my uncle do when he was my age? Nothing. Fucked around. Sure he won a few amateur boxing bouts. Granted. But mainly he avoided real work. And now what does want? Now he thinks he has some sort of claim over my money, eh? Now that he's broke, now that his money generating years have dried up, it's all about ‘the family’. Isn’t it? Blood is thicker than water mate! You know what he gave me as a kid? When my dad died? Nothing. Not even the time of day. Nada. Zip. He used to drop by once and awhile, take me out in the back garden and do these ‘toughen up’ sessions, which basically involved knocking me around under the Hills hoist.......Anyway, it went on like this for awhile. This guy, my painfully honest date, venting his spleen while I sit back and listen, taking it all in, the ice clinking away in my glass. And while all this candour was refreshing at first, it soon became a bit of a drag. So maybe this wasn't his plan all along? Maybe he truly was super jaded. I don't know. Anyway, after using me as his unpaid therapist for perhaps fifteen minutes finally, he goes, okay, what about you? You got anything you want to get off your chest? I smiled and shook my head. I left him there on the couch, staring at his phone, looking for the next whoever even before I was even out the door. I walked out of the restaurant, walked through the park and caught a bus. The city looked beautiful. The vertical patterns of light ascending up and up into the night sky. Faces at the illuminated bus stops. People: their lives locked inside. I still get a kick out of being in Sydney. It makes you feel like you're somewhere really special. It really does.  

What bothers me is....she insists on telling me about her dates. About meeting up with these guys. Like somehow I am going to benefit from hearing all about it. I don't know, maybe I encourage it? She told me about this guy she met the other night. Apparently, his approach to picking up women was to be completely honest. Or at least to pretend he's being completely honest. He walks right up to her, tells her about his messed up sex life which recently involved a visit to the emergency room to his have his 14-hour erection drained with a hyperthermic needle. I don't know why she gets involved in these losers. I mean, how is it that she finds these guys attractive in the first place? Is it because she wants a risk taker? Is that what’s happening here? Is this what women want? Baboon risk-takers? A neanderthal they can domesticate? Someone they can repair? It's so fucking clichéd. It’s depressing. She tells me about these dates. She goes into great detail. And I really don't appreciate it. That's all I'm saying here. I am not your confidant. You know what that does to me? As a man? To hear this stuff?  It's excruciating. And I should say something but I don't. She and I....we work together in the Botanical Gardens, in the plant archives library. I really should tell her to shut up, that I want to work in a strictly professional environment. That's what I should do. I should say...leave that shit at the door, please. But no. I encourage her through my idiotic, puppy dog compliance. I suffer in silence. She sits,what? A meter from me? In our office overlooking the gardens. And I can smell her perfume. It smells like...I don't know. I have zero olfactory associations or recall. It smells like....like a clotted flower smell. That's the best I can do. Visually, it's a different story for me. I'm visually orientated. I like patterns. I like how one thing in a system relates to another. Why don't men have more...reliance on olfactory associations and recall? Has it got something to do with hunting woolly mammoths? Why is it that odour is more important for women? Has it got something to do with reproduction? I’ll have to look into that. Everything seems to have some kind of explanation related to our monkey ancestors right? Anyway, what Claire doesn't realise is...I love her. There it is. I said it. Love. In this cynical, snap-chat-online-pornographic world we live in, I have developed old-fashion, unrequited love for this woman. Corny right? And the sad thing is…she can't even see it. It's right under her nose and she can't see it. God! How pathetic. In my mind, Claire is absolutely perfect for me. She is frangipani and hibiscus. She is Royal Blue Bell and Desert Rose. Balanced and assured in her quirky proportions. Beautiful. Lovely. And I love her but I am aware that I have become imprisoned within this love because I can't communicate it to her. Unreciprocated love is...nothing. It is a worthless and exhausting emotion trapped inside the heart. An endless echo of unrealised intention. An idea incapable of finding expression. The thing is, I just don't have the confidence to tell her. So what do I do instead? I make myself 'available'. A shoulder to cry on. How utterly pathetic. I encourage the very thing that is hurting me. Rather than risk rejection, I become part of the wallpaper, part of some innocuous pattern. Her support network. Why? Better that…than not having access to her at all, right? All day long Claire and I draw plants (yes, sometimes a fine arts degree does pay off). We sit at adjacent drafting tables and, using mechanical pencils and high-powered magnifying glasses, we draw flowers. We work on paper and sometimes on a computer. That is the current state of things. From the outside, it all looks so…reasonable. But like I say, inside it is a different story. I have these feelings that I can’t articulate. That I can't get out. It feels like…it feels like I am doomed to spend the rest of my life watching, observing, drawing the delicate sexual organs of plants and flowers....producing these highly detailed visual records of native plants for the department. The worst is when I draw the female parts of a flower, the mechanism designed to attract the male seed. The pistil, the petals and the sepals. The pistil itself is made up of stigma, style and the ovaries. These reproductive parts are magnified and then drawn with added shading to show texture and depth. And drawing them only reminds me that...I am sitting within easy reach of Claire yet I am powerless to act on my feelings. I might as well be on the other side of the planet for all the good it does me. And these folded, coiled organs remind me that everything in nature is designed in one way or another to attract a mate. Every plant, insect and animal has a particular strategy in place to help them achieve this goal. A plume of brightly colored feathers. A chemical odor to release into the air or water. A dance to perform. Something to get the attention of a prospective partner. Everything living thing out beyond the windows of our sterile little office is wooing and screwing. Even these dead flowers on my drafting table…even they got laid not so long ago.   

My brother is in ‘love’ with this girl he works with. This nitwit....who does not deserve him at all. Look, it’s not entirely her fault. My brother just doesn't get the psychological fucked-up-ness of women. Sometimes, honestly, I think he is on the spectrum. At least went it come to women. Actually, anything that requires empathy. He has those qualities…is what I'm saying. Debbie's eldest son Miles is on the spectrum and I can see similarities between Miles and my brother Dave. The mannerisms. The lack of empathy. Very similar. My theory is that David is one of these people who just didn't get diagnosed. He slipped through the net. I mean, twenty years ago people did slip through the net. Back then…we all just thought David was an eccentric kid, you know? A bit of an oddball....Anyway, this girl works alongside David at the Botanical Gardens. And poor old Davie is love with her and she doesn't have clue. So for David, it's a very frustrating situation. This is the way he explains it but actually, I don't think this is an entirely accurate assessment. Personally I think she does have ‘a clue’. I think she knows exactly what she is doing. You know why? Because I know this chick. I know her type! Her type, even though she pretends otherwise, is naturally drawn to these...these alpha men. These cavemen. But she also needs to get her adoration from some poor shmuck like my brother. She needs a fan club. A support group. So she keeps her love life split into two distinct categories: the physical side and the emotional side. Until Mr Right comes along that is. The latest one....this aggro guy...wow...from what I understand he was a real piece of work. Apparently, this guy had to go to the emergency room after some kind of drug-sex escapade. And he was proud of it! He told her all about it. That, and how he is related to some old reprobate who is involved in a real estate scam (David was a little bit vague on the details). Anyway, this girl has been hurting my brother. Now I'm not saying she's doing it on purpose but still...It's frustrating. It makes me so angry. I mean, conscious or not, she is leading him on. That is the point. Giving him false hope by not clearly laying out the terms of their relationship, is what I'm talking about. And it's just not right. It's not fair. My brother tried to tell her once but she laughed in his face. They were drinking somewhere in the city. She said something about not getting involved with a work colleague. She said it would be ‘unprofessional’. Seriously? If she is so ‘professional’ why is it that she turns up to work and blathers on about her love life all day? It’s insensitive…is what it is. Cruel. On the other hand, my brother is meek…passive. It can be very frustrating. And he does have a tendency to fixate on these.....unattainable girls. It's good to set your goals high but seriously?….David, come on! I wouldn't ever say this to his face because I don't want to lower his self-esteem but, in a way, he does set himself up for disaster. He has done this before. It’s a reoccurring pattern. Davey has a long history with these doomed infatuations. And I'll tell you....I have been listening to this, his latest obsession for two years now. The same old broken record. ‘She doesn't know I exist’…'What should I do?’ ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ And sometimes I wonder, how long is this going to go on for? This self-defeating approach to getting a girlfriend? It’s not healthy, is it? That’s what I ask him the other day at the park. How long David? How long are you going to remain hung up on this one? When will you move on? Sometimes, honestly, I think he feels safer being in an unwinnable situation. Maybe because he doesn't like the unexpected. Like I was saying, Davey is a little bit….spectrum-ie. It makes sense. He likes things to be predictable. He likes sticking to the plan. Anyway being his older sister, his advisor in these matters, I have also become a bit of a broken record. A broken record of unheeded advice. It gets very tiring. I sat him down the other day (at the park) because I'd had enough. I said to him, dude! I am your sister and I love you and I’m telling you….you have to stop this. You have to put your energy into something a little more….productive. As your older sister, I am telling that you can only go on sabotaging yourself for so long. At a certain point, you have to start being more realistic. And it's not like something is wrong Davey. He is a good-looking guy. He has dark hair, good strong features....he could do with going to the gym.....maybe filling out a little bit? Otherwise, he is perfectly dateable. Granted, he is a bit meek, a bit shy. Anyway, it's a worry….that's what it is. I worry about him, being stuck in that office, focused solely on that silly girl when there are other women out there. I set him up on a date a few weeks ago. It didn't work out. Such a disappointment. I set David up with a girlfriend of mine. Lilly. Lilly just got divorced last year. She took a year off men, to focus on herself and now she is ready to get back in the saddle. They would have been a good match. I gave Davey some pointers. I practically scripted the first date for him. Dress like this. Stick to general conversation. Ask lots questions without being too pushy. Be a gentleman. Relax. Be yourself. Simple stuff. One step at a time. I didn't expect it was going to be a problem. Lilly is a really nice lady. She is pretty and she has a great personality. It should have been an easy fit. And how did it go? Not so good. Dave was acting really jittery throughout the whole thing and he kept getting fixated on these weird little inconsequential things. At least that's what Lilly told me. I had prepared her as well. I had explained that David is a little different. That he might be a little awkward....but there is a limit to any woman's patience in these kinds of situation. It's a shame but Lilly reached the limits of her patience when my brother started banging on about this girl at work. The same old broken record. God give me strength. The way I understand it, Davey talked at her for about an hour. And he just couldn't leave the subject alone. And isn't that what every girl on a first date wants to hear? About some other woman?

......if I have to listen to this shit one more time...I'm going to throw myself off the balcony. How long would it take I wonder? Before I hit the concrete? Twelve floors straight down. Splat! You'd make a mess from this height, eh? Probably have a heart attack on the way down. Isn't that what they say? Your heart packs it in, your brain locks up. My point is....is it too much to ask that I be spared hearing about other people's bloody problems first thing? Just for once, can we please skip the morning debrief? See the thing is my wife, she likes to get all up in other people's business, right? She loves it. She fucking lives for it. Sometimes I honestly I think she goes around collecting drama. She's a sympathy vampire. She gets on the phone or she'll drop by for a coffee. She is good. She gets people all secure and snug in confessional mode. A big soft shoulder to cry on…then she bleeds you dry. Not content with her own problems, oh no, she will take your problems and she will make them her own. I can't tell you how tiring it is. It's like she's an unpaid, roaming therapist just wandering the streets looking for drama. And believe me, I have tried to tell her...I have said clearly....honey, I'm not interested. Please, darling, I had said to her, I don't want to hear it. Does she listen? Does she heed her husband's needs? No. First thing in the morning, before my eyes are even open...before I've had a coffee, she's telling me about these fucking people and their shitty little problems. And putting aside the problems, let me tell you, I'm not a morning person. Not by a long shot. I don't like talking or listening to people talk in the morning. I like quiet. Peace. I have paid for this view, twelve stories above Hyde Park....and I would very much like to enjoy it in peace. This is my reward for working hard. Anyway, yesterday she was at it again, telling me about her brother....who is this sook and probably gay. Not that being gay is a problem. I simply take issue with those people who are scared of their true nature or too clueless to know what they want. If you’re gay….be gay! Or not! Just get on with it. Anyway, I’m pretty sure her brother falls into the latter category. David draws flowers or some such shit for a living. And apparently, he loves this girl at his work. I saw her profile. On Tinder. This flower girl. She seems pretty ordinary to me, hardly worth the fuss. Then again David ain't exactly an oil painting. He's got a weight issue. Then again it seems like everyone in Sydney who isn't jacked and perpetually in triathlon condition is unfit right? He average. It seems like…the problem is this girl is dating some other dickhead who....what was it? He was involved in some sort of real estate scam? Or was it the other guy who od'ed on ice? Maybe they were the same guy? I don't know...I stopped listening. I couldn’t keep track. My wife tells me all this shit, this saga of flowers and hearts, sitting on edge of the bed, yabbering away...telling me about the real estate guy and his uncle and some other family and I have no idea how any of this relates back to limp dick David. I'm pumping away, on the rowing machine I have set up to face the park, sliding back and forth on the track...contracting and expanding shoulder and gut muscles, trying to keep in competitive form, trying to keep an eye on the distance and time, the plastic bar gripped tightly in my hands, back and forth, the fan whirling rhythmically around inside the housing. And I'm barely listening. I literally just got out of bed not twenty minutes ago and already the world has come crashing through my wife’s running mouth. On the other side of the room, the tv is on, volume down, the bright images on the screen blending in with what my wife is saying in a weird kind of way. And I'm concentrating on rowing. I am attempting to block out her voice. I am actually thinking about my wife as she talks....assessing her...now that our kids are nearly grown. I'm wondering if I am going to be able to stick it out for another 20, 30 years. I mean, yes, she still has a good body and there are times I am still attracted to her...I am talking about the basic, ball stirring quality that first attracted me to her, curves, contours and all that....the sum of all those things. But for how much longer? 30 years is a bloody long time. I am also thinking about work. I'm under a shit load of pressure at the moment. I have been looking down the track a bit, looking at our financial situation. In the new year, I'm going to have to shut down my wife business. She...we....can't sustain it. When I am able to get a word in edgewise, I'll sit her down and explain what needs to happen. When the time is right. She's had a good run with that business. For ten years she has been importing shit from South East Asia, homeware stuff. Interesting stuff. Textiles and jewellery as well. I don't know. She's got the eye for it, keeps up with the trends. She should be proud of her accomplishments but now...well...things have changed. The economic climate has shifted. It's time to reassess our options. Tighten the belt maybe? We currently have the Mosmon shop, a whole lot of inventory piled up in an expensive storage facility near the airport...crates of stuff...You never want your stock to build up, to become unsellable. You don't want to get stuck with six thousand Vietnamese expandable lamps no one wants. Anyway she has been looking around for a new retail space this side of the bridge. It’s just not feasible. I’ve been putting this talk off but I'll have to tell her soon, next week maybe? When I can get a word in edgewise.  

Jerome is one of the smartest guys I know. And he's been dealt a good hand in life. Good cards. I mean...look at his wife, Christine. Look at her! Jesus Christ…their attraction has nothing to do with luck. Jerome and his wife are both attractive people. And attractive people tend to seek each other out. She modelled for a bit here in Sydney. Tasteful stuff. Fashion. She's a lean and elegant woman. Now she’s retired of course. I tried it on with her once, after too much red wine, hoping for a blowjob. She obliged and then afterwards laughed it off, telling me, rightly so, not to make a big deal out of it. It was just something that happened. I always appreciated her discretion and loyalty. Her willingness to put aside minor indiscretions. She’s what they used to call ‘a good sort’. Looks, attitude, intelligence...the whole package. These days she concentrates on running her business and raising their kids. Their kids are blond, athletic, reasonably high IQ’s…etc, etc. The whole eastern suburbs package. And I have this insight because Jerome and I are business partners. Have been for years. We've both done pretty good out of it. I trust Jerome. He trusts me. Trust is one of the most important things. Your friends, your wife….you can trust them so far. Your business partner is a whole different kettle of fish. If you go into business with somebody and you can't trust 'em...forget it. I mean, why bother? Just go it alone. Jerome and I don't always agree but there is trust. We started off opening this gourmet supermarket together, down by the beach, did very well out of that. We got onto some other projects, each one being fairly lucrative. Gooding from strength to strength. A good business partner is…well, we all have our shortcomings, don't we? So if you can find someone who can compensate for your shortcomings…you’re gonna be one step ahead of the game. This is the kind of synergy Jerome and I have developed. We balance each other out. Nowadays, we rarely socialise but we have each other's backs. That was why I was surprised when he invited me out to lunch. We met up and he tells me that wants to ‘streamline’ things, that he wants to get out. In other words, he wants to put an end to our little side business deal. Just like that! I told him straight, I said, Jerome, mate, it's not that easy. We can't just ‘streamline’ what we've been doing mate. It doesn't work that way. We met in a restaurant in the Cross, had a steak, a salad and bottle of wine. Vegetables covered in some sort of sauce. I tried to talk some sense into Jerome but he was adamant. He'd made his mind up. He wanted to pull out of our arrangement. He wanted to make the next shipment his last. So what happens here is the heroin comes inside furniture and things like ceramic Buddha heads. Of course, we alternate the type of container to avoid detection. And we have a contact in customs who facilities the incoming shipments. A blind eye. Jerome and I never handle the shit. We're just businessmen. In terms of the whole moral debate thing, as far as I am concerned, the product could be anything...a lawnmower, fuck'n artificial sweetener....anything. In my book, responsibility rests squarely on the shoulders of the consumer. You want to use the product we bring in…be informed about the dangers. 'Buyer beware', is my motto. Proceed at your own risk. Anyway, for the past three years, Jerome has been happy to accept the money that comes his way from this private venture. When he was in a bad place, financially speaking, this arrangement suited him. Are you sure? I asked him at the time. You have to be sure. I’m sure, he said. So, okay, no one twisted his arm. We pulled the trigger and the stuff started coming in. Jerome's wife ran her business at a loss but that didn't matter. The stuff came in concealed in her wears. When things were truly dire with her sales we'd send people in to buy up half the shop just to keep the tax man happy. It was cost effective for our people to keep the shell business going this way. The point is....this extra revenue stream went a long way to alleviating Jerome's money woes. And that was all fine and dandy until our meal last week. When I heard he wanted to pull the plug....listen, I had to tell him…I had to remind him that we couldn't just walk away from this thing. There is no way. We would need to work something out with the powers that be, with the people we work with. I told him, I said, Jerome, you do not want to piss these people off. If you do, you are likely to end up dead. D-E-A-D. And that means I will likely end up....in hot water as well. So there are two of us to think about here mate. Not just you. And don’t forget our families. Listen, I said, once you're in with these people, you are in. We went over this at the beginning. His response? Jerome told me how complicated things in his life had become. He told me about his wife, about how he wanted to leave her. He said he just couldn't see himself spending the next twenty years listening to her voice, complaining and bitching about everyone. About her brother's limp dick of a love life. Then he went off on some long tangent about all these people. He talked about some kind of love triangle...I don't know. I wasn't quite sure how this all related back to his....to our.....current crisis. Anyway, the key point was, he wanted to leave his wife and disappear into a new life. He wanted to go live in the Blue Mountains. He wanted to regain some level of….moral buoyancy in his life before it was too late. And if he left his wife, well obviously he....we....would need to dissolve her business because he wouldn't be around to prop it up. The shell would collapse. I just want peace, he told me, throwing his napkin onto the table next to his empty plate. I need to get off this merry-go-round. I told him....what could I say? I told him to chill the fuck out. I told him to get himself a girlfriend. A mistress. I told him not to do anything drastic, that we need to extract ourselves from this situation carefully. It was not something that could be rushed. It was not a tap you could turn off on a whim. Otherwise, if he did, we were both likely to end up in the shit. That was the first time ever I didn't trust in Jerome. The first time I looked into his eyes and thought, this guy is gonna bolt. He's gonna take me down. I was attempting to buy myself some time. Before it was too late... 

My dad is so....normal. It's nauseating. I mean in a good way of course. Sometimes I wonder if he has always been this way. My dad is the one person I can always count on, no matter what happens. Mum is okay but she isn't Dad. My Dad is always there for me. He drives me to all the places I needed to be, he helps me with my homework. And, oh my god, after Mum left him to be with Frank the Dickhead, Dad transformed into Super Dad! What I'm saying is....it's like he carved out all these different roles and every day he works on perfecting them. Business guy! Husband!….(....well, obviously 'husband' didn't exactly turn out as planned). Son! Dad! And now….with the divorce, new and improved Super Dad! Not that I am complaining. I'm not. I am grateful. I can see that it's because of my dad that we have a nice house and nice things. Considering that my parents split up, I am pretty lucky. Some girls I know become a complete mess because of their parent's divorces. They become a mess either for real or because they make their parent's divorce into a handy cross on which they can crucify themselves. Drama! Look at me world! Poor me. Boohoo. I didn't do this. I'm glad my parents didn't stick it out, you know? I'm not one of those kids who is like, oh please god.....make my parents come back together one day. Just like in a sappy Hollywood rom-com full of hilarious hi-jinx and plastic actors. I honestly think they are better off living separate lives. I like them better now, I meant as people...now that they are separated. If that makes sense? Anyway, dad is always there for me...(mum is there for me every other weekend as well but that's different). This is the way the lawyers worked it out.That means that dad does most of the heavy lifting. Mum isn't into sports. Play or watching so it was down to dad. I do competitive swimming and netball. And Dad fully encourages....actually, he insists on.....my involvement in sports because, according to him, it’s better to be busy, especially at my age. I just think he doesn't want me messing around with boys and getting drunk like Katie Anderson (as if I would!). Katie is a shank and doesn't seem phased by her reputation. Anyway, to ensure against skank-like-behavior, dad has basically scheduled something for me to do every. Second. Of. The. Week. For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life. Which is fine. I mean, I get it. I understand....I guess…If I had a daughter...in today's world, I'd be pretty concerned as well. I just hope that some trust kicks in later….well, at least before I'm twenty. And I don't think its because of who I am...I think it's because everything is just so shaky with the separation.......A couple of years ago, when I was young, I started getting very curious about what sort of people my parents really were. I started casually sniffing around, having a look-see. You know what I discovered? Mom has a yellow vibrator and some pot in a shoe box at the back of her cupboard. (Yellow! Isn't yellow for like safety or something? Life preservers?) At the time I didn't even know what a vibrator was used for although I do remember it completely freaked me out. Then Frank appeared on the scene. (I guess yellow boy was put out to pasture?....Actually, I don't want to think about yellow boy anymore). Anyway, I have always had a pretty good idea about mom's inner life because she is terrible at hiding stuff. Dad has always been....a different story. In all my years of being a sticky beak child, I never found anything on dad. He was always just the…dad. The husband. The business guy. The son! ....and so on. Mr. Normal! Anyway, one day, a few weeks ago, I was at home and dad was having a nap on the sofa. And I started messing around with his phone. (My phone was charging). I was just sitting there, while he snored away and I found this audio file on his voice recording app. It was a long recording. It sounded like he was in a public space somewhere. There was a lot of clutter and clattering, you know? Echoy. I could hear dad talking to another man who I didn't recognise at first but then I thought, wait a minute, that's uncle Jerome, Dad's business partner. Anyway, they were both droning on about uncle Jerome's business.....I mean, his wife's business. About how it wasn't making money anymore and how they needed to end it. And dad was trying to talk uncle Jerome out of it. And then uncle Jerome was saying how....how he was going to leave his wife and move out to the Blue Mountains and become a hippie or something….Or at least he was seriously thinking about it. Uncle Jerome seemed quite agitated. I guess he was having one of these crises adults are always banging on about! Oh no! My life is nearly over! I have wasted my life! What should I do! Just like that. So, uncle Jerome starts talking about all these different people, about his wife Christine, who is a total babe but also a complete blather-mouth-gossip...then about her brother who I think is an artist of some kind. And how he wants to get with this other chick he works with who isn't interested. They had this whole Cyrano De Bergerac thing going on. Basically, they were trying to set the brother up with this other women but he blew it because he's a complete doofus. And the chick I mentioned, the one who works at the Botanical gardens, was dating some other guy who had a drug overdose which resulted in a 14-hour boner (I didn't even know that was possible!) And somehow there was this family living in Paddington. Anyway, uncle Jerome was waffling on, as adults will do, talking about all these people and their messed up lives...all twisted together and coming apart and coming back together again in different ways. And I couldn't figure out why uncle Jerome was telling dad about all these people or why dad was recording their conversation. Or maybe it was all a mistake. My dad is pretty bad with technology: he pocket dialed me at least three times every day. So they were talking about all these people. And then the conversation changed. And it was pretty obvious to me that they were talking about something....I don't know.....something they couldn't quite talk about directly. Maybe because it was a public place. I found all this stuff very mysterious, very intriguing. I felt a little bit bad snooping on my dad but I couldn't help it. Then I got kind of scared because part of me wanted my dad to stay like this one-dimensional, cartoon dad, this completely reliable father person. The same one I have always known. If there is something....I don't know....awful going on in his life, something secret, I didn't want to know about it. Adults have it hard in some ways. I mean, how many different people have you been? How many people live inside you like ghosts...people you once were, people you never thought you'd become, people you have lost. I can see this all the time adults, you know? The people they once were, trapped inside. I hope this doesn't happen to me. I hope I don't get buried inside myself. Like a person at the bottom of a mine shaft.  

My daughter desperately needed her mum at that time. Of course, she did. She was heartbroken. Completely devastated. And don't assume it was easy for me either. It wasn't. I had to become a full-time mum again. I mean, look, I know how that sounds. I have always been a full-time mum. What I'm saying is, I had to take full custody of Charlotte again. Which is difficult. At the time, I was taking some time out. For me. Some personal time to discover who I was. To recharge myself. But of course, the focus had to shift back on Charlotte. My daughter. Charlotte suffered a huge emotional loss because of what happened. My husband....ex-husband...only went and got himself throw in prison, didn't he? The supposedly responsible one! And really, this all happened at the worst possible time, right in the middle of Charlotte’s exams. She had to defer. She was in no state to sit them. My baby broke down in the middle of the shopping centre. A couple of strangers had to help her, had to calm her down. Then, of course, the media zeroed in on us like buzzards. This continued throughout the trial. Every day, there they were. So no…my daughter is not okay. I don't think she will ever be ‘okay’ again. All of our lives have completely changed now. There is no going back. Poor Jerome....he didn't last a year inside. He killed himself. Or at least that's what they say happened. They found him in his cell. Hanging. Mike is in there right now, completing his sentence. Seven years! It’s unbelievable. He doesn't talk about the conditions and his mental state when we visit but you can clearly see how much he's changed (I was married to him for 17 years, I ought to know). Michael looks scared. Even after a year of getting used to the place, he looks scared and exhausted. He tells me there is a terrible bully in there. A dangerous man who steals his things and physically threatens him. And even though I am furious with my ex-husband for getting us into this situation, it breaks my heart to see him like that. When he first went in, Michael honestly thought he was going to spend his time reading and improving himself. He told us he was going to write a book, a memoir. He thought it was going to be like a university. Problem is, every time he writes anything personal down, this bully comes along and destroys his notes. Micheal seems completely ground up by the place. And like I say, I do feel sorry for him but then again, another part of me thinks sorry mate, you did this to yourself. Getting involved with drugs! What were you thinking? No, seriously, the real victim here, apart from me, is my daughter. Recently, my daughter has begun to express her feelings about what happened to her father. In her therapy sessions! The problem is she hates her therapist. she hates the woman’s approach. Like I said, Charlotte has a lot of mixed up feelings about her father. Me? I had no idea! Not a clue. All this was going on right under our noses. Michael and Jerome were bringing these drugs into the country through Jerome's wife's business. Apparently, Jerome had tried to get out, before they all got arrested but he couldn't. This all came out in the trial. I could barely breathe. Then there was all this business with Jerome's wife Christine and her brother and some girl he worked with. Kids are absolutely amazing! The stuff they pick up. All the stuff we think we are protecting them from. I think Charlotte has been sitting back, learning and absorbing everything about us until recently and now this has happened to her father, she is trying to sort it all out in her own mind. And it’s tough. Anyway, she won't swim anymore. She won't do any of the sporty things she used to do. The things that used to make her happy. Now she hangs around the house staring at her phone, doing nothing. And our visits? I hate taking her out to that place but what choice do I have? She has to see her father, right? Truthfully? I'm thinking about taking her on a trip. A long trip. Maybe going to Europe for an extended stay. Just to get her away from Sydney and this whole....mess. I mean her father would be unhappy about it but can't he see what these visits are doing to her? And what about me? I mean, think about how all this has impacted on my life. Frank left me. Oh yes! Couldn’t deal with it. As soon as things got rough...he was out the door. Which was maybe a good thing. At least I could see what he was made of. For now, I'll keep driving Charlotte out there once a month. I'm not a monster. I don't like to see either of them like this.  

The woman and the girl come here once a month. For their visits with Micheal. The woman just sits there, off to one side, looking bored, trying not to look at her phone, letting the young girl do most of the talking. Mike….Michael doesn't say much. Michael doesn't say much of anything these days. He's learned its best to keep to himself. I understand that. I mean, what’s the point of all that forced fuck’n optimism when youse still have a long stretch ahead of you? If you're doing it for their benifit...if your acting...it can really zap your soul, you know? Anyway, he was supposed to be some kind of big drug kingpin, eh? What a joke. I saw right through him the first day he arrived. He pissed himself the first time the boys bailed him up in his cell. Naw…Michael’s no Tony Montana. The papers made out he was....when he got convicted. There was a lot of publicity, more than I'll ever get. Eastern Suburbs boy, respected businessman and father goes down the tubes for drug trafficking. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Stories like that sell shit loads of papers, eh? In reality, I think he was more of a silent partner, a money man. Anyway, Michael used to have it all: the big house, the other house down on the South-Central coast, the cars, the lavish holidays, the whole thing. Not anymore. All gone. They got him and his mate. Cut off the whole arm of that operation, put them both away. Him and his partner. The one who offed himself. So they say. Anyway, Michael is here with us lesser criminal types now....us scourge of the earth. He probably drove past this place in his previous life, at the wheel of a fine automobile, you know, the tunes blaring, not a worry in the world. Not anymore. Now he is a man of many worries. The least of which should be his attitude. What Michael needs to do is start working on his attitude. And by that I mean, he needs to start working on that x-wife and daughter of his. If he fuck'n knows what's good for him. I told him straight up, I said mate, I'll help you...I will protect you if you pull your thumb out and do what I say. Simple as that. Fact is, I know this place inside out, eh? I've been here for nearly twenty years. When I first came in I was an angry young man but now that I'm older and I am at peace with my situation, I don't strain against the bars anymore. I don't bash me head against the walls. I have come accept the fact that my body is stuck here. Having said that, I have also realised that I am free. So it's about the mind. I am a spirit tethered to an old stone which sits inside a concrete box. Now that box happens to be a prison but it could just as easily be a job. Or a marriage. See what I am getting at here? There are many prisons in this life. I happened to be in one. You are in another one. Anyway, what I'm saying here is, I know this place and I know how to survive it. I'm living proof. I said to Micheal the other day, I said, you are stranded in a hostile environment without the proper survival skills mate. Out there, you had the correct skills. In here mate, you don't. You ain't gonna make it in here without my help, okay? You just ain't...unless you follow my lead. First thing is first, you need to start increasing your chances by getting something coming in for the Boys. Simple as that. You need to contribute to the economy. Use your outside contacts. If you don't, there are gonna be some ugly repercussions. I said to him mate, I'm just trying to help you here but.....you have to do your bit. What was his reply? Michael tells me he can't do it. I'm not going to ask my wife or daughter to do something like that, he says. Not after what I already put my family through. I can't. I can't. And he sniffles out a big tear. Followed by another one. And I'm getting to the end of me rope with this cunt. I've got better things to do. I am a patient man but enough is enough. I told him this morning that he needs to make it happen, eh? Get your fuck'n ex-wife to reach out to one of those juicy contacts, get someone on the outside interested in your cause. I don't give a fuck what you need to do just get some dope. After that, all the wife needs to do is follow our instructions. We will advise her how best to bring the shit in. And stop telling me it's not possible. There is always a way to move something from A. to B. Nothing is impossible. Anyway, the required pressure has been applied. The boys have put the hard word on Michael and his discouraging attitude. Micheal has until the 2nd then some heavy and rather unpleasant cats will turn up his wife's place to make her understand what needs to happen. And let's not forget Michael's personal safety in here. I mean....I can keep the boys back for so long then...I don't know. I just don't know. Those boys have nothing to lose, you see. They are just gonna keep on Michael until he comes through, eh? There is no safety in here unless you're aligned or protected in some way. And at the moment, Micheal is completely exposed. This is what I am saying: we all serve a purpose in here. And Micheal needs to serve his purpose. Like it or not, his purpose is to supply the boys with what they want. And if he can't fulfill that purpose....well, I don't know, I just don't know. 

Not getting involved. I just don't care. You learn to turn a blind eye in here. You do your job and that's all you do. You leave at the end of each day, you go home, take a shower and wash that shit right down the drain. And that's it. And to do this successfully sometimes you have to ignore certain things. Especially in this line of work. The quicker you learn this, the easier your life will be. You have to accept this. You get along and you work with the powers that be. I'm talking about the staff and the prisoners. Desmond is one of the main men in this fucking cesspool. He's old school...a long timer. Look, I know what Desmond gets up to. Or near enough because....well, he tells me. This is the agreement. He keeps me informed and visa verse. In this way, we are able to exist within an imperfect and volatile ecosystem. You work here long enough, you'll become aware of the true nature of the place. At a certain point, you'll have to make a choice. Do you remain idealistic or do you become a realist? Will you bend to allow for the kind of compromises that are required? I've seen other guards hold out for awhile, some longer than others, but eventually they always have to choose. The prisoner population conducts its business regardless. They have their own economy. They trade using information, pot noodles, mars bars, tobacco, pornography, sexual favours and drugs. They run things inside these walls and in some cases on the outside as well. If you think for one minute you, a single idealistic corrections officer, is gonna put an end to these activities, think again. Desmond cozied up to the new boy recently. Got himself transferred into his block. Desmond is dangerous alright. He comes on like a mentor to these new arrivals, vets them, acting like a concerned, older prisoner. Believe-you-me, he is anything but. You have to watch out for old Desmond. He runs his mob from a safe distance. He keeps well back. I have seen this happen so many times. The thing is, these white collar crims are scared and desperate when they first come in. Desmond preys on that fear. He sends his tentacles deep down into your life. All the way down. The way an octopus will greedily wrap around you, disorientate you with ink. That's Desmond all over. Mind games. Everyone is a potential opponent or prey in his book. You think he's in your corner but really he's fucking you over. Like I said, I seen it happen many, many times over. And now they have this new guy in their sights. Michael: there is no hope for him. I'd be very surprised if he managed to harden up. The woman who comes to visit him, his x-wife....I thought maybe I could warn her. Cause they're gonna use her as leverage. I thought maybe, this one time, acting anonymously, I could make a phone call. An unnamed voice on the other end of the line. I could tell her that she needs to protect her daughter. I could warn her that someone will attempt to contact her. This idea occurred to me while I was driving home one day. I thought you might help this woman. Clue her into what is happening. And what was this all about? An antidote to my flagging sense of morality? Was that it? Grand stuff, eh? Or maybe it was just one of them little voices in your head telling you to do something reckless? Telling you to step off the side of the building, to get on with it. On further reflection, and I meant literally by the time the lights had changed, I thought, naw...don't get invoked. Leave it out. Fuck Michael and his family. They got themselves into this situation....so fuck'm. It's not your job to save this woman and her daughter. Your job is to keep Desmond and his lot locked up. The great good we are talking about. The ends justifying the means. Anyway, I know that soon Desmond tap this golden goose for all he's worth. That Dez will put the hard word on this soft cock and his family. Calls will be made. People on the outside will be activated.This is just inevitable. They did the exact same thing to his mate Jerome, the other so-called 'Easter Suburbs Pablo Escobar'. And guess what? When Jerome didn't play ball, they got him in the showers, didn't they? Made him bleed on the inside. That was a bad one. One of the worst I've ever seen. He was safe for a while in the infirmary but they got at him again. In exercise yard.They wanted him to bring shit in. Over the wall using a drone. Paying people off. Whatever. Listen, I got no problem when these blokes use dope. From my point of view, at least the smack keeps them subdued. Anyway, Jerome cracked. They found him dead in his cell. See one of the big problems is, these guys usually have wives who are oblivious. It's a bit raw to get someone like that to smuggle in contraband. Fucking Desmond. It still amazes me the amount of influence he is capable of exerting on other peoples' lives. This comes down to the amount of information he can absorb and collect along the way. its second nature to him. I'll bet you he already knows everything about these people. He knew the ins and outs of Micheal and Jerome's operation. About the wife who they were using as a cover. The one who got acquitted. Not the one who comes to visit. They knew all about Michael's daughter. The school she goes to, her friends. All that. They know about the brother-in-law who works in the Botanical Gardens....about his girlfriend and so on. This is what I am saying. Desmond will drill deep down into the vital organs of your life. Every little bit of information is examined and considered. Nothing is wasted. He will find you where you live. This is how these people operate. They sniff out any weakness. They can sense it. And once they have sensed it, they will exploit it.   

He lives in these two separate worlds. No, actually he lives in three separate worlds. He has his job, his home life and he has....me. And he runs from one to the next like....like a....like I don't know what. Whatever it is that runs around frantically....A chicken with no head. The point is my poor Rodger has been under a lot of stress lately. I tell him, I say, this kind of stress will affect your health, baby. It will make you sick, no? What do they call stress? The silent killer? Right? I encourage him to share his feelings but he keeps it all inside. His kind of work, at the prison, it changes you....and not for the better. I can see how much he has changed in the short time I've known him. For sure. Usually, we meet at the bar. Three times a week, like that, depending on his schedule....or when he can get away. From the start, we both agreed to keep things casual. No big deal. Just some fun. And even though he insists that he could never properly commit to someone like me, lately I am beginning to wonder if there might not be a future for us, you know? I can see he is slowly letting his guard down. I'm sure that, when I look into his eyes, I can see something more than just the need to get off.....sex. My guess, my hope, is that he's becoming a bit conflicted. I don't want to hurt his wife but I need some kind of future, some kind of hope, right? And believe me, I've been down this road before with married guys. I know how it goes. they promise a lot but don't deliver. Running around is one thing but making the real change in their lifestyle is too much. But who knows? Maybe Rodger is different? In his mind, it was only ever supposed to be a physical thing...but now....maybe....it seems like something else is possible. Sometimes...like this morning....I am very confused and I have to ask myself...are we moving towards something more permanent? More real? At least, I think, Rodger is entertaining the idea. Look..I do not want to waste my time with a man who is going to dither around...but maybe this time? I don't know. Anyway, what usually happens is, we meet up and have a few drinks and then we go back my apartment in Redfern. At which point all the talking ceases. And for a short time, there is nothing but the both of us in my little apartment overlooking the station Everything else outside the walls, all the pressures, all the bullshit....all of it fades away. And after we have sex, we talk. And Rodger tells me stories about these men where he works. About these guys in the jail. And all the horrible things they do in there.....There is this one scary guy who is manipulating people, like a regular old Mestre de marionettes. Anyway, I find these things interesting because it's real life.....not like the characters you see on the TV. And I like to hear about other people's lives. I like it because it is different than my own life and it helps me understand how, even though it seems like we are all on our different paths....our problems are basically the same. What you call it? The same things drive us...It is human psychology, no?.Anyway, Rodger has to make sure these men don't kill each other. I mean you would not think it to look at Roger but he is a pretty tough guy. He knows how to take care of himself, is what I am saying. He has shown me videos. He knows all the ways to take people down, to restrain them. He is a black belt in....what was it? I always forget. Anyway, some kind of martial arts. So anyway, at his job, there are these two guys you see....who are basically white-collar criminals. Drug dealers. Or there were two...one of them was killed. The official report says he committed suicide but Rodger tells me he was murdered. The other prisoners made it look like a suicide. This is the kind of thing the guards must turn a blind eye to....if you know what I mean. Anyway, this dealer guy, the one who is still alive, is being controlled by the main gang. And his poor wife and her daughter almost got drawn into this mess. The wife would come by to visit you see, with the daughter. And they were basically being set up to bring the heroin into the jail. Rodger didn't tell me exactly how this was supposed to happen but I'm assuming it some sort of suppository. How else? Anyway, after years of turning a blind eye to all these terrible little things, Rodger made a decision to reach out to this woman and say something to her. So that's what he did. He contacted her anonymously and he said, get out! Now! Don't be influenced by these people. These people are telling you they can find you in another country, in other places but it's not true. They only have local influence. As soon as you get on a plane, you will be safe. Your ex-husband must now fend for himself. If you continue down this road, if you become complicit in supplying these people with the narcotics, they will chew you up and spit you out. It will not end well. You have a choice. Right now. You must make a clean break. So...a week later....the woman and her daughter were gone. No one knows where. The gang, these guys in the jail, became really angry and the husband suffered, oh yes, he suffered. He continues to suffer. Will he survive?....well.....that waits to be seen. Anyway, this is what I like about Rodger. He is tough but underneath it all he has feelings. He hides them from everyone but I know they are there. Beneath the tough guy, yes? Even his wife does not know who he really is. And of course he is very handsome. Not usually my type but nevertheless, when I first saw him, I thought wow! This is a man! I'm still not exactly sure why. Maybe this is what you want in a partner? Something unexpected. Something you don't completely understand. As i say, I am really hoping we will have a future together. Of course, Rodger must deal with his wife and children first. I am not going to be his....Tuesday and Thursday night bit on the side forever. No way. I have told Rodger that eventually, he must choose. Because even though I love him, I am not hanging around forever. 

We have two apartments. One in the city and one out on the end of the train line. Danielle lives in the Redfern apartment, by the station. It is very convenient for her because she works in the city. George and I bought that apartment in 1988. It is not a very nice building but that doesn't matter in Sydney. In Sydney, people don't care. Space is all that matters here. Damp little boxes that you can rent out for a ridiculous amount of money. After the Olympics the property prices were crazy. Not that I am complaining. It's just that sometimes I think of those renters and I feel sorry for them. Anyway, Danielle lives alone in the Redfern apartment but I know she has a boyfriend who comes to visit. I know this from Ms Kelerman, who lives next door. Ms Kelerman is a nosy woman but what can you do? Ms Kelerman and I used to be good friends back when George and I lived in that apartment....back in the old days....when we were first starting out. She was always coming around and part of me did not trust her. Not with my George. Even if the woman don't mean to do anything, sexual attraction will ruin everything and men can not be trusted. From puberty to the grave they will try their luck if they find an opportunity. This is my experience. It makes you cynical but realistic. Anyway, Danielle lives there now. 'Danielle' was once 'Danny', yes? A boy. She has had the hormones treatment to giver her breasts but I do not think she has had the big operation. Not yet. She told Ms. Kelerman that she is saving up to have the operation in Thailand because it is less expensive there. At least half the price. Personally, I don't care what she has between her legs as long as she pays her rent on time. Which she does. Danielle is a good tenant and a good person. And that is all that matters to me. I have a good sense of people. I like Danielle. I like the conversations we have. I try to stay out of her business but she will invite me in for a chat. And a cup of tea. In my opinion, she deserves better than this man she is seeing, yes? This ex-prison guard. I get the impression that he is not such a good person. It seems like he comes over to have some fun and then he goes back to his wife. There is no future with this kind of man. You have fun today, okay, but there is nothing tomorrow...which is okay when you are young but watch out...those years go by very, very quickly. I have said to Danielle that she must find a better man, no? A more reliable man. I have told her that, being young, she still has some opportunity to find true love. And is it not our duty in this life to at least try to find true love while we can still enjoy it? I think everyone has the right to experience these things. Of course, they do. Anyway....for sure...this man is not the one for Danielle. Now I understand that he has problems. Well, for one thing, he is hiding from himself. From his true nature. For sure. I mean come on.....he has a wife and children yet he is also with Danielle. There must be something that drives him to someone like Danielle. sexually speaking. It is a complicated situation. And of course, I understand that life is never perfect. On the contrary! Life is usually very messy. Of course, it is. Without these problems, it would be boring. The thing is....if you are in a situation like this man is in...eventually....you must make a decision. You must go one way of the other. You can not stay in the middle forever. And Danielle cannot fix his problems, can she? And this man has many problems. He used to work in a prison with all these horrible people, these violent prisoners. Now he is on stress leave. He can not work. He is screwed up in the head. There was some kind of scandal. it was discovered that he crossed this group of prisoners and they cut his face with a knife. It was terrible. There is a big, fresh scar from his eye to the bottom of his chin. Very ugly. Now he is scared of his own shadow and drinks too much. You must help people but you must not let their problems drag you down in the process. It is unfair, I think, on Danielle and the wife. Eventually, you must choose.  

She insists on being called 'Australian' but basically she French. She gets annoyed when people say, 'Where do you come from?'. 'Australia of course', she replies with that thick Parisian accent which hasn't softened over the years. It throws people, that accent. She arrived here...what? Thirty-five years ago? Something like that and she still has the accent. My very own Briget Bardot! Like she was plucked out of a black and white French film from the 1960's. You should have seen her back in the day, back when she was in her prime. My god! In that Gidget bikini? Every time I turned around some joker would be trying it on with her. I couldn't take my eyes off her and neither could every other bastard. I'll tell you....that sort of thing can drive you fucking mad. There were times when I honestly thought it would be better if I'd gone with someone who wasn't top shelf and exotic like she was back then. Some bird who was more....basic in her appeal. Look, we'd be down the beach and I'd go off to get us something- an ice cream or whatever-and when I got back, without fail, there would be some guy hanging around, trying to chat her up. Some prick trying it on. It made going down to the beach a bit of a tense experience for me. It brought out a lot of territorial behaviour on my part. And I didn't like being that way. By nature, I'm easy going. I don't seek out trouble. And she certainly didn't appreciate it when I had a blue with some bastard because he couldn't keep his hands to himself. Somehow the blame would come back to me. This ain't Europe, I'd tell her. You go out looking like that...in this country....men are gonna notice. They are gonna react. Our impulses haven't been refined and cultivated. Anyway, she was built that way....curvy yet elegant like all French birds are supposed to be. And maybe I was insecure because I got her through....less than honourable circumstances. See, I saw her sitting there in the pub one afternoon, fresh off the boat (although I didn't know it at the time) and I decided right then and there I was going to be with her. No matter the cost. At least that is the way I remember it. Memory tends to abbreviate things, eh? Truncate them. In reality, it was probably over the course of several weeks....anyway, I left my wife for her, you see. So maybe that was the root cause of my own insecurity? The knowledge that if I was willing to throw everything away to be with her....well....anyone could, right? I never cheated on my Marie after I got with her. Not once....actually that's not exactly true. There was one incident. At that time we had this house in Paddington, a big old terrace on Ormand Street. God, we picked that place up for a song....compared to what it's probably worth now....I mean well before the Sydney housing market went bonkers. And the woman who lived there at the time, our tenant....the woman who may still live there for all I know...well...she used to be a good sort. Easy on the eye, if you know what I mean. And there was this one afternoon.....I came around...to fix something....and one thing led to another. we did it on the staircase first. Then on the living room floor. she was keen alright, living alone like that. You know these unexpected episodes that happen? The ones that happen out of the blue? Middle of the day, some secluded spot and you find yourself, trousers down around your ankles, hammering away, not believing your luck? It was like that. I felt terrible afterwards. I got out of there. She didn't seem to want to talk about it. I was paranoid for weeks after that I'd run into her on the street with Marie on my arm....the two of us just walking along. This woman, the tenant, wrote me a letter sometime later saying that I'd knocked her up. That she had twins! Two for the price of one! Not identical. A girl and a boy. Admittedly, not one of my proudest moments. I read that letter and then I destroyed it. And then I sold the house to simplify things. Not the best idea considering what its likely worth these days. Anyway, one little slip and I was going to lose my wife? I don't think so. Back in those days, there was no DNA testing. It was her word against mine....and she had come on to me so, being the callous young man I was back then, I figured it was a case of just desserts. Besides: who was to say she hadn't been with other men during that time? ....that she picked me to foot the bill for some other blokes good time? It's funny what you can talk yourself out of and ?. And now, well...you get to a point in your life where you look back through the backwards telescope of days and years, and what you remember becomes smaller and smaller. And less certain. And sometimes it's those small things that start to matter. The things that won't go away. Amazing, isn't it? To think you were back there once, moving forward blindly, living your life, doing things that may or may not catch up with you later on. There is simply no way of knowing what you will shed and what you will carry like a pebble in your shoe. I happened to be walking up Ormond Street the other day. I walked right past my old place. It looked about the same....which is to say it looked like shit. And I seriously had to wonder if that woman was still living there? I went past, thought about it, then decided to double back. I knocked on the door. No answer. I tried again. Gave the door a good hard knock, knuckles striking wood. Nothing. Then I found out from the neighbor that the old girl had died a few years back. Alcohol poisoning.The whole family was destitute for years. The daughter used to wander around the neighborhood begging for cigarettes, wiping her snotty nose on her sleeve. The brother was a crackpot. A shut-in with mental issues. A weird bunch no doubt. Were they mine? Was this my mess? I couldn't help feeling that I'd dodged a bullet. Anyway, the neighbor woman had no qualms about filling me in on all the salacious details. You could see she was the type who would secretly relish having cuckoo neighbors like this. It would give her something to complain about. Years and years worth of complaining. better than television. I peeked in through the mail slot. Nothing. An empty corridor. The stairs. The same stairs where I....well, I told you that bit. Where I shagged the tenant. Way back when I had more hair and bell-bottom jeans.  

There was some sort of giant magpie standing on the front veranda, its great black beak tap, tap, tap, tapping on the front door and its eyes gleaming with liquid death like black bubbles of tar. What is it about bird eyes? Is it the coldness, second only to sharks and insects? Anyway, there this creature stands, talons splayed on the welcome mat, head mechanically clocking its persistent beak rhythm into the wooden door, it's chest sticking out proud. Let that bird inside and he'll go straight for the soft meat between your ears, mark my words. What kind of God would allow an abomination like this to exist in his creation, I don't know. Or maybe this bird, this undertaker with wings, is just a future echo. Some playback from what is to come.....my god.....or what has been? I peer out the window and conveniently this thing has converted, transformed into human form. And now hard knuckles meeting the wooden door like precise hammers for one last round of, bang, bang, bang! I am chewing my nails because guess what? Time travel is possible. Did you know this? No really, it's true. I have known this for a long time. And the question I need to ask myself now is....have I becoming unstuck in time? Like some cheap science fiction novel? Is that what is happening here? Like before? Temporal sliding, I call it. Back and forth like a beer bottle on the neck of a steel guitar. Once again I look out the top dormer window, down on the front path, the bright world below sliced horizontally into ribbons by the Venetian blinds. And there he is, the birdman, talking to the neighbour. And unless I am mistaken, this is probably the exact reason why he transformed, to extract information out of the neighbour bitch. I move away from the window, bare feet on the wooden floorboards, yellowed toenails scuttling. Who is he? Census taker? Salesman? Stay calm, stay calm. My sister is downstairs. Somewhere. I can hear the great lump moving about. She was never able to shut her big....

.......no you don't. You don't hear anything except the empty house....rooms nearing the bursting point with all that pent-up silence. No, that noise is from a different time, years ago in fact. That noise is trapped in here, reverberating through the floorboards and walls, stuck in the light fixtures and plumbing, back when you used to send her out for smokes. Remember? Those fag ends, stamped flat, the stale tobacco inside like coconut husks. Like little prawns they were. You had to work hard to pry the meat out but went you did...Ah, perfection, the sweet carcinogenic spirit. But your sister is gone now, isn't she? Gone for good. But for how long has she been gone? A year? Two years? Maybe more....It's hard to tell. This is the problem with temporal sliding. You get lost in the shuffle years. You lose your linear mojo. Anyway, it's just you now....and you should get back to your room before anything else bad happens. The computer is waiting. Maybe leaving the house is an impossibility but you are free to hack directly into the mind of the world like a dull cleaver going into a pig caucus. The computer is calming, understandable. Real life is fraught with dangers. The problem with real life is....have you become a prisoner of your own memories? Memories so well rendered in your mind, so convincingly staged and re-staged that you can't help but suffer disassociation from the present? In this way, you are always slipping back and forwards, always losing your footing in this horrible 'here and now'. After the stranger knocks, after you returned to your room, you drift back. You are younger, coming down the staircase, pushing you sister outside, your half-wit sister, back when she was still alive. Yes, you are sending her out to get.....get some tobacco dummy! This is what you shout out through the mail slot at her, right after slamming the door and locked her outside. In her childish mind, it's as if the house itself has started shouting at her through its tiny mailbox mouth. Just another frown down face. and then, slipping back further, you are at Sydney University, walking through the campus, books in hand, attending lectures, walking through the library. You can get lost for days in that fucking library. Oh yes. Lost in the long, poorly lit aisles lined with books. Lost like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Lost in the great black monolith with its turret windows, reading, reading, reading all kinds of books, the information flooding in. The great implosion of the mind. The first instance when time began to warp and men shape-shifted into birds and other creatures. And....this is the problem with temporal disorientation: you end up chasing your own tale. Round and round and round you go. A snake eating its own tale.