My detective

The program cost several thousand dollars so it wasn’t something to be entered into lightly. The idea was, if you followed each step, you would come away with a finished manuscript. A novel. They took you through the whole process: plot, setting, characters. Step-by-step.

And everything was going singingly until my mentor/editor told me to lose the detective character. When I heard this I was completely confused and disheartened. A great deal of the plot rested squarely on this character's shoulders by way of narrative exposition so tossing him out did not seem like a particularly good idea.

You are mixing genres in an ineffectual way, said my Mentor, a middle-aged writer named Gretchen Harper, looking at her notes on a large computer monitor.

I met up with Gretchen once a month. Gretchen was buried away in the English department of the local University, in a tiny cramped office with no natural light. A space made all the more cavernous by the ribbed columns of books and papers that climbed the walls and lined the bookshelves.
I know, I know, I said but.....there is a meta thing going on here...I mean, that's my intention anyway, my voice taking on a defensive edge.

I wanted to nest stories from my grandfather's wartime diary inside a contemporary piece of fiction which in turn would be further contextualised inside a tawdry detective narrative. That was my big idea. What I thought would turn out to be a clever Russian doll narrative structure. A mixture of high and low writing styles.

I hate to break it to you, said Gretchen Harper, her own voice becoming weary, but this is a very....overused strategy. I assume you have heard of Postmodernism? Calvino? Borges? Auster? More recently that David Michelle fellow? Did you read his novel? Cloud Atlas? He did a good job with this kind of gimmickry, with exactly what you are attempting to do now. And he was borrowing from writers such as Calvino and Sorrentino and Umberto Eco. My point is, this has been done to death. And personally, I find it all rather self-severing. My advice to you is….strive for something true and clear. And definitely crawl before you walk. Yes? What I am saying is learn how to pull off well-written, no-nonsense prose before you try to pass yourself off as an innovator. I don't mean to sound condensing (but she was. Christ, she could barely help it) but at the heart of it all, I feel all this skittering around is indicative of a writer without a real story to tell and in a broader sense, clearly highlights the jumpy, superficial disposition of our digital age. It is the kind of tactic that suggests a rather shallow interest in the world. An unwillingness to commit to deeper thinking. My advice to you? Get the basics down before you attempt to bend the rules. And lose the bloody detective. He stands out like a sore thumb.

My pride was injured. I thought I was onto something original. I honestly assumed I would receive praise for my unconventional plot construction. I was learning this is the main hurdle when dealing with academics. They force you to your knees, to pay tribute to all the old men and women entombed in the crumbling volumes on their bookshelves. Despite these feelings, I decided to remain open to constructive criticism, to trust in Gretchen Harper's judgment. Otherwise, what was the point of doing this thing in the first place?

I edited out the detective. I went back to work, reworking my manuscript, bringing my grandfather’s story to the forefront while sealing up the wounds to continuity left behind in the detective character's absence. I kept on track, following the weekly emailed steps of the program. And even though I knew I should be concentrating on the work at hand, on the novel I was slowly building from the ground up, through a carefully controlled series of drafts, the detective character wouldn’t completely go away. He amounted to little more than maybe 10,000 words including notes but he was more alive in the wings of my imagination than the prose he had been ejected from.

So throughout this period, while I was slogging my way through my novel, not to mention work and all the other things I needed to do, my detective lived an invisible life that ran parallel to mine own. He existed in a zone which at times merged with my world. I saw him in the cockroach scuttled rooms that flashed past the train window near Central station, in rough pubs, in the subways, in rundown hotels, at the racetrack and in the abandoned areas of the city. My fictional detective had been left high and dry without a plot to propel him forward, to give him agency. He had had nothing to do but lament his existence. After all, what can a detective do without a plot? Nothing. Especially a fictional detective who relies heavily on external events to motivate and carry him along. Without a crime to solve, this kind of character exists in a state of suspended animation. At best, all he can do is haunt the urbanscape while providing a staccato, wisecracking commentary on the state of his existence. In our imaginary conversations, my detective kept saying, kid...for god sake's….get me a case. Something to get my teeth into, my fingernails dirty. An extortion, a robbery, a kidnapping....anything! I’d settle for a goddamn Jaywalking ticket.
Mate, I'm busy, I’d say….with the novel…
Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know….the novel. The damn novel you kicked me out of…
We discussed this. I had to...remove you.
I'm a detective kid. I need something to do….otherwise, what do I got? Nothing...Look me. I’m stuck in a god damn Luigi Pirandello play. All that arty-farty shit. It’s not me. I don't want to wait around, contemplating my existence....I want action. I need action. I am a man of action.
I know. I know. I wish I could help you.....
Just get me into something simple. I don't care...something derivative. Rip-off Chandler if you need to. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about?....'Chapter one: It was Monday morning. A beautiful dame walked into my office.…' Like that….nice and simple. One thing leading to another....I don't know....maybe into a simple extortion case maybe involving....sordid photographs!
No, that won't work. It's too dated. Most people are the stars of their own porn these days….
Well, come up with something more….contemporary. I don't know….you’re the writer.
Look….I told you, I just don’t have time. What with work and all my other shit I have to do these days...I can’t write two novels. There is no way. There just aren't enough hours in the day.
Well, drop the family memoir thing and help me out….after all, you invented me….

And on it would go, our conversations taking on a life of their own. And the more I tried not to think about the detective, the more he appeared in my thoughts. Meanwhile, I continued to work away on the novel even when my enthusiasm waned. I knew I had to stay the course. Changing horse mid-stream would get me nowhere.

My detective character was partially based on my uncle Wallace who was a sort of larger-than-life figure in our family. The stories of his exploits in different countries would filter back through conversations over the dinner table. I knew my father envied his brother. My father would always talk about Wallace in this judgmental way, describing his life abroad as irresponsible and reckless. Over the years there had been mention of being part owner of a bar in Tokyo, having a wife in Brazil and the years when he'd become a motivational speaker in North America. And it was understood that whatever financial or legal issues my uncle Wallace created for himself, he was always managed to maneuver his way out of trouble and back to safety. Most people have a soft spot for a scoundrel especially if he has a modicum of charm, which my uncle certainly did have. My father, on the other hand, did not possess the same charm or entrepreneurial spirit. My father had chosen a more stable, responsible route in life and the older he got the more these safe choices ate away at him. Reduced risk meant a reduced chance of adventure and freedom. This didn’t stop Dad from admonishing his absent brother around the dining table. Year after year this went on.

There will come a day when the showgirls and the limos (somewhere along the line there had literally been a photograph of uncle Wallace surrounded by a squad of statuesque showgirls, getting out of stretch limo) are gone, he will find himself a lonely old man. You mark my words. My father actually said things like mark my words. Anyway, the more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me that my detective was an amalgamation of Uncle Wallace and several other people I knew, including my high school English teacher.

Eventually, I managed to finish my novel. It turned out to be an anti-climatic moment. Although my novel ticked all boxes, it was a flaccid effort. Words on a page. So while it worked in a technical sense, it had no life. No spark. And as far as I was concerned the reason for this was Gretchen Harper. I could clearly identify Gretchen Harper's heavy-handed influence from the first page all the way through to the epilogue. My two thousand bucks (conveniently spread out over 24 monthly payments) had earned me what exactly? I'll tell you what. It had given me the opportunity to bash and mould my little story into Gretchen Harper's monster. For two years I'd allowed my strings pulled. I had blindly accepted her criticism while denying my own gut instincts. And this was the result.

And really, at the end of the day, who exactly was Gretchen Harper? I mean, really? She was a collection of literary cliches. Her dingy office overstuffed with books and papers. The rumpled clothing, the nicotine yellowed fingers and teeth, the knee-jerk defensive aloofness masked as intellectual superiority. It only occurred to me after the fact that her first and only published novel was always conveniently at hand, a prop she would refer to as 'oh that old thing....', pretending it to be a nuisance, shoving it out of the way with exaggerated annoyance because conveniently it always seemed to be in the way.

A few years after I'd shelved the idea of becoming a writer, I happened to be flipping through the Sunday supplement and I came across a photograph of Gretchen Harper staring back at me from the Arts section. It was quite a shock because physically she had been transformed. The rumpled outer exterior and bad poster were gone. Instead, she looked magnificent aligned and smart in a tailored blazer, her hair cut into a sharp grey bob. The article itself was part feature profile and part book review.

My shock deepened as I came across the real revelation. In the intervening years since we'd spoken, Gretchen had not slipped off into obscurity as I had assumed she would. No. She had come good. She had revitalised her career. She had written a series of highly popular crime novels.  In one of the article's quotes Gretchen said, I left conventional fiction behind and began dabbling in genre fiction. I lost the all the arrogance I had developed towards supposedly 'low forms' of fiction. I decided to test myself in a forum that had a substantial audience. I wanted to see if I could work within a set of well-established conventions and if I had the courage to stop existing in a vacuum. I wanted to see if I had the right stuff to succeed.

As I read on, I discovered her latest book was the third in a series centered around her detective protagonist Nate Timbers. The third instalment! I do not read much fiction these days so it was understandable that I had missed her first two books, both of which had sold very well here and in other parts of the world. And now that she had established her readership, she was primed up to pump out one book a year. There was talk of a movie adaptation as well. In humble contrast to all this excitement, Gretchen went on to described the predictability of her writing process, how she would relocate to her beach house one hour south of Sydney. Once out of Sydney’s bumper-to-bumper rat race, she worked steadily for 6. 5 hours a day. She sat in her study overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a pot of herbal tea at the ready. She listened to music. Instrumental music only. She could not tolerate verbal disruptions.

I am blessed, she was quoted saying. Mainly, what I do for the first draft is follow Nate around. He is such a vivid character that all I really need to do is leave him to his own devices and follow him through the underbelly of the city. I employ an assistant to help me with the research once the basic plot has been hammered out. This is contentious in some quarters, I know, but show me the rule book that says a writer must do all her own research. I don't buy this. As I said, I mainly act as a conduit, following Nate around, capturing his voice. His rough essence and perspective. I consider my relationship with my protagonist to be a collaboration. Nate just came to me, she said. He was a gift. He changed my life.

Oh yes. Big changes. Gretchen now had an ex-model as a wife, a beautiful woman, a decade and a half younger than she was. They had adopted a child from the Philippines and apart from the beach house down in Coalcliff, they had recently purchased a renovated terrace house in the city, in Surry Hills.

The character is quintessentially Australian, a bastion of the old values, continued Gretchen. The greatest challenge for me was working with a character who is so counter to my nature, so diametrically opposed to the kind of person I am. I see this man as someone who is externally assaulted on every front by changing values of society and I like this tension. Also, as someone who is sharply delineated as both a good and bad character, the reader never know which direction Nate will take you in. I like this kind of internal and external tension.

Further on in the article, Gretchen described herself a bit of an old sponge, drawing in everything around her, greedily extracting the raw materials for her writing from her environment.
I read her first two novels. Her detective was undoubtedly my detective. The similarities were undeniable. The same physical type, the same way of speaking and thinking. Right down to the same kind of mannerisms. I thought back on all the conversations Gretchen and I had, how she had basically been waiting in her little office, a dried up spider in a dusty trap, waiting for a juicy morsel to come her way. Creatively she had been running on fumes up until that point, the fumes of her one and only novel. Then I appeared. Admittedly, I didn’t have a novel in me. Or put more accurately, I didn't have a very good novel within me. I did, however, have a character. The detective. Fuelled by all those stories about my uncle Wallace. All the boozing and gambling. Life on the road less traveled. Risk and reward. The truth was he died alone in a small beach-side apartment in Vietnam. He had a heart attack. His girlfriend, a bar girl twenty-five years his junior, couldn’t revive him. But before this happened, his life had come back to us. Stories that undermined our suburban smugness. Stories that made all those bland meals and nights when the house was full of stupor educing television programs seem all the more stagnant.

I went down to the house in Coalcliff. This much I remember. There was no one there. A dark empty house, an empty double garage. I wasn’t sure what exactly I was expecting. It wasn’t difficult to break in. I kicked out a small glass window pane on the deck. As I walked across the open plan living room, I saw my detective reflected in the black sliding glass doors. He was dressed in a robe, a drink in his hands. He looked fat, neutered. I’ve become entertainment for old people, he muttered with disdain. Boomers. This means I have developed a ‘heart of gold’ appeal. She keeps me down in the dungeon of her orderly, little mind. It's like a laboratory maze and I'm the test rat. She lets me out once in a while. Why'd ya do it kid? I implored you to focus on me. You wouldn’t listen. You ignored me.

Outside the waves crashed against the shore. I sat there for a long time. I talked to the detective, my detective, while he sipped a drink in a thick glass tumbler that never needed replenishing. Sometime later I heard the garage door open. A vehicle pull in. Now what? I wondered. I don’t remember going into the kitchen but somehow I got the jump on Gretchen when she came in through the connecting door. She had some shopping. Gretchen realised the gravity of her situation immediately, that someone had broken into her house, an old face from the past. Someone whom she had ripped off. Clever girl that she is, Gretchen started talking, playing with the history of things. Trying to convince herself (along with me) that her version of events was innocent. Yes, the innocent acquisition of a rudimentary idea which she had built up and refined into something tangible.

How did this weapon come to be in my hand? First, there was a kitchen knife with a perforated rubber grip, flashing in the air between myself and Gretchen Harper who now looked terrified. No, wait, that’s not right because the knife suddenly became a gun, all black and sleek, like black tar squeezed out of my closed fist, solidifying into an ugly snub-nosed object. All I was trying to do was explain my feelings, what it was like to be betrayed by this woman, my certainty that she had stolen and profited from my personal history. From my life.

The problem was everything keeps lurching forwards without proper explanation because now Gretchen was gagged and bound on the living room floor and I was standing over her shouting. And the room was a mess with books, broken glass and overturned furniture scattered across the floor.
You can work yourself into a corner. You don’t know it until it’s too late and that was the problem with this whole Gretchen situation. Who said, hell is discovering the truth too late? I can't remember. Time slipped forward again. Bang! Gretchen was now bound in the trunk of the car in the garage. How had this happened? And why?

Now I turned and slipped in a greasy puddle of blood, my foot sliding out with a terrible squeak as I fell over, cracking my ribs against the kitchen counter top. Where did all this blood come from? Everything I touched, I was spreading the fast congealing mess, leaving fresh red hand and sneaker prints on the kitchen floor, on the cabinets and on the walls. There was blood everywhere.
Where was Gretchen? I ran out to the garage but the truck of the car was empty, the interior alarm going ding! Ding! Ding! Just the smell of new upholstery.

Things were moving way too fast now. Where did the gun go? I looked down at my hand and the gun appeared again, black and yawning, still plump with a belly full of live ammunition. But then, no, then it was gone, replaced by the kitchen knife. Then a tyre iron. Then a series of sharp and blunt force objects strobing in and out of existence.

And why couldn't I find Gretchen Harper? Or remember what I did to her? All the details keep slipping away yet I know, I know, I did something terrible. In every night blackened window, the detective was looking on. A fat man in white towelling robe.

Said Gretchen Harper: This is where the breakdown occurred. Like many people, his imagination was too spoon-feed to make the whole thing run in a logical way. It must have been like a film unspooling in his head. He had a loose collection of ideas but it takes hard work to make those ideas work in the context of a story. As I have always maintained, this Snap Chat generation have been given these marvelous creative tools that we never had and they expect their every utterance, no matter how insignificant, to be a work of art. As if creativity is their birthright. In my experience, they don’t want to deal with the tedious business of thinking through ideas and linking those ideas together. Paint a picture, shoot a movie, write a novel: these are incredibly taxing activities. Inspiration is not enough. You need to keep going even when the bloody inspiration abandons you. This is why literature is doomed and the real reason I opted to work in genre fiction. Why kill yourself trying to write a work of literature that no one will read? What is the point?

Continued Gretchen Harper after taking a sip of wine, her guests leaning in to catch the rest of the story: Anyway, there really wasn’t much more to it. I mean the newspaper made such a big deal out of the whole thing because that is what the media does. Blow everything up. Drama. Herod and victims. He broke in. That’s all. He was right here, in the kitchen, sitting in the dark, mumbling on about how I had plagiarised his idea for a character. A character based on his uncle or father. Preposterous. Anyway, he was very upset and confused. The police think he had been living here for a week at least, while Kerrie and I had been in the States promoting my book. You could see the place was a mess. I just talked to him, trying to calm him down, trying to get his mind back into the reality of the situation. I was a bit worried….at first….that he might actually do something crazy so I concentrated on keeping the situation as calm as possible while Kerrie went outside and called the police.

This is the problem with some of your more devoted fans, you see? They personalise the work to such an extent that it becomes part of their lives. Lines get blurry. And this guy, who I think had written a bit of obsessive fan fiction based on Nate Timbers, had claimed ownership of my character. My detective. They found out later he even created a backstory explaining how I’d worked as a university lecturer, how I’d mentored him. This fabrication provided a credible opportunity for me to hijack his idea. Of course, I have never worked at a university. I’ve always maintained that academic side work is the first indication your literary career is seriously in trouble.

Anyway, it was all very sad. The police came and took him away and that was basically it. He was too disorientated to be a threat. I pitied the poor man. I mean sure, he'd ruined a few things in my nice house but so what? These are just things. I make a living generating stories. It has provided me with a life. A life full of nice things. My stories entertained people but what have they done for him? They had unbalanced him.

He writes letters to me from time-to-time. I was advised by my lawyer to have these letters stopped but he’s not going to be released anytime soon. He writes in the voice of my detective. It’s a bit weird but what can you do? In his more lucid moments, he tells me that he is lost in a white rat maze of compromised memory.

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.