30/09/2018 by Alan Crawford
The Tale of an EHO
Yes, another work week begins as an Environmental Health Officer (EHO), no fucker except an EHO knows exactly what that is though, not even the people I work for. “Environmental Health Officer” is the current name for what used to be known as a health inspector. Of course, I could rattle through the complete and professional description, but hey, we control, reduce, remove and even penalise the impact of humans on each other and the environment. The tale of an EHO at work in Lincoln Point.
Some major industries dominate our time such as boat building & repair, manufacturing, mechanical workshops, food & fuel, and in some parts of the country even legalised and licensed fucking, not for me though, I don’t have that physically draining task. I can’t imagine keeping a straight face while filling in the claim form for a mornings round of full body massage, stress relief and head jobs and then writing the report on how the events proceeded. Some weird performance issues may well occur, but none of that in the shower.
This new career is the reward for completing a 3 year full time stretch at University, doing a Bachelor of Science degree, sure it’s an entry level science degree but a Degree none-the less. As a mature age student, you would be right in thinking that I came to it with a fat set of preconceptions. They were all shattered; the place was run by buffoons who charged around 16 thousand dollars for the privilege of enduring their buffoonery.
It was a hard slog, and like all students without their parent’s financial support, it was 7 days a week affair, made up of full-time work & full-time study. The work I found myself enduring, while fitting in with my action-packed schedule, was the truly joyless experience of driving drunks about, whilst offering the highest level of courtesy in a bus, for a local club. Almost enough to put me off drinking for life.
I even had the unfortunate pleasure of separating urine affected pokies’ stools from the general population, I mean can’t you get up and go for a piss rather than just weeing on the seat you’re sitting on, what a bunch of soulless, desperate, incontinent folks. Many visit the club every day of the week, some of them all day every day, with their biological need to play the pokies and drink booze, completely satisfied in the warm bosom of a licensed club, alongside other such addicted breast feeders.
To be kind, I am grateful the club allowed me to adjust my work roster around the Uni schedule, but certainly not for the endless stream of sad and smelly patrons they exposed me to. Working here in Lincoln Point has tremendous advantages, although being an ageing cynic who doesn’t exercise, or take advantage of the surf and other local natural wonders, it seems a waste.
It’s a pity though; I like it here, but I normally admire the splendour from my lounge while watching TV, movies or my laptop. The weather is almost tropical, warm, turning to eyeball burstingly hot at times, as humid as a bag of oranges left in the sun at others, with a very blue-sky mild winter that sees other Australians spending their winters here.
Queensland and in particular Lincoln Point, is also a magnet for overseas tourists who love the beaches, tropical rainforests and even seem to enjoy being ripped off by their country men and women in organised tours and uniquely priced shopping outlets. Some of the world’s best-known beach breaks are here to, but it’s been 35 years since I stood on a board.
So, Monday continues as does every working day, shit, shave with the less than satisfactory result that is electric shaving, the wank in the shower, coffee and a few cigarettes and then I’m off to the boredom that can be Local Government. Not all the time though, it’s amazing how tedious things can be one minute and then change into something quite exciting the next.
The provided Council ute, which is certainly not Ford Australia’s answer to a greener environment, is a gun metal grey 6 cylinder fuel guzzling machine, but it does give me the opportunity to pick up my weeks supply of milk, although it seems I supply about 10 milkless scroungers at work, a supply of instant espresso coffee and my mail from the post box, then I can move onto the task of yawning and perving my way through the peak hour traffic to work. I keep myself occupied sometimes by spotting evil polluting dickheads who toss their fag ends out the window; this stupid act gets them a $300 penalty infringement notice in the mail.
You can tell it’s Monday morning at work, but it seems extra tedious already. I’ve only been here for ten minutes, a long time to my next fag, but this morning’s the same as others, dealing with unique or in some cases strange mixture of people I share the building with. People who really have an odd way of interacting with the rest of the workplace, striding head down along the corridor or passageway, looking elsewhere with such intensity, it’s as if something really vital or life threatening needs to be dealt with, away from my smiling face.
They offer no hello, no acknowledgement at all and if I didn’t say anything to them during the day (I’ve tested this), they wouldn’t say a god damn word, not one word, smile, or nod, nothing, nada.
I remember when manners and basic social skills were taught to people as they grew up, when they were young; maybe this batch of somewhat aloof, rude, or just plain ignorant buggers missed those lessons. There’s an odd collection of backgrounds and personality types in Council, although not many outward, gregarious souls who enjoy the banter of social intercourse with others. Conservative, shy and sheltered could best describe them, not all of course, but too many for my liking. Indeed, I think that some are more inclined to be knocking on your door on a Saturday morning, trying to insist you change your long held religious views and life’s beliefs.
If you’ve never worked in a Council, I’ll give you a run down, far too many bosses, supervisors etc and not enough workers, that’s pretty normal in any work place sure, but at each level of management there is a complete lack of will, ability or wish to make a decision, they just pass it on to the one above and so on. How the fuck anything actually gets done astounds me, but there you go its Council. The public thinks we do nothing of course, but to our defence, “Hell, we do heaps” but it’s all a bit top heavy that’s all.
Indeed they, the great unwashed, look at a work site, see three people talking without actually digging in the hole and think that there’s no work going on. Bullocks, to that I say. There is plenty of decision making going on; it might just be that it’s three layers of management in action, i.e. deferring a decision.
While talking about a group of people standing around during an onsite event, I was standing in the middle of a brightly highlighted well seen group of people in the blocked north bound lanes of a major highway one evening recently. It was a slurry / mud and concrete spill and as the road was closed, here we were all together, Police, Main Roads and others, in our own version of fluoro safety vests, assessing the situation, while traffic heading south was slowing to an excruciatingly slow crawl checking it out. Some ignorant prick heading south, yells at me out his window,
“Why the fuck? Am I carrying out road works at this time” … and whilst showing concern for my long-suffering social life suggested that …? “I should fucking well hurry up, arsehole”
The last part was very well phrased and the entire one-way interaction although very sincere, made me realise just how much I loathe the general population at times. I think my generous smile to this particular gentleman conveyed these sincere thoughts. The fact that I’d liked to have stretched his scrotum up over his forehead and set it alight, shall remain my secret.
This morning I’ve been blessed with a wide range of complaints coming in, it’s still only 09.30 and the first is a rather stressed young professional woman ringing Council to complain about the number of ibis gathering at the Merlin Beach cafe precinct and would you believe, shitting in her car.
“Yes Betty” … I agree “Wildlife at the beach is a terrible inconvenience” … holding back the smirk.
And although I personally think that birds’ defecating in your new BMW convertible might be justified from a socialistic perspective and rather humorous. “I’ll see what I can do” … I said with a chest full of professionalism.
This never-ending stream of complaints does keep the day interesting; you talk and empathise with them, follow up with a site visit, (if appropriate), and then report on the event and outcome. Slightly trivial yes, but it does help to pay the mortgage.
I make it to lunch and wander around thinking about the frightening shit that happened last night. Seriously frightening and lucky shit.
In what could only be described as a momentous stroke of luck, while I was on my way to drop off a couple of DVDs, a car ran through the red turn right arrow on a bullet like aim towards me and just missed wiping me out as I was walking along the footpath. Not because of his superior driving abilities, he had just run a red light after all, or even my athletic prowess, I simply managed to jump or stumble, in a rather ungainly fashion, into the bushes. Another late fee averted, and my demise narrowly avoided, me thinks. Why this skinny drug crazed dickhead and his dozy looking girlfriend ran the red light I couldn’t tell you, but they did appear to be headed straight for me.
His lard sized girl like companion nearly smashed her hooter into the windscreen when he came to a stop and she then proceeded to abuse the crap out of her genius associate driving the car, it couldn’t have been for upsetting her makeup, there isn’t enough available in the market place to improve her sour and well stretched puss.
Maybe he was actually trying to get rid of the unpleasant bag of shit sitting beside him. I would have just driven off and left her at the shop they were probably heading to. She would be I thought, proceeding to buy her industrial strength feminine hygiene products, as she looked like she suffered from a very serious and odorous water retention problem in addition to having too much skin stretched over her small round frame. Just pug ugly and fat.
Bit like a super ball, but without any bounce and certainly not super. She could be awarded the classic “roll her in flour and look for the wet spots”, type of sexual positioning. She was dressed by the cheapest $2-dollar shit shop in their most recent, clear out the rubbish clearance sale, maybe Homer’s moo-moo outfit impressed her?
Anyhow, back to work and back to reality the inspection I scheduled myself for this afternoon was at a high-rise resort’s pool side restaurant called Girls on Film, why the fuck it’s called that I don’t know. Maybe they’re fans of Duran Duran, greased pole pillow fights with lingerie draped sex machines or even just plain old soft porn. Maybe they wear sensible shoes and like photography. Hell, who cares, the manager is an incredibly friendly and teasingly good-looking MILF called Cherry Bell.
She would have lost hers a long time ago though, no matter what team she played for. She has a cleavage that reminds me of a black hole, sucking all surrounding things that matter into it, what fun it would be to end up in that dimension. Her left breast has a large and tasty freckle delicately placed for all to see, it defiantly requires further scrutiny, no matter what the light, but I’ve yet to try my luck at that warm nurturing sweet spot, maybe I can come at it later.
The business of the inspection though, is not to study the remarkable Cherry and her décolletage; it’s supposed to be about the handling of food, overall cleanliness and the structural conditions within the restaurant.
Cherry does have a firm grip on the staff, sensible shoes or not, and most of them seem to be keen to do the right thing. Whether they do though, is the reason for my visit. The first thing that hits you when you walk into Girls on Film is that not all employees have a clue about the level of personal hygiene required, it smells like teen spirit. Dressed in a collection of miniskirts and shorts, hardly on tank tops, strapless and tasteless with open roman sandals. They look like they’re ready for drinks at the pool, not in the kitchen supplying food to the pool patrons.
The flooring has a dirty crusty soup like appearance which must come from the sheer hatred and complete disregard the staff have for their non-existent cleaning schedule. No one seems the slightest bit concerned when I raise their apparent hatred of, and lack of application this required procedure. In fact, they laugh at me. What sort of a reaction is that? I speak with the new chef to discover that she is from Spain, a backpacker working her way around Australia. Good one, does she have training in the Australian / Queensland food legislation – NO! Does she understand me, NO! The best thing to do is target my enthusiastic approach to Cherry again.
The food I find in the cool room is uncovered with a wide and exotic range of foods dangerously interspersed throughout the shelves, raw chicken dribbling on salads like some desired marinade, combined with raw and cooked meats swimming together in a container that looks like it was last cleaned in 1976. Shit! How hard is it to understand?
In fact, is pretty bloody simple, all you have to do is apply the basic principles and that’s why an EHO is required to ensure compliance.
They have a thousand excuses, financial difficulties, holidays, staff problems. Everything but a straightforward; I just haven’t a clue of how to run a food business and as a result, don’t seem to care if I cause a food borne illness outbreak, poison a customer or even kill the odd granny or elderly aunt along the way.
Hey, turnover and profit is what it’s all about. Most food businesses in Lincoln Point don’t manage to make fuck all of either. So we enter into the battle of inspections, which is the application of legislation to the practical world in which we live, and we as EHO’s find all sorts of standards of training, ranging from absolutely nil to less than required, not often do we find complete and satisfactory.
I do my slow in English speech to the new chef, dropping Española words (I think) like Hola Buenos dais (hello, good afternoon), Asta Luego (see you later), cerveza (beer), she seems suitably interested to make me continue although, as per normal, I probably go on to far and bore the shit out of her, or maybe she just doesn’t understand me at all and smiles sweetly. She did say she si (yes) to cerveza though, I must remember that, is it appropriate to sleep with chefs I’m chastising?
Of course, I’m kidding myself that a 20 something bronzed and well-toned female backpacker would like to have a drink and a game of horizontal canoodling with a greying gentleman of a growing portly proportion, but, if you don’t ask you don’t get, right. While fantasising about this moral dilemma, I don’t have many of those, dilemmas of the moral kind I mean, I trap Cherry in the cool room.
I showed her my pertinent and ever pressing issues, most revealing, and then write out the receipt we give to food operators regarding the works and complete change of attitude required. Once I’d finished all that serious public safety stuff, concluded my flirting with Cherry and wondered what the words for “let’s just do it” are in Spanish, it’s off to the shitting ibis, BMW or not.
For obvious reasons my two windows were closed as I cruise ever so gently into the car park, it’s yet another Council award winner, bitumen, white lines and a couple of garden beds on the boundary, wow can’t we do better than that? I find that a car, very similar to the red-light runner, is parked in way that it’s claiming two bays?
The man driving this car, if my own self-described or as Pink Floyd so beautifully put; “amazing powers of observation” are right, it looks like the heroin affected fashion victim who drove the car last night and he seems to be watching me with binoculars. I can make out that the large folder he’s holding seems to have my name embossed on the front cover.
Wow. This is weird; I’m too young for this is your life. Once I’ve come to a stop I get out of the car with my trusty digital camera. I always have this on my belt, I feel like a regulatory version of batman sometimes, with my utility belt at the ready, this stupidity does make it easier to take photos and I do take loads of photos of all sorts of strange things, some even work related.
This action of getting out of the car, while looking at Mr “My social drug habit seems to have overtaken my life guy” seems to have frightened him. He stumbles to place the binoculars into the case and tries to close the folder. This unusual act of absurd neatness and juggling combined with the impact of nature seems to have put him off balance. Interestingly, at this precise Kodak moment one of the ibis, who had given up on tagging the interior of luxury motor vehicles, took great delight in dropping the entire contents of its stomach on his right shoulder.
The folder, binoculars and case fall to the ground and while trying to remain in control he slips and falls off the small wall he was sitting on, straight into the freshly fertilised garden bed behind the car park boundary.
Council does do some work around the place, although it must have been smoko time as 27 Council workers were sitting on another wall sunning their knees and obviously not struggling with their feminine side, were bleating and laughing like a row of crows in unison, in an R rated and sexist tone. They were making just as much noise as the ibis shitting tour group, who seemed to think the targeted aim applied by their mate was an award winner.
No cards with scores, just screams of excited ibis and the Council workers crow like foul language and laughter. I couldn’t resist laughing myself at this poor attempt at limb gymnastics and went to take some photos of the ibis and their sporting toilet behaviour. A shame I missed a photo of the guy’s surf t- shirt though, with its new ibis graffiti art plastered all over it. Billabong surf wear would have been proud and claimed it as one of their designs and then had it made in China.
The mobile goes off and I look to see who is interrupting this tremendous social interaction. The ring tone is one of my own creations, a riff section from a Queens of the Stone Age song, whose name I can never remember. Dave Grohl on drums and the clip has a vengeful reindeer driving a car. No one knows.
“Good Afternoon this is Alex!” … I said in my casual yet professional manner.
“Alex, I’ve decided that you can attend the new EPA legislation training course we talked about”
Damn! It’s Warren the latest in the long line of supervisors running the geographical region I work in. Warren is about 2 minutes off retiring and seems to be hanging on by his fingernails. He has a colourful and tenuous connection to his work colleagues and the wider community. Warren hails from places unknown with a mixturous family background that would make a professionally trained eyewitness struggle to identify features such as origin, age, height and in some light, sex. Let me say though he is a very helpful, extremely friendly and generous guy, but today’s world is not his world. His 2 minutes are not ticking over quick enough, set the alarm.
“Great” I reply with the necessary enthusiasm. “When is it exactly?”
“It’s in 5 months, April 6th, at the Mostly Bumpy Greek Resort” says Warren, getting the name wrong yet again. It’s actually called the Misty Bumble Creek Resort. His heavy accent combined with his complete unawareness of what goes on around him makes clear communication very difficult and very funny at times.
“Ok, I will check it in my diary, thanks Warren” … I’m thinking can this really be the reason for the call, that’s a bloody long time away. It’s December now.
“Oh Alex” … here we go I realise … “There’s a problem that has come to my attention”
“Yeah, what is it Warren?”
“A disgruntled member of the public has made a number of very serious threats against a Council EHO, we don’t know which one yet, but when senior management became aware of this issue, …well, … hum, … you know,… they, ah, kind of thought it must be you! Does super sun grass mean anything to you?”
Again, I’m thinking what could that phrase really mean? I run through a few alternatives in my mind, dope heads, the next big music festival planned for Lincoln Point, or a rural cow food manufacturer. No Idea!
More of a worry was that an obviously deranged and overly excited member of the public makes threats against a Council EHO and management immediately think of me, that’s either very thoughtful or more likely it’s a reflection of how they feel about me, my performance, work ethics or that missing moral compass they suspect I use to navigate my way through life.
Who am I kidding, fuck it must be me? Who though, this will take some serious thinking time to sort out!
“Well no Warren” I replied … grass is not high on my list of things to imbibe.” I’ll be back in the office soon, just as soon as I finish here” I was hoping he’d just say thanks and hang up.
“OK, see you then” … says Warren with a confused tone in his voice; it’s as if he wonders which office we are talking about, or even like me wonders what grass or super means. It’s remarkable that he makes it to work in the morning, home at night and returns to the same building the following day.
As I drive into the office car park, I notice that the Police have taken my car space and their bright red and orange Holden Commodore dominates the scene. I wonder if they are here to discuss the threat or up to something else. I fit in between two other (ticket worthy) illegally parked vehicles, light a fag and enjoy it on the way inside talking with the other cigarette desperadoes.
Interesting, isn’t it that my fellow addicts are social, friendly and somewhat able to converse with others, even if they talk shit. I throw my butt in the ashtray and then take a moment to be a gentleman on the way inside.
Comfortable pissing has taken on a new meaning to me now as I’m getting older soon and the horror that is prostate cancer maybe something I should be testing for, it sure feels like it at times. I did have a guy stick his tree trunk like finger up my arse many years ago, it was invited, but not in a dinner and drinks kind of way. He actually chatted throughout the whole procedure, probably trying to make me feel comfortable, but that was impossible.
If there ever is a need for digital dildo mould model then this guy’s finger would have been rated solid gold or rubber latex, right down to the bumpy bits I felt on the way in, while swirling around inside and then on its return journey out. The popping sound it made when it was over and out is forever ingrained in my memory and although the test results from this impersonal probing were fine, it brings a blood-stained tear to my eye whenever I think about it.
Gay men and virginal Greek women must have uniquely powered sphincter muscle, I cried like a sick hungry baby when this guy tickled the back of my throat from the inside. It bloody well hurt. In fact my walking back to the car would have been a sight to behold from behind; I was holding the bee in my behind on the inside.
Well a successful pee finished, with no serious drips and it’s time to face the Police, senior management, Warren and whoever else wanted to be involved in this recent threat to my well-being. That big fingered guy was well in touch and charged accordingly to pinpoint my well-being.
While being avoided in the corridor, heading to face this interrogation, I remember my release from high school in year 11 and salubrious entry to the workforce. Why now I don’t know, but as I get older I have these reminiscing flashes of my past and I continue to realise that it’s not just getting closer to 50 that has turned me into a grumpy little shit; I’ve been one since I can remember. Flash back time here comes the memory.
In order to get permission to leave school which was an outcome I had to achieve rather desperately, I had to get a job first, so I walked the streets thinking of what I could do, or get. Butchery I hear you scream, what a bloody obvious choice. I think it was because there were so many butcher shops about and as they removed the spirit of keen individuals quicker than a coffee enema scouring out waste from a dubiously female member of the Jackson family, there were plenty of openings.
So here I was, like many of my age listening devoutly to Deep Purple in Rock, with my life having recently been turned upside down by Reg Livermore’s original Sydney version of the Rocky Picture Show, taking the most obvious step of entering the world of retail Butchery,
What? I got a job with the prospect of an apprenticeship and boom; I was out of school and catching too many buses in my carefully chosen and realistically meat smelling butchers’ outfit. After suffering at the hands of a height challenged, as in he was an angry short prick, megalomaniac, I was offered a new position with a better company.
Off I went, at sparrows fart in the bloody freezing cold on my pushbike to a leafy suburb on the north shore of Sydney, about half an hour’s ride. This is where I learnt how to whistle, count money, acquire a sense of my own sexuality while hiding my erection under my apron and develop the skills to interact with the public, as well as how to ride a pushbike through Sydney’s traffic without getting killed. This new position also included learning how to scare the living crap out of workmates and customers, when called upon.
If you’ve ever been standing in a traditional butcher shop with loads of ceramic tiles, metal benches and counter tops with glass and mirrors everywhere, concentrating on your purchase and probably joking with the butcher to score a better cut of meat or ensure they keep their thumb off the scales, you’ll know just how much echo there is in there.
So, when a stainless steel tray hurtles, like an albatross about to die on a fishing boat’s long line, sight unseen from the back area, crashes on to the tiled floor, you would have some sort of personal urinary or bowel reaction. This sudden stopping of the tray and resulting noise reverberating around the shop, used to scare the living shit out of everyone in the store, except me of course.
It’s a miracle that I didn’t kill anyone. The lucky female who owned the supermarket next door, liked practical jokes which made her a special target, she’d give as good as she got and was worthy of delicate, well planned retribution to her own brand of practical jokes. When a fresh pig head ended up in my hands, the obvious place for it to be was in the toilet bowl of her outside and more importantly, no lock on the door, lavatory.
We and everyone in the leafy north shore suburb heard the screams, it nearly made the news, but the networks would not believe it. She had gone to conduct her business and when, as we all do, glanced backed to see her handy work, she was confronted by the glistening pig head that was staring right back at her. The pigs face had of course been covered with a certain deposit.
The recipient although deeply scared by such a stunt, laughed it off after an excruciatingly long 6 weeks and we all called a truce, which was honoured. We weren’t cruel, after all.
Cruel would be to take anything the regularly confused Warren was saying to heart, or even hold it against him, Yes, he’s a nice guy OK, but he’s completely out of his depth and should remove his toes from the water immediately. I walked into his workspace cubicle area to find the Police sitting there trying to understand him, he was smiling and uttering something that even I, with my well ingrained Warren expertise could not fathom.
There were 2 fun stoppers sitting in the workspace actually one could be better described as a fun partaker, she was lovely, all muscle and curves, that softened the intent of the harsh blue uniform in such an inviting way. It especially strained the front of the Police blouse to look like that bag of oranges I use to describe the humidity level. Police Constable Sally Burton was enormously gifted in the tits department. Wonder if she has a freckle?
“What the hell does the Church of the Sunshine Grass have to do with me?” … I demand, trying to assert my grasp on the dynamic before me.
It turns out, according to Warren, that the nut crushing soul after an EHO, not the fantasy I have of the Spanish chef, might be from this Church’s collection of earthy, butt naked and deluded congregation of potential suicide victims based in Northern NSW, who have a deep seated hatred of adult entertainment and the resulting by-product of sinful activity that is masturbation.
The leader of this collective is Rupert K. Asquith, who I’ve named special K, fancies himself as a re-born version of an enema loving brother that was the originator of corn flakes, Seventh Day Adventist John Harvey Kellogg. This detail is on a printout prepared earlier by Ms Policewoman I’d like to and seems to have been taken from Wikipedia.
Something on the page catches my eye;
quote: Kellogg worked on the rehabilitation of masturbators, often employing extreme measures, even mutilation, on both sexes. In his Plain Facts for Old and Young, he wrote that a remedy for masturbation which is almost always successful in small boys is circumcision, especially when there is any degree of phimosis. The operation should be performed by a surgeon without administering an anaesthetic, as the brief pain attending the operation will have a salutary effect upon the mind, especially if it be connected with the idea of punishment, as it may well be in some cases.
In females, the author has found the application of pure carbolic acid (phenol) to the clitoris an excellent means of allaying the abnormal excitement. He also recommended, that to prevent children from this “solitary vice”, bandaging or tying their hands, covering their genitals with patented cages, sewing the foreskin shut, and electrical shock.
I conducted an inspection of this fruit bat’s food stall recently at the Mullet Day Festival, where they were selling (with their own restricted version of love) their 10-bean mix, faux meat pies. I discovered and responded in my own way, to their discouraging remarks regarding each customer’s potential for the “solitary self-pleasuring vice”, and these were given unselfishly to each and every punter, I mean what the fuck’s it have to do with these followers of a strange fashion ?
The drugged out, pissed festival punters just wanted some great thumping music, quick food and respectful safe shagging, although not from the stalls staff. The question of lifestyle should never have raised its private head, and it wouldn’t in the punters mind, unless they missed out on wet bump and grind that day.
So, it would seem, if Special K had his wish (and he does often) the crew running the food stall shouldn’t be able to masturbate at night, as he binds their hands and makes all members sleep with cricket boxes on. Jonestown seemed normal compared to this groovy collection of deluded souls, with rope burned wrists and rock-solid genitals. Maybe their pies have the same effect, well no actually, I remember I had one at that event and that wasn’t the result. Diarrhoea, Yes! Abstinence from sin No!
“I mean how could a bunch of serious fun stoppers aim to hurt me?” … I asked Detective Sergeant Arthurs. “What would that achieve; we’re all guilty of wanking” … “Ms Policewoman I’d like to” Sally, smiled at my use of the stopper phrase.
“I don’t think we need to discuss your personal habits” …. mumbled the rather out of proportioned policeman, who was deeply embarrassed in talking about wanking with his young female associate Sally sitting beside him, a bit too far away it seemed.
How is it that each time you see a cop show team on TV they’re perfectly matched into either a good, bad, young, older, fat, thin etc type balance. The real world would be very different you’d think, but no! Here’s Arthur and his younger and distinctly shapelier assistant. Right out of a Wolf Films – Law & Order script.
Talking of Arthurs aka Detective Blobby how do people like this senior detective end up with such a huge lower half while possessing an almost doll like look and size at the top? A lot like those toy fulcrum birds, that once set in motion continually swing down to drink from the edge of the glass they’re perched on. This guy had the smallest, narrowest shoulders I’ve ever seen on a human, how does he pass, or surely continues to avoid, the medical assessment with that rotund backside?
“Well what makes you think that this group is responsible?” …. I asked while visualising the blobby copper at home in his repetitive bending over routine.
We have another threat, he blurts out as he offers me the letter, which was sent to the Big Bouncy Boobs Dance Review in Summit Park. It requested that the girls stop arousing their patrons to such a large extent. The girls, according to Detective Blobby, leave their patrons in a delicate place of suspension and should not be doing so. The letter demands that the club be closed down and the girls counselled to protect the community from further distraction. It seems that the wording on the letter received here at Council is in the same style, and it was signed RKA as well.
I can’t believe this nonsense, put the brakes on pole and private lap dancing in order to stop the population carrying out sinful acts, what a strange request. Why would special K want me dead? Is Sally going to speak or is she just going to blush her way through this whole interview? She’s ready to offer an insight but seems reluctant to save her squirming senior officer.
“If you could let us know if you can think of anyone else who would want to hurt you Alex” … offered Detective Blobby.
They haven’t even confirmed it’s me they’re after, but they do seem concerned, isn’t that nice. Warren remains very quiet through this discussion and offers only a grunt in an indeterminable dialect when it’s over.
Hands shaken, assurances given and then I escort the dynamic duo out to the main exit doors, bye. I make a mental note to ring Sally and pursue my great love. Time to go home, I grab my stuff, wander outside, have a fag and head to the car park proper and the grey gas guzzling monster, you evil polluters beware, I’m mobile again.
Opening the garage door, I see that Michelle is home and she has a knack for parking just ever so slightly in the wrong place; it’s easier that way for her but making it very hard for me to fit into the remaining space. She has an early finish and as normal she’s navigating the house wandering about in only her knickers and socks. Not a bad way to end the day, all this talk of sin and corn flakes has me in the mind to realise what I’m supposed to be guilty of. Sex with Michelle is perfunctory, not on fire as the Kings of Leon claim, but it sure gets the evening of to a good start. She has a knack of making me crumble without complaint.
A couple of Carlton Mid strength beers appear. None of that cats piss for me, even the famous TV detective Morse said it’s not spelt with XXXX’s for nothing, we then sit down and talk about our day, she has had the clients from hell, same old same old, and I begin to tell her of mine. This frank sharing of views stall when I start to tell her about the letter from special K and the Church of the Sunshine Grass.
She tells me again about her day, but this time I’m forced to listen, well I was enjoying the afterglow wasn’t I. Usually I do vague out the first time she’s telling me about the titivating days she’s had, I must admit.
“The Church of the Sunshine Grass was the client from hell” … she says.
“What the Fuck” … I scream with enough energy to spill my beer.
What did they want from Digby, Mullins and Battens Pty Ltd, the shitty little mortgage brokers Michelle worked for, and what were they complaining about?
“Did they say anything about a Council employee?”
“Ah no I, I don’t think so” … stutters Michelle
They were just concerned about fixed or variable rates and wondering which way to go. Phil Digby gave them half an hour and away they went. It was funny though, there were 9 of them all squeezed in the office with Phil and when they came out, they were very flustered, even Phil.
“Does D.M.B deal in a professional sense with Ally Mullins from Big Bouncy Boobs Dance Review in Summit Park? … I manage to say”
I asked hoping that the answer would be no, Michelle would remember that I dated Ally for some time before we started living together, the fucking big yellow and black Ally / Alex tattoo on my arm would probably continue to remind her.
“No not directly, but the sleaze bag who owns the club does, his name is ……….”
I had to cut her off as I knew who owned the club, it was me, but no other bugger except for Ally and Slim knows that detail, not even Michelle. When I won the SBHA prize I put the proceeds to good use.
“It’s someone called John C. Millar, he must be a sleaze, I’ve never met him but who else would own a big boobs, firm bums and lap dancing club?”.… Michelle told me this with no option for me other than to offer my full agreement.
My unreserved agreement would be a bit difficult wouldn’t it and that description threw me a bit, that’s quite colourful in its accuracy and intention, the only thing she left off was the lack of a happy ending, that sort of licensing wasn’t available when I first opened the club and the drama with the 1% ers wasn’t worth it. Even now with Queensland’s prostitution act, it’s still not possible, but creative types can work around that, I just couldn’t be bothered.
The club earns a shit load of money as it is, with most of the money in cash. Money that I have a hard time explaining to the taxman. I have an accountant Slim, who trains his thinning hair into unnatural styles and positions, but he know his shit and he gets me through the big picture, which is tax avoidance, it’s just that some of the cash is left off the books so I can grease the wheels of industry when they need greasing.
Without a happy ending of course.
The SBHA win was amazing. I’d just packed up the house in Sydney and was all set to drive to the Gold Coast when I spied an envelope selling the latest prize home tickets. The “Soldiers Back Home Association” has been buying land and engaging builders to provide a prize worthy of everyone’s dreams and selling tickets at an affordable price to the public for a bloody long time.
They also arrange and give away cars, cash, gold bullion and holidays. It was silly of me at this time as I had just bought a new house and a car for my move to Queensland, but as I’d always bought tickets I thought why not. I’ll help them out, you never know.
Well, of course I won, didn’t I. Precise luck would have it that the house was around the corner from my own less than glamorous purchase and the prize car was better than the shitbox Toyota Camry I’d bought. It was a royal blue Mercedes 500SL, just like the two Mercedes I’d bought for the fat guy in Sydney all those years ago, I mean he paid for them I just went shopping for them, while confusing the shit out of the snooty salesman. The clichéd “look like a homeless person” but buy two new 500 SLs, a sedan and coupe.
Well, what to do? I sold the purchased house and Toyota and moved into the new one with my new German made status symbol. It was the proceeds from this gleeful sale that I invested in an adult review club right in the heart and spilt guts of Lincoln Point’s version of a night club / red light district.
It was in partnership with a guy whose sexuality was a constant source of amusement and confusion to all who that met him. He could pull pretty well immediately in any location, gay or straight and the elderly Asian ladies who frequented the Casino loved him. This partnership ended when he was rather tragically killed in a machinery accident, he was helping a friend in his T shirt printing factory.
He was savagely embroidered to death, a gruesome outcome as the phrase “Mac’s Boulders are always bigger” was stitched into his chest and abdomen. The machine must have placed those words a thousand times before it could be shut down. This savage stitching resulted in serious blood loss and ensuing heart attack. It was the apostrophe in the word Mac’s that caused the most damage.
Actually, that’s the stupid story I tell everyone to get a laugh, but he really died at the hands of a jealous yakuza who didn’t like his wife bonking a round eye behind his back. Little did the guy know, but my mate would’ve loved to be bonking behind his back in the true “man love” style as well.
This tragedy had a silver lining for me though, my far from androgynous mate had named me the sole beneficiary in his will, and so I ended up with the entire club, his collection of bisexual porn, his 1976 Datsun 180B including one hundred thousand dollars in cash that I managed to stumble across hidden in the boot.
What a fabulous fucking windfall, in fact that was one of his favourite jokes “How many gay men does it take to change a light globe?” and he took great joy in screaming the answer: “10, one changing the light globe and the other 9 prancing about in their loudest voice yelling – Fabulous”
He would be sadly missed in just a few dangerously exotic communities here in Lincoln Point, not to mention the stores that specialise in offering that certain something different.
There I was fully cashed up, with a rubbish 32-year-old car and owning the entire club. It was a small, smelly and yet sexy club called the Rumpy Pumpy Review, which I promptly closed down. It was hidden out of view, aside from the phallic and flashing neon sign out on the street, above an all-night supermarket, which for some reason closed down when I moved to new premises, I’d built in Summit Park.
I learnt that all of the girls, limo drivers and many of the patrons purchased their tissues, condoms, cigarettes, headache tablets and power drinks from Tim’s supermarket. Well, bugger me.
But how the hell can the Big Bouncy Boobs Dance Review, The Church of the Sunshine Grass and this most recent threat to my personal safety be connected? Don’t tell me, has Special K found my secret web of ownership? Does he want to impose some sort of unique punishment for my single-handed outbreak of mass masturbation amongst the horniest members of our community.
I mean many men and women have enjoyed the serious teasing Big Boobs offers, why does Special k want to hurt me? Well, tomorrow might be fun. Again, I lie in bed wondering about the excitement I find myself in, bit like a very large mouse in a small mouse cheese eating completion, oversized and prone to being noticed a bit too much.
In fact, all along I could see that owning the Big Bouncy Boobs Dance Review would have some negative impact on my life. Not in the moral ambiguity that is my life’s guidance, more in the way I’m viewed in the eyes of the community. I couldn’t give a shit and although my parents wouldn’t be surprised at all, they’d probably be dreadfully embarrassed.
The whole reason for the degree was to give them a moment to be proud, 3 bullshit years of my life has resulted in a so-called normal career, the crowning glory of my magnanimous gesture.
Gesticulate is one of my favourite words and when allowed I drop it out in a conversation, you’d understand that’s not often. This sort of crap goes through my mind while I’m getting ready for work, hey you know the routine. More new soap needed, today is going to be great I can feel it. Just got to sort out the club and how I might re jig its network of ownership, while stepping back from its influence in the seedier side of Lincoln Point.
How many kick back type payments are being paid, should there be more or less? Are we paying our community’s religious zealots enough money to keep their flock fucking?
The trip to work was rather exciting. the knobs who persevere in getting in my way just seem to be extra knob like today. There is an old man with the cliched hat on his rear parcel shelf determined to break the world’s “how slow can I drive record”. He will win because he’s almost driving in reverse, whilst heading forward. The GPS in my car is reading that we’re standing still, even though we are moving at a pace a snail would have trouble holding.
Once I screamed past him in a fit of 6-cylinder rage, I was off and promptly in the eagle eyes of a fascist, almost Nazi police uniform wearing fun stopper. His overly compensated radar gun pointed right at me. He gave me a knowing, got’ya smile as I went past. I did manage to back off big time when I saw him, so hopefully I’ll escape that extra impost to my generous income.
In fact, my real income was going really well. In the background of the I don’t really care detail were the silly Council, in the throes of negotiating an enterprise bargaining agreement, an EBA and as usual was screwing the employees. The offerings this time, (it’s on every three years) would guarantee that we are at the bottom of comparable pay rates in comparable Local Government circles.
In fact, even if we get what we’re asking for we’ll still be 12th out of 13, the second lowest. The Council management blame everything for not being able to pay us anything, the best reason they like to quote it the often used, you are living in the best place here in Port Lincoln and should weigh that apparent blessing against you shit poor pay.
I on the other hand didn’t really give a fuck about that. I did support my fellow Council employees, even if most of them didn’t have any social skills or in some case a clue about anything. The Big Bouncy Boobs Dance Review was rocking.
The Council management team actually celebrated their hard-arsed negotiating tactics in the club, little did they know that I had some lively recordings of that gesticulating and sniffing about. The video came up nice and clean, as did the car park shenanigans they negotiated after the club closed. My security team got a raise for that night’s work.
Once I sailed past the fun stopper, at a cruising speed, I changed lanes and shot up the inside of a truck that was delivering meat to the local Chinese Restaurants. You could tell that from the filth and stench oozing out of the back and the poorly written Chinese / English. We make meat for you. We also bring things as well. This gem of an advertising idea was written in English and Chinese just above the sticker proudly stating that they were delivering meat to local Chinese Restaurants.
As I looked in my mirror to check the lane craft I’d learnt in Sydney, I noticed the dark blue Holden Commodore making the same move I’d just done. This driver was extremely keen to read the rear of my car. The rear only had a Council asset number, but this person could have placed, licked or removed the sticker they were that close. I couldn’t tell if the driver was a man or a woman as the sun provided a glare over their windscreen.
This tantalising fact was a key point in my statement to Detective Blobby when I finally got to the office. He’d been alerted to something going on when the smartly dressed officer with his huge gun spotted the dark blue car doing some wild things to catch up to me and slot in behind my somewhat legal positioning.
As it turned out the only thing that seems to have saved me from confronting this driver, were the 4 drums of chicken guts that fell out of the meat delivery vehicle and landed on his windscreen. I noticed of course that he’d pulled over and that he or she seemed to be covered in a sweltering pile of dripping meat type material.
After my brief yet sadly enjoyable chat with Detective Blobby I hit the usual inter office rounds. Most of the numb nuts were moaning about the EBA and some just plain refused to acknowledge me at all. It was many hours later when I inspected a local Chinese Restaurant, that I endured the Lotus Bush owner complaining that his delivery of chicken guts had fallen off the back of a delivery truck.
He didn’t mean in the normal stolen goods type of fallen off, he meant that they literally fell off. He was pissed as he had a large group booked in for lunch. It was a local Outlaw Motorcycle Gang (OMG) who were going to celebrate the opening of their new Adult Review Club. He seemed unnaturally proud of this dubious criminal connection.
“Sorry … What did you say Sam?”
“Yeah the Devil May Carers are opening a new strip club and tattoo parlour in Beach Avenue and they all wanted to come here for lunch.”
“Oh, I see and when is this opening supposed to happen?”
“Next Monday and I’m invited, please don’t tell Sarah. She’d be annoyed at my visit to a lap dancing / strip club.”
“Yeah – no problem Sam” … little did he know that I’ve got some very crisp and keenly biological video of him as well. He’s quite the athlete this little Chinese restaurant owner. A small steamed dim sum or spring roll he ain’t. Note to self, the car park video collection needs some serious sorting out and I’ll need to figure out how best to use it.
Once I’d left Sam, I straggled myself to the car which parked way up the huge freak’n hill on the highway. This slight yet near vertical stroll revealed another less than exciting feature of my life at the moment. I need to give up cigarettes. The death-defying puffing and out of breath gasping has to stop.
Just as get to the car and stop to try to survive the walk, Queens of The Stone Age burst into life and frighten the shit out of me, damn who’s this?
It was Sally the policewomen I’d like to, hello, what, yes, I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Sally was all woman. Even the bits that the police had tried to man up, she’d resisted beautifully. The uniform was a prime example of this smooth transition, the boring old Police farts trying to change her from being a vibrant young lady into a tough no nonsense policewoman. It fitted her like a themed stripper gram outfit and teased that sort of a smiling reaction from those she came across. The obvious thought was that she would.
Sally was standing on the side of the road and waved me under the police barrier tape. It was strung up across the footpath, looped around a wheelie bin and then it ran over to the neighbour’s front fences. Nice knots I thought to myself, a triangle of very neat blue and white police check. It screamed stay away and only when duly invited did I dare enter.
The building was swarming with men and woman wandering about in those disposable white paper overalls, those peculiar masks and fogged up googles. They all looked very serious. Sally beckoned me over to the table that sat at the property edge and asked that I don one of those white paper suit kits. She was trying to explain what was going on when Detective Blobby emerged from one those white cocoons.
“Millar, what the fuck are you doing here? Get out of that suit right now, you have no right to be here.” … “I’ve asked him here sir.” Sally was very quick to stamp her part in my presence. I felt wanted and warm.
As Blobby screamed at me I was balancing myself, rather awkwardly on one leg. I promptly fell into the carefully nurtured garden bed. Flat on my arse and then over I rolled. It wasn’t very graceful but apparently hilarious. Blobby and Sally struggled to contain their reaction.
My reaction was to leap to my feet and then promptly fall over again, just as the suit leg had caught the fence railing.
“So, do you want me here or not? I’ve got loads of shit to do, what’s happening there?”
“Well, you’ll have to come inside and see” … purred Sally, while Blobby nodded with an annoyed acceptance. So off we went into the modest 3-bedroom brick home that sat comfortably in this bad end of town. It was the sad suburb where previous State Governments had placed all the Port Lincoln public housing, parolees and those with mental health needs that the government seemed none too willing to satisfy.
It was a real shit hole. The knobs who lived here were a great source of drama for the Police and Council. They did nothing but write these dramas up on a daily basis. They wrote them, featured in them and were able to be the audience as well. The Police had a term for this part of town, “crap heights” and it was spot on, except that it was as flat as something that’s really flat.
The main bedroom was the focus of all this Police frenzy, and it wasn’t something I’d been expecting. There was blood and what looked like human entrails all over the floor, walls and ceiling. The dominate feature was the customer copy “Food Premise Audit Report” stapled to the unfortunate’s forehead. It had my signature and my standard pithy comments scribbled on it.
Most people couldn’t read my handwriting, but this recent attempt was amazingly legible, despite the blood. The date on the form was 5th November and it was clearly issued to Mathew Donald. This personalised issue, by way of stapling it to the head was not my normal style, even though I felt like it should be sometimes.
“We can clearly see that this document has you written all over it” … mumbled Detective Blobby from inside his mask and goggles. “Is this your handwriting?”
“Yes, it is Detective, it’s a standard receipt thing we give to a business when we’ve completed an inspection and depending on the outcome, write some extra notes as well.”
Sally moved ever so closer and asked very quietly … “Did you know this person? he’s the homeowner, his name is Albert J Michaels.”
“I’m not sure, maybe when we can see his face, without all that muck all over it, I’d be able to tell. Does he have any legs under that tarp or are they what’s nailed up on that wall?”
“Well, you’d be spot on Millar, they are his legs and we found his feet cooked in the microwave. We’ll show you the back yard, that’s where the rest of him has been displayed and spread.”
The house was lovely, except for the body parts strewn all over the place. It wasn’t what you’d expect from this neighbourhood, but care, style and money had been applied inside to make this a lovely home. Some of the furnishings would look good in my place, I’d have to find out who supplied them. Michelle would love them. I wouldn’t want to buy these of course, no matter how cleaned up they were. Buying second-hand furniture, clothes and accessories was never really high on my agenda and now even less so.
The colours and careful gardening in the backyard had been tainted by the body parts and fluids. The lush and manicured lawn had an abattoir feel about it while the vegetable patch would no longer supply organic vegan food. It was so badly contaminated by meat it would have to be completely removed.
I worry about the strangest things. My mind is a bit like poor Mr Michaels, all over the fucking place. He was literally all over the fucking place, granted it was his place, but it was a soup of human putrescible waste and one that would take many months to sort out.
Sally asked me the million-dollar question, right there in this waste land of human parts and fluids.
“Would you like to get a drink after I finish up here, maybe a steak? What about 19.30.”
I thought she’d never ask. “Yes, I’d love that Sally, how about the Fat Cow? I didn’t normally recommend food establishments, but this Fat Cow was the lesser of evils in my area. It served a great steak and its owner owed me a favour. Not in any corrupt cash for you favour way. It’s just that I saved him from a protection beating from the Devil May Carers.
They also owed me a favour, one they were happy to pay back, so the slate was clean. Their new strip club and tattoo parlour would be in direct competition to my own club and thankfully we don’t owe each other any favours at the moment. Although we both some had stiff competition to attract.
Rupert K. Asquith aka Special K sat in the dank smelly concrete toilet block and waited. He always sat and waited when the urge became too strong. He did that a lot and he enjoyed the sexual gratification this location provided him. This gay cruising toilet block had the highest turnover of keen young men in Port Lincoln, while the glory hole was a snug fit in itself. Special K didn’t even consider how hypocritical his urges and anonymous sexual get togethers were.
He was in charge, he was their leader, he was the man that made it all up and was his own God within the Church of the Sunshine Grass not a follower. Those lost and weak souls deserved all the cruel and manipulative indoctrination and so called “thought reform” that he forced upon them.
Special K was in fact not very special at all. He was 52 years old, without much hair and a sickly thinness that stuck out like a weed in a prize garden. Special K liked to wear 80’s chic and it was always a bit loose and ill-fitting, a bit like his personality. Those in Law Enforcement would target him as a sex offender just by looking at him, the overly observant, the force and prisoners had such a knack.
Special K also had a full range of dribbling’ly hideous noises that he made when he spoke, especially when he got excited, and he loved to speak all the time. His sermons were legendary in the church and not only because of the odd noises, but the vigour with which he delivered them. He ranted, screamed and berated all that were forced to sit in front of him.
Special K was pleased that no one really knew of his sexual tastes, well except for his partners and that scum sucker EHO at the Council. He’d been present when some slow poke Council officers kicked the active and spent crowd out of the now unused and closed down toilet block in Shingle. They let the occupants go and go they did, very quickly. That bloody EHO Alex Millar happened to see Special K and knew exactly who he was and what he’d been up to.
He was also the prick who’d criticised their food stall at the last Port Lincoln Show. The fucker made them throw out three large pots of curry, all because they couldn’t prove how long it had been sitting on the freak’n bench. Good curry it was. He was a prick with a probe thermometer up his arse. Alex had placed himself onto the top of the list, the list of retribution in Special K’s special book.
Not only did you not want to be in the book, being number one was very bad. So bad that Special K had made money helping people to lower their entry rating. He never removed people, he just moved them about a bit.
“Alex” … Michelle screamed, “what the fuck is this shit on your pants. Can’t you do your job without dragging your clothes through everything?”
“Well my darling, it’s not actually from work as such, but you better separate those from the rest of our washing. It’s not very pleasant.”
“What do you mean, what is it?”
“Are you sure you want to know? You’ve been playing about with it and it’s all over your hands.”
“Yes, I do Alex … just tell me.”
“Well I was called to a very gruesome crime scene today and that’s part of what was spread about the scene, human remains.”
“Fucking hell … Couldn’t you have told me before I got it everywhere. Where did this happen?”
“Over in Shingle, you know “crap heights” it was a murder scene and I was called in because my name was written on a Council form.” He didn’t go into how it was there or elaborate on the scene itself.
“The homeowner appeared to have been killed, Albert Michaels I think the Police said.”
“Oh god no, I know Albert, he was a contractor we used at work, he was working on tightening up the loan documents and stuff for the Church of the Sunshine Grass. That Pastor had asked him to be replaced, apparently, he had upset the good Mr Asquith and Bob had to replace him. Funny you say that though, Bob had been looking for him for a week to calm the drama Mr Asquith had caused.”
“Did Albert have any sort of a food business?”
“I don’t know why the hell would you ask that? he was a Mortgage Broker is all I know. He was a good guy and unlike you, could talk with his girlfriend about all sorts of things.”
“Well what does that mean, what sort of things and what do you mean by unlike me?”
“Oh shut up and help get those remains off your clothes and then you can help me to get it off me.”
Alex as always did as he was told, well if it suited his own end of course. He and Michelle had a lovely meal at the local Indian and then headed home to sit back and watch Tv.
Alex was trying to figure out what Albert had done to upset Special K and was Special K somehow responsible for what was happening to Alex. Maybe the dalliance at the cruiser bust had bitten back a bit hard. Surely that glory hole action was against the rules in the church of the sweaty grass, Alex would have to investigate further.
He liked that idea and went to bed with a smile on his face and a spring in his mattress. Alex woke from a troubled sleep, the sex was great, the sleep was not. Michelle had a knack for turning and tossing, not during the sex mind you, but afterwards in the warm sleep that followed.
She doesn’t know about it of course, well only when Alex tells her. She bucks about the bed like she’s in the middle of a game of rugby. She turns, rolls, dives and steals all the bed clothes with the determination of a true champion. She’d wake with a refreshed mind and rested body, unlike Alex who wakes with a headache and a cold back. The sacrifice for love is a wonderful thing, perhaps Alex should ask Michelle to stop, but it was a waste of time.
Special K didn’t wake with too much energy either. He’d been up all night at a new cruising location and found it less than satisfactory. The Police turned up just as he was leaving the car park. This time he made it out without getting caught. He was very lucky but very annoyed, that Alex fellow kept popping into his thoughts. How was he going to retaliate?
Special K thought that Alex had spread the word out about his causal dalliance. Alex hadn’t, but the extra special Mr K was very certain that he had. He had decided to wipe that smug, extra well-groomed bastard off the face of the Earth, and the smug smile of his face while doing it, well at least he’d get him kicked out of his Council job. He was going to make it very hard for Alex, that fucktard Albert J Michaels was a side issue, but served a purpose in tying the messy carve up to Alex.
It was all thanks to Mathew Donald the silly chef who’d been at the Church trying to score with some of the younger female parishioners. he’d agreed to providing an alibi for Special K and his recent Record of Audit Form.
All Special K had to do was insist that two of the young girls slept with Mathew. No big deal in the Church of the Sunshine Grass it was almost a daily occurrence. These young people had no hope and Special K gave it to them.
Lincoln Point was extra sunny today and the greenery glowed like an emerald on a movie star’s little finger. The only downside on this glorious day was the nonsense the local paper proclaimed from its pages. The rather simple-minded millionaire that ran the Council was sprouting some intelligible rant about progress or something and he’d upset some folks from down south. He or someone else in Council had invited them to present some detail and he’d cut them off rather rudely. Rude and ignorant was a description offered quite often about this rather odd little man.
He was all set to change the tone of Lincoln Point, although he’d managed to do so in just a few months. Alex drove to work with this sunshine bleeding through the car windows. He kept an eye out for angry people behind him and evil litterers in front of him. This kept him distracted and vaguely interested on his way to work. What crap would present itself to him today and could he be bothered.
The newspaper really had the hots for the Mayor and Alex thought it was surprisingly accurate. The man as keen as he was, was really a buffoon. He couldn’t put two words together that made any sense and delighted in bamboozling his way around some pretty serious topics. He did have money, but he seemed to have no sense.
Another odd feature of Lincoln Point was that it boasted the briefest of bikini clad Metal Girls doing their rounds and their bits, while pretending to refill parking meters for folk who parked there by the sea. Well they used to do that. Nowadays they just dangle their bits and roam about selling their merchandise.
They allowed themselves to invigorate desperate men and boys who’d never normally get quite so close to such briefly dressed sexy girls, by posing for photographs. It was a ridiculous sight, the metal bikinis and the stupid cowboy hats, the saline tits, all storming about the extra sunny Lincoln Point. Those days should have been long gone you might say.
Mathew Donald loved the Metal Girls and that was how he met up with Special K. The meeting was fortuitous in many ways. Special K mentioned he had some young girls that would wear whatever Mathew wanted, when and how ever he wanted them. All he had to do was to provide an alibi and give Special K the last Audit Report that Alex had given him during the last inspection. What that had meant Mathew didn’t know, or even care. Alex was a pain in the arse and had cost him nearly $4,000.
He had to change the rotten cool room door and repaint his entire restaurant / cafe. Sure the old door was falling off its hinges and the shop hadn’t been properly cleaned for a year, but Council and Governments in general where always interfering in small business, especially his.
Mathew had a very small business called “The Meat Cafe” and he blamed everyone but himself for this lacklustre example of commerce. His food was shit as well, but he blamed the Chef for that. His taste in young girls would soon change his life and not for the better. Special K had him in his book now and he’d never get out of it. He’d learn all too late that Alex was the least of his worries.
This temporary life continues … until next time, hopefully soon.