Afterflood Zombie Files - Don't Vote For Reality, It's A Bastard

My head was full of fear, the googling thing in my skull hadn't quite yet logged in.  Looking back at Stuey's shooting of Chris I now know that deep down there'd been a realisation that what Stuey had done was necessary, but  the shock, combined with the effects of the strong rum had pulled another level of fog over my mind.

I kept on walking up the hill on the north side of Bronte Beach.  I walked past the millionaire mansion once owned by Heath Ledger and reached Hewlett Street.  I took one more look down at the park and the beach, Chris' body now just a misdrawn stick figure on the clubhouse promenade with Stuey nowhere to be seen.  I turned around just as a police car pulled up right near the steps I usually take up to Andrew Court.  Two cops got out, one of them carrying a data slate, the kind carried by couriers, pizza delivery types and other functionaries of an online world.  The other carried  a look of exhausted worry.  Worry beckoned to me,
"Address?"
There it was, no questions about shotgun blasts, decapitated shopkeepers or crazy old clubbies, just my address.
I told them,hysterically  adding,
"But what about Chris and Stuey?  Chris is down there, dead and Stuey's off his nut!" I pointed down at the clubhouse,
"Okay," the cop looked down at the beach, "we're dealing with that, a team is on its way and it will be okay".  Just one thing about that,   was the victim infected?  sort of stumbling, pale, mumbling or groaning?" If so, did he bite you?"
I shook my head, still in a fog, still not registering what was turning out to be something far more horrible than what I'd just seen.  Alert, I wasn't, never really had been.

"Okay, go back to your place, pack up and go to your evacuation centre. Its on this docket."
Data Slate Cop printed out what looked like a receipt and handed it to me.  It had my name, address and Bronte Public School on it, plus a series of numbers.

"The numbers are your receipt for your apartment, its contents and any outstanding financial obligations currently associated with it.  When this is over, you'll need that receipt.  Keep it safe.  Now get the fuck out of here. Oh yeah, that guy you saw get shot? "
I nodded, at last an acknowledgement of what I'd seen.  Also I'd forgotten I was carrying Stuey's weapon and two cops hadn't blinked an eye. Reality gave me a big fuck off slap to the head.  The cop went on,
"If you see another one like him, use that shotgun. Head shots are the only way to stop them.  Go on, get packed and get to evac."

The cops walked away and up to the house next to Heath's and knocked on the door.  I watched.  No answer.  They waited, so did I.  No answer. Data Slate cop punched his receipt printer, tore off the paper and slid it under the door.  They then stuck a strip of green tape on the door. When they saw me they shooed me off.  I walked away, with increased pace.  When I got to my block I saw a few of the other residients piling their cars with prized possessions.  I rushed up the stairs to my place, saw a red sticker on the door and went inside.  A cop receipt was on the floor, telling me that as there was no-one home the flat was now government property, due to the emergency.  If I didn't contact the number provided or report to a police officer I would have no right to the flat, its contents but would still be liable for any financial liabilities. I laughed, put the shotgun down, tore up the note and took stock. I gathered a few family photos, a couple of books, a stack of cd's and DVD's including Zombieland and Planet Terror then all the food I had.  Only amounted to two boxes worth of supplies.  Then it hit me, Chris' shop was closed.  all shops would be closed.  I switched on the radio and tuned to ABC Local, the go to station for emergencies.  I switched on the TV, it was still working.  Flipping the channels showed me a series of news desks, explaining eveacuation details for The Emergency.  Kochie was noticeably absent but Karl Stefanovic was there, running through hard facts and locations.  The ABC had  Virginia Trioli going through much the same.  On radio they were doing it by postcode groupings.  I listened for mine as I showered.  I changed into jeans, steel capped boots, long sleeved drill shirt and packed socks'n'jocks for a week, two pairs of jeans, my board shorts, two other pairs of shorts and a few windcheaters and jumpers until the pack was amost full. I packed my toiletries and first aid kit in the front pocket and whatever touring maps I could find and strapped a pair of runners on one side and sandals on the other. Reminded me of my ratsacking days.

I then went through whatever I could find on the net as to what had happened while I was being an oblivious, self obsessed, dozey prick. I found that the H1N1 virus had jumped ship into some sort of brain fucker, maybe allied to an encepholytis thing but the science was beyond me.  Boffins had released mosquitos into the east coast flood areas, mossies which carried bacteria designed to sterilise other mossies.  It worked but not before the mutant virus had spread.  By the Flying Spaghetti Monster had it spread.  Cities and towns were being evacuated, right fucking now, and then they would be cleansed.  People who'd been infected by the mutant virus were being herded into makeshift camps. There were vids of some of them, aimlessly shambling and then occasionally taking a bite out of someone.  All accompanied with the OMG screams and a spooky mumbling from the biters.  I found a couple of snuff vids from a group tagged as #zedkillnow. Those vids reminded me of what Stuey had done with Chris. That's why the cops were matter of fact about that little episode and weren't surprised by my possession of a shotgun.  They were getting everyone, well, the uninfected, the hell out of town before the critical mass of infection would wipe us all out.  Was that right?  I didn't know, all I was worried about were family and friends but still I looked after myself and resumed packing.

I surveyed what I'd packed and in another box I stuffed detergent, toilet paper and the half dozen plastic bottles of water I kept in the fridge.  Then my beer, and a bottle each of rum, bourbon, single malt, gin, vodka and Drambuie.  All my booze. I carried everything down to my car and waved goodbye to Therese and Ian from downstairs as they were marshalled off in their Lancer by a bloke in an orange SES vest.  I went back to my flat,  did an idiot check then grabbed all the chargers and batteries I owned, including the car adaptors for laptop and phone.  I checked the phone for signal and found that it did.  I sent texts to all my contacts telling them I was heading to the local primary school and would update later.  I checked my own inbox and found similar messages with a lot of hysterical OMG!!!'s included, like you'd expect from Big Brother contestants when they first realised they were actually in Da House. My twitter timeline was full of crap, but had some helpful links which I immediately hooked into, #dontpanic being one of the best. I tweeted what I was doing then flicked back to SMS mode. I sent one to my siblings saying I'd head up to the mountains to my brother's place, going via my sister's at Balmain.  The messages got through, acknowledgements from all, with my sister saying to avoid Balmain, she was going to her son's place outside of Griffith.  He was minding a farm for friends of the family.  Perfect bug out place.  Okay, so I hooked into my frends' replies.  They were a mixture of sensible planning and panic.  The sensible ones I wished good luck, the panicky ones I told to take ten deep breaths and do what the evacuation people were saying. I looked for my hip flask, the one with the Makers Mark logo and opened it up, sniffing the contents like a seventeenth century toff sniffing his perfumed hankerchief as he walked the streets of a stinky London. Smelled alright to me, nothing like London and the only peasant around here was myself.  I took a quick swig, recapped the flask and did the final idiot check.  I pulled out all electrical cords, turned off all switches, checked the fridge (for the tenth time) and turned off the water mains. both hot water and general purpose. That was me done. I looked around the flat, it seemed emptier but still as if someone lived there.  Pictures on the walls, and, oh crap, better put the pot plants on the balcony with their rougher, óutside' mates.  Right, that was it.  Everyting locked, ship shape and as untidy as I dare, which was a truckload of untidy.

I walked out, final bags in hand and went downstairs to my car, dumping the bags on the back seat while others milled around, waiting for the direction to go.  Fuck, check letterbox. Sure, I was goning to summon the real estate agent offering instant valuation and then follow up with a selection of home delivery Thai, Indian, Chinese, Turkish and pizza orders. I laughed at the futility of it but still put the flyers into the Blue, (Paper and Cardboard only) Recycling Bin. Gotta help the planet.  My head was still spinning, a combination of fear, panic and wanting to run.  Fight or flight, I'll do a runner every time. I checked the fluid levels for my Commodore, only needing to put in a bit of brake fluid and top up the wiper water tank.  All packed, ready to go. Now what else was happening?  There were still six of us waiting, two couples, myself and Heather from number nine. The two couples were backpackers on short term leases.  Noisy fucks a week ago but they looked scared, making nervous jokes, trying to lift flat spirits and reassuring each other in some sort of cultural throw back to the Blitz. Heather just looked stunned.  She also still looked stunning.

Okay, recap on Heather. My first encounter with Heather had been a few months ago, earlier on in  the swimming season.  It was a late Sunday morning and I'd just put a load of washing in the communal laundry and walked out onto the landing between floors.  She was walking down from above wearing a very skimpy bikini, an angel from above. I did the smiley "hi" thing and she smiled back.  I noticed a large red mark above her left breast, extending up to her shoulder.  She noticed my gaze, rubbed the area and explained she'd encountered a jellyfish and it was still stinging.  Hmmm, here comes Prince Valiant,
"Ï have something you could put on that." Geez, that came out wrong.  I quickly added a postscript, Ï have some Sting Go, for bluebottles and such."  Fuck, did I really say  'and such'? I was babbling.
"Really?  Does it work?"
"Sort of. Its best with ice, some sort of alcohol rub, then you smear it on."  I sounded more confdent now, having used the stuff before in exactly the same combination.
In my flat I got out the icetray and put some cubes on a saucer, then retrieved my reserve Stoli from the freezer.
She was checking out my flat, the untidiness of bachelordom combined with a coupe of prints of classic nudes on the walls, photos on the bookshef and the detritus of my slack lifestyle scattered around.

"Sorry about the mess." Traditional apology, I'd used it too often.
"Sókay.  Youré a bachelor obviously." I gave her the ice cube dish, not offering to do the rubbing.  She applied the ice while I went and got the anti-sting lotion. When I walked back into the kitchen dining nook she was rubbing Stoli onto her breast, underneath her bikini top. Now I needed the ice cubes. She looked up and took the lotion.  I did some busy look away stuff, grabbing a couple of glasses and pulling some chilled water out of the fridge. I poured two glasses and ventured a gaze at Heather, just in time to see her readjust her bikini top and do one of those wiggles which makes blokes like me think of anything besides scivvies and waggling two fingers at a bunch of toddlers. She noticed my obvious interest,
"Ï have a boyfriend." she smiled.  I grinned back,
"Let me know when that job becomes vacant.  I'll lodge a resume."
Heather took a swig of Stoli then downed the glass of water before standing up and moving to the door.
"Thanks for the first aid, Laundry Boy.  See ya 'round." She threw back a smile and a swish of dark brown hair as she walked out the door.  I propped there watching her arse sway along the walkway. She turned around once she reached the stairs at the end and gave a wave which I reciprocated. Took me a full half hour to get my hear rate down to something which wouldn't alarm St Vincents Hospital.  Then I retrieved my washing from its wet thrashing.
Since then I'd noticed her around and about and exchanged pleasantries, even going to the shops together once or twice when we found each other about to embark on identical missions, but from my point of view it was all very sadly platonic.

Six of us waiting, ready to decamp to the local primary school.  Heather had her gear packed in her old Barina and the ratsackers were loaded up into a '96 Falcon wagon.  We stood around looking at Stuey's shotgun, wondering what the fuck was going to happen next.  A bloke wearing overalls, an orange SES vest and a rifle strapped across his shoulder walked up to us. He was holding a two way radio which was making walkie talkie noises. He listened, pressed the 'transmit'button and said,


"Ready for last of Andrew Place to go." He looked at us all and ground out the orders he'd uttered too many times,
"Okay you lot. Time to go. Park in Dixon Street near the school and go and get further evacuation advice. Don't forget your evac dockets. Those ED's are priceless."
After a quick conference re batting order of convoy, Heather led off with the Brits following her and me playing tail end Charlie. As we left I saw the SES bloke give us a wave. When I next looked in the side mirror he was finishing up taping across the driveway. Job done. I gave a mental wave goodbye to the block, my home of the last decade or so. Its care was now in the hands of the Bondi butterflies. Heather led us around to Hewlett Street and at the end of Dixon we found a cop waving us to the right. A hundred yards down there was enough space for our three cars. Further up the hill we saw roadblock barriers manned by another cop, this one wielding a very serious looking rifle, like one of those used by cops who surround hostage farmhouses outside of Adelaide. To our left was the school. Another SES guy was walking up and down keeping watch on all of the parked cars. Up the other end of the street we saw a small convoy of cars be waved through another road block. In the distance I heard what sound like a car backfiring. And again. I’d heard that sound before on soundtracks of movies featuring the cappingness of people called Eastwood or Willis. The six of us looked at each other, a lot of questions in a quick glance. Then the shooting of Chris decided to do an unrequested replay in my unforgiven mind, like some sort of crap initialisation fault in an iPhone app, written by aGen Y Jobs disciple in between tweeting about  'awsm pwning'. It was overlaid by the SES guy telling us to go up to the school, to the classrooms where we go to vote. This week I mainly be voting for ‘I want all of this crap to stop’. In both houses. Just write ‘1’ in the box for returning to normal. The SES bod told us to just take our ED’s. Oh yeah, Evac Dockets, not election porn from that cute Greens chick who always hangs out there on election day and never goes for the sausage sizzle.


The school grounds had around two hundred people milling around, waiting their turn to approach the classrooms. As we walked through the front gate a cop checked our dockets and waved us on into the grounds. A few more backfires popped off in the closing distance. Either the boy racers who frequent the precinct hadn’t spent a lot of time on tappets and timing or something a tad more sinister was on the hob. All I wanted was a few WRX hoons to go past and the world would be getting back in sync. Ended up there wasn’t a fully sick ride to be seen bro’, just some more popping and an increase in worry lines on the combined faces of the SES and cop establishment types. The SES guys all of a sudden were carrying rifles and shotguns. Some sort of apocalyptic magician’s trick. Prepared. There are times when you walk through the soft sand down at Bronte and it its hot, really scorching your soles, and its totally fucking hard to lift your feet despite the burniness. Seeing previously unarmed and peaceful volunteer blokes toting Arnie gear added a similar beachside angst. Painful, check. Necessary, in doubt. Scary, yes. Anthony Green called that one as a victory for the Get The Fuck Out Party after a simple, preliminary count of primary votes:
 “No need to go to preferences in this seat Kerry, we can call it right now. We’re just waiting on the early results in the adjoining electorate where the Scared Shitless candidate is way ahead in the count of some key  booths.”

We went to the tables which were signposted in alphabetical groupings., just like elections. The four backpackers were directed to an international table, just like absentee voters. I was in the ‘A-H’ group, Heather in the ‘P-Z’ afterthought. The background backfiring died away, as I suspect did a few souls. A few minutes later the SES official asked my name.

“Terry Barton.”

I handed her my ED and my driver’s licence. She asked me where I was planning on going. I looked at Heather waiting two back in her queue and thought of my siblings. Once again that nasty little fucker called ‘doubt and indecision’ órchestrated a coup and named itself as supreme leader of my mind. Nothing was definite except wanting to run. To where, I now had idea.  Then what had been a little acorn grew into the mother of all oaks in my head,  and in its unyielding, oakey language it yelled,

 "Time to man the fuck up you useless prick.  For fuck's sake, make a move!"

Those talking trees can be a real bastard, just like those tiresome fucking Tolkien Ents, especially when all you want is to hide under a bed and wake up when everything is all nice and easy again.  I realised something about that little fantasy. Not. Going. To. Happen.  The road was waiting, and so were people I knew and loved. The background popping started again, closer this time.  I thought of my family, my friends and Heather.  Then I thought of Stewie's shotgun.  Fuck it.  It was now my shotgun and I suspected it was going to become one of my besties.  Man up?  It was going to take a shitload more than a shottie, a V6 Commodore and a crush on a neighbour.  It was however a start.  Time to hit the road.

Aftersludge - Z Files Floodfic Intro

Okay, its taken a shit load of whisky and some minor revision but here it goes.  The intro to a story of floods, hope, zombies and running scared. I only just realised that Birmo had used 'after' in his last title. Fuck it, my title sounds good to me anyway and that's really all that counts.

AFTERSLUDGE (A floodfic Zed tale)

I sit here and look around the cafe wondering how it all came about. Where did it start? Was it as that kid in Ipswich tweeted, “Prolly the scary man in the haunted house up the road started it.”? Who really knows?  Sure the eggheads have their explanations about biological controls and mutant viruses but I’ll try and figure it out as I write this brief account of our experience.  Figure it out for humans now that I have the time, feeling a hell of a lot safer in amongst a larger, well equipped and organised group. Baz reckons it’s the result of natural selection that we’re all together in one place. I put it down to a bit of luck in finding the right people, the right vehicles, the right weapons and having read and watched a lot of post-apocalypse scenarios. Especially ones with those zombie fucks.

 By jingies I hate those shambolic representations of unlife.  To me the definition of life is the elimination of them.  Nothing else matters. To them I'm just a food source, a walking human DNA food court.  I can understand that after the Eleven Floods, the risks of Ross River Fever, Dengue Fever and some bastard of an encephalitis strain needed to be controlled.  The CSIRO boffin who developed bacteria which would render the mosquitoes infertile was on the right track.  Just a shame it happened to coincide with the mutation of H1N1 away the fuck from its flu path and into the brain path.  How the fuck it jumped like that we still don't know, only that all the mosquitoes subsequently infected as carriers are now dead, thanks to the boffins bacteria agent.  A big fucking shame that all those mossies bit a huge chunk of the population and the Z1 flu was then transmitted via bodily fluids. Didn't take long to hit Asia and once it was there, Europe, the Americas and Africa didn't have a hope in hell'; there simply wasn't enough time for it to be analysed and quarantined.  Fuck me, its a wonder any of us have survived.  Now we have all these zeds gnawing on humans.  All they need is a hit of DNA and they can keep going. The humans don't even have to be alive, just uninfected.  That's a fuck load of bones lying out there for these monsters to gnaw on.  Doc Strang tried to explain from his fortress in Dunedin but I can't grasp it.  Maybe its because his accent has gotten Kiwified but shit I wish he'd speak straight.  I could swear he once quipped
"Zuds in Unzud, eh?"
I hope he and his missus will come up with something better than suggesting,
"Get some L&;P bro! Failing that look at your dopey fucking DNA strands and see what bits the Shuffling Cunts most prefer.  Get a grip, observe and find some answers. We're full bore on some messy fucking lab work here and its time you zed fodder helped out."
What a smart arse.  I much preferred it when he stuck to slagging off the likes of Michael Clarke, Manly Warringah and Charlie Sheen.

So Baz has quite  a few of his own egghead mates working on just that.  He calls it a critical mass of research capability, I see it as a most excellent opportunity to take the piss out of nerds.  They really hate it when I ask them to analyse Warnie's zooter in terms of aerodynamics, mass, shape and his rooting ability.  They just don't get it.  They shoo me out of the lab or away from their Macs and ask me to look for more samples.  I reckon they're a big reason why we lost the Ashes twice in a row with their reliance on computing power and muesli bars.  I  wish we had McGyver or that bloke from Burn Notice.  They'd know what to do.  Mind you I'm glad we eventually teamed with our own A Team in the form of Wally and his tribe.  But that was recently and I need to get back to the start of it all.  Geez its hard trying to keep this shit together but I'll do my best.

The floods were a real bastard the way they hit the East Coast.  The West suffered as well but Queensland, the NSW rivers and Victoria suffered big time, particularly Queensland. I remember going up there to help out a mate in Ipswich, shovelling that stinking mud, lifting white goods and sodden furniture and who knows what else.  Brisbane was flooded with volunteers but Ipswich struggled at first until the tweet deluge sent hundreds of gumboot wearers to where they were needed.  Tough, smelly and at times dangerous but really uplifting in the way everyone banded together. What I hated was when some arsehole would yell the State Of Origin Cry ""Queenslander!".  As a True Blue New South Welshman it made my blood boil.  Sure, it helped them get through but I wished they'd get a new catch cry those cane toad fuckers.

A month after the first effort I went back up to see what else was needed, knowing that the initial surge could do with some follow up. The immediate post flood adrenaline rush had left the locals a bit worn and the workload had taken its toll. That's when the boffins announced they'd been releasing mosquitoes with some sort of bacteria which would help wipe out all sorts of diseases and viruses by rendering the mossies infertile and in some cases neutralising the virus.  Then the encephalitis and H1N1 mutations started.  We weren't to know and the early cases were diagnosed as different flu's, so vaccines were administered to everyone.  Vaccines which didn't beat Z1, which had already jumped ship and was happily swimming to all points of the globe like a kid splashing about in a tub of soft serve ice cream.  What a nasty fucking virus that one turned out to be.  It killed off brain cells affecting all memory, most verbal, and the more sophisticated motor skills. The patients would then be driven by a need to ingest human DNA.  That's the only way they could survive.  In some of the early cases all had seemed lost so the docs turned off the beep beep machines, rendering the patients clinically dead.  Oh yeah, sure they were. They simply lurched up, and started munching on whatever human they found nearby.  I remember the first vision of this captured by hospital security CCTV being laughable, unbelievable, and we thought that it was some sort of YouTube/hoax, like when someone photoshops their girlfriend's naked and sex consuming body on Shakira's head.  Really fucking funny.

One of the most shocking clips was taken by a proud dad, of his week old infant breast feeding. It was sneezing and then using its milk teeth to tear tiny pieces of flesh from its stunned mother.  The vision of milk and blood weeping from her breast as she tried to both comfort and shun her child  was a symbol for us all, a symbol for our species. The sound of her husband's cries suddenly cutting out as he discarded the camera echoed around the world from its source in Brazil.  An echo of despair to be repeated millions of times, as crippling fear, panic and chronic depression had a group marriage with zed as the wedding crashers.  I still hear those cries whenever I try and grab some sleep. I catch Z's in my sleep as well as when I'm awake. My hope is that the echo will stop once we've wiped them out.  Its why I'm glad we all agreed on the cafe's name, it speaks of hope and reassurance.  No-one argued with my suggestion of  '"Zed's Dead."  Just after suggesting it I watched Wally go roaring off on his enduro with shottie in the custom scabbard and a Steyr strapped to his back.  Naturally he'd festooned himself with a long knife, grenades and an awesomely potent looking sledgehammer.  Ever the craftsman is Wally.

A few months after the floods recovery I was ruminating on how fucking jammy our cricket team had been in winning the cricket world cup and hoping that the Bulldogs would continue their arse whipping ways in the NRL and the Swans keep up their winning streak in the AFL.  I also had a soft spot for the Chicago Cubs struggling with their screwed up roster and pleasantly surprised to see them running 3rd with one game back. I was watching the Bulldogs go sixteen ahead of Easts Rorters through the agency of another blockbusting run and try by the silly-haired-and-inked Jamal Idris.  Channel Nine cut into the coverage with an Urgent News Bulletin just after Ennis kicked the conversion.  They had vision of the so-called H1N1 variant flu causing another series of school, hospital and, well basically anything where concentrations of people gather. From there it just went on and they never went back to the football game. This was serious with the biggest fucking capital S I'd ever seen. More serious than Jack Black's Oscar nomination for that piece of 3D special effects crap and way scarier. Just.

I took stock of my bug out gear, logged into the Zombie Squad website for helpful hints on flu outbreaks, packed and walked down to the beach.  Nothing like a body surf to clear the cobwebs of fear. The lifesavers weren't there, no flags denoting the safe swim zone and only a score of die hard Coast Walk puffers pounding the beach side as I walked onto the sand.  I looked at the waves, judged that the rip was where it should be and splashed in where I reckoned the clubbies would have thought was safe. It was near high tide and some nice waves were rolling in on the north side about twenty metres out.  Noice. There were three more swimmers out there and we had a chat about the flu outbreak.  We all agreed it was a brief interlude and the boffins had it under control and meanwhile, these were some of the bestest waves for body surfing evvaahhh!

After we'd had enough we went back up near the clubhouse and found a lone bloke wearing his surf lifesaving gear, cap and all. It was old Stuey, one of the Bronte mainstays and a legend of the BBQ fundraisers and helping drunk euroratsackers out of a fight with the briny. The latter was a major fault, I had no time for those dumb fucks and had previously offered him a hundred bucks to hold their heads under water.
Stuey said he was staying, "It's pride son.  this is my beach and I want to see it safe if only for today. If I were you blokes I'd be getting out and heading bush where you can find tucker and water. Things are turning to shit and it ain't gonna improve.  Me, I know waht I'm up to and I know how to keep meself together.  Besides, I don't want ter have ter be dragging your arses out of the shit every hour."

I looked at the other swimmers and I saw what I was feeling.  Dead cold fear now that we'd left the ocean and its winter-chilly yet comforting waters. We'd left the womb and were looking for our first comfort, a swaddling blanket, a milky breast and soothing, cooing voices.  What we saw was way the fuck from such fantasy. We saw Chris from the corner shop on Hewlett St stumble down the stairs which connect the top, northern part of Bronte Park to the beach.  He was stumbling, looked drunk.  He sneezed once and fell down, raised himself in a parody of a cheap mime (no, you ain't getting any cash from me you try hard fuck), and saw Stuey. As the four of us swimmers drew together in a sense of fearbonding we saw Stuey walk inside the clubhouse and come back out with a shotgun.
"Chris, the beach is closed.  go back up home."
 I called out,
"Stuey! It's Chris. Whaddaya doin' mate?"
Stuey swung the shottie around to us, shook his head and swung it back on Chris.  I called to Chris to stop, that Stuey was mad but he kept on with this stumbling shuffle, his head turning to Stuey and his mouth starting to work a poor grumble.  Stuey had the shottie cocked, finger on trigger and I was about to see one local icon blast the crap out of another.  I admit I'm not brave and I froze, the fear setting my feet in the biggest concrete slab of do-nothing since the Feburary Taliban peace talks and then I noticed my fellow body surfers edging backwards, looking backwards and eyeing off the surf, like they wanted some sort of re birthing experience.  Chris was oblivious, seemingly drugged, sort of lobotomized ad focussed on Stuey.  Oh dear.  Chris managed a slight slaver and didn't stop, still with an unintellible groan.  Death stared out of his eyes and I realised that something was wrong, very, very wrong. As my fellow swim buddies edged back to the womb,  all I had was a Primal Scream,
"Chris!  No!  Its Stuey and he'll shoot!"

Stuey glanced back at me, shook his head ever so slightly and watched Chris stumble on.

Its a really strange thing, having that portent of something bad about to happen but not acting. Cowardice, fear, all bound up in selfish-preservation. Sure I"ll own up to all of that and more but I still think I could have rushed Stuey, distracted him and prevented what happened.  That's always the gnawing, soul-thumping and ultimately  nightmare spawning, dagger of doubt.

Chris mumbled, groabed, I dunno, it was all way too scary weird to take  in at the time.  Chris stumbled on. Stuey raised his shotgun ever so slightly and squeezed on the trigger.  A roar! A deity-shaking, deafening noise. An explosion not only injuring and abusing but almost raping the wonderful, naturally soothing rhythm of the beach. A spurt of flame and a cloud, a quickly boiled then dissipating cloud of stinking death notice smoke, writing a sign of the future. The shotgun pellets tore into and through Çhris' head. It reminded me of a cicada I'd once stomped on as a kid and had guiltily buried in a matchbox.  A bloody mess mixed with white and grey, pieces of skull and bone but never like that seen on a faux pirate flag.
Chris fell with the remnants of his skull hitting the pavement before the rest of his body.  Apparently mine wasn't too far behind as the sheer unreality of what I'd seen overcame any interest in witnessing more horror. It was the first time, a landmark, a raging beacon for the GPS navigator of shock and despair.

"At the next shock take the foetal position and cry." demanded my internal Tom Tom.

I disobeyed. I didn't wait for the next shock, just did it right then as memories of Chris selling me bus tickets, smokes, ice-creams and overpriced groceries mingled with the reality of his bloody, almost headless corpse falling into unlife. It all ran through like some crap beta version of a Windows media player running on Acid Max. I didn't really know it was just the beginning. I certainly felt like taking the avoidance option,  my natural instinct.

Oh how my subconscious yearned for that avoidance, to make it easy and safe, but that bastard called reality kicked in via the agency of a now shotgun less Stuey offering me a cup of tea.  I took it, shakily slurping, almost crying as my shoulders sagged in disbelieving shock. Stuey then draped a blanket around me and handed me a hip flask.  I took it, my hands still shaking.  I sniffed the opening.  Rum.  Bundy. Some habits can be useful.
"Thanks mate. That OP is it Stuey?"
He grinned, the first one I could remember given the circumstances, and responded in his own, old school style.
"Natch. Whaddaya reckon, I'm a poof?"

I took a healthy pull.  It was comforting, a memory of late nights in good times.  I looked around and for the first time got out of my own centre and wondered where the three other swimmers were.  Stuey saw this and explained,
"When they saw you drop they did runners bigger than the Yanks' relay team. They all took off in their crap Vaucluse Vans."  He held a low opinion of Swedish and Malaysian all wheel drive soccer mum cars.  I took another swig of the Bundy and he offered me a smoke.  Winnie Blues.  I took one as John Saffran's line about trusting him on the Winnie Blues bizarrely ran through my mind. I knew there was no cynical, smart arse Melbourne guerrilla comedy gonna get me away from this, away from Chris' now covered corpse, away from the gunpowder stink and away from the realisation that life was never going to be the same again. No, no enfant terrible to help out here.

Stuey was getting edgy and spoke as such,

"Sorry to brush you mate, but I need to get my shit together.  Another two days and this will be kill zone in paradise. Get the fuck out of here and quickly. I'm sorry you had to see what happened to Chris, but there'll be more of that.'"
Stuey was staring to unravel, the whole gory, stinking mess was hitting him, yet he still kept some cool.
""Fuck! You'll need one of these.  I got anotheree, yeah. Shotties for everyone!"
He gave a half maniacal giggle, his shooting of Chris was taking more effect.
He looked at his shotgun and handed it to me.  Then he went back to the clubhouse and came back with a box of ammunition a few minutes later. I took the nterluded opportunity to I finish off the Bundy and fired up another Winnie Blue. Stuey smiled as he saw me set down the flask and take another drag. He then went all Captain Lifesaver serious, shoving the ammo into my hands. His voice resonated with fear and realisation of what may yet come.
"Use that gun and don't hesitate."
I croaked out almost a half sob,
"Thanks Stuey.  I'll come back after I find my mob and once this blows over.  I'm sure we'll be eating your burnt snags in September."   I clenched back a sob, my voice all wobbly as I walked off,
"See ya, mate."
Stuey stiffened his middle, strode quickly forward and gave me a hug, and in a rumbling, controlled voice, offered his parting words of advice,

"Now fuck off.  There's no rainbow gold at the end of this victim storm."

Tweet Shmeet

Got meself a new PPP phone.  I can if I so desire get porn, get on the punt and check out the profanisaurus.  All of these things are quite useful but rack up the phone bill.  So after a 30 buck experiment I've figured it out. If you want porn, use the 'puter.
I'm also watching Oz v Poms while I blog this and I haven't yet figured out the multi application window thing where you get ya tweets, ya blog, ya porn, ya profanisaurus and a live feed to Beyonce's arse.  Also I'm drogging whilst  blinking.  Í got some Uncle Teds which helped me soothe the Friday after work frenzy.  Then I cooked up some kangaroo kebabs.  By jingies they were good.  I'm tops at cooking a bit of roo. I've also got a bourbon or two options plus Lagavulin for cigar time.
So I set up a twunter account a while back and never used it.  I've just recently lobbed something in there and now am exploring how to hook in.
Tait is now bowling to the tail of the poms batting list.  He took a good catch a bit earlier and I really love his fear factor.  Its the aggro we need.
Where was I?  That's right, PPP phone, PC (also new) and fkn twitzifying.
Tait's limping now, the useless prick.  Done his 'nads.  Fucking South Australians. Sack him.
The Australian selectors have all sorts of eggs on their face for not selecting son of Twampy Mart (that's how one commentator used to pronounce Geoff Marsh's appelation of Swampy Marsh). Young ún Marsh scored a well made, natch winning and heroic ton.  Brilliant, just showing the idiocy of persisting with Clarke and Smith.  This bloke has a good technique and some backbone as opposed to photo shoot ops in Hello!.  And bring in Kegsgrove, for the sake of the common cricketer and for common sense.
That's it, got 'roo to digest, Uncle Teds to ingest and a fucking cockroach just scuttled by.
Got him.
And Dougie Billinger just got the 9th pom out.  Good lad, after helping Marsh rescue Australia in what will end up being a match winning partnership.  Andrew hilditcjh, you are a fucking tool for leaving Marsh out of the World cup equation.
YD, if you pop in, good luck to the Bears on Sunday.  I'll need some Superbowl menu tips.  Its on Monday morning our time, around 8.30. Bit early for hot dogs but I'll get a couple of Yank suds, 'prolly a Miller or Bud, but the mainstay will be Oz product.
That's me,  the poms just got done by our lads and its time to see what this tweet shite is about.

In Awe

Just a quick note on the flood devastation. The amazing thing about it has been how quickly the government, its agencies and charities have moved.  The information blitz has been incredible, led by the Premier of Queensland Anna Bligh.  She has shown true leadership as have the mayors of the cities and towns affected by the oceans of water which have swamped their locales.
Our thoughts are with everyone affected by the devastation.

Best wishes to them all.

Hurrah! A New Post!

Yesterday I had only a minor hangover and cured it by a swim down at the beach. On the way down there I walked past a campervan. It was one of those cheap jobs favoured by backpackers who then park them in the nearby streets for easy access to the beach and to save on accommodation costs. Its become something of an issue for some people but it doesn't bother me all that much.
This particular campervan had its side door open so as I walked past with my hangover straining at the leash I peeked inside. Lying on the mattress was a young lady who was naked from the waist up. Obviously the occupants had opened the door to let in the sea breeze on a hot night and sometime during the post NYE activities the sheet had slipped off. So I guess this is what some of the Waverley Council residents don't like; half naked girls sleeping in campervans.

The beach was surprsingly uncrowded but the tide was on the low side which didn't make for any awesome surf type action. The water temperature has risen above that of the bitingly cold stuff of a month ago but it was still slightly brisk which to me is the ducks guts for the first stage of killing a hangover. The second stage is the hot walk back up the hill, a shower and breakfast fry up accompanied by a big pot of tea. I needed that because I caught up with some friends in the afternoon for New Years Day drinks. That went on for longer than is recommended by medicos but we had a good time. I ended up crashing at around 2.30 this morning so repeated the hanggover cure again. This time the campervan with its half naked mistress wasn't there. The water was a good start and this time for breakfast I stuck with muesli and tea and toast with home made jam i'd been given at Christmas. Tomorrow I fix a flat car battery and start looking for a Mazda 3. I'm targetting something only 2-3 nyears old with less than 40,000 kms on the clock. Specifically io'd like an SP23. They go well and have really, really cool dashboards which is important given that you look at them quite a bit.

But more importantly Australia takes on England in an effort to square the series and win back some sort of self respect. We have a bloke called Beer in the team and that has to be inspirational. On the down side is having that uselss twat Michael Clarke as Captain of the team. People are being sporting and congratulating England on their performance in Melbourne. I say fuck that for a game of soldiers, don't befriend them, just get out there and smash them.

Also this year I've upped the ante in tech gear so will be posting more frequently. Whether that's good or bad remains to be seen. Its now bourbon time.

Dog Shit Killers - Coda

The Chamberlain Hotel was unusually crowded for a late Saturday afternoon.  The bar staff had been augmented, a couple of extra kegs ordered and all the reserve glasses stacked in wire trays behind the main bar.  The licensee, Mark McCartney was standing at the side of the bar, ready for action as either barman, bouncer or wrangler of the stage.  Most likely all he'd probably do was down a few schooners of Reschs but give him his due, he was diligent with the beer pouring when it was needed and wasn't averse to using his knuckles to sort out trouble makers.  The fact that he'd never decked Max Jackson spoke volumes for the man's patience.

The "No Smoking Within a Metre Of The Bar" sign served Max Jackson well as an improvised ash tray while he surveyed the back part of the bar where the Dog Shit Killers were about to perform in public for the first time.  He kind of thought it would be the last time as well.  Rehearsing, trying to learn enough songs to play a couple of sets and booking rehearsal space was a lot of farnarkelling around, especially when there were races to bet on, girls to molest and drinks to be had.  The band consisted of himself and Wayne "Sniper" Blake on guitars and vocals, Kerry James on occasional back-up vocals, her boyfriend Ian Reep on bass and Senior Junior on skins. Senior Junior was a ringer, a young bloke studying the art of bashing drums in some sort of rhymical fashion under the tutelage of one of Jacko's work colleagues, Senior.  No-one knew Senior Junior's real name and they couldn't really give a stuff given that he was only a drummer.  Reep and Kerryn were checking mic leads and twiddling with a small sound desk,  Junior was sitting on his drum seat looking through a vintage copy of Viz Magazine, the issue with the Spice Girls Wank Hat.

Sniper Blake was busy trying to tell the bar manager, Margie that their rider included a keg's worth of beer and a bottle of Bundy O.P Rum.  Margie didn't blink but informed Blake that the only rider they had was a clip behind the ear and a long pole up the back passage if they gave her any more cheek.  Blake grabbed a tray of assorted drinks and brought them back to the band members.  He looked at Reep and called out,
"Hey Reepy, don't bother with that crap.  Just make sure its all plugged in and the volumes are right up.  Do one of those sound check things."
Reepy glanced over and replied,
"Check two poofs.  Check check. Jacko and Sniper.  Poofs. Poofs. Check."
As he said that he noticed the curvy form of Jacko's girlfriend, Gayle sneak up behind the guitarist and run her hand down Jacko's spine
"About time to fire up, Max.  Good luck."  She kissed him and stepped back to let Blake's girlfriend, Tina squeeze past.
"Wayne, you sure you know all the songs?" she asked,
"Fucken oath mate.  Its all sweet.  If I get in strife I'll just do some growling and thrash a few bar chords.  Piece of piss."  Blake downed his beer and went over to the stage area.  He tapped Max on the shoulder,
"Hey Jacko.  Didja get those extra plectrums?  I've only got one left."
Jacko shook his head,
"Nah, forgot 'em, but I've still got two."  He then looked at Junior who was chuckling at the Fat Slags episode in his Viz mag.
" The Wank Hat issue?  Its a fucking classic!" Junior nodded as Jacko went on "Fuck, we should have learnt a Spice Girls song.  Margie hates 'Wannabe'. Would have been a pearler."

Ian Reep strapped on his bass and ran a walking blues shuffle up and down the fret board as a warm up Blake played along, making sure his Ibanez was in tune.  Jackson's Rickenbacker looked the goods in Max's hands as he joined in the tune up twiddle by picking out a few bar chords and running the intro riff to "Day Tripper" over the top.  He fiddled with the machine head and played another couple of chords, satisfied with the tuning. "Come on Kez.  We're on."  Kerryn stepped up and moved to the left of Blake, ready to share his mic.  Blake looked around trying to count heads.  A lot of their work colleagues, footy and cricket team mates and other friends had come along for the party, mixing in with the usual crowd of drunks, bar flies and lost tourists.  The place was crowded, stretching around the front bar, along the front and snaking down the side.  The stuffed dingo perched above the centre bar had glass eyes, remarkably like those sported by the lead guitarists. The crowd was big and that was a relief after all the promises they'd made to McCartney, the pub landlord.  He smiled and waved at the overweight and happy figure of his boss hanging at the bar, talking to Margie.  His boss was a few years older and had cut Sniper a few breaks during the first months of their work relationship. He'd even introduced Sniper to the charms of the pub and had spent a few after work sessions splitting beers and occasionally giving helpful advice. From these sessions and owing to his boss' range of contacts Sniper had met the likes of Jacko and Ian Reep.  Sniper was glad his boss, Eric Barton was there to enjoy the festivities. 

Sniper nodded to Junior to count them in to the introductory piece, a ninety second punk piss take of the "Playschool" theme which they called "There's A Fucking Bear In There and Its Rooting Goldilocks."  There was a round of cheering and applause with a few enthusiastic whistles, mainly from their friends and workmates, but it was a promising start.  Jacko looked at Blake, asking,
"Well my sniping friend, what do you think happened to me last night?"
"Dunno Max.  You got pissed I reckon."
"Fuck yeah.  And this morning I realised I'd had a visit."
"And who were these mysterious visitors Jacko?"
"Well, young Sniper, from the amount of crap in my room and the way I felt I reckon they must have been  Hangover Gorillas."  With that Blake launched into the opening riff of the Dog Shit Killers first ever song, "Hangover Gorillas."

Seated at the bar amongst the regular drunks and ne-er do wells was Alan "Owly" Blake and one of his army mates, Benny Hanley, Owly's radio operator.  They'd come to the pub dressed as regular pub pissheads still sporting the beards they'd grown for Afghanistan and using devices such as shoulder pads, glasses and coloured contact lenses to stave off initial recognition.  Owly had a plan.

For their next songs DSK covered the Sunny Boys "Alone With You Tonight" and a couple of Beatles numbers, "Day Tripper" and "Birthday".  Luckily for Blake and Jackson the drummer was good and Reepo proved to be a usuable bass player.  This covered a number of missed chords and muted picking, but eventually the two guitarists started to find some form.  They'd been a bit slow and nervous early on in the innings with ball beating the outside edge and occasionally hitting the pads.  They weathered the early overs and began to hit a few runs.  They warmed into the gig, covering Nirvana and hitting the bullseye with the Stones' classic ""Honky Tonk Women".  Sniper then called for a break as he looked at a broken string which needed replacing.  He also fancied a cold beer and a smoke.

Owly Blake was getting bored with wearing his disguise as was his SAS mate Benny who asked his sergeant,
"So when are we gonna do this? There's sheilas and beer on tap and I'm fucked if I'll keep this crap on for much longer."
Owly nodded and replied,
"Yeah, let's do it now.  You go out the side door and I'll go around from the back bar.  When I pull the plug, do a runner and we"ll meet at the back of the car park, ditch our disguises and come back."
Benny got up from his stool and went out the side door as Owly lurched up and edged his way around to the back bar.  From there he had access to the back of the small stage through a short hallway which led back to the front bar. He waited for a largish bloke to make his way through the same door.  Then he realised he'd met him before during a night at this same pub with his brother.  It was his brother's boss.  Fuck! Would he recognise Owly?
Barton turned around as he made his way from the back bar toilet through to the front bar.  There was something familiar about the bearded, ragged looking bloke he'd just edged past. He'd met him before.  Was he one of his Department's many unemployed, desperate customers?  He sure looked it.  Oh well, he thought, may as well do a bit of PR.
"G'day mate.  Haven't seen you for a while.  How ya going?  Still on the government's tit?"
Blake blanched.  He'd been fucking tumbled despite the subterfuge.  Oh well, the plan to unplug the band was now off.  he pulled out his phone and dialled Benny's number.  After three rings Benny answered and Blake curtly told him,
"Ït's off mate. Back to the bar." He then look at Barton, saying,
"Good to see you again mate." and shook Barton's hand before taking off the shabby coat, glasses and carefully removing his prosthetic nose.
Barton was shocked at first then confused as Blake removed his disguises.  Then he looked carefully at Blake and recognised him,
"Fuck me! Its you.  Geez mate, that's a bit weird all that gear you had on.  Love the beard though.  I thought you were one of our punters from Darlinghurst that I'd recognised."
Blake then realised he hadn't been tumbled at all but mistaken for some welfare recipient.  Barton went on,
"Sniper never said you were coming today."
Benny walked into the back bar, saw what was happening and took off his grubby overalls, cap and glasses and walked over to Owly.
"Thank fuck for that Owly. Now we can enjoy ourselves." he then nodded a "g'day mate" to Barton and headed for the bar.
To assuage Barton's confusion Blake explained how he was going to unplug the band as a joke and then reveal himself to his brother later on.  Barton frowned for half a minute and then said,
"Top idea mate. First song into the next set we'll do it.  Dead easy. I'll suss out the switch cupboard from Mark and let him know so he doesn't blow a gasket.  Margie will love it. She hates Jacko. Grab a beer and wait here out the back."  Barton then headed through the doorway into the front bar and found the publican.  After five minutes he was in the back bar again with a fresh beer and clinking glasses with Owly and Benny.
He raised his glass and said to the two soldiers "Welcome "home boys.  Good to see you back safe."
As he did, the Dogshit Killers banged out a few chords and Sniper Blake spoke to the crowd,

Jacko?"
"I reckon its time for some animal sex Sniper. Animal sex."
"That would be with the neighbour's alsation wouldn't it mate." He then launched into the opening chords of"their latest collaboration "Ï Really Love My Neighbour's Alsation". It was an improbable tale of giving a guard dog hand relief to calm it down so one could then  access the next door neighbour's virgin sixteen year old daughter.  As the song seemed to be heading to both of its climaxes Barton led Owly to the power cupboard.  Benny stood guard.  As the final drum beats crashed through, Owly flipped the circuit switch for the stage area.
Silence.
Then shouting.
Benny, Owly and Barton slipped into the back bar.
On stage Jacko hit a few strings.  Nothing through the amps.
"Fuckety fuck fuck fuck!"
Sniper looked at Junior then at Kerryn, then at Reep.  Then back at Jacko, saying,
"Remember Dog Shit Machine?"
Jacko nodded, then turned around looking at their uselss equipment.  He saw Sniper's Martin acoustic knock-off and pointed to it.
"Tune it up Sniper. We're gpoing soft."
Sniper nodded then turned to the crowd,
"The pub didn't pay its bills so we've been cut off.  But that won't stop us folks."
A few desultory cheers came from the crowd who were now more suddenly interested in getting drinks while the problem was sorted out. Jacko passed the acoustic guitar  to Sniper who fingered a few tuning runs and then nodded his satisfaction. After a quick conference with Kerryn and Jacko he did an introductory shuff;le of "Fairytale of New York." It wasn't best suited to just a single acoustic guitar but Kerrtyn's voice was strong and Jacko's drunken warblings passed muster for the Pogues'classic number.  Their voices were just enough to slowly grab the crowd's attention.

In the back bar the two soldiers were laughing fit to burst and Sniper's boss wasn't far behind.  Barton fetched another round of beers, chatting to the barmaid longer than was normal for such a transaction.  He brought the beers back explaining,
""We're to switch it back on in ten minutes.  Mark wants to keep the punters here a while longer yet.  Geez that's a fucking ripper you guys thought up.  can't wait to see their faces when they find out."
He then heard the fainter sounds of an acoustic guitar and Kerryn's voice launch into the tale of drunken love, broken dreams and new hope. Owly looked at both of his beer buddies, smiling,
Ï love this song.  Let's go and listen." they went out the rear door and around the side of the pub, around to the front, finding a spot in the crowd behind some taller football friends of Ian Reep's.
As Kerrtyn and Max finished the song the three saboteurs were the loudest with their applause and cheering.
While the crowd's acclamation continued Owly went around the side again and walked into the small hallway to the electrical cupboard.  He flipped the circuit switch back on and heard some horrible feedback which was quickly killed by a desparate Reep. Jacko was divided, both basking in the crowd's acclaim and pissed off by the shenanigans with the power. Eventually displeasure won out and he stormed off the stage,
"Fuck this Sniper.  I'm having a rum!"
Blake put his acoustic guitar back into its case and picked up his Fender rip off. It reminded him of the days when he and his brothers used to thrash away in the garage, trying to mimic his brother Alan's favourites of the punk-postpunk era.  bands like The Jam and The Clash.  He looked at Reep, Junior and Kerryn and hit the opening chords of The Jam's "Going Undergound".

Owly saw Jacko's dummy-spit, the Rickenbacker lying plugged in on the stage and watched to see how his brother would react. When Sniper started in on The Jam, Owly pushed his way onto stage, winked at his brother and strapped on Jacko's guitar. He started fingering the familiar chords, watching his brother, getting the timing. The Rickenbacker felt good, the best he'd ever played and he wondered how Jacko had ever acquired such a marvel.  When he was into the rhythm of the song he nodded to to his younger brother and started playing with venom.

when the fast band plays my feet start to pound, going underground.

Jacko nursed his double Bundy OP rum as he watched the interloper make his guitar sing.  When the band started in on The Clash's "Lost in a Supermarket" he ordered another large rum and went and put his arm around his girlfriend. Gayle wrinkled her nose at the rum and removed his arm,
"Don't be such a fucking sook Max.  Get back up there before this bloke completely shows you up."
Jacko threw down his double rum and lurched towards the stage.  Sniper finished the song and winked to Owly. As Jacko stepped up to the stage he shook Owly's hand, remembering a wild night he'd spent with Owly and his SAS mates over twelve months ago.
"Thanks mate.  I'll take it from here."
As Jacko strapped on his Rickenbacker again Kerryn left the stage to get some drinks for herself and Ian.
Jacko yelled into the mic,
"Well if its Eighties you want its Eighties you'll fucking get." then he hit the crowd with US Forces, giving a jaunty salute to Owly and Benny who had sequestered Margie between them, giving her an army squeeze.
As Sniper looked over the crowd as they performed a reprise of Hangover Gorillas for an encore he saw his brother in the middle of the crowd doing a pogo dance in line with Benny, Barton, Gayle, Tina, Kerryn, Mark and Margie. The Dog Shit Killers repeated the first verse and chorus to keep the vibe going.  jacko yelled out
"Thank you Sydney!  We've been the Dog Shit Killers and you've been great. Farewell!."

Junior's van was packed with borrowed speakers, amps and the Dog Shit Killers gear thanks to some help from Owly and Benny.  Junior was due at a gig at the Caribbean Soul restaurant, filling in for his mentor who had been slammed with a periodic detention order for being an accomplice to petty larceny. Junior drove off wondering how the fuck he copped such shit gigs.  At least they'd given him a hundred bucks in cash.
Back in the pub Sniper was pummelling his brother with shoulder punches while Benny was making time with Margie. Jacko noticed that Barton was still there, talking to Tina and Kerryn and buying drinks. Gayle poked him in the back,
"Thought it would go well.  You shouldn't have stalked off stage like that.  Don't do it next time."
Jacko laughed,
"There's no next time. We're skipping the Difficult Second Album and solo projects that fuck up all bands and we're chucking it in.  Face it, we're crap. We have three or four songs, only one of which just meets the basics and we're not that gifted. No, that's it." He then raised his voice to Sniper,
"Hey Sniper poof.  That's it for DSK, yes?"
Blake responded,
"Fuck yeah. We have ten parts of fuck all.  It's all too hard.  Better off being crap at sport and going broke on the punt."
Kerryn heard this, adding
"Ëven my high school crap band was better.  But we did have our moments today.  Thanks to Alan."
The older Blake looked up from his bar stool,
"Yeah, youse were fucked except for Kerryn.  That Pogues song ripped.".

At Jacko's flat people sprawled on an assortment of chairs, lounges and carpet. Beers, rum, bourbon, champagne and gin were flowing and Jacko put on one of his party mix CD's. Ian Reep led Tina to the spare bedroom. They needed to talk about their impending move to Tasmania and attempt to conceive during her ovulation cycle. Benny succeeded in his attempt to win the attention of Margie and they discretely exited, noticed only by Owly Blake who gave Benny a surreptitious thumbs up as he closed the door. Barton poured himself a tall bourbon while explaining to Sniper the benefits of travel allowance and interstate junkets. Jacko manfully attacked a bottle of O.P. rum while Gayle tended a warming tray of party pies.
Kerryn and Sniper huddled over glasses of champagne and Bourbon talking about Ian and Tina's obvious long term commitment, dancing around their own desires for the future.

Owly Blake looked at the group of friends. They easily could have been hapless loners with only the prospect of booze and crap TV to occupy their time. But through the power of individual and shared circumstances and needs, their own intelligence and characters they'd formed what were obviously long term bonds.  He then thought of the Taliban fighters he'd last seen in Afghanistan and who were destroyed by modern precision munitions under Blake's direction.  One thing he knew for certain and it was a gold medal certainty; thank fuck he'd had the good sense to be born in a country where war making was the preserve of the few, not the majority.  If it meant putting up with crap one-off bands such as the Dog Shit Killers then so be it. Of most importance was the arrival the following morning of his wife and children.  That was something worth fighting for.

Wayne Blake crossed Pitt Street heading to the front door of The Chamberlain Hotel.  as he stepped onto the footpath he saw a dried up dogs turd sitting adjacent to the wall of the pub.  It had that white powdery look which was likely to explode when run over by a lawn mower.  Its appearance reminded him of the night he and his friends had seen Flange Gasket and come up with the idea of the Dog Shit Killers.  It brought a smile to his face as he kicked it into dust and stepped into the pub.
"What are you smiling at Wayne?" was the greeting he faced from his girlfriend Kerryn.
"Track one my, dear heart. Track fucking one."

Dogshit Killers - Interlude

In a paragraph or so you'll see the next instalment of the Dogshit Killers debacle.  In the meantime I'll explain that we had a Chaz Day in Sydney last Thursday.  We ate steak (cooked by ourselves, drank beer and did a mini walking tour (pub crawl) of The Rocks.  Friday was hangover day innit.

To set this DSK chapter I had to take it offshore so that I could put in an explosion.  I needed an explosion seeing as how FKN Havsy has been pretty fucking lame on that score with his fanfic gear and as usual, if it needs to be done do it yourself. The main character is based on a real SAS bloke who I had beers with once and will be catching up with in March.  I just hope that the bugger doesn't read this.  The details of his service are accurate and he actually did come up with the trick of following the small groups of herdsmen as described below.

Dog Shit Killers – Interlude


Alan “Owly” Blake motioned to his signals operator to come further around the rock which was hiding his patrol from a group of goat herders. The herdsmen were two hundred metres to the north of Blake’s hidden forward observation post, heading east across one of the many hills in this area of the Pakistan/Afghan border. As part of Operation Mountain Lion, Alan Blake’s SAS patrol was a key component, engaging in Special Reconnaissance tasks and often coming into contact with enemy forces. One of Blake’s specialties was sorting out which targets were worth following. Quite often a smaller group of “herdsmen” would split off from a larger group, like a bad boy crew wagging from a school excursion. Owly would leave the bigger group to the U.S. Special Forces teams and follow up on the smaller band, a tactic which was often rewarded. In previous missions his team had successfully called in and directed air strikes as well as the insertion of Coalition forces, resulting in the capture of large supplies of weapons and ammunition and the elimination of enemy fighters and leaders. He knew he’d probably never get to put a bead on Bin Laden but his sense of professional pride was constantly rewarded. His men had come through their tour unscathed and his regiment had once again earned the respect of its NATO counterparts.

His radio operator moved up beside him and Owly said,

“Once those blokes get up the hill call in their co-ordinates. I confirm twelve of them and I reckon they’re off to go and have a cuppa with their boss. We’ll stay on site.”

The radio man went back to his post and started working his set, checking the aerial and frequency before dialling up the operating base. Owly kept peering at the herdsmen until they slipped behind an outcrop, most likely into a cave.

His radio operator sidled up,

“The Yanks have two 18’s with JDAMS and 500 pounders on board, and another two set up for ground attack support. That’s all they had immediately available. The cunts asked for credit card details before confirming delivery of the order.”

“Smart arse Seppos. Didja ask for garlic bread and coke?"  Blake looked at the rest of his team,

 "Dopey cunts. Fucking JDAMS are a bit over the top for this one aren’t they?”. Owly hitched his pack,

“ Ah well, who gives a fuck eh Sparks? Hope they don’t want us to count all the bits and pieces afterwards. It’d be like doing over the Kiwis batting averages. Best off getting downtown a bit and start pointing the bone.”

‘Pointing the bone’ was Blake’s description of activating laser designators on a target, ensuring that air dropped munitions would arrive accurately and provide the most efficacy to his ongoing problems with bearded nutjobs. He named his two “bone-pointers” Kurdaitche One and Kurdaitche Two, (K1 and K2), after the traditional Australian Aboriginal “witch doctors” who used human bones in their rituals to sing sickness and death to miscreants.

Blake slowly and carefully withdrew his team two hundred metres further along the valley and waited for the U,S. Navy FA 18’s. Fifteen minutes later they arrived, two flying cover and two strikers. From his vantage point Blake observed, felt and heard the blasts. His team stuck fingers in their ears to compensate for overpressure from the munitions, a combination of 500 lb bombs and JDAMS. The JDAMS landed, penetrating the north side of the outcrop dislodging tonnes of earth and rocks as they bored through the subsurface strata of the rock formation. Once they had penetrated twenty metres the warheads ignited, causing immense eruptions of earth, rock, body parts and mangled jihadi caveman artefacts. Plumes of smoke and dust and a virtual hail storm of rocks cascaded with drumbeat thuds onto the injured land. The secondary pattern of 500lb munitions worked the tortured piece of earth into an even more catastrophic state.  It never failed to impress Blake just how destructive people could be if they really applied themselves to the task.

After a couple of minutes of scoping out the results Blake sighed,

“Fuck me, there’s nothing left. OBL could be there and we’d never know it. He’d be like that strawberry jam K1 keeps on nicking from the mess tent.” Blake then asked Sparks to call up the operating base and grabbed the headset.

K2 turned to his fellow bone pointer,

“How about that K1? Fancy going over and grabbing some Talijam?”  K1 gave a rueful smile,

“ Why the fuck JDAMS as well as 500’s ? Yank navy been to a clearance sale?” K1 shook his head again and rifled through his pack for zip lock plastic bags, waving them at K2.

“Got some baggies here bro’. Maybe they left some hash behind."

Owly removed the radio headset after completing a preliminary report. His bone pointer had a smile on his face, asking on the results of the bombing runs,

“Hey boss, you fix him?”

Blake didn’t let him down replying in his best Marrickville Greek Aussie,

“I fix him fuckee bastard the Taliban bloody!” Owly then retreated into normal speech mode,

“The Yanks’ll be sending in a couple of their own crews for clean up and to tally the results. We’re to move in fifty metres and keep an eye out for jaywalkers. Lets take it slowly, quietly and by the book. K1, you can field at deep fine leg. K2, you take lead, Sparks stay up my arse.”

Noiselessly and constantly alert the four troopers worked their way around the valley, keeping an eye out for curious onlookers and Taliban bench players. One hundred metres away from the blast zone K2 took up a position behind some boulders. Blake crawled his way forward, bringing out his glasses to get a closer look at the wounded earth. His radioman followed behind him with K1 taking a few more minutes to join the patrol.

What Blake saw was a series of rents in the earth with burnt scrub, debris and what looked like a cave-in on the side of the facing hill. Nothing moved and there was no sign of life. What possibly were red smears on the rubble were the only possible clue that anyone had been in the area. He shook his head. He looked at “Sparks” and asked him to call up his headquarters. Once they were connected the radio operator handed the headset to Blake. His C.O. was already talking.

Blake reported that all that was left was “rubble, dust and stains” and that there was no enemy movement. His boss told him to wait for the American patrols then return to the Forward Operating Base for the mission debrief. Fifteen minutes later a squadron of Blackhawks supported by Cobra gunships advertised the arrival of the U.S. Ranger group. A quick exchange of radio chatter released the Australians to head home.

“Okay boys, time to go catch a cab. The Yanks can clean up.”

K2 took another look at the devastated hillside and seemed about to say something. He turned his head once then checked his weapon and the team moved out, heading to their vehicle secreted in camouflage a four hour hike away.

Eight hours later Blake and his team were relaxing at their base after debriefing, showering and cleaning their equipment. The debrief included an update from the U.S. Ranger teams which had searched the bombed hillside. They’d estimated twenty four dead and collected DNA samples. They’d also found the remains of enough destroyed weaponry to conclude that the bombs had wiped out a major staging point. Blake found the whole idea of a reliable count improbable given the destruction he’d witnessed but was willing to go along with it. From his experience the numbers lay in the “maybe possible” column and he couldn’t be bothered arguing the toss. If the Yanks wanted to beef up body count numbers, that was up to them.  To him it didn't really matter as long as there were more fighters to replace the dead.

Blake’s team were slurping away at some Miller Draught which K1 had obtained.

Sparks was appreciative of the illegal beer bounty and looked the model of a contented radioman. He watched his sergeant open up a letter, and asked who it was from.

“My brother, Wayne.”

K2 looked up, laughing, “You mean Sniper? He’s a funny sort of bloke. That night we had beers with him and his mate was a real fucking hoot. What’s he up to?” Blake looked up from the letter,

“Yeah, it was wasn’t it? Him and his feral mate Jacko have apparently put some sort of band together. They call themselves ‘The Dogshit Killers’. Wayne reckons it won’t last but they’re planning on doing a gig. By fuck I’d love to be there to boo the dopey cunts off the stage.”

A shadow appeared at the doorway rapidly followed by a voice,

“Well Sergeant, your wish just might be coming true.” Captain Morrow, Blake’s immediate boss was standing with a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Seems as though you blokes are needed elsewhere. You’re training on the RIBS means you’ll be getting to play water sports again on Sydney Harbour. Here’s the G.O.”

Morrow sat down and explained how the need for an additional counter-terrorist unit covering Sydney’s maritime gateway was severely itching the Defence Force Chief's skin and Blake’s team was going to be the salve. Blake thought back to the preparations for the Sydney Olympics and tearing around Sydney Harbour in the rigid inflatables, rehearsing tactics for anti-terrorist activities on the water. His team had enjoyed the whole experience. More importantly he thought of his wife and two children. He’d actually be seeing them again very soon and that was a major plus.

Aside from Afghanistan his army service had seen him in both Gulf Wars, chasing Kopassus around the East Timor/West Timor border, serving as bodyguard to Xanana Gusmao in the immediate aftermath of East Timor’s independence and a posting as a trainer with the U.S. Marines. His current deployment was almost three months old and even though he’d enjoyed success against the Taliban he wouldn’t miss their attention. He’d be reunited once again with his family and that lit up a whole wave of smiley face icons in his mind. It also meant he’d find some time to annoy the bejesus out of his brothers, particularly that wannabe musician piece of crap, Sniper.  Fucking Dogshit Killers eh?  Oh yeah, he sorely wanted to see what sort of bullshit that was all about.