Author Topic: Dingo's Stories and Bits  (Read 2822 times)

Placid Dingo

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Dingo's Stories and Bits
« on: April 16, 2010, 01:03:51 pm »
Mr Mendelhorn sat into his chair comfortably and signaled to the waitress with a dignified air. The day was warm, with a light breeze that prevented the heat from becoming uncomfortable. There was a faint drone in the air, as the bees in the trees nearby jumped lightly between the pink and purple flowers.

Mr Mendelhorn's waitress looked much like she had in the photo he'd seen, young and cocky, yet distinctively feminine. She was now wearing glasses though, which so far as he could tell, were simply cosmetic, and her hair had been cut to half length and dyed black. The nose though, the soft curve of the neck, the greeny hazel eyes betrayed her identity perfectly.

"How may I help you?" she asked.

"Tea, thank you. A pot, two cups. Darjeeling."

"Would you like anything to eat with that?"

"The tea will suffice for present."

The waitress walked off, and Mendelhorn pulled a small pouch of tobacco from his jacket pocket and rolled a small cigarette. He placed it gently between his lips and began to feel for a lighter, but soon seemed to loose interest, and placed the unlit cigarette in his breast pocket. He pulled a small mirror from his pocket and used it to check his hair, before tilting it further to gain a glimpse of The Doctor.

The Doctor was dressed smartly, though he had attempted to dress down a little to avoid being conspicuous. There were a number of individuals around him, equipped to prevent an attempt of his life. Mendelhorn placed the mirror back into his pocket and reclined a little in his chair.

The footsteps of the waitress approached, and he sat up a little as she came into view, placing down the tray with the pot, cups, milk and sugar. Mendelhorn gave a slight smile as she poured the tea into a cup. he took the pot with one hand - the other remained below the table out of view - and filled the second cup also.

"Will that be all sir?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I'm afraid, despite your excellent service, I must find fault here."

"I am certainly willing to help."

"I'm afraid the tea is poisoned."

There was a short shocked pause. The girl had made to disguise her distress, but it had already flashed across her face. Her composure had returned though, and she seemed unaffected. She smiled politely.

"I am sure that is not the case, but I am happy to return your tea to the kitchen if it is not to your satisfaction."

He waved aside the idea with a flick of his hand. "That won't be needed," he said dismissively. "I am quite happy to drink it regardless. But I would have you drink with me."

The concern was quite evident on her face by this stage. "With due respect sir," she said, "It is store policy that I am not to dine with customers. Especially while I am at work."

"I insist."

"I will replace your tea presently."

She leaned over the table, and grabbed the tray. His hand placed itself gently on hers, and he leaned forward, speaking in an urgent whisper, a new sound, a husky violence creeping into his hushed speech..

"My hand is under the table madam, my finger curls a trigger. The tea is poisoned, the effects of our present actions are of great consequence. Do not mistake my geniality for indifference. I will shoot you and leave you on the floor to bleed to death." He reclined again, and flashed a warm smile. "Please, go ahead, sit. Your boss will understand. I will tell them I insisted." He gave a wide, cheesy grin. "If need be, I'm sure I can tell him that I will have the Party ensure his taxes are looked after." he gave a small, humourless chuckle.

The girl sat in front of him, and visibly held back a physical reaction as she saw him lift the teacup to his lips and gulp down mouthfuls of tea. He placed the cup down and nodded thoughtfully.

"You have chosen a good substance," he said, "one can barely distinguish a difference between the two. Taste your cup. You will not be disappointed. You have clearly made a great deal of tea in your time."

The girl took her cup nervously and held it to her lips. Mr Mendelhorn kept one hand conspicuously beneath the table as she did, his eyes probing her face curiously, lustful of a reaction, an insight beyond her well rehearsed veneer. She took a small gulp, then, with nothing to lose, another larger, and another, and placed the cup on the table again, nearly empty.

"The tea is pleasant," she said. "I should think it is unlikely it is poisoned. I do not feel any effects. I suspect you only try to frighten me to make me more susceptible to your advances." She shook a finger reproachfully at him, but she was still clearly ill at ease, and the effect was not convincing.

Mr Mendelhorn pulled a small vial of aqua blue liquid from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table.

"We shall have a little of this," he said, "when we are done talking. Provided I am satisfied with the conversation. It will undo what harm has been done from the tea." He waited patiently for a reaction, but she did not show one.

He picked up his cup and drank the last, refilling from the pot, adding a little milk and sugar, and stirring slowly. He tapped the teaspoon twice, and placed it on the tray.

"My question is this," he stated, "What are your feelings about The Doctor?"

"Which Doctor, sir?"

"The Doctor, my dear. The great gallows-man of our political institution. The executor of dissidents. The bogeyman we have hidden in the closet of our society, to keep the people imprisoned and the Party free. Is that clarified."

The girl chose her words with care. "I'm afraid my views are not so energetic as yours, Sir."

"And those views are?"

"I do not have a view. I suspect he is simply doing a job."

"You say then, you have no hatred of him?"

"I see no need for hatred," she said, but a very slight pang of disgust betrayed the lie. "Should you expect me to hate him?"

"Of course," he said, matter-of-factly. "Most people do. Even those inside the party who defend the value of his role openly despise him."

"I suppose you are telling me you despise him?"

Mr Mendelhorn sipped again at his tea. The girl caught herself staring at the antedote of the table, and averted her eyes.

"I do not," he said finally. "No more than I despise the man two tables down, with the beard. As I walked towards the guests entrance, he perceived I was heading towards the main gates, and rudely shoved past me to ensure any unreserved table would be his, not mine. The human condition is not simply the pursuit of happiness, but the pursuit of power, the imposition of the appearance of order over chaos. The need to know that tomorrow the sun will rise, the bus will arrive, there will be a spare table provided for lunch, and the political zeitgeist will remain undisputed. We do not hate a man for seeking power, but we see fit to demonize one who wields it. I hate The Doctor for his acts of killing no more than I'd hate a spider for eating flies. Each man has the right to seek the power of a tyrant, and to wield it where he can."

"But not the right to resist him?" said the girl. The remark was casual, but instantly regretted.

"Resistance is not the noble alternative to the pursuit of power," he replied. "It is only the label placed on it by those who would wish to impose the illusion of nobility on their own power seeking actions. You believe you have the right to take the power of The Doctor away. You have wrapped your intent in the veil of utilitarianism, and when your suitcases explode and tear off the face of a woman awaiting the birth of her child, you will cling to this veil like a childish toy."

"I didn't mean to imply anything," said the girl hurriedly, "I'm not about to kill him! I admit he makes me ill, but I wouldn't kill him!"

"You are more correct than you suspect you are," said Mr Mendelhorn, looking at his watch. "You took great care, all of you, to ensure your success, but you overlooked the simplest of details; The carpet on the left back wall, behind the kitchen area hides a staircase downstairs, to a cramped area below where the indoor diners eat. In four minutes, your two companions will make their move to place their explosives within killing distance of The Doctor. And they will be stopped short by two of my own gentlemen, who lie under these floorboards, prepared to shoot them."

Time slowed to a painful crawl. The girl seemed to sit a little higher up as they waited. The low drone of the bees seemed lower in pitch, and the tables seemed full of couples paused in the midst of conversation. The girl pressed her fingers more firmly against the wood of the table. She felt as though she could feel the poison seeping into her muscles and leeching into her brain. The first step, from what she had been told, would be the failure of her ability to speak, as her tongue went numb. Then to walk. Then the failure of consciousness, and finally the complete stopping of her heart.

Then it hit.

The ground vibrated as an explosion shattered the serenity of the day. There was the distinct sound of the shattering of wood and glass. The girl leaped across the table, thrusting a hand into Mr Mendelhorn's face and grabbing the vial, rolling off the table and landing with her back to the ground, Mendelhorn falling backwards off his chair, clumsily staggering to his feet. The pistol had fallen beside the table, and she reached over to snatch it up, and jumped to her feet. Gripping the vial tightly she tore the lid off with her teeth and downed the whole of the sickly sweet liquid, throwing the glass vial away. She held the gun out at Mr Mendelhorn who simply stood before her.

She pulled sharply at her shirt and several buttons broke off, reveling the skinny microphone strapped to her light chest.

"They hear you! They heard it all!" she cried, "They knew all about your ambush! Your little game has been lost you swine! You lose!"

Mendelhorn did not make any effort to move, but pulled the cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips.

"Of course you had a microphone," he said. "How else would your two compatriots have been convinced to delay their operation in order to walk into an ambush?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter, lighting his cigarette.

"You perhaps still take satisfaction in your having prevented my drinking of the antidote," he said. "However, one soon finds when one works intimately with such things, that it is not difficult to bribe a dealer of poisons. You were again more correct than you supposed when you suggested there was no poison in my tea."

The girl looked to the side, and saw clearly; the explosion had occurred behind the restaurant, and standing flanked by security, and looking straight through her with an expression of painful smugness was The Doctor.

She turned her head back to Mendelhorn and, filled with panic, tried to ask what was in the vial if not an antidote, but her tongue was already to numb to form the words.
« Last Edit: April 18, 2010, 03:36:45 am by Placid Dingo »
If sheep entrails could in any way be related to the weather, i.e. sheep trails only originate where it rains, then you could use it as an accurate model for discerning what the weathers going to be like. Either, sheep shit makes it rain, or raining makes sheep shit. Sheep don't shit "randomly" sheep shit after they eat, it doesn't rain "randomly" it rains after water collects in the atmosphere.


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Re: Mr Mendelhorn's Tea
« Reply #1 on: April 16, 2010, 03:02:48 pm »
Quite interesting.  Sort of like a Sherlock Holmes as done by the opening scene of Inglorious Basterds.

Placid Dingo

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Re: Mr Mendelhorn's Tea
« Reply #2 on: April 17, 2010, 09:30:09 am »
If sheep entrails could in any way be related to the weather, i.e. sheep trails only originate where it rains, then you could use it as an accurate model for discerning what the weathers going to be like. Either, sheep shit makes it rain, or raining makes sheep shit. Sheep don't shit "randomly" sheep shit after they eat, it doesn't rain "randomly" it rains after water collects in the atmosphere.


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Re: Mr Mendelhorn's Tea
« Reply #3 on: April 18, 2010, 01:29:47 am »
I thought it was thrilling!
"If I owned Goodwill, no charity worker would feel safe.  I would sit in my office behind a massive pile of cocaine, racking my pistol's slide every time the cleaning lady came near.  Auditors, I'd just shoot."

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Re: Mr Mendelhorn's Tea
« Reply #4 on: April 18, 2010, 02:02:23 am »
Suspenseful, I like it.  I read LMNO's comment before I read it though so I couldn't help but picture Inglourious Basterds.   :argh!:
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Re: Mr Mendelhorn's Tea
« Reply #5 on: April 18, 2010, 03:20:26 am »
Will there be more?

I would gladly read more.

You should write more.

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Re: Mr Mendelhorn's Tea
« Reply #6 on: April 18, 2010, 03:36:05 am »
This piece stand alone but there's some other stuff that I've writtien ages ago that I just want to put out in the open, so I'll throw some more out later. Thanks.

(I'll probably try and change the name of this post actually to avoid spagging up the board with my stuff)
If sheep entrails could in any way be related to the weather, i.e. sheep trails only originate where it rains, then you could use it as an accurate model for discerning what the weathers going to be like. Either, sheep shit makes it rain, or raining makes sheep shit. Sheep don't shit "randomly" sheep shit after they eat, it doesn't rain "randomly" it rains after water collects in the atmosphere.

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Re: Dingo's Stories and Bits
« Reply #7 on: May 23, 2010, 02:38:00 am »
Arvin the sculptor was well known for his arts. He worked with gold and silver, bronze and iron, and had many well to do customers.

He was asked therefore one day, by a Mayor of a great city if he would stay for a while to make a statue of the Christ that would reflect the true Godlike nature of the figure. The Mayor thought the task impossible, and was sure Arvin would fail and be mocked for his failures. He gave Arvin 30 days to complete his work.

Arvin began to work in the streets, using space the Mayor had granted him. Though the Mayor had offered him 100 gold bars and a large bag of precious jewels to work on his piece, he made it know to the public that he would accept donations of gold pieces and precious stones for those who wished to help him create the most wondrous and stunning work of art.

People were happy to donate. The rich and the well to do heard of his task, and sifted though their property to find what precious things they could donate. Arvin found himself donated gold pieces, necklaces of pearl, ruby rings, sapphire earnings, a velvet jacket with jade buttons.

Every day people would watch him work, and wonder at the very beauty of what he was creating.

On the 29th day, it seemed he had completed his golden sculpture. The Mayor was too moved to speak, looking upon it, and demanded it be immediately erected in front of the government house. But Arvin refused.

"You promised me 30 days, and I've only worked 29. Tomorrow it will be complete."

There was much busyness about the town. In the night the Mayor had his people caution off an area around the golden shimmering Christ so that they might charge a great deal to let people through to see the final staged of completion.

On this final day a great crowd had gathered. Arvin waited, standing staring at the sculpture for some time, as the people looked on. The poor stood at the edge of the street, trying to gain a glimpse of the final completion, but could not get in to see the final steps.

At last Arvin moved, picking up a large hammer. Taking a deep breath he raised his hand and beat the face. A diamond shattered, and the gold scraped away, disfiguring the perfect features, and there was a horrified cry of shock through the crowd. Across the rest of the day he continued to mangle his perfect sculpture, tearing it apart with his tools, ripping the precious stones out of the golden flesh. At times the outrage of the crowd grew so great that he truly feared they would approach and tear him limb from limb. Sweat glistened accross his face as he continued his destructive work, bending and destroying the delicately shaped contours, until all that was left was a mangled heap of gold and jewels. He turned to face the crowd, who had so passionately loved his tribute to God. Their eyes were red and their faces streamed with tears, and he spoke;

"Where were your tears," he said, "when you came to give me your precious trinkets you no longer needed, then walked past the poor and the starving? Where were your gold pieces when a mother needed them to feed her child?"

He indicated to the pile of wrecked gold and jewels.

"Tear this apart and give it to the poor and starving. Your actions shall be my great sculpture. All else is simple idolatry."
If sheep entrails could in any way be related to the weather, i.e. sheep trails only originate where it rains, then you could use it as an accurate model for discerning what the weathers going to be like. Either, sheep shit makes it rain, or raining makes sheep shit. Sheep don't shit "randomly" sheep shit after they eat, it doesn't rain "randomly" it rains after water collects in the atmosphere.

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Re: Dingo's Stories and Bits
« Reply #8 on: August 18, 2010, 02:20:31 pm »
A snippet I wrote years ago then forgot about.

The National Sport of Japan is wishing you were somewhere else. Preferably somewhere Western, where everyone speaks English, the girls have long faces and large breasts, the men are tall, and expressive. Somewhere else. Somewhere different. Wider eyes. Kinpatsu hair dos. Pale white skin. Blue eyes.
Everything is better somewhere else.
In other countries, everything is better. The food is better. The people are more awesome.
Shops excel in selling the dreams of the other side. French Patisseries. American Hip Hip Apparel. American Military style goods are devoured with a kind of frenzied fetish, Japanese hepcats wandering the streets, imitating the force who wiped out millions in an atomic hellfire.
Maybe they look at the stupid gaijin, stumbling blind out of the English pubs, yelling in foreign languages, and wish they were wherever they came from, a kind of Utopian land, streets lined with strange men in bad tshirts, stumbling drunk onto the roads running around the trees yelling strange and mystical words. Maybe it never occurs to them what brings these men to their Japanese bars, brings them somewhere else, into Japan.
Maybe, the national sport of humanity is wishing you were somewhere else.

Andrew and I are in the hotel room when Simmo comes around and knocks on the door. Simmo is well wealthy, and is a fucking pratt, but he's popular, especially with girls who seem to be into all that fake sincerity horse shit. Andrew is on his DS, on some game or whatever, and Im playing with the remote of the TV, flicking through the Pay Channels that are set onto preview mode. There's some movie, some American TV shows and a bit of light porn with all the genitals blurred out. And anyway so Simmo comes and knocks, and I let him in because i dont know who it is, and Andrew seems to like him anyway.
"There's a bar down the road," he says. "I've got some friends I'd like to meet down there."
"We're not twenty," I say.
"Were Gaijin, we'll get in," says Simmo. "You up for it Andrew?"
He nods, looking kind of impressed. "How you organising to meet up with your friends?"
Simmo pulls out a mobile. "A girl I know set me up with a sim card so i could get a phone."
Andrew looks impressed again and has a look at the phone, and they have a bit of a chat about the features and bullshit, and Simmo shows him some pictures of some girls or whatever, probably that hes been fucking or whatever. I look at the TV and the free viewing period is over so i flip through the free channels and get to a game show where theyre racing model trains or something.
They stop talking for a moment, and turn around. "We're off to this bar," says Andrew. "You don't want to come do you?"
And hes right, I dont, it sounds risky, and the last thing i want is to be sent back to Australia to explain to my parents why i was drinking some fucking pub, but im in a funny mood, and almsot entirely to spite Simmo i nod and am like, "Fuck yeah, lets do it."
We get up and leave the room, being cautious, walking very casually out to the elevator. The teachers have checked us once, told us to go to bed etc. And its like, almost midnight or something so they're not about to come around to check or anything, at least we can assume. But we stay careful.
The hotel is well pretentious, really making the effort to convince everyone that they're so terribly important or whatever, for having fuckloads of money. I really cant stand that kind of shit, with money and that.
We get outside, and get to a line of Taxis, right outside the Hotel door, and we get in. Simmo gets in the front and hands the driver a piece of paper with the address on it, and we start to move. The streets on either side are kind of anonomous. Its hard to see JApan in it. We could be anywhere, like London or Sydney. We drive, quietly for a while. Simmo, whose Japanese is well better than mine and Andrews talks to the driver for a bit but its too hard for me to understand it really.
We stop outside this bar or something. Its not that big really. We get out and Simmo pays the driver, tells us that hell add it all up in the morning and we can work out what we owe him then. We stand outside for a moment, and I have a look at the menue, trying to sound out a few of the meals written in Katakana. Simmo takes out his mobile and makes a phone call to the people hes meeting.
I go inside to have a bit more of a look, and Andrew comes too. Theres a ciggarette machine and the packs are like, 3, 4 bucks Aussie so he buys one and offers me one too, and its a fucking weird night already so i accept.

I shut the door of the bathroom, well fucked, and lean on the side of the wall, opening the toilet lid carefully before opening my mouth, giving myself a chance to eject a watery slimey knid of vomit. I give half a chance to catch a breath, coughing slighly.
I walk fast, heart beating rapidly, arms like shaking.


If I remember my plan correctly, the protagonist runs off, and a kind of midlife crisis-y teacher goes after him and they both go on this journey of self discovery, first apart, then eventually together, while in the background the school (with the help of the other students) do what they can to prevent the increasingly challenging clusterfuck.
If sheep entrails could in any way be related to the weather, i.e. sheep trails only originate where it rains, then you could use it as an accurate model for discerning what the weathers going to be like. Either, sheep shit makes it rain, or raining makes sheep shit. Sheep don't shit "randomly" sheep shit after they eat, it doesn't rain "randomly" it rains after water collects in the atmosphere.

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Re: Dingo's Stories and Bits
« Reply #9 on: August 19, 2010, 01:40:51 pm »

Very much enjoyed the OP.

Have to read more later.
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Re: Dingo's Stories and Bits
« Reply #10 on: September 29, 2011, 03:35:47 pm »
Sexy Lexy.

1. Lexy looked up, into the mirror, eyes darting over her face. Her skin was pale, a kind of milky porcelain, contrasting starkly against the black of her dangling hair. Near her part, there was a flash of green colouring, where she had died her hair. A single bar was stuck through her long eyebrows – the only one of many piercings she had chosen to keep. Her eyes were a shallow blue, like half empty rock pools.
She wore no make-up – she detested make-up. Lexy was naturally gorgeous – from her perfect feminine eyebrows to her long legs and white milky skin. She would have been –had she allowed it, given in to vanity or the quest for popularity – the archetypal dead eyed sex doll of Year Twelve. Only her eyes were far from dead, still bright with the light of inner mischief and youthful rage, and she was aggressive in her sexuality, knowing what she wanted and reaching out to take it, leaving the rest of them stranded horny and lonely, trying to work out where they went wrong.
Right now, Lexy had a problem with her face – it was too plain. It was beautiful, yes, of course, but it was too ordinary, to humanoid. She would get lost in a crowd, and look up, and they (she wasn’t entirely certain as to who they were) would look down and not be able to see her for her plainness.
In her left hand she held a small black handled kitchen knife, the size of a small dagger. This she lifted to her face, moving it to her right nostril. At the base, she made a tiny incision, then slowly, though only superficially, she began to cut up, towards the point between her eyes. Her hand moved slowly and carefully, with expert control, up across the bridge of her nose. As the blade sliced through her soft white skin, there was no pain. It was as though her face were lino. Blood dripped freely from the slice, sliding off her nose and rolling down her bare chest, down the crack between her breasts. As it slid down the bridge of her nose it stained the tip a dark, menstrual red.
Lexy put the knife down for a moment and looked at her work. She didn’t like the look of her bloodstained nose. It made her look like she had been beaten up. Although part of her wanted to leave it that way, to feel what it would be like to no longer be beautiful, she didn’t want to look like a victim of violence. She licked her finger, and rubbed it on her nose. The cut, now drying, stung a little, but she ignored it, washing the last of the red off. Finally, when she looked clean again, even her first incision graced with a clean slender curve, she reached for the knife again.
The second cut was a good deal smaller, from the side of her mouth to the middle of her cheek. It was a lot cleaner, without a single dribble of blood, and quicker. She looked at it for a few small moments. It reminded her a little of a joke about a nun and a black man. She shrugged, and once again took the knife towards her face. The final cut was across her top lip, a gentle slice from right to left. It wasn’t an obvious cut like the others, the red cut blending in neatly with the red of her thin lips. It didn’t matter. Reasons were old. Nothing mattered now. It was over.

So she woke up.

It would have been a pointless exercise to simply retell you a random dream of Lexy’s. Were I to do so, I could have chosen a much better dream – one more explaining of Lexy’s character, or her beliefs, or just one more shocking or interesting or amusing. Regardless, I retold this dream as it is Lexy’s reoccurring dream. This one, which Lexy refers to as her ‘cutting dream,’ is always an omen of things to come.  It means that heavy shit is just about to go down.

2. Lexy is not unfamiliar with heavy shit. She is heavy shit. She is the law in her class, a superbitch dominatrix l’enfant terrible. She has teeth in her cunt and venom in her tongue. She is famous in her school for fucking and fighting, the viciousness of the latter ensuring the silence of the former.
Lexy is seventeen, but in reality she’s more like twenty. She’s a goddamn genius. If these fucking inbreds ever work out the evil motivations behind her blending in with the rest of these goddamn school age under achievers, they’d be running for the hills. Heh heh heh. She’s the polymath chutzpah. Yes She Can.
Today, Lexy is not being marked off the role at form class. She doesn’t have to. She is far too clever for all that. She has taken the afternoon off, and is now back where it all started, behind the toilet block, with her two best friends, Jo and Kel. These names are, I realise, are not gender specific. Jo is short for Joseph, and was named after Jesus’ surrogate father, by Catholic parents. Kel is short for Kelly, and is the attractive and freckled daughter of ex-hippies.
This place here was where the three of them used to sit, when they first became friends. There was a kind of dirty atmosphere, a rebellious quality that they loved about the toilet block. However, toilets have an incredible human traffic, a wide selection of nosy people and thin walls. As the subject matter of their conversations became increasingly personal, covering Jo’s schizophrenia, Lexy’s bisexuality, Kel’s depression, and various sexual advice, dying relatives, pubic lice, piercings, orgasms, God, religion and rape fantasies amongst others, they moved their seating to more private quarters.
Now, here, they are back at the beginning of everything, as one often finds oneself at the end of things. This time the toilet is quiet. The whole place is silent. It is an anti-climax. None of them want to go out to the masses. This is their thing. They don’t like big groups.
This is how Lexy, Jo and Kel are spending the last of their last day. Sitting outside the loo, talking shit, being the dirty little rebels they were in grade eight. It feels like the right thing to do. Jo offers Lexy and Kel cigarettes. This is more symbolic than anything, because this is what he did on the day they met. Jo doesn’t smoke anymore. Neither does Kel. They won’t let Lexy smoke around them. So everyone refuses.
“Let’s go,” says Jo. He has undone his tie, and opened his collar. He has left his shirt tucked in, as he likes to enjoy a sense of style. Kel and Lexy have also done the same, only more scraggily. Lexy has swapped her skirt for faded jeans. It’s not that they don’t take pride in their appearance, they just take a different pride, a more dissenting pride in looking like they don’t care, and falling just below everyone's standards.
They all stand, Kel gently wiping the dirt off her skirt, letting it tip down on the ground like salt. Lexy leads the way – she has become accustomed to doing so. Through the thin bush in front of them, pushing spiderwebs and lantana out of the way. They arrive at the car park, a makeshift patch of dead earth, cars sitting randomly, like splayed dominoes.
They climb into Jo’s car, named Laura. Laura is a bogan car, old school and red, with fuzzy dice hanging like testicles from the mirror. Jo starts her, and she gurgles, then (kind of) purrs.
“Let’s rock,” he says, and presses the CD button. Jo stalls the car. He starts again, and drives off, way too fast, Lexy whooping, Kel telling him to slow down. There is a cloud of dust, and a rain of tiny rocks. Then there is the sound of a car in the distance.
Then they are gone.

3. Wivell has put too much fuel on the pile of wood. This doesn’t matter, apparently. Wivell pulls out his lighter and lets it go up.
There is a huge explosion, a ball of flame that licks Tim with sweat. Wivell screams and steps back, tripping over his bad leg and hitting the ground, yelling. The fireball disappears into a healthy flame and Tim runs over to Wivell.
“Jesus, you right?”
Wivell doesn’t answer, just opens his mouth and eyes in shock like he is about to cry. A sound like a raped crow gargles out his mouth, and he starts to laugh like a crazy person, and Tim starts too, laughing like demons, like retards, like everything is a jelly flavoured joke. It was so dangerous it was funny.
Tim helps Wivell to his feet. He is still laughing like an idiot.
“Fuck man,” he says. “For a moment there I thought my fucking head got burned off. Jesus! That’s crazy shit, right there.”
He brushes the dirt (or ash?) off his clothes. “Let’s rock,” he says. He walks over towards the fence and grabs a pile of school uniforms and throws it on the fire. The pile of cloth lumps on top the fire, the orange flame disappearing. A thin smoke, like old men’s whiskers trails out the bottom, and suddenly the flame is back pouring and screaming over the clothes. Wivell gives a loud demented laugh and swings his bag around throwing it at the fire. It lands half in but is quickly seized by orange.
Tim is grinning. Fire is his favourite thing. It is deadly. It is feminine. It is sexual. It is powerful. It is like a God. He throws a uniform on the fire, then another, then the rest. He throws his bag on, and it burns. He laughs.
“Shit,” yells Tim.
“What?” yells Wivell.
“Our clothes,” he yells. “We’re wearing the other uniform!”
Wivell shrugs and uses one hand to violently rip his shirt apart, throwing it on the fire. He pulls off his shorts too, and chucks them on. Tim cackles like a crazy man. He does the same. A girls laugh chortles out. It is Wivell’s neighbours daughter. She is fourteen. She has been watching the whole time. The boys carry on and joke with her. Anything goes now. It’s all good. It’s over. The last of school life is going from solid to gas.

4. “How long until we’re there?” says Lexy, looking at her watch.
“Hour and a half. Exact,” says Jo.
“Hour and sixteen minutes,” says Kel.
“I’m going an hour and twenty,” says Lexy. “What’s the stakes?”
“Ten,” says Kel.
“Fifty,” says Jo. “Go hard.”
“I like that. Fifty,” says Lexy.
“Are you crazy?” says Kel.
“Does it matter?” says Lexy.
Kel shakes her head. “Fifty is too much. Way over. Do twenty.”
“Then there’s no risk,” says Jo. “We need a challenge.”
“Twenty is risky enough. I’m short on cash.”
“We all are. Who cares?”
“It’s not fair with you driving. You can rig.”
“If I win, I’ll shout you all dinner with the money,” says Jo. Jo reminds Kel of romantic tangos. Deep down she knows he wouldn’t rig it. He’s too nice for that.
“Go forty dollars,” says Lexy.
“Still too much,” says Kel.
“Thirty five.”
“Sounds good.”
The car continues to roar down the road, the engine making a clackity clackity bang thud kind of sound. Lexy looks out the window. Lexy reminds Jo of self mutilation.
“What if God is on acid,” she says, “And we’re just his fucked up hallucination.”
There is silence.
“God wouldn’t know a fucked up hallucination if he had one,” says Jo.
“So what does that mean when humans are on acid?” says Kel.
“I dunno,” says Lexy. “Maybe we become God.”
“That’s stupid,” says Kel.
“Everyone have ID?” asks Jo. They nod. Lexy and Kel have fake ones. Jo’s is real, but it looks fake, because he is so young in the face.
“How much we have for grog?” asks Lexy.
“One thirty five,” says Jo.
“I want Asti,” says Lexy.
“I love you two,” says Kel. Lexy grins.
Jo peeks over his shoulder at her smiling face. Kel reminds Jo of sunflowers. “I love you too babe,” he says.
 “Got gum?” asks Lexy. Lexy reminds Kel of an imperfect circle. Kel reaches into her pocket and passes it to Lexy.
“You can get high on nutmeg,” Lexy says, popping the gum in her mouth.
“Smoke nutmeg?” says Kel.
“I think someone’s pulling your leg there,” says Jo. Jo reminds Lexy of business class.
“You don’t smoke it,” says Lexy. “You eat it. Heaps of it. Or like, a fair bit at least. It’s makes you happy and hallucinate.”
“Why not just take shrooms or something?” says Jo. Lexy feels a thin slime in the pit of her stomach. She should never have brought up the nutmeg, or the acid. She is a silly girl. She should have thought of Jo. Jo whose hallucinations make him want to die. Jo who cries himself to sleep, needing to hold someone who just isn’t there. Jo doesn’t take drugs. His brain is messed as it is. Plus, he doesn’t know how it will react with his meds.
“Don’t know,” says Lexy quietly. She doesn’t let herself sound apologetic. That would be bad. Jo can handle faux pas. He’s not, however, one for sympathy.
Kel reaches forward and grabs Lexy’s hand, stroking with her thumb. She kisses it.
Kel reminds Lexy of a huge warm and woolly sixties coat. A coat lying gentle in a dappled moonlight, streaked in patches of spilt heroin, that smells like a girl.

Whole text (needs an edit);
If sheep entrails could in any way be related to the weather, i.e. sheep trails only originate where it rains, then you could use it as an accurate model for discerning what the weathers going to be like. Either, sheep shit makes it rain, or raining makes sheep shit. Sheep don't shit "randomly" sheep shit after they eat, it doesn't rain "randomly" it rains after water collects in the atmosphere.