Cover illustration by Warren Popelier
Under The FEZ_______The Month's guest, Kevin Byrne
FEATURAMA_________Bobby Wildside's 'MINDWIRE'
FEZ SEZ_____________Zed's Not Dead lets loose on Ergon Energy
'DRUG DIARY' ________by Dave Schwan
The Hot Seat_________The Zimbabwe $100,000,000,000,000 Note
'CATS, RATS & CARS' __by Mark Kinrade
Bum's View
***********************************************************************************
Vocals/Bobby Wildside
Bass/Circusmouse
Lead/Zed's Not Dead
FEZ talks to Kevin Byrne, Cairns Mayor from 1992 to 1995 and 2000 to 2008.
FEZ: What have you been doing since giving up office?
KB: The usual things: gardening, holidays. That sort of thing. Oh, and white-water rafting.
FEZ: White-water rafting?
KB: Yeah. I've been raging some serious thunder at Tully. But I had to stop recently because there are just too many tourist bodies in the rivers and they keep popping when I hit them with the front of the kayak. I was getting kinda messy.
FEZ: How do you fit in the kayak then?
KB: A few kilos of butter, but don't tell the missus.
FEZ: So what else is new?
KB: I've been having some Timjit trouble recently.
FEZ: Timjit? Some of your indigenous friends?
KB: No way! Timjits are little gremlin type creatures that inhabit invisible spaces.
FEZ: Invisible spaces?
KB: Yeah. They are really annoying. Don't ever let them near your cornflakes, or that's it, the end of civilisation as we know it. Many people think that Timjits are from the planet Lercon, but they're actually from Yorkey's Knob. Thousands of them out there. To be honest I think they hitch rides on those Kiwi bludgers.
FEZ: Okay, Mr Byrne. And your final words for the good people of Cairns.
KB: "Throw your hands in the air like you just don't care."
FEZ: What have you been doing since giving up office?
KB: The usual things: gardening, holidays. That sort of thing. Oh, and white-water rafting.
FEZ: White-water rafting?
KB: Yeah. I've been raging some serious thunder at Tully. But I had to stop recently because there are just too many tourist bodies in the rivers and they keep popping when I hit them with the front of the kayak. I was getting kinda messy.
FEZ: How do you fit in the kayak then?
KB: A few kilos of butter, but don't tell the missus.
FEZ: So what else is new?
KB: I've been having some Timjit trouble recently.
FEZ: Timjit? Some of your indigenous friends?
KB: No way! Timjits are little gremlin type creatures that inhabit invisible spaces.
FEZ: Invisible spaces?
KB: Yeah. They are really annoying. Don't ever let them near your cornflakes, or that's it, the end of civilisation as we know it. Many people think that Timjits are from the planet Lercon, but they're actually from Yorkey's Knob. Thousands of them out there. To be honest I think they hitch rides on those Kiwi bludgers.
FEZ: Okay, Mr Byrne. And your final words for the good people of Cairns.
KB: "Throw your hands in the air like you just don't care."
*
There was to be no get-out clause for Muir tonight. He would need to find another position of face the consequences. The Panel must have a result.
Millions across the North Sector were hooked up on the mainwire, watching his performance on Breakout.
Muir had faced two options after his arrest for his protests against The Order's Jack Nostro. He could either spend the rest of his life in one of the prison areas to the south, working on one of the magma mines, or he could battle it out on Breakout, pitting his wits against family members, old friends and colleagues on the sadistic reality show in which he would have to fuck, fight, lie and cheat to gain the upper hand against his loved ones. Everything was a reaction to stimulus: it was gladitorial, competitive, senseless and fleeting. If he outwitted The Panel he was free.
Decades of exposure to extreme violence, injustice and death had desensitised the masses nicely. But still pockets of resistance existed. And much to the chagrin of The Order, which never managed to quell the sporadic rebellions.
Muir gently manoeuvred his wife around on the bed, with his naked arse facing the bank of scanners. The audience loved it. Their whooping and hollering could be heard pounding inside his head, via the live feed to his mindwire.
The baying viewers, high on Wife Beater XX, urged him on. Entering from behind, he pushed inside her. Abi faked groans of pleasure as Muir arched over her, running his hands over her naked back. He whispered in her ear: "I'm so sorry darling. So, so sorry."
"Don't blame yourself. I will always love you, sweetheart," she replied.
But he was rapidly running out of time, with only minutes to bring her to orgasm before he and Abi were effectively history. He fucked harder and harder, trying all he could to keep the millions entertained as they dined on raw flesh, washed down with mugs of the old WB XX.
"Time up," roared Panel host Mambo Rice.
"Well, Muir, never thought I'd say it," laughed Rice. "We had a vote and...guess what...it's all over for you and that whore you call a wife. Call that fucking? You're a joke!"
The Panel were up in uproar.
"Down, down, down," they chorused, pointing accusingly at Muir.
Muir screamed from the very pits of his stomach. The guards marched towards him. Muir draped himself over Abi to protect her the best way he could. The mob ran a Taser into his ribs. Maced him. Beat his head with metal poles. Blood spewed internally from his mouth. They kicked his teeth clean out. The show got the highest ratings of the season.
So, for playing her part in this 'success', Abi was allowed a degree of freedom, working for The Order.
But she never saw Muir again. Rumour had it that he became a worker for the Cloud somewhere in the east. He would be one of the millions constantly maintaining the worldwide information data base, which stored the details of every man, woman and child and was capable of reading and monitoring everybody's thoughts and movements. Wrong thoughts and anti-Order activity were met with a bolt of electro to the mindwire.
Millions across the North Sector were hooked up on the mainwire, watching his performance on Breakout.
Muir had faced two options after his arrest for his protests against The Order's Jack Nostro. He could either spend the rest of his life in one of the prison areas to the south, working on one of the magma mines, or he could battle it out on Breakout, pitting his wits against family members, old friends and colleagues on the sadistic reality show in which he would have to fuck, fight, lie and cheat to gain the upper hand against his loved ones. Everything was a reaction to stimulus: it was gladitorial, competitive, senseless and fleeting. If he outwitted The Panel he was free.
Decades of exposure to extreme violence, injustice and death had desensitised the masses nicely. But still pockets of resistance existed. And much to the chagrin of The Order, which never managed to quell the sporadic rebellions.
Muir gently manoeuvred his wife around on the bed, with his naked arse facing the bank of scanners. The audience loved it. Their whooping and hollering could be heard pounding inside his head, via the live feed to his mindwire.
The baying viewers, high on Wife Beater XX, urged him on. Entering from behind, he pushed inside her. Abi faked groans of pleasure as Muir arched over her, running his hands over her naked back. He whispered in her ear: "I'm so sorry darling. So, so sorry."
"Don't blame yourself. I will always love you, sweetheart," she replied.
But he was rapidly running out of time, with only minutes to bring her to orgasm before he and Abi were effectively history. He fucked harder and harder, trying all he could to keep the millions entertained as they dined on raw flesh, washed down with mugs of the old WB XX.
"Time up," roared Panel host Mambo Rice.
"Well, Muir, never thought I'd say it," laughed Rice. "We had a vote and...guess what...it's all over for you and that whore you call a wife. Call that fucking? You're a joke!"
The Panel were up in uproar.
"Down, down, down," they chorused, pointing accusingly at Muir.
Muir screamed from the very pits of his stomach. The guards marched towards him. Muir draped himself over Abi to protect her the best way he could. The mob ran a Taser into his ribs. Maced him. Beat his head with metal poles. Blood spewed internally from his mouth. They kicked his teeth clean out. The show got the highest ratings of the season.
So, for playing her part in this 'success', Abi was allowed a degree of freedom, working for The Order.
But she never saw Muir again. Rumour had it that he became a worker for the Cloud somewhere in the east. He would be one of the millions constantly maintaining the worldwide information data base, which stored the details of every man, woman and child and was capable of reading and monitoring everybody's thoughts and movements. Wrong thoughts and anti-Order activity were met with a bolt of electro to the mindwire.
*
Although only two years into his 20-year presidency, President Jack Nostro had not faltered in his methods of clamping down on the world population. All the agricultural land had been turned over to The Order for the growing of GM crops. Farming without a licence was forbidden. Anyone who dared meddle with self sufficiency was destroyed. The series of orchestrated financial crashes more than 60 years ago had allowed The Order to gain rapid control of countries struggling to pay back their debts. Perpetual war reigned. Government executions were running at a record high. Everyone was fearful and scared and hungry. Perfect.
"It's been a great day, hasn't it, darling?" Nostro said to his wife, gazing out of the windows on to the lawn of his palatial government home. He was reflecting on the success of his latest plan in waging nuclear and biological war on three fronts in the eastern sector.
"Yes, well done, honey. I'm so proud of you," she gushed.
Nostro moved away from the window and took a look through his bank of cameras. He could make out the silhouette of a young couple and their child sitting in the shade of a tree not more than 100 metres from the perimeter of his fence.
"I think I'll just go outside and get some fresh air, Liz," he said.
"You do that, Jack," she replied.
Nostro purposefully walked out of the living room. Before leaving the building, he grabbed his semi-automatic and headed into the bright day. He looked at his reflection in a window. His quiff looked magnificent today he thought as he twirled the weapon 360 degrees. He squeezed the trigger and let loose a round of bullets into the trees. Power. He could feel a hard-on coming.
Getting clearance from the guards at the perimeter, he walked through the gates and over to the family. They had nervously watched him approaching. Nostro started spraying rounds of bullets, sending him convulsing backwards with each release of fire. He could have taken the micro beam, but this was much more fun. The mother's head exploded like a fresh melon. Her young child fell to the ground, while the father pleaded for his life. Another flick of the trigger and his chest fell apart in a hail of bullets. "Why are you so fucking useless, you hopeless scum?" Nostro hollered, laughing as he did so.
Back home, he swung open the door to the living room where his wife was snorting another huge line of coke off the 1,000-year-old oak table.
"Good walk, darling?"
"Great thanks, Liz. I took some trash out on the way, too," he smiled.
"That's good of you. As long as you enjoyed it."
"Immensely," he said.
"It's been a great day, hasn't it, darling?" Nostro said to his wife, gazing out of the windows on to the lawn of his palatial government home. He was reflecting on the success of his latest plan in waging nuclear and biological war on three fronts in the eastern sector.
"Yes, well done, honey. I'm so proud of you," she gushed.
Nostro moved away from the window and took a look through his bank of cameras. He could make out the silhouette of a young couple and their child sitting in the shade of a tree not more than 100 metres from the perimeter of his fence.
"I think I'll just go outside and get some fresh air, Liz," he said.
"You do that, Jack," she replied.
Nostro purposefully walked out of the living room. Before leaving the building, he grabbed his semi-automatic and headed into the bright day. He looked at his reflection in a window. His quiff looked magnificent today he thought as he twirled the weapon 360 degrees. He squeezed the trigger and let loose a round of bullets into the trees. Power. He could feel a hard-on coming.
Getting clearance from the guards at the perimeter, he walked through the gates and over to the family. They had nervously watched him approaching. Nostro started spraying rounds of bullets, sending him convulsing backwards with each release of fire. He could have taken the micro beam, but this was much more fun. The mother's head exploded like a fresh melon. Her young child fell to the ground, while the father pleaded for his life. Another flick of the trigger and his chest fell apart in a hail of bullets. "Why are you so fucking useless, you hopeless scum?" Nostro hollered, laughing as he did so.
Back home, he swung open the door to the living room where his wife was snorting another huge line of coke off the 1,000-year-old oak table.
"Good walk, darling?"
"Great thanks, Liz. I took some trash out on the way, too," he smiled.
"That's good of you. As long as you enjoyed it."
"Immensely," he said.
*
Five years had passed since Abi's release from Breakout. She was still just 26, beautiful, petite and dark; the looks she inherited from her Italian parents. Abi had taken a job in one of the warehouses, making overalls for the Mars Mining Corps. It wasn't a bad job. It was certainly better than working in one of the thousands of labs cloning humans. She had a couple of friends there and the best part of it was that the mindwire wouldn't work in the spacehouses, so she was free to think whatever she wanted there. A rare privilege indeed. At lunch, she met with her pal Emma.
"Here, see this Abs?" Emma said, pointing to the front pane of the latest edition of the visi-mag.
"Nostro caught in sex act at the Palace of Truth."
"You what?" Abi said, trying not to draw too much attention to herself in the dining area.
"Looks like some hooker was noshing him off when one of the maids walked in. Says here the maid went to the Justice Ministry straight away. She's testifying on The Cloud tomorrow."
"Dirty bastard," Abi sighed.
Day done, they changed back into casual clothes and downloaded.
Once home, Abi slipped off her shoes, poured a drink after a grueling 15-hour day and hooked up to the mainwire. She flicked through the live feeds. The usual stuff: "This is butchery like you've never seen before. Watch them fight to the dea...." She flicked back, putting the news on. Somehow she recognised the woman on screen. It was the maid pictured on the front of the laser mag earlier at work.
"It's too early to say just yet," said the newsbot, "but reports coming in from the scanners reveal she had some kind of accident. Her family have been notified and her funereal is to be later this week."
Abi slunk back into the sofa. Looked like the security services had finished the maid off before she could speak.
It was the anniversary of Abi and Muir's wedding. In the dark, tears rolling down her cheeks, she cried gently for hours, finding herself asleep on the sofa in the morning. She was an hour late for work.
"Oh shit! I'll lose 200 duros for this. Fuck!"
She hurriedly dressed, throw a glass of juice down her throat and caught the pod. No time to plug into the download. On the way she glimpsed some of the gangs, deformed and hunched after years living under searing noxious air in the southern sector. They were beating up an old man. As she turned to watch them in the distance, she could see them clutching their necks. They had been electroed. Probably enough to kill them, she thought.
Once at work, she was summoned to the manager's office.
"Where the fuck have you been, girl?" the old man screamed into her face. "We've got loads more where you came from."
"I'm sorry. It's the anniversary of Muir, you know?"
Calming down, the boss replied: "This is the second time you've been late in as many years. Time to call it a day," he said. "But since I kinda like you, I'll fix you up in a high-class joint. Don't worry."
"No please," Abi pleaded. But she had no further say in it.
"Here, see this Abs?" Emma said, pointing to the front pane of the latest edition of the visi-mag.
"Nostro caught in sex act at the Palace of Truth."
"You what?" Abi said, trying not to draw too much attention to herself in the dining area.
"Looks like some hooker was noshing him off when one of the maids walked in. Says here the maid went to the Justice Ministry straight away. She's testifying on The Cloud tomorrow."
"Dirty bastard," Abi sighed.
Day done, they changed back into casual clothes and downloaded.
Once home, Abi slipped off her shoes, poured a drink after a grueling 15-hour day and hooked up to the mainwire. She flicked through the live feeds. The usual stuff: "This is butchery like you've never seen before. Watch them fight to the dea...." She flicked back, putting the news on. Somehow she recognised the woman on screen. It was the maid pictured on the front of the laser mag earlier at work.
"It's too early to say just yet," said the newsbot, "but reports coming in from the scanners reveal she had some kind of accident. Her family have been notified and her funereal is to be later this week."
Abi slunk back into the sofa. Looked like the security services had finished the maid off before she could speak.
It was the anniversary of Abi and Muir's wedding. In the dark, tears rolling down her cheeks, she cried gently for hours, finding herself asleep on the sofa in the morning. She was an hour late for work.
"Oh shit! I'll lose 200 duros for this. Fuck!"
She hurriedly dressed, throw a glass of juice down her throat and caught the pod. No time to plug into the download. On the way she glimpsed some of the gangs, deformed and hunched after years living under searing noxious air in the southern sector. They were beating up an old man. As she turned to watch them in the distance, she could see them clutching their necks. They had been electroed. Probably enough to kill them, she thought.
Once at work, she was summoned to the manager's office.
"Where the fuck have you been, girl?" the old man screamed into her face. "We've got loads more where you came from."
"I'm sorry. It's the anniversary of Muir, you know?"
Calming down, the boss replied: "This is the second time you've been late in as many years. Time to call it a day," he said. "But since I kinda like you, I'll fix you up in a high-class joint. Don't worry."
"No please," Abi pleaded. But she had no further say in it.
*
It had been two years now since Abi had been working in one of the exclusive brothels, High Times, in the 500-mile square business area of the wealthy western sector. Every day was hell. But in a year's time, she would be free from here when her contract expired. How different from her life's plan of working as a doctor. The first financial crash had seen her forced to leave university with no work to finance her studies. And that's when she met rebel leader Muir who was intent on saving the remaining portions of forest. It all seemed so long ago.
*
It was the day of the big Z1 summit. All the installed leaders from each state government were to be assembled on the island fortress in the western sector. War cruisers patrolled the airspace and armoured vehicles thundered backwards and forwards shooting protesters in the main thoroughfares.
Nostro and his right-hand man, Rick Steele, were being uploaded from the north for the summit. In Nostro's hotel room they put their luggage down, ordered a three-course meal and sprawled out on the beds.
"Let's have a go on that," Nostro said. Steele passed him a bottle of vodka and Nostro swigged half the contents in one gulp. Nostro then pulled a small pouch of pills from his pocket, laid them out on his lap and gave half to Steele. "Down the neck, my man. Down the fucking neck."
Steele threw five of the little blue tabs on to his tongue and swallowed. "That should do the job," Steele belched.
"Don't know about you, Steeley old chap, but I'm gonna have me some fun with one of those little ladies across town."
"Nah, I'm going out, Jacky boy," Steele replied. "That new casino has just opened in town. It's the place to go. I've heard they've got a new Russian roulette suite, using those old bums off the street. Fucking great. How funny is that? You just gotta give it to 'em. That's exactly where I'll be heading. Better score me some ice, though. Can you call your man?"
Nostro nodded his approval. "Sounds like a good idea, I'll see you down there when I'm done here," he said. Steele got up and went out as Nostro made a call.
"Hello?" Nostro said.
"Yes, sir."
"Is that High Times?"
"Yes."
"I've had a look at your directory. Send me over Abi now. The usual set-up, put it on my account."
"Okay, sir, five minutes."
There was a knock on Abi's door.
"Yeah?" she sighed.
"Abi, last job of the evening. Never guess."
"Guess what?" she said.
"Nostro's only gone and asked for you. He's in town for the summit tomorrow. Who's the lucky girl?"
Abi closed her eyes and smiled.
She walked over to her locker and reached inside for the nail file and a vial of clear, viscose liquid. Dropping them in her clutch bag and flicking off the light, she went out into the still, clear night, waiting for the limousine to pick her up.
Nostro and his right-hand man, Rick Steele, were being uploaded from the north for the summit. In Nostro's hotel room they put their luggage down, ordered a three-course meal and sprawled out on the beds.
"Let's have a go on that," Nostro said. Steele passed him a bottle of vodka and Nostro swigged half the contents in one gulp. Nostro then pulled a small pouch of pills from his pocket, laid them out on his lap and gave half to Steele. "Down the neck, my man. Down the fucking neck."
Steele threw five of the little blue tabs on to his tongue and swallowed. "That should do the job," Steele belched.
"Don't know about you, Steeley old chap, but I'm gonna have me some fun with one of those little ladies across town."
"Nah, I'm going out, Jacky boy," Steele replied. "That new casino has just opened in town. It's the place to go. I've heard they've got a new Russian roulette suite, using those old bums off the street. Fucking great. How funny is that? You just gotta give it to 'em. That's exactly where I'll be heading. Better score me some ice, though. Can you call your man?"
Nostro nodded his approval. "Sounds like a good idea, I'll see you down there when I'm done here," he said. Steele got up and went out as Nostro made a call.
"Hello?" Nostro said.
"Yes, sir."
"Is that High Times?"
"Yes."
"I've had a look at your directory. Send me over Abi now. The usual set-up, put it on my account."
"Okay, sir, five minutes."
There was a knock on Abi's door.
"Yeah?" she sighed.
"Abi, last job of the evening. Never guess."
"Guess what?" she said.
"Nostro's only gone and asked for you. He's in town for the summit tomorrow. Who's the lucky girl?"
Abi closed her eyes and smiled.
She walked over to her locker and reached inside for the nail file and a vial of clear, viscose liquid. Dropping them in her clutch bag and flicking off the light, she went out into the still, clear night, waiting for the limousine to pick her up.
*
Do I have a heart of darkness? I think I must do living in Cairns. But this isn't that kind of welcoming, inky blackness you feel when dusk falls and bats take flight. No, it's Ergon Energy and the power-on, power-off game we've endured during the Wet. Ergon says it's bird shit on the power lines, lightning or whatever. All I know is the Mac's gone down, the food's all fucked and the cold ones ain't worth drinking. That big red reminder on the doormat says I owe heaps on my bill, but I've done the big, black shuffle-candle in hand-too many times. Ergon, we want our money back.
*
Late spring, early summer in Tasmania is a time for sunshine, swimming, bushwalking and my perennial favourite, opium poppies. You see, the kindly old dudes at the United Nations licence thousands of Tasmanian farmers to grow poppies for the pharmaceutical industry, to kill the pain of living for millions of people. At the right time of year they are very hard to miss. Tour guides will point them out to travellers as they fill many fields and hillsides with their floral beauty and at night time they actually glow in the dark, enabling those with an interest to spot them from miles away. Of course, the fields are policed and the fines for those found with "take-away" can be quite hefty, but dedicated connoisseurs are well prepared to do the time if caught for the crime.
Tiny black seeds, like those that appear on your bread rolls and in cakes and cookies, are planted at the right time in spring and the mature poppy pods are ready to harvest towards the end of the year. For our purposes, the best time to pick is as soon as the flowers begin to fall, though the dried pods are potent enough, too.
Eventually, if you live in Tassie for long enough and hang out with the right people you will hear of, and likely be offered, opium. It comes in the form of smelly, sticky, black shit, like treacle when warm and similar to hard liquorice when kept in the freezer or fridge.
To get really wasted, the novice would swallow between a half gram and a whole gram. The taste and consistency can cause even the experienced wasters to dry retch and vomit, so it helps to wrap it in a cigarette paper before you wash it down.
On my first time I did just that. We dropped a gram each, washed down with some beers, pulled a few cones and sat down to wait. At first, nothing such seemed to happen, and being young, keen and inexperienced, we demanded almost instant gratification. But, not wanting to make the same mistake we had made with some pills earlier (taking more when the first lot didn't seem to kick in fast enough and ending up dangerously wrecked), we waited, had more beer and cones, until finally it began.
I felt the most beautiful sensations running up my legs from my feet. Pure, orgasmic waves of pleasure slowly spread to my groin, my belly and then it was everywhere. My nose felt nicely itchy and some of us began to spew. I emptied my guts of several cans of beer and the cleansing process of power vomiting felt awesome. Some of the others were hucking what seemed like every two minutes and this became slightly irritating as it intruded on my bliss. When they finally settled down, we began to itch and nod, to mumble and dream. This is what it's all about, creamy, dreamy, problem free oblivion. You don't have a care in the world as time drifts by in waves as you pass between conscious states and bombed out Nirvana. These effects, if the gear is good, last for hours, so professional wasters need plenty of time on their hands to start with, it being very easy to nod large chunks of your life away.
We hung out together for several hours, talking, dreaming and floating around in bliss land, but eventually the desire to wander came upon some of us. Under the influence of various opiates, some people just want to sit and vegetate whilst others get an energy boost and feel the need to explore. We just went with the flow.
Tiny black seeds, like those that appear on your bread rolls and in cakes and cookies, are planted at the right time in spring and the mature poppy pods are ready to harvest towards the end of the year. For our purposes, the best time to pick is as soon as the flowers begin to fall, though the dried pods are potent enough, too.
Eventually, if you live in Tassie for long enough and hang out with the right people you will hear of, and likely be offered, opium. It comes in the form of smelly, sticky, black shit, like treacle when warm and similar to hard liquorice when kept in the freezer or fridge.
To get really wasted, the novice would swallow between a half gram and a whole gram. The taste and consistency can cause even the experienced wasters to dry retch and vomit, so it helps to wrap it in a cigarette paper before you wash it down.
On my first time I did just that. We dropped a gram each, washed down with some beers, pulled a few cones and sat down to wait. At first, nothing such seemed to happen, and being young, keen and inexperienced, we demanded almost instant gratification. But, not wanting to make the same mistake we had made with some pills earlier (taking more when the first lot didn't seem to kick in fast enough and ending up dangerously wrecked), we waited, had more beer and cones, until finally it began.
I felt the most beautiful sensations running up my legs from my feet. Pure, orgasmic waves of pleasure slowly spread to my groin, my belly and then it was everywhere. My nose felt nicely itchy and some of us began to spew. I emptied my guts of several cans of beer and the cleansing process of power vomiting felt awesome. Some of the others were hucking what seemed like every two minutes and this became slightly irritating as it intruded on my bliss. When they finally settled down, we began to itch and nod, to mumble and dream. This is what it's all about, creamy, dreamy, problem free oblivion. You don't have a care in the world as time drifts by in waves as you pass between conscious states and bombed out Nirvana. These effects, if the gear is good, last for hours, so professional wasters need plenty of time on their hands to start with, it being very easy to nod large chunks of your life away.
One of my mates and I ended up at Salamanca Market, down on the Hobart waterfront. We plonked ourselves down in a cafe, hidden away at the rear of an ancient sandstone warehouse, and drank some iced chocolate and nibbled on breadsticks, occasionally nodding off onto each other's shoulder, probably looking like a couple of wasted gay lovers. The beauty of the situation was that we didn't give a shit what people thought.
Eventually, we went our own way and I wandered home to bed. I don't recall the exact dreams that occurred way back then, but if later experiences were anything to go by, they were weird and wonderful.
The next morning, I woke up and went to school.
*
YOU CAN NEVER HAVE ENOUGH ZEROS
Zimbabwe has been suffering the world's worst inflation, running at 13 million per cent. This led the government to issue the world's first ever 100 trillion dollar note.
So what's with the rocks, mate?
Simple. I'm somewhere under that lot. They think it will keep me down. Fat chance.
Proudest moment?
Last year, when I was worth a bunch of bananas.
What's the difference between you and a pizza?
A pizza can feed a family of four.
Anyone you've got your eye on?
The Vietnamese Dong is quite sexy. US$1 is worth about 17,000 Dong. A few more more zeros and I think we'll be game on for a night out.
How has the financial crisis affected you?
Which crisis?
Favourite catchphrase?
"Have you got ten bucks you can lend me?"
Simple. I'm somewhere under that lot. They think it will keep me down. Fat chance.
Proudest moment?
Last year, when I was worth a bunch of bananas.
What's the difference between you and a pizza?
A pizza can feed a family of four.
Anyone you've got your eye on?
The Vietnamese Dong is quite sexy. US$1 is worth about 17,000 Dong. A few more more zeros and I think we'll be game on for a night out.
How has the financial crisis affected you?
Which crisis?
Favourite catchphrase?
"Have you got ten bucks you can lend me?"
*
It was a warm, sunny morning in the village. It was quiet, apart from the occasional sounds of the country: a distant chainsaw, a dog barking, a small cat purring. That small cat was none other than Failsworth, trumpet player, notorious drunk and champion ratter. He stretched lazily, coughed lightly and wandered downstairs in his Captain Scarlet pyjamas.
"It's going to be a belter today!" he said gleefully as he looked out of the window. There was an almost tangible air of rebellion about Failsworth this morning and it was obvious that he was going to skip school again today. In fact, not only was he going to skip school, but he was going to carry out a little plan he had been working on for some time.
Shouting to the other lads to come down, he explained in hushed tones what a great treat lay in store for all of them today. When they had all been fully instructed of their duties, Beep, Jenny, Winkie and Wills ran into the kitchen and piled tins of tuna and pilchards and cans of strong lager into a plastic carrier bag and dragged it out into the sunshine.
"This is it," shouted Failsworth, "our passport to freedom and a day at the beach!" The other cats whooped their approval and rushed towards the giant red monster. Now most cats wouldn't have a clue how to drive a Citroen 2CV with it's fiddly gear stick and poor handling, but Failsworth, with a mixture of cunning, intuition and the fact that he watched far too much television, had grasped the rudiments, as it were, and had been sneaking out at quiet moments to familiarise himself with the workings of the car, and today was the day that it was all going to put into practice.
Once inside the car, the cats were positioned as follows:- Beep lay on the back seat, as she was the lady after all, Wills operated the accelerator, Jenny, being heavy, was in charge of the clutch, Winkie pushed and pulled the gearstick, and Failsworth stood triumphantly with both paws grasping the steering wheel. An old lady on her way to the shop was hailed over by Failsworth and politely asked to turn the ignition key (as it was too awkward for the cats), and then release the handbrake (as cats aren't strong enough to do that). This done, Wills blipped the accelerator and the engine roared.
"I hope you've passed your test," the old lady said to Failsworth.
"Of course, I have!" he said haughtily and added, "You don't have any of those minty cigarettes, do you?"
The old lady ignored him.
Things were in full swing now. Jenny had the clutch to the floor, Winkie pushed in the gear stick, Wills gave it some more revs, Beep snored and the captain of this merry ship shouted, "Let her out, Jen!" The car began careering noisily up the road as Failsworth battled with the steering wheel. The one thing he wasn't sure about was the concept of gears so it was going to stay in first throughout the trip.
They had not gone fifty metres, when Failsworth spotted a familiar sight at the side of the road. It was Mr Harrison's scruffy spaniel, an old adversary. Suddenly, the car swerved as Failsworth clawed the steering wheel down to one side. He was not trying to avoid the dog, however, but kill it while he had the opportunity. The dog, no fool, jumped a low wall in front of Mr Harrison's house, while the car crashed into the wall, scattering the occupants about inside to an accompanying crescendo of howls and wails.
When the dust had settled and the dream of an idyllic day at the beach, eating, drinking and sunbathing had finally dissolved, the incompetent felines shoved the car into neutral and freewheeled backwards down the road and deposited the car in front of the cottage. The dejected throng went inside to catch the last ten minutes of 'Play School' on TV.
I arrived home at lunchtime and immediately knew something was wrong by the crazy angle that the car had been parked at, and then I noticed the dented front wing. I rushed into the front room to be greeted by the sight of Failsworth reclining in my chair, wearing my slippers and elegantly smoking a minty cigarette.
"Look, just DON'T ask. I've had a simply terrible day," he said in an uninterested tone of voice. "Anyway, in order to redress the balance somewhat, I've got you a little present." He gestured towards the shoes under the table. Dismayed, I spied the form of a stiff dead rat lying neatly across the toes of my best footwear. "That took me half an hour to catch!"
"Thank you," I sighed. "I'll put it with the others."
"It's going to be a belter today!" he said gleefully as he looked out of the window. There was an almost tangible air of rebellion about Failsworth this morning and it was obvious that he was going to skip school again today. In fact, not only was he going to skip school, but he was going to carry out a little plan he had been working on for some time.
Shouting to the other lads to come down, he explained in hushed tones what a great treat lay in store for all of them today. When they had all been fully instructed of their duties, Beep, Jenny, Winkie and Wills ran into the kitchen and piled tins of tuna and pilchards and cans of strong lager into a plastic carrier bag and dragged it out into the sunshine.
"This is it," shouted Failsworth, "our passport to freedom and a day at the beach!" The other cats whooped their approval and rushed towards the giant red monster. Now most cats wouldn't have a clue how to drive a Citroen 2CV with it's fiddly gear stick and poor handling, but Failsworth, with a mixture of cunning, intuition and the fact that he watched far too much television, had grasped the rudiments, as it were, and had been sneaking out at quiet moments to familiarise himself with the workings of the car, and today was the day that it was all going to put into practice.
Once inside the car, the cats were positioned as follows:- Beep lay on the back seat, as she was the lady after all, Wills operated the accelerator, Jenny, being heavy, was in charge of the clutch, Winkie pushed and pulled the gearstick, and Failsworth stood triumphantly with both paws grasping the steering wheel. An old lady on her way to the shop was hailed over by Failsworth and politely asked to turn the ignition key (as it was too awkward for the cats), and then release the handbrake (as cats aren't strong enough to do that). This done, Wills blipped the accelerator and the engine roared.
"I hope you've passed your test," the old lady said to Failsworth.
"Of course, I have!" he said haughtily and added, "You don't have any of those minty cigarettes, do you?"
The old lady ignored him.
Things were in full swing now. Jenny had the clutch to the floor, Winkie pushed in the gear stick, Wills gave it some more revs, Beep snored and the captain of this merry ship shouted, "Let her out, Jen!" The car began careering noisily up the road as Failsworth battled with the steering wheel. The one thing he wasn't sure about was the concept of gears so it was going to stay in first throughout the trip.
They had not gone fifty metres, when Failsworth spotted a familiar sight at the side of the road. It was Mr Harrison's scruffy spaniel, an old adversary. Suddenly, the car swerved as Failsworth clawed the steering wheel down to one side. He was not trying to avoid the dog, however, but kill it while he had the opportunity. The dog, no fool, jumped a low wall in front of Mr Harrison's house, while the car crashed into the wall, scattering the occupants about inside to an accompanying crescendo of howls and wails.
When the dust had settled and the dream of an idyllic day at the beach, eating, drinking and sunbathing had finally dissolved, the incompetent felines shoved the car into neutral and freewheeled backwards down the road and deposited the car in front of the cottage. The dejected throng went inside to catch the last ten minutes of 'Play School' on TV.
I arrived home at lunchtime and immediately knew something was wrong by the crazy angle that the car had been parked at, and then I noticed the dented front wing. I rushed into the front room to be greeted by the sight of Failsworth reclining in my chair, wearing my slippers and elegantly smoking a minty cigarette.
"Look, just DON'T ask. I've had a simply terrible day," he said in an uninterested tone of voice. "Anyway, in order to redress the balance somewhat, I've got you a little present." He gestured towards the shoes under the table. Dismayed, I spied the form of a stiff dead rat lying neatly across the toes of my best footwear. "That took me half an hour to catch!"
"Thank you," I sighed. "I'll put it with the others."
*
We spoke to Al one afternoon in Munro Martin Park. This is what he had to say.
How long have you been in Cairns?
Five years, or six, I've lost count.
What do you like about Cairns?
I get to wear thongs all year round. And I like the smell of fruitbats first thing in the morning.
What would you change about living here?
There should be a bums' pub in town. What's with all these trendy nightspots? I love my grog, but can't get in anywhere. So what if I haven't washed for a couple of months? If my buddies and I could get together and down a few bottles of super-strength, the world would be a far better place.
What made you move here?
What do ya mean? Made me move here? My legs, ya drongo.
What's the most interesting thing you've seen on the street?
Aah, probably the new line markings on McLeod Street in front of Cairns Central. It was fun for a while watching the taxi drivers having to give way to someone else for a change. If they had it their way, there'd be one road for them and one for everybody else. Ya remember when all a monkey could do was open a banana?
No.
Those were the days.
Ok.
Next question.
What's your philosophy on life?
All I can say is "if the meek want to inherit the Earth, they are going to have to wait in line."
How long have you been in Cairns?
Five years, or six, I've lost count.
What do you like about Cairns?
I get to wear thongs all year round. And I like the smell of fruitbats first thing in the morning.
What would you change about living here?
There should be a bums' pub in town. What's with all these trendy nightspots? I love my grog, but can't get in anywhere. So what if I haven't washed for a couple of months? If my buddies and I could get together and down a few bottles of super-strength, the world would be a far better place.
What made you move here?
What do ya mean? Made me move here? My legs, ya drongo.
What's the most interesting thing you've seen on the street?
Aah, probably the new line markings on McLeod Street in front of Cairns Central. It was fun for a while watching the taxi drivers having to give way to someone else for a change. If they had it their way, there'd be one road for them and one for everybody else. Ya remember when all a monkey could do was open a banana?
No.
Those were the days.
Ok.
Next question.
What's your philosophy on life?
All I can say is "if the meek want to inherit the Earth, they are going to have to wait in line."
*
FEZ next month:
"POLITICS"
Contributions to:-
fez@randompress.com.au
