Slowly, using a methodical, meticulous technique, his breathing soft, even, he raised the 9mm Luger, its heavy silencer pulling the barrel down, to eye level. He concentrated, balancing the front sight, equidistant from the shoulders on either side and level with the top of the notch in the rear sight.

     Very gently, as though caressing a tulip, he applied steady pressure to the 25gm.trigger. Squeezing it like a tender, rare fruit, tripping the firing pin spring, slamming the pin into the primer, exploding the fulminate of mercury, igniting the powder into an instantaneous gaseous expansion to send the steel coated projectile leaping down the rifled barrel, to escape in a baffled flash.

     He didn’t bother watching the target crumple to the ground. Already, the silencer removed, the Luger restored to its soft leather holster under his left arm, he drifted with ease, naturally, into the flow of pedestrians, like a dingy loosed from its moorings by an unusually high tide.

     Drifting into the rapid moving swarm of pedestrians; blending, like a chameleon, into the multi coloured array of tourists, office workers, hawkers, [1] buskers, businessmen; the flotsam and jetsam of this busy Brisbane street.

     Did he care? That is not an easy question to answer.

    Without any sign of remorse, any trace of compassion, emotion expressed on his face, in his eyes, his stature or his steady, even paced walk, he ambled away. Maybe there was a swagger, an over confident tilt to his walk, but there were none in the passing crowd who noticed.

    He melted, like an ice cube, into the anonymity of a rapid flowing, warm, river of office workers pouring, as in deluge, from block after ugly, soulless, grey block of shops and offices that clutter Queen St. These tragic, multi storied decorations of contemporary society, standing, as ornaments, to their builders’ lack of imagination and creativity. 

                                  CHEAP IS BEST!

   Leaving an unpleasant, airless labyrinth of dust, heat, the stale stench of sweaty workers; rushing, fleeing their desks, cash registers, computers, like rats from the fast sinking monolith of a dying society, he stepped into an expensive European station wagon and drove north, toward the less populated country surrounds.

   A Klaxon angrily demanded right of way, total dominance of the streets, dictatorial control of the mind.

    The tranquility that once crept through the mind, like the predawn freshness, with a brief fantasy of peace, shattered. Glowing sun, blood red, fracturing, crushing any vestige of hope for the survivors of last night’s horrors.
       Nick O’Larse slid the heavy cylinder into the leather case, next to his camera lenses and other photographic equipment.

   Misfortune gave Harry the expensive experience of meeting O’Larse in 1969 in Port  …..,  where, at the time Harry owned a coffee shop/restaurant. Nick befriended a hopelessly trusting Harry for his own nefarious purposes, which were not necessarily going to be to Harry’s benefit, though Harry didn’t know that at the time.

This meeting, Nick’s purpose, Harry unraveled over the following months; much to his personal chagrin and financial detriment, was Nick’s plan to help Harry lose as much spare cash as Nick could relieve him of.

To describe O’ Larse involves terminologies such as;  a physical, emotional, spiritual and psychological series of tragedies. A twisted, deprived, depraved exegesis on bitterness, hatred and anger at the world! He is also particularly ugly! It is important one realize these opinions expressed are solely those of the victim and in no way the opinion of Nick!

Nick is a semi-crippled person of mixed ethnic, (greek-Egyptian) origins. A midget, who wouldn’t hesitate to put his mother on the street, to hawk her fork; if he could see it as a means to support his gambling habit and tragically stunted ego. Unbeknownst to Harry, at the time of their meeting, Nick had his girlfriend, Cheryl, a naïve, well shaped young girl, conned by Nick’s lies, cunning and offers of money, working as a hooker to support them both.

Some would describe Nick as a mongrel pimp, and they would be right.

He is, in the opinions of all who have business dealings with him, an immoral, disrespectful, opportunistic dog, a perverse being, without any decency, nor any real value as a member of our social structure. A prime egotistical, perverted megalomaniac, driven by an intense desire to get revenge on society for the misfortune of his birth.

By the way, the use of the descriptive word “dog” in no way denigrates the canine specie. It is an ancient Jewish slang term for a male prostitute, and they, (not the canines) are described as the second lowest specie on the planet, in Rabbinitical circles!

 The coffee shop was not doing well.

Since taking over, Harry made a few changes. Prices were reduced a fraction, the service changed some; it having proven necessary to dismiss a continuing supply of the ‘casual’ white staff, to overcome losses, to Harry’s pocket, by staff giving their friends freebies. Also, in youthful foolishness, or exuberance, Harry attempted to change the status quo, the ‘cultural’ level, of the customers, by introducing a different style of music being played at the venue.

Harry, an ex musician, believes people should have the opportunity to listen to a wider range of music styles than are commonly available, especially via commercial radio. He chose to play a more contemporary music, in the Jazz spectrum! Sadly, much to Harry’s later surprise, he discovered only 0.02% of the population like Jazz, so, also unfortunately, the customers stopped coming to the coffee shop.

Contemporary music went over like a lead balloon.

One of the harsh new realities Harry experienced was the traditional concept of ‘freebies’ the staff expect, as part of their employment fringe benefits; without any thought of cost to Harry. He should have known better.

He too had been an employee for some years and was just as guilty of the practice of stealing from the boss as those now ripping him off! Business reports and seminars expose this practice as a virus destroying many enterprises.

“Hey, Harry, why you want to sack me?”

“Because you’re ripping me off!”

Many workers believe it is their integral right, as employees, to rip off the boss wherever they can, but this was Harry’s business. He was paying for those coffees, these free snacks, etc., and didn’t think it was the way to have business running.

 There have been studies and essays written on the “[2]Ocker” image.

These have generally implied that Australian workers are [3]bludgers and thieves, to the largest majority. That they regard the boss as a target, a soft touch, and have no compunction about stealing at every opportunity, whether by wasting time or pocketing product.

Most Australian workers seem to believe they are not being paid what they believe they’re worth. They are indolent, dishonest, apathetic, and avoid work like it’s a deadly poison. Some suggest it is an Australian concept, possibly a part of what is known as the “CONVICT COMPLEX.”

 This is not a new theory, and it’s application is common to many Australian born workers. It also explains why so few Australians own their own business, are entrepreneurs, etc. Probably this is relevant to the deep seated guilt of being descendants of criminals, no matter how serious or petty, and is exacerbated by our isolation from all forms of European culture and heritage.

Possibly it is also why Australians are such chronic gamblers. None of them want to work for a living. They want the world but few are prepared to get off their collective arses and do the hard work needed to succeed.

 Nick often commented on how we have no extended history, no basis for pride nor self-respect, which contributes to our national fanaticism about success in sport.

On one occasion, when Nick was busy paying out on what a hole Australia is, Harry got very indignant with the continuous criticism and really paid out on Nick and a couple of other Europeans who were sitting at the table with him.

“This, Nick is what the problem is. It’s not Australia, nor Australians, but a really screwed up system we are locked in by the hierarchy. Because Australia, since white settlement, is such a young nation, we have no real culture of our own. What culture we have is borrowed from Europe,England, the many nations who have sourced our population. Third party success!

Obviously we couldn’t adopt the Aboriginal cultures, our technological advances made that impossible, and we we’re far too arrogant to learn what we should have from the Aboriginals. Our prowess in the killing fields, be they military or “sporting” are our nation’s major claim to “CULTURE”!

Possibly this relates, in some tragic manner, to the ways our ancestors so heroically raped and slaughtered the indigenous population when we first arrived on these shores and continue to do,  even to this day. For many of us it is an embarrassment to be white.

 Australians, finally, are beginning to recognize: accept and be proud that we produce very intelligent and gifted scientists. Musicians, artists, writers, playwrights, movie directors, the list goes on and on, and this recognition is now slowly conquering the dearth of personal self- respect and national pride. We are replacing our national lust for mediocrity, the baseness of trivia instead of reality with recognition, that, on a weight for age ratioi, we are one of the smartest, most innovative, imaginative and potentially successful nations on the planet; hope the reality sinks in before we have sold off everything we own here!

Many of us can easily relate with the characters in Kurt Vonnegut’s Jr’s story, ‘Harrison Bergeron.’ (Welcome to the Monkey House.  Panther 1951)

In this very funny tragedy, no matter what cost to individuality, creativity and sanity, we all are required to be EQUAL. The ‘tall poppy’ syndrome is rampant in our midst, and Mr. Vonnegut depicts it admirably in this work.

Read it!

He tells of this world in which everybody HAS TO BE EQUAL!

Nobody is allowed any creativity, any talent, any greater ability, in any area, than any other member of the community. If one is so identified they are either sent to get higher levels of handicaps, or they are executed.


What a great way to develop the perfect, equal society.

“It’s what we’ve been doing, since the 1700’s, through the roman catholic controlled education system!” Henry butted in.

Nick and the other customers walked out at the end of this impassioned lecture.

 “Would you care for a cup of tea?” she asked.

  “Why?” she responded

  “Oh, it’s good for the liver and stimulates the flow of liquids through the large and small intestine, I’ve been told.”

 “That’s bloody exciting! It sounds about as simulating as farting, while bonking the pope! You old people really do have a twisted concept of the world, don’t you?”

  “Yes young lady, we do. We grew up in a world different to the one you have been dragged into and through. We at least had the opportunity to develop our minds, to read literature by great writers, Byron, Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Fowles, Dennis, Nolan, etc.

The list is gigantic, but these authors were able, through their writings, their stories, their experiences, to open our eyes to worlds outside the stifled, mono-maniacal, ugly excuses your generation, (and most since the 1950’s), were ever allowed to experience, as education.

  We had access to music other than the ugly, maudlin, emotionally and intellectually destitute “three minute hits” since the birth of “rock and roll”, in the 1950’s.

  Loud, three chord, eighth note rhythmed excuses for music, that are used by the servants of the devil’s machine, to brainwash you all into creative and individuality oblivion!  

Each of you think, dress, eat, act almost identically, believing you are expressing your INDIVIDUALITY, while you are subjected to fear of PEER PRESSURE! You do it to pretend you’re being different but, you mindless little nincompoop, you are more regimented, less individual than any generation that has ever walked the face of this planet. You are turned, by your liberated, perverted educational and media systems, into ignorant, reasonless, mindless cretins, without any comprehension of anything beyond your whorish sexual proclivities and concerns about where to get your next feed and fix!

Your generation’s been identified, through no fault but that of timing, as the culminating age of what we consider “life”, on this planet, as we know it.”

                        “You are the LAST GENERATION!” the elderly woman continued,

             “You are the lowest common denominator of what we have termed ‘HUMAN’ life. You are the heralds of the demise of this figment and dimension of TIME!” the diatribe concluded. 

“Good to know we did something right. Does this mean we get higher social security payments? Or do I just have to go copulate with some moron and get pregnant again?” the young girl responded

 By the time the thought police arrived to investigate the previously  mentioned shooting, the culprit was well gone. Vanished, like a proverbial whatever it was, and the possibility of reconstructing the event, through the eyes of the brain dead workers’ witness was willfully woeful!

‘Wonderful’, he thought, as he reached for the latest copy of the Daily Daily, a newspaper of little value and an abundance of typographical and content error. 

“Do you ever get to watch the sunset over the blue, bushfire smoked mountains? Do you wonder where all the time goes after it’s been measured and documented by the many time watchers throughout the world?” Harry asked Cheryl

Cheryl curled up on the soft, third hand life stained couch on which she reclined and responded;

“Time is a measurement of motion, but, in itself, doesn’t actually exist. Much like everything else. Does anything really exist outside our perceptions, our abilities to respond to external stimuli?” 

Harry asked Cheryl to pour him a nice, cool glass of three time filtered water.  All water has to be filtered at least three times now to purify it or the toxic contents would poison the strongest constitution.

So much for progress!

 “Neither the author nor any other scientist or wayfarer can prove this point of existence.  It is impossible to prove that either TIME, the Universes or even we, ourselves, exist, except possibly as a figment of some alien’s P.C.!” Harry replied. “There’s no reference point we can access to establish any reality outside preset dimensions and boundaries. There’s no guarantee that you’re reading this or it was ever written, maybe you’re purely imagining you’re sitting there, holding this book, lost in the depths of mental extension, are you sure you ARE?”

Nick often had fantasies about shooting people. He wanted to be famous, to make a mark on society, no matter how futile and irrelevant a smudge it may be, but he couldn’t find a way to do it. He remembered reading a book once, but he couldn’t recall the title, which had involved the concept of chance.

“Life is a game of chance and the participants are required to take so many tickets in everything they could, in case they either won or lost something. The tickets represented abilities, handicaps, successes, failures, birth defects, etc.” Nick’s mother told him as he cleaned the barrel of his Luger. 

 “Car accident injuries, injuries to the body AND mind, be it through violence in sport, on the street, in wars, in classrooms, worse still, where the majority of victims get injured AT HOME, these are the factors to consider when calculating the current social position!” she continued

“If someone else wins, the game goes on.  The question then arises, is it your moral or immoral right to murder that person, any person, because you could; to get from them what they had won?”
          “Stop the moralizing, mum, you know it’s a fantasy. Who gives two damns about anyone else unless it is for their own benefit?” Nick asked.

“Even if it is useless or of no value to yourself, though it could have been of great value to the person who originally won it, it’s imperative you take their ticket. They forfeited their life, at your choice, your hands, by which means they won and lost all at the same time, and achieved nothing by their good fortune.

Can we determine then whether there is right or wrong in our action?” she replied

“Have you the right to kill another human being, so you can advance your belief system, and claim you are acting for the good of society? Who gives any of us that right?”

Detective Sergeant Heinrich Mix, a subterfuge oft utilized by the police, to deceive the public into thinking they actually have different ranks from which to choose their next scapegoats, was a man of great mental prowess. He could think and tie up his shoes at the same time. 

It was recently reported, through the Daily Daily, that Mix has been promoted, even above his intellectual and academic peers, because he won Monopoly, three games straight, against the Regional commander. There isn’t any shred of evidence to support this theory, but that, like in many other police investigations, is a mere trifle, of no major import nor influence.

D.S. Mix has been put in charge of this particular crime investigation because they couldn’t find anyone else as stupid to do it, and, as it’s well documented in police circles, ‘It takes a thief to catch a thief’.

Sadly, this isn’t a theft he was to investigate, but the theory sounded good at the time and is included for future reference.

“Why exclude good theories just because they are irrelevant.” the commander often said.

This is the only phrase he still remembered, from the Police Academy, so he gave it good usage, along with;  ”What’s in it for me? Where do you keep your Swiss bank account?  Do you speak English?”  plus other such enlightening, highly confidential police terminologies.

This case has baffled even the most diligent of police boffins. There wasn’t the slightest trace of evidence, no previously identifiable modus operandii, not even a hint of reason for the shooting. It has just taken place, in broad daylight, in a crowded street, yet there isn’t one person who remembered anything about it.

The media jackals had not been able to unearth any scandal relevant to the gunning down of the target, nor been able to link it to the ever increasing number of similar events now occurring in the city.

 Even the smutty, ‘Illiterates Extra’ hasn’t the audacity to suggest it was a Vatican hit or somebody’s mother had made him do it.

Two thousand and eighty four was a great year for something, but nobody seemed to be able to remember what. Possibly it was the year they discovered that they didn’t have the slightest idea what they were looking for, nor, for that matter, who the hell they are anyway!

Nick has been working on a plan to rip off a business partner from the U.S.A., as well as a young, mentally damaged bloke he recently met at a coffee shop in Port M……

In spite of his many protestations about his animal cunning, his courage, his ability to out-think Einstein; the best he could do to earn a living was prostitute his girl friend and rip off two people who have given him the opportunity to take control of his life. The realistic option to break his poverty cycle of thinking, and take advantage of this opportunity to change his life, positively, forever was a chance too big for Nick to face. He found it easier to vegitate in his ugly little world of petty crime and self-aggrandizement!

 That was too easy for Nick. He had to prove, being a Greek Egyptian, crippled, brain dead midget gambler, that he was smarter than everybody!

Meanwhile, Cheryl, the hooker, the capital investor of Nick’s financial empire, was beginning to see there was little to the life she was living. She got porked all day, if Nick could find blokes desperate enough to pay for her services. She got a number of doses of the clap, a bad case of herpes and not much else, unless you include the occasional hidings she got from Nick, for keeping enough money to buy food. 

   Cheryl met this young bloke, who drives a delivery truck in Sydney, and reckoned he actually liked her, regardless of the fact that most of her teeth had been knocked out by Nick, her halitosis is really bad, and she walked with a pronounced L.I.M.P!

Charlie has very offensive breath too.

His job meant he didn’t get to meet girls very often, his delivery truck only went from the morgue to various funeral parlors, and they were the wrong sort of parlors for meeting girls. He couldn’t read or write, he was cross eyed in one eye and had a fear of water. 

His mother told him the time has come to either find a woman, get married and move OUT, or she would have him removed, as she was tired of getting his porridge and doing his washing. 

Then, just like it is often planned, in a cheap, computer written scene, he met Cheryl.

He was  coming out of “STIFFS PLANTED”, one of the lower class plantoriums, in a Brisbane suburb, that will not be named, to offend the innocent, when he saw this skinny, bedraggled young hooker, standing on the corner, obviously waiting for a bus.

As they didn’t have buses in that part of town Charlie thought he would offer her a lift. He sidled up to her, in his usual, cool, collected fashion and stammered, “You u u u u u r r r rr  w w w w w wan n n n n a l l i ft?” He said it in Australian as he didn’t speak any other languages and didn’t want to confuse her.

“You  wann n n a  f f f f f fornic c c c cate m m me here or  g g g go b b b b b b ack to m m m m my place?’ she candidly replied.

“G G G G G Golly, y y y  y y you talk j j  j j ust l l like m m m  m mme.” the shocked Charlie stammered.

“D d d d dou y y y you wan n n na screw me or n n not? Only t t t twent t ty b b b bucks?” the cool business woman retorted, but, inside, she was shaking.

He looked so cute, attired in that un-ironed brown duffle coat and blue shoes. Could this be the answer to her prayers?

We won’t elaborate on their extended conversation; personal stuff and very slow! Those romanticists reading will understand the respectful silence.

 P.C. Mix was looking at the colour of his sox, wondering if they were in anyway related to his fear of heights, when in rushed constableStyx.

He was always doing that, because he was Russian, and Mix had grown accustomed to his pace.

“Ve haff found a vitness off der shooting, ve tink, Lieutenant. She’s a blonde hooker who vorks for Nick de pimp, vherever he could get some street corner for her to stand on.” saidStyx

“You know Nick Giovarse. He’s that tvisted little petty crook who vas done for trying to sell nude pictures of himself to poofters and other such perverts, down at der local toilet block last year.”

“Thanks Styx. Sergeant Micks, could you takeStyx and Stones and go see if Cheryl is still doing tricks down in her usual hang out? Styx, you tell Stones I want this little matter kept under wraps ‘til we know if she really is a witness or she’s still an r.c. You can’t be too careful these days, or any others, for that matter, but we don’t want to screw this one up like we did the last hit.”

“Fair go Leiutenant, ve almost caught der last one, it vas just he vas vorking on daylight saving time and ve hadn’t put our clocks either forvard or backvard, depending vhich vay ve vere going. Ve didn’t know he vas from New South Vales.”

 “You should have checked the authenticity of those watches he sold you before he left, they didn’t even work. How the hell can we sell them for evidence?”

“If you and Stones don’t get some results with this case I’ll have both of you doing tricks with sticks and stones. Our reputation with the local underworld is really going down hill.

They don’t even bother to tell us who the winners are going to be at the trots anymore, and we really need get more money coming in or we’ll have to sell our Porsche four wheel drives!”

“Vell, ve vill see vhat ve can do mit her. She really is such a cutie. It’s sad to see a young girl like her mixed up mit such a mongrel as Giovarse! Maybe ve could take up a collection and send her off to college vere she could learn to knit and write little dittys, in French, on condoms. There has to be a better life for a sveet girl like her.” mumbled Styx into his expensive Swedish Schnapps!

 The Klaxon continued, blaring its warning, as the ambulance rushed through the ignorant lunatics who cluttered the road in their ridiculous, polluting, time destroying traffic snarls.

“There appppppears to be an un-nnnnatural arrrrrrrogance many pppppeople adddopt wuwuwuwuonce they get behind the steering whwhwhwheel of a ccccar.

They bbbbbbecome, or is it they ffffeel ffree, ananonononymous ennunuough, to express their arrogance, their selfish, “stststststuff yuyuyuou” attitudes. Charlie told Cheryl as they sat, gazing into each other’s eyes and holding hands.

 At this point the author will take the liberty to edit Charlie and Cheryl’s speech impediments for the reader’s sanity and to prevent this story being longer than War and Peace

“We find it like that all the time when we’re taking ‘stiffs’ to the cemetery. Hoons and morons try to cut us off at traffic lights or want to race us. People are getting really stupid.” Charlie explained to Cheryl

‘Pull over to allow an ambulance freedom of way?  No chance!  ‘This is my road! I’ve got more rights than any mug in an ambulance or fire engine to use this road! I pay my taxes, I’m not pulling over for anybody.’

It’s the same attitude that let us witness a bloke getting kicked to death, on a suburban street. The local police appearing on the scene, slowing their car down, observing the size of the crowd doing the kicking and simply driving on.

I was guilty of doing nothing too. What would you have done?

That is our  “SOCIAL” standard.

‘I’m in this for ME! I don’t give a stuff about you. I’ll blow smoke in your face, I’ll pollute the atmosphere, I DON’T CARE!’ I don’t have the balls to stand up and fight for the environment we are allowing the developers, the miners, the farmers and road makers, us, to destroy.’

There has been, in an opinion expressed, in another document, an all but total de-masculation of what was considered the MALE of the human specie. Now the women have the balls, they just don’t have the brains. The men haven’t the intestinal fortitude to take responsibility for their wife, their financial situation, their kids, anything!

They pretend they are men by beating their wives or mistresses up, drinking excessive amounts of alcohol and pissing on the wall of the police station, to demonstrate their manhood.

 What has happened to the specie?

 We use the word ‘kids’, not as an American slang term, but because these, as the vast majority now display, no longer children of the human specie, but hybridized perversions, known as beasts. Without integrity, morals, humane-ity. Without the courage to have beliefs, thoughts, different to what the idiot box tells them, lest they be considered abnormal, insane, by their peers.

The entire society is perverted to the core.

While the crowd gathered, for a quick look at the victim waiting to be chalked on the footpath, in another part of Brisbane, hidden in a box of soda crackers, an ominous ticking emanated from the concealed contents.

It is something that would cause a cursory glance, but, had anyone been listening, paying attention to the continuing, monotonous TIC, TIC, TIC, TIC, TIC, TIC, it could have stimulated concern, even some action, to determine the source of this mechanical measuring of eternity into little, regimented slices, like a military pie.

 It could have encouraged interest from the police, the bomb squad. It did nothing but TIC, TIC, TIC away to itself, and an old baglady, who has entered the area, looking for food scraps, aluminium tins to collect and sell to the recyclers.

She heard the ominous sound. It reminded her of her childhood, sitting at the kitchen table, hearing the old clock that squatted on the shelf, keeping track of pies in the oven, cakes, times for showers, school, ordering the life of all who heard its dominant commands.

She stepped closer to the ticking, she hoped it might be something worth a few dollars, something she could maybe swap for a meal, a bed for the night. Anything, any change; to relieve the boredom and apathy poverty breeds.

It was night time, the dreams, the memories drifted, like light, fluffy clouds through vast emptiness, through her mind, now free, floating away into the void which is time, or lack of it and she didn’t have to worry anymore.

It was nighttime!

Seconds fell, regimentally from the wall clock, to march stiffly across the desk, ONE, TWO, THREE, to fall from sight, like lemmings, off the edge of the world, back into the eternity from which they escaped.

Charlie pondered the destination of these seconds and if they were indeed “seconds”! Maybe they were “firsts”. Who knows?

Recycled time seems a viable concept, when he considers how long it was since he was born and how old he is now. ‘These are obviously related points,’ he thought

 “If they are seconds then there’s a real possibility they don’t vanish into the distant haze of time, but merely sneak around to somehow get back into that infernal clock, without anyone being able to spot them doing so. Yet, if they are not “seconds”, but firsts, then where do all the seconds go? Do they get a job and get on with their life; as the populace expects them to do; if not, where do all the “firsts” keep coming from?”

These matters have been the concern of Charlie ever since he read Einstein’s theory of relativity. He tried to discuss it with different people, over the years, but they reckon he is nuts.

He wrote a song about it, when sitting on a bus, and tried to work out how many seconds (or firsts) there has been since the beginning of what some people call LIFE, on this planet. It will be in the vicinity of three hundred and ninety eight trillion, seven hundred and sixty three billion, two hundred and six million, four hundred and forty three thousand, eight hundred and twenty eight seconds, give or take a few.

He could not get any verification on this from any scientific source. This because the alternate scientific sources are at odds, on the matter of where you place the commencement point of time! 

Not that it is all too relevant, as nobody could remember where they had found the first firsts OR seconds!

 This also suggests there is a long time job for someone in the system, making seconds, or firsts, to fill up all the spaces we are creating by using up time so quickly. This job of course entailing the assurance that each first (or second) is equally divided into the allotted portions, to help us pinpoint where we think we are, on some imaginary scale of past or future, depending which way you think you are going! 

We’ll come back to this issue later in the concept of motion we call TIME but you won’t know where or when it will happen.

Therefore, these seconds, or firsts, have been piling up somewhere for a long time, as we call it. Conversely, there may be only eighty six thousand, four hundred seconds available, at any given point of time.

Theoretically they are being re-cycled (which is very hip for the New Age people!), to keep up this pretence of what “THEY”, for want of a more accurate terminology, need, to identify they who are nameless or themselves. The ones who we, you or they, think are running this mess, desire complete submission of the frontal lobes or they will obliterate the planet and start again.

This is the complete subjugation of all thought, all individuality, all art, music, laughter, to the insanity of ORDER!

We are determined to destroy any social system, because of its dogmatic, irreversible, dictatorial attitude to the community, so we can replace it with another, which is generally worse than its predecessor!

 The feasibility of Charlie’s theory will be left for you to consider and either agree or disagree with, which is all part of the active participation scheme recently introduced as part of this socio-economic scene.

This done to fool everybody into thinking they actually have some influence on what is really happening, OR to disregard completely.

Choice is the proof of your legal right of refusal!

Something suggested as being intrinsically involved in the relationship each of us is endeavoring to establish with the one who is on the other end of the suggested result!

 Get it?

 It’s YOU!

Furthermore, if news of this consideration gets out, we could both be in trouble, and such information would play merry hell on the current social structure, which, as you well know, is based on the repetitious consumption of the many varied, in both the usefulness and value, goods with which our shops are excessively stocked. Goods we continue manufacturing at ever increasing speed, to supply the people who can no longer afford to buy anything, with all the useless things they don’t really want nor their extended credit facilities will permit. How many electric stoves does the average family buy per annum? What number of new cars will the working class citizens buy each year?

 What is to be done with those already in existence? Do we just bury them, pretend we recycle them, what?

How do we get rid of the three layers of clear plastic almost every article one buys from the shop is now wrapped with, for the sake of hygiene, safety and avoidance of potential litigation.

Where do we dispose of all the empty plastic bottles, cartons, people?

 OOOps, did someone say that?

The insanity of this society is that we are burying ourselves in trash, just because idiot economists, politicians, business moguls and medical fakers keep telling you that’s the way we have to do things.


Could you imagine buying a pair of shoes that would last for ten years, a motorcar that wouldn’t rust or wear out? They are not hard to produce but NOT ECONOMICALLY VIABLE, in this manufacture crazed society.

It will be far more beneficial using all that energy instead, to produce fruit and vegetables, food, useful commodities, not energy consuming monstrosities.

Just then the door knocked.

“Come in.” Charlie said to himself. Actually the door has been knocking for some time. Charlie has plans to fix it, but why bother, it’s easier to torch the house and get a new one!

Quickly the door opened and closed, but, because it was dark, it was impossible to see if anyone came in or left. Impossible to determine whether those responsible for the knocking had done the entering or departing. Possibly this is nothing more than a practical joke, being played on him by the muslim / christian extremist potential murderer who lives next door.

One really has a major problem with “religious” people.

Doesn’t matter what religion they claim to follow, they become engrossed in their ideologies, their dogmas, at the cost of pure TRUTH.

They murder, in the millions, fellow citizens, claiming to be doing so at the command of their ‘god’, though all religions profess it is ’WRONG’ to kill.

The roman catholic denomination admits, in their book, “Facts of our Faith” to killing 68,000,000 Christians, during the dark ages, in the name of the roman god, whom they replaced the real God with.

Nick Giovarse knew that god very well, and served him to the limit of his abilities.

All this, the hypocrisy of religiosity, the magnitude of the plot and the insignificance of Nick in the overall plan, is comprehensible, only by careful consideration of the relevant acts and legislation.

Since the Thought-Police have taken control of the central nervous system it is getting more difficult to understand who is actually in control of themselves. There is always a suspicion, no matter where you are, who you are with, if this reflects on who you weren’t with, as to who it was that was talking either with you or with yourself.

 This becomes more complex if you aren’t talking with yourself, as it could imply that someone else is involved, and this is very suspicious.

Like Rashkalnikov, from Dostoeyevsky’s classic literary work, “Crime and Punishment” It’s all in the mind of the thinker. We fail to comprehend the power of our mind, worse yet, most people are never taught they are able to USE THEIR MINDS, FOR THEMSELVES. Not simply by adopting the programs which cunning, evil, conniving beasts bombard them with.

This conditioning achieved through the education system, the religious organizations, (ALL OF THEM!”) and most capably, through every form of media, especially “HELL-I- VISION!

Nicolarse is a perfect example of the media brainwashed moron.

He lives in a power game, where it is common for midgets to adopt the role of Mickey Rooney, trying to convince the world they are invincible, and learn every psychological trick to manipulate their environment, to their advantage.


We all just have different ways and skills of achieving it!

Nicolarse had grown up, but not for very long, then he began to grow inwards. Learning how to hate, how to control, how to inflict his misfortune of birth on every person with whom he came in contact.

 Nick does everything he can to destroy any thing of beauty. To ruin the life of every trusting, beneficent person he has contact with, in a comparable manner to the way he considered his life to be ruined because of his physical handicaps

He’s a pretty sick dog.

Still he keeps working at becoming something.

Some people suggested he was making something of himself; a lying, thieving, bigoted arse hole!

He never learnt to respect others, to change his attitude to his surroundings, but most importantly to himself. It was all KILL! KILL! KILL!  As long as they killed “them”, not Nicky.

He really is a twisted, introverted, insecure, insignificant turd.

Sound like you or others you may know?

 He is like this not because of his stature, but his attitude to HIMSELF!

 That’s where he is sick, like Jack the Ripper, or Idi Amin or Ghengis Khan, Adolf Hitler, the bloke next door, YOU, etc!

You don’t know who’s looking, do you. Reminds me of a song a person of no fixed mental condition wrote, titled WATCH A MOVIE.

A couple of lines from it were “Come over here and watch a movie or two, while we’re watching them they gotta be watching you.” These bent song lyrics are part of the outstanding character of his writing. Buy his next C.D! 

They’re everywhere, waiting, hiding in your ‘phone, your Aussiemite, your Wheek -Bits box, don’t ever think you aren’t being watched.

 Nick knew he was under observation, but he was too lost, in his own bitterness and hate, to give a damn about who was watching!

Charlie quietly took a picture of a shotgun off the wall. In this enlighted, poofter and woman dominated society, we aren’t allowed be armed to defend ourselves anymore.

Because, according to the liberated dogs who dominate politics and religions, we have no right to shoot people who try to rape, steal from or possibly kill us.

Maybe they’re only photos of rapists and thieves, murderers and pedophiles we have to protect ourselves from? Anyway, he pointed the picture of the shotgun, at approximately where he believed the person or thing who had entered or left, could by now be.

Bit like how Nick saw things. He lived on the streets of Sydney, (another refugee?) where he had taken time to study every conceivable way to rip people off, after you weaseled your way into their trust. Especially those mentally emotionally or physically disadvantaged suckers out there.

 ‘Do things with a friendly approach’, Nick’s mother had often suggested to him as he beat her up for not earning enough on the street that day. 

That’s how he was with all his past girlfriends too. Nick’s women got on their backs and sold pussy for him, or he would beat them up.

 You explain it, no one else can!

Nick once invited Charlie to do an armed hold up on the Treasury. (No, not the casino!) They worked for weeks on the plan, but, in the crunch, it would have meant Charlie would need murder a whole family.

“Killing one or two maybe O.K., but not a whole family! Haven’t you got any manners?” Harry complained.

Nick had been educated by equally warped and twisted Greek orthodox and Roman catholic priests. What a catastrophe! Brain washed, educated by servants of the most ruthless, evil, bastard church, Satan’s church, the Roman catholic denomination! “The seat of Satan, the great whore who sits on seven hills” (Rev.17:1-5).

They taught him, as they did every other of their students, how to masturbate, lust, lie, thieve, murder. They, as Satan did Eve, infuse their students, their wards, with lust. Infuse them with sexual lust, which is the birthplace of every other lust! 

She’s the mother of HARLOT daughters!

See the Book of Revelation it’s all there. Then read Smuckers “Glorious Reformation”, Foxe’s “Book of Martyrs” Hyslop’s “Two Babylons”

 Michael Angelo’s biography, these explain, expose the manifestation of what the Scripture says.

These are the same priests that worship satan, believing they are worshipping God. They are the same spirits dwelling in those priests that dwelt in the Babylonian priesthood, which Moses was dealing with!

 Now they are called “Father, Pope, Archbishop, rector, pastor, rabbi, but they are the same demons that indwelt Cain and his sons!

Children of the BEAST.

Sure, every church serves a different god, but ALL SERVE SATAN.

Nick learnt much from the good fathers, and he put every trace of evil they bequeathed on him into use against every trusting person he could find.

Nick never read “Fifty Years in the Church of Rome” by Charles Chiniquy, either.

He never read anything, excluding racing forms,  that positively stimulated his mental processes. He was bone lazy, and could manipulate his twisted, midget body, like a lever, to break into the compassion and trust of all the poor suckers he came across.

Charlie should have learnt, when an ex-girlfriend, also one who’d hawked the fork for Nick’s little business venture, told him never to trust Nick nor give him money. But, Charlie was a young, brain damaged businessman. He was arrogant and as stupid as most arrogant people tend to be.

He invested in a business venture with Nick, which finished up costing a few million dollars, a trip to Long Bay Gaol and other heartaches.

Luckily he got through it  without too much loss. It is great experience to use, in later years, if there are any, to write his, or somebody else’s memoirs!

You don’t like what is said about the roman catholic organization? That is a shame, but this little story isn’t about likes or dislikes. It’s about life, experiences, truth, as perceived by the writer, whoever he may be.

No doubt it is more politically correct for us to refer to the author as IT, so we cut out the SEXUAL PREDJUDICE thing.

Soon no children will know if they’re male or female. Already there is  much confusion, almost total chaos, because of the social-sexual role reversals taking place, when children are looking at parental role modeling to verify their own sexual attitudes and roles. Sub-consciously learning to establish their roles.

Everything expressed here could be a complete hypothesis. These writings could be the ravings of an inane fool. Each comment could be a malicious lie, told to paint some fanciful picture of hopelessness. To fool you!

Men are no longer sure what their roles are. Women have taken over many of the men’s jobs and attitudes.

The women cut their hair like men, wear men’s clothing, and look so tragically destitute of all femininity, (it shows on their faces), they are completely out of control of their lives. They aren’t allowed to be women anymore. They have to be tough, butch, aggressive; make the decisions, be the BOSS!

That’s how crazy the system has gone. Nobody knows who they are or what they’re supposed to do, but that’s all part of the circle of life, isn’t it!

         Bravely Henry whispered,” Put up your….”.He couldn’t remember the rest of the line. Nor if he is required, by etiquette, to say ‘please’ after that request?

Deep in the shadows of the darkness, nothing could be seen. He  quickly opened his  eyes, and there,

“Oh no! It’s you!”

You, standing there with a photograph of a fish pointed at me.

“Is that fish loaded?” I asked

“No, it’s grilled.” you replied.

“Well, come in, I have a picture of some salad and chips, we may as well make a real feast of it.”


    “Have you notified the police?” you responded!

 “THE POLICE!”  I shouted, “Excuse me for shouting but it’s unlikely they will be able to catch them now.”

    “Quelle nerve.” you replied, in a fake French accent.

   “Gee, that French accent really suits you, do you wear it often?”

  “Only when I go out to see if it’s raining. It really isn’t the sort of thing a girl can wear to too many places. It is a bit risqué for the office, a little too revealing for the track, so I wear it to church and to visit you.  Put that picture of the shotgun down, you silly man, it could go off” 

     “No, it’s not loaded. I couldn’t get any paper bullets”

    “You should have gone to the computer shop, or is it the confectioners, but they‘re licorice bullets, aren’t they. Does your’s fire licorice bullets?”

    “No, I eat them.”

     Seriously though, there comes a time when one has to step out of the comedic role, face the reality that all of the funny lines, the slick clichés, the witty repartee has been done a million times before, and usually a lot better.

  This was where he discovered that the next most important task in the world was to invent a new JOKE!

On further consideration of that point one could easily deduce that the SEARCH FOR THE NEW JOKE, has been the root cause of every war, A.I.D.S. the nuclear arms race and high unemployment, world wide!

      Because this story is about the effect psychological warfare, along with the chemical war being waged against us by every pharmaceutical industry, it is important for the reader to place themselves in a veritable cocoon of drug induced psychosis to understand the meaning of all that they are told by the doctor who originally got them addicted to the drugs. Obviously the entire medical fraternity is committed to the addiction of the  community to the multi-national drug producers lethal concoctions, in return for large commissions.

           Quickly I grabbed my trusty credit card and declared war on America. They thought I was joking, but I was serious. Think of all the weapons I could buy, on CREDIT, from America. Nuclear weapon delivery systems, because I am now under threat of invasion. The latest in helicopter gun ships, personal armaments, F-18’s at BARGAIN PRICES. Any credit cards accepted.

This was my chance to get revenge on all of them. Payback time for my mother, father, sister, every relative. All those who professed they are my friends, over the years.

      If I declared war on America, soon I’ll have all the weapons needed for a political uprising, and away we go.

This exercise resulted slightly differently than expected.  I’m now an American State and have to wear a flag around all day.

       Cynical? CYNICAL! CYNICAL !  CYNICAL!

     Do you remember who it is that is going out with Cheryl

     Yes, that’s right, it is Charlie, the thinker who collected stiffs for a living. You will also recall their first meeting, the moments of crystal silence as they gazed into each other’s eyes.  

Maybe you don’t?

These matters we need rectify, as they have an important role to play in future events yet to unfold.

Charlie and Cheryl, after a prolonged introduction, decided they make a good couple, and should go to the movies together. Their first date, their first chance to experience the joy emotional security brings. To communicate, learn of each other.

Charlie wore his best underpants and singlet, under a bright check shirt he picked out of the possessions of the latest pauper they buried at the taxpayer’s expense. He thought the many coloured checks would help camouflage any food spills or his dribbling.

        He also wore trousers, you thought he’d forgotten them, didn’t you? They are a matching pair of chlorophyll and embalming fluid stained army issue browns, with pockets for knives, guns, compass, toothbrush, condoms and a small white flag.

        Charlie never utilized any of these pockets, except with spare body parts and other disposable items. He believed they went very nicely with the shirt and looked forward to the excitement he expected his attire to generate in Cheryl.

       His boss allowed Charlie to borrow one of the old hearses, so he could go pick Cheryl up for their first date.

Charlie, through sheer idiocy, got lost on the way to Cheryl’s and didn’t find her place ‘til almost 20:30.

 Like a trooper, Cheryl was waiting at the front gate, in a light drizzle, her hair, which she spent much time doing, now hanging, like a wet dishmop, from her smiling face. Cheryl understood. She ran to Charlie, tripped in a pothole, plunged forward, falling. Charlie reached to save her and they both finished up, face first, in the mud.

Two duck proof suited onlookers watched, in amazement and consternation, as these events unfolded, like a trailer of next week’s cartoons at the Saturday matinee. They tried to be discreet with their laughter, and doubled, writhing in agony, to protect their presence from exposure. They were on a mission of extreme, vital importance, to the welfare of the state and possibly, the world!

“GGGGGGee, why ddddid you dududududo ttttthat?” Charlie stammered from mud covered lips.

“HHHey, Iiii’ve bbbbbeeeen stttttttanding here, in this bbbbbbloody rrain, for nnnearly two bloody hours, and yyyyyou wwwwwanta explanation. Wwwhere yyyou bbbbeen?”

The rest of their scintillating conversation was lost in the night as they pushed the old hearse up the street, in search of a fuel station or parked car to milk.

John R. Nolan 12/5/2003                                                                                                           

[1] Slang term for street performers seeking monetary recompense

[2] Slang term for Australian person, not necessarily indigenous

[3] Australian slang term for employees who refuse to do their reasonable share of the work load