By Six

Some names, events and facts have been altered, exaggerated or embellished to protect the identities of the deviant.

You will know it is time to turn the page, when Tinkerbell ringes her little bells. Let’s begin now.

Kate Bush might’ve been ‘Running Up That Hill’, Bjork might’ve been crooning, or Placebo might’ve been friends indeed, all that’s for certain is that Nana was deejay, Angel was ‘laxing, and an awful Auckland evening kept all indoors.

“What’s it mean to you to have a Patch bro?”, enquires I to Angel, cracking open a Steinlager.

“It gives you power of rights,” says Angel in the same humble tone he speaks with whether he’s ordering a beer or bovering a bruva.

“What do you mean.”

“Yeah, exactly – power of rights.”

Angel measures his words. “Once you you become patch status you’re pretty much equal to every other patch status [member] throughout the country.”

“And whats that?”

“Anything you want bro. Invitations to parties, invitations to womyn…”

It was starting to sound more interesting by the minute when Nana interjects.

“Do they treat the womyn ok,?” asks Nana empathetically.

“Yeah Bro,” Angel pauses… “Back in the 80s it was a whole lot different. Now its… its… respect. I know how it is with others. You know what I mean? Like… womyn are pretty much… protocol.”

“They deserve respect,” Nana suitably sumises.

“On a cultural perspective they do need respect. On a Mob level… then it comes back to the Chapter. Our chapter we respect our womyn and our kids.”

“Do all Chapters?” Nana pursues.

“Nah. No. No. No. We do that personally because our Chapter’s culturally sensitive to womyn and children.
It means that… It means that… You know if you’re not patched then you belong to pretty much everyone below patch members. Slave care.”

“Basically it’s a tribe eh,” I offer.

“It is a tribe, but it’s pretty much more complicated than that. Now. Fuck. Bro. Its about power. The power that you can get from being a patch member is awesome bro. How you use it to benefit you in life is another thing. To have a patch can open up a lot of doors to anything across the board. Its like a network. The mobs one big network. Once you’ve got a patch, it gives you access… Access to anything. A Class. Anything. “

“Say you wanted right now a Harley Davidson, $1000 cash and two whores…?”

Angel leans back on Nana’s doube bed and chuckles. “You can get two whores. Ah… Harley Davidson might take a bit of thinking about… What else..?”

“A thousand dollars cash,” I remind him.

“Yeah.” Angel postulates. “That’s where it comes back down to ah… hooking up with the right people. Hooking up with the right Mob members.”

“So it might take like 24-hours?”

“Yeah. Exactly. But it’s still gonna happen. Not quick snap – but - it will happen. Once you’ve been a member of the Mob it’s one big network. Some Chapters actually have other groups. Like Filthy Few. We’ve got Filthy Few in our clubs. We got Filthy Few working with us. We’ve got Greasy Dogs Motorcycle Club working with us…”

“Who are they?”

“They’re in Tauranga, Mt Maunganui. And a few chapters. We opened up our doors to all the motorcycle clubs around New Zealand and that’s just started a huge network.”

“So where does the money come from?”

“What money?”

Angel’s tone suggests I am venturing into sensitive territory. “Well it’s like an organisation> You’ve got people in homes. What’s it all for? What’s the point of it all?”

Angel relaxes. “It’s family orientation. Basically its about family orientation.”

“Its about belonging to something,” I summise.

“That’s how the papers like to put it Bro. The Mobs set up for family orientation. Its to look after each other.

Black Power and Mongrel Mob are totally different in their beliefs.”

This is worth pursuing. “Well how does that work. What does one believe that the other doesn’t. Is it like two different religions?”

“Nah, it’s not. Its because one wants to be bigger than the other. The country knows that the Mob’s the biggest gang in New Zealand. I tell you what bro. A lot of people that I know. These are respected peoples. Don’t know what I am.”

“What are you?”

“A person that does what everybody else does every day.”

Sounds like the piss talking. “So what’s the path to becoming a patch member?”

“Bro. I tell you what. During the… When I was going through it bro it meant taking out your rivals and your rivals are pretty much everybody. In my era you were taught pretty much that… pretty much that everybody was your enemy. Every gang was your enemy. Everyone outside the Mongrel Mob was your enemy. Regardless of whether or not they be a biker, black power that’s how you were taught back in the 80’s. That’s when I was prospecting. I was when I was about 16.”

“As a prospect are you like an apprentice to a patch member?”

“Yeah that’s all you are. That’s basically just taking on whatever he says sort of thing. Now, I went about things a bit differently when I was younger. I went out… When I was 16 I actually thought that prospecting was about doing things.”

“Like what?”

“I sort of bent the rules a little bit. I went out and started hitting Black Power members.”

“Hitting them?”

“Yeah.”

“Like punching them?”

“Nah, nah, nah… I was actually stabbing them. I made it a mission when I was younger to go out and hit, hit, hit, hit…”

“And you thought that would earn you respect in the gang?”

“I got respect. That’s what I thought was mad bro. My first week within the Mongrel Mob, I went out there and I almost killed a Black Power member.”

There’s a considerable pause while we digest this information.

The silence is broken. “What was life like before the Mob. What was life like when you were 13 or 14?, I ask.

“I was in minor street gangs. I thought I needed something a little bit bigger than where I was heading at the moment so I hooked up with Mongrel Mob and started prospecting.”

“How did you hook up?”

“Because the guys I was hanging with on the streets were pretty much close to ahem… both similarities… it wasn’t too hard bro. I tell you what cracked me up the most in those days. My first week within the mob, when I first started prospecting, I actually went out and did a hit on a Black Power member.”

Angel appears intent to visit this topic.

“A hit? A stabbing?” Why ask I think.

“Yeah. Yeah. We actually knew each other. We met in a shop and a scuffle broke out. I got him down on the ground. I had his head down and… I knew he had a knife tucked under his arm. Now I had mine stuck down my pants. I pulled out my knife out and stuck it right down the back of his head. He took the Bowie knife.”

“Did you kill him?” I need a cone.

“Nah bro, nah… put him in the Hospital. That was my first week bro. Once that happened bro because… This is it… I was living in a town that was Black Power run. Now, we’re only about eight patch members and about four prospects. When I done that, I actually though fuck… skiddaddle off down the road there and thought… fuck…. I’m gonna get whacked over for this eh bro. ‘Cause I done a hit without our seniors permission. Bro I went back and told the boys and they cheered me on. It was like that for several years bro. It was like that that a I got respect within the Nation.”

“Did you ever kill anybody?”

“I haven’t killed anybody yet. I haven’t killed anybody. Not yet.” Angel looks solemn. “The Mongrel Mob was actually started by Europeans in the Hawkes Bay. Yeah. They end up raping some chick. Now when they got to Court, the judge called them a pack of mongrels. Hence how they got their name. They pack raped a chick. The judge called them a pack of mongrels. This was in the 60’s bro.”

“Have you ever done a girl on a block?”

“Hell no. Mongrel Mob is just a name. But what happens in your own Chapter has its own rules – sort of thing. Now there’s other things that concern the Mongrel Mob . Those things have what is called - Presidents meeting - where all the presidents and the sarg’… Sargent of Arms… get together…”

“Who is the Sargent of Arms?”

“Sargent of Arms is usually your second in command. Usually a war strategist. He’s like your… When it comes to war… when they go into battle… he’s doing that.”

Angel continues. “The Mongrel Mob is just a name bro, you know what I mean. Every town’s got it’s own Chapter. Every Chapter got its own rules – sort of thing. If something stink is going to happen which concerns the Mob Nation then they get together at what they call a Presidents meeting. That’s where the Presidents throughout the country meet. Its usually only in a few places like Auckland, which has the national mob Pres’ or over on the Bay of Plenty ways where they have the Notorious president. To get into Notorious you have to go three, three minute rounds with three guys. In a ring. That’s what they call the circle of life. Anything goes its just that the guy up against the three can use his legs. The other three can use their hands. That’s your initiation.”

If I’m lucky. I am lucky like a man watching his mother-in-law back over a cliff in his brand new Porsche.

The fug of the night that was, was fading. It was some-time ’round a morn’ spent trading and raiding. Sitting in the square with a blank kinda stare, considering wine, time and my kinda beer. I was strategising and scheming while looking for meaning.

Wide eyed awake with crème covered dreaming.

Thoughts of her wrapped in white satin saturated my head. Thoughts of her, sort of shorts of her drenching my bed. Its been a while since she showed me her smile. It’s been a while since she smiled at my style. It’s been a while since we killed time together. As relationships goes – it’s inclement weather.

Elleventeenth cigarette. Memories the blessed will forget. Not number one, but the best you can get.

It was the day preceding payday, so I was pleased that today was the last day of poverty. You might say I was feeling chipper. I almost smiled. Life was smiling at me, and when I think of smiles I think of Sally. Some guys like legs, others like tits. But a smile tops my list of girlie best bits.

Legs are nice too granted. And yes tits as well. Long story bearable Sally was on my mind. Funny how you think of people and then they call. Think of the Devil…

I reluctantly pulled my cell outta pocket and actually let my mouth sag in the middle when I saw whom it was. Do I need… Okay… Sally.

“Can I move into your place,” she asked via text.

No hi. How ya going? Long time no fuck… nup, just ‘can I move into yours?’…

I didn’t know whether to scream or cream. I scream like Yogi Bear so I laughed. It must be a euphemism.

“Sure,” I reply. Why not. A sexy young thing with a hot little twat. Strutting ’round home – she the best that I got.

While walking home I realised it wasn’t a euphemism. Sally was serious about moving in. Can I move in. Chicks dont use that kinda fodder for a euphemism. A guy might. Or maybe a dyke, but not a wench. Not Sally. Not unless she has fantasies we’re yet to discuss.

(A euphemism is a word or phrase that means something else – like a metaphor – clearing the cobwebs is a common euphemism for sleeping (screwing – having intercourse – with a partner you may not otherwise be interested in. Oh shit just look it up)

“Can I move in,” she asked via text.

“Sure,” I text back.

To be fair I thought she was joking, but the punch-line never came. Or maybe it did the following Friday when her bed replaced mine. It is more comfy and looks better anyway. The cash from the sale of mine came in handy too.

Moving is stressful. Unless your a secret agent, or moving man. A mate of mine has a truck so the move was pretty efficient. Even if it was done on a budget. A couple of friends helped and Sally never barked once. Although she could have. My patience wore thin and everyone was looking forward to being sorted and kicking back.

Once everything was transported we started drinking. With a brief reprieve to assemble said bed.

The PlayStation played Ace Combat, the beverages were cracked and Sally was left to set things on track.

She pidgeon holed me at one point. Consumed more than a joint. She looked like a Nun. I wanted to cum.

“I’m only doing out-calls now, or will do in-calls at a hotel,” she assured me.

“I don’t care if you work here,” I volunteer.

“My clients expect a little more than this…”

I was almost offended. My fish was. He likes the place. But he’s also been bugging me for a bigger tank. And friends. What does a Siamese Fighting Fish want with friends. I digress.

“It’s not exactly five-star,” she said.

Almost offended. But I looked around and witnessed thus found. She was right. When the coffee store isn’t roasting beans downstairs the place smells like an ashtray and could use a good scrub if not a coat of paint. My stereo dominates the lounge and there’s no door on the bathroom. I could go on and on about what’s wrong with the place but I prefer to dwell on what’s right. It has got charm, its walking distance to my office and because it’s above a shop in an industrial part of Mt Eden (near the Power Station bar) I can claim my rent as a business expensen (see www.statim.co.nz Sally’s design). Okay, so it isn’t the Hyatt, but that’s part of the charm. It’s like owing an old car. You don’t bother to service it, ‘cause it does the job – for now.

And that’s what Sally and I need. Somewhere that does the job for now. Sally will stay and we’ll both benefit from reduced living costs. If I’m lucky, behave and throw her an occasional complement maybe there’ll be other benefits as well. It’s nice to have a girl around. She definitely gives the place a womyn’s touch.

The move was fairly innocuous. Nothing was broken although a wrought iron candelabrum was a near casualty when it was left behind. We later retrieved it.

Sally only stayed one night. My alcohol induced snore pushed her onto the couch. Ouch. That was a little disappointing as I was hoping for a hop-on. But the drinks that flowed after the move had reduced me to zombie status anyhow. I don’t recall falling into bed. Sally took off the next day. She was in shock I’d say. I don’t like moving much either.

Maybe it was the Stella, maybe it was the Steinlager, could’ve been the whisky, and might’ve been the gin explaining the state I was in, but my tummy was troubled.

Sal’ can be a difficult read. She doesn’t smile much but when she does - wow. Turn down the lights ‘cause she can brighten a room.

Was Sally really happy to be here? Or am I just a curios queer she likes to keep near? Time for a beer! By Saturday night I was alright. If Sally wanted to stay that’s A okay. Who doesn’t like a lingerie clad lass about the house.

The break was probably good. She could clear her head and I could get used to idea of her often near when not distracted by her delicate rear. .

On Saturday the boys came over for a PlayStation session and a session session. As I looked around my recently feminized abode I realized that I wouldn’t be bringing any more whores home for a while. It’d be too tricky to explain the situation.

But that’s alright. Sal’s a delight. She can stay for a while or just or fone night. So long as we remain friends, ‘cause I got the smile and she’s got nice bends.

Aroha,
Paul

P.S. Party pending…

Where is she? Okay, I said 7, maybe 7.30, or thereabouts. I scan the address book on the wall. Press # to dial. * to cancel call. The shrill ring is barely audible.
“Hello. Hello.” I think I hear the vague tone of an answering machine bleep.
Nothing.
I text again.
Suddenly the door swings open and she floats through likek a ray of sunshine.
She flashes me a rare smile, and tosses her locks.
Her phone bleeps – she looks down, then back to me.
‘Tis you. You said 7.30. I can’t find my keys. I need to check my mail-box. I never check my mail-box. Where… there… are… here’tis.”
She bounds back to embrace me. Says, “Thought you’d said 7.30, as she pecks me on the cheek, and folds an arm through mine.”
I’m broke. The bottle of wine under my free arm and the $20 credit on my phone was the last of my cash. Five-dollars stood between me and abject poverty. My cock was thrilled to see Sally, yet I felt somewhat distracted by my crippled credit and pending invite. It’d all work out well I says to I. I’d pawn camera in the a.m to tide me over at least the weekend.
Sally got busy in the kitchen upon entrance. There’s something about a slut at the sink. I fondled her ass while she poured my wine.
We weren’t talking more than ten to fifteen minutes before there was a knock at the door. I ducked out to the balcany ‘cause we’re not meant to be smoking in-doors.
Turns out the landlord is dropping off a diseased pidgion on deaths door. As he knows Sally feeds the flying rats he thought she might like to nurse it back to health.
Sally sat it on the table, gave it some crumbs and cared for it.
“The flowers smell nice.”
“Thanks. Their from a client… For my birthday.”
I’m a dick. I just kinda stare blankly and exhale. “Happy birthday.”
“I’m tired. We need to be up early.”
“How early.”
“I want to be up there…
I want to be up there was when I starting thinking of something else.
… by ten. That means out the door by 7.”
There’ll be no time to pawn the camera. Maybe they have a Cash Converters in Whangarei. No good. Then I’d have to find my way back there. I’m daydreaming. Sally is topless. I refocus.
“Which ones should I wear,” says Sally waving a sellection ok knickers in my face.”
I don’t know where to look. At her little budding nipples that look like wild strawberries coverred in a frosty dew, or the collection of unmentionables now fanning the table. “What for,” says I like Stoner the ill fated eighth dwarf.
“I want a photo for a friend. He sent me this leather bodice and I want to take a picture for my blog.”
“You just want to encourge guys to give you gifts.”
“Of course.”
“Then we better pose you near the flowers too.”
“But which panties…”.

I propped her upon the bed with a book and a glass of wine. She looked divine.
“Ignore me. No… better yet… I plucked the book out of her hands and handed her a pad and pencil. Write me something. Write down all the dirty deeds you need done. Write down where you want me to come. Write me something only a slut would know.” All this was making me grow. I threw her on her back and prepared my tongue for attack. Her shaven haven was heaven to play in. I was so hard I thought I was going to punch a hole in the duvet. Her knickers where soaked. I ran my tongue round her seam. I made her feckin scream.

I forgot to pawn my camera. I was broke all weekend. But my cock was smiling ’til Sunday.

Wednesday morning was wet. The rain on the tin roof of my turn of the century flat sounded soothing snugged under the warmth and comfort of the duvet. It wouldn’t be cold out of bed, but it wouldn’t be the welcome to the day I wanted.

Out of smokes, small change, clean shirts and coffee. The alarm announced office hours, but I just kept buying a fifteen minute snooze ’til well after nine. I didn’t want to play today. Bed sounded best so I sent in a sickie text.

The time finally came to climb out of the pit in the early afternoon. My Chemical Romance announced a call around midday.

“Paul speaking.”
“’Sis Pete. Whatchyou doin.”
“Sleeping.”
“Sleeping.” mocks Pete.

Pete’s a thirty year Black Power veteren. He’s a high ranking enforcer with a long service medal tattooed in the form of a clenched fist on each temple. Not to mention various other cartoons on aforementioned body.

“’Sup”. Enquires I.
“We’s commin out.”
“What for?”
“Noel’s niece sis working at the Pelican Club.”
“She must be looker. All those girls are.”
“Just another slut. Owes Doc for a foil and we needs some cash.”
“Some gash cash…”
“Shuddup cunt. Dat’s Doc’s niece. She’s just a receptionist.”
“Whateva.”
“Who’se we?”
“What?”
“Who’se all the we coming out.”
“Doc, Noel and me.”
“I’ll buy a box.”
“Buy two.”

Cheeky cunt.

Now I had to get outta bed. It’d be nice to see the boys. They’ll bring some gear and we’ll have a bit of a jam.

It was still pouring outside. Needed a smoke. Needed beer too. No cash or coins.

‘Tis naughty but my company Visa bought beers and smokes. A couple of party pills (at least that’s what I thought) called Wet’n Wild and a bottle of tequila.

By the time I got back to the flat the boys were pulling up too.

The preferred vehicle of thugs appears to be a mid ’90s Ford Falcon.

Noel’s waka is a sky blue example of the ‘94 genre.

I was disappointed that none of the brothers dismounted carrying a box of refreshments. Bars, beers and whores aren’t far from the flat so it all meant nought.

This was the first time the bad lads had visited the new whare, and they seemed suitably impressed.

“Where’s the jukebox,” asked Doc?
“In storage.”
“Dy’sell ya pinball.”
“Yeah.”
“Get a bit for that.”

This is how the conversation progressed for some time.

How much rent do’ya pay?
“Tooo much money bro.”
Where do’ya work?
“Tooo much…
What am I driving.
Tooo much…

The general theme was that the boys feel I had far tooo much…

I don’t know if the boys do it intentionally or if it’s just ingrained in them.

While they summarized my perceived wealth, I grabbed my tobacco tin. I’ve had the tin for some years now. I stole it from a friend I was fucking a few years ago. It wasn’t really stealling. I helped her clean out her father’s garage after he died and found it amongst a shelf of old paint tins and general junk. I could’ve given it to my friend. But I didn’t and I always thought bad kama would come. Despite my reservations I pocketed it. I was taken by the intricate coat of arms engraved on the lid. On one side a dragon blew fire and on the other a rat wore a sword. The latin inscription had long worn through but the coarse paper on the base was intact enough to light a match which the tin would’ve originally held. Now the antique matchbox was stoked with enough smoke for all to enjoy a toke. The bong was suitably stuffed and circulated until everyone had had enough. We smoked, spilled some Steinlager and intersected the financial interrogation with talk of sex, drugs and rock-n-roll.

East rolled up around dinner time. East wanted to finish James Bond on the Play Station. He’s a scrawny mother and Noel at least knew him from a recent score, but that’s another tale and more.

Noel knows p ain’t my preferred poison but he picked East for an amphetafiend as quickly as he pocketed my tin.

“East, Bro.”
“Hey Noel”

Obligatory thumb lock handshake sliding to palm. It’s like a double shake. Weird. Like some sort of code.

Anyway I digress. The devil is in the details and they elude me right now. But long story bearable, East organised a dollar bag of p. As he wanted one as well, two were negotiated.

East Pete and I were soon west bound where poisons of choice could be procured.

The trade was fairly innocuous. We met Fish, the dealer, outside an industrial lunch bar. Fish and I go way back. He’s not a fan of p either but its easier to source than weed these days. A guys gotta pay the bills. Fish climbed into the back of my BMW. East gave Fish $200.00 and received two tiny bags the size of a single ten cent piece, containing what looked no more sinister than salt. Actually a salt sachet would contain more.

Seems like a silly substance to ardour.

As we headed back, East and Pete conspired to maximise their return on investment.

We stopped into East’s place en route. Once inside East’s tiny and tawdry room at the Castle, he tipped the majority of two bags of methamphetamine into a spoon, added saline solution, heated over a lighter, mixed, withdrew using a hyperdermic needle and injected into a vein in his elbow. Pete followed suit.

“You saw nothing,” Said Pete’.
“S’cool bro,” says East.
“Your buzz bro,” says I.

When we got back to Noel and Doc, Doc was propped at the window with my binoculars and Noel was watching Alt TV. I could guarantee they’d been through my stuff in my absence and taken or noted any items of interest. I wonder what they made of the dildo in my drawer.

“We could only get one dollar bag,” says East.
“Yea, but ’s okay,” says Pete.
“You already had some,” says Noel.
“yeah, nah. Just a taste,” says East.

“Ya gots a pipe,” asked Noel.
“Gotta, bong,” says I.
“Na, a f ckn’ glass pipe.”
“No. You know that ain’t my thing. Take a light out.”

East had to climb onto Pete’s shoulders to remove a bulb from the Victorian stud.

We removed a light, cut the end off and removed its inners. Spots the size of pin heads were deposited onto the glass and heated using a lighter until a swirling smoke began. At which point the smoke is ingested through a straw or pipe.

The brothers grim bailed soon after the chemical candy was consumed and the beers lay barren.

Hongis were exchanged and farewells delivered between promises of catching up soon. It’d be a day or two before I noticed small items missing including binoculars, harp and miniature Aston Martin DB5. It’d be less than that before I realised the flat was sans marijuana and antique matchbox tin.

Maybe it’s not in my best interst to entertain these people anymore.

East clocked James Bond and started over in Secret Agent mode.

I was wide awake at one, with a bone needing a home.

“Wanna do something,” I asked East.
“Y… yeah. What you have in mind.”
“Cartel’s open till early. Shall we go down for a Tequila sour?”
“Sounds cool.”

Cartel lies below Squid row, on Symonds Street. It’s a New York style cocktail lounge. The drinks are pricey but that includes the entertainment of watchin’ them made and you can sit on a sunrise for an hour or more.

East and I weren’t there more than a Tequila or two before two tarts pulled up a pew.

“What are ya drinking.”
“Tequila sour.”
“What’s in that?”
“Tequila. Can I buy you one?”
“No. Maybe after my wine. I’m Vanessa she said with an outstretched palm.”
Vanessa was a doll. Long brown hair, big brown eyes and the vague familiar face of an italian or some other exotic erotic breed. “Kiora, I’m Paul. This is my mate East.”
“Like north, south, east?”
“Yeah,” says East. “Just like that.”
“Cool says Vanessa.”

Vanessa’s friend falls of her stool.

“Shit. Is she alright,” I ask.
“Fuck. She’s ready for a cab,” says Vanessa.
“Shame. I was about to ask you if you wanted to come back to my place for cheap meaningless sex,” says I.
Vanessa laughed. “What kind of whore do you think I am.”
“How many kinds are there?”

We helped Vanessa’s friend into a cab.

I was a little surprised and excited when she closed the door after her friend, gave the cabbie cash and delivery instructions before turning to East and I with a smile in her eye.

“Where’s yours?” asks Vanessa.
“Stagerring distance.”

East went one way and Vanessa and I the other.

We fucked till dawn.

When the sun broke through the sash window above my bed it cast a shadow onto Vanessa’s satin clad legs. It looked liked she’d been up long enough to shower. Lingere hugged her body and made her breasts look like perfectly ripe cherry topped melons.

When she bent over to pull something from her bag, her satin chemise strained against her frame and my cock felt insane.

“Want some wake and bake?” Vanessa asked as she procured an antique tin matchbox with an intricate coat of arms engraved on the lid. On one side a dragon blew fire and on the other a rat wore a sword. The latin inscription had long worn through but the coarse paper on the base was intact enough to light a match which the tin would’ve originally held. Now the antique matchbox was stoked with enough smoke for two to enjoy.

“Where’d you get this.” I asked.
“My uncle gave it to me.”
“Uncle Noel?”
“Yeah. How d’ya know.”

“Lets just say I been fucked by your whanau before.”

By Paul Kendon

The way Willy tells it is priceless. I’ll try to do justice.

A couple of nights ago, Willy and Nelson were tending bar. Taking turn about on security.

This Indian fulla who’d been winding up Willy all night comes up to the two of ‘em, saying the girl at the end of the bar stole a significant sum from him. The ‘girl’ was a fafafini. Nelson was polite enough to refer to the accused as her, while Willy took delight in referring to the aforementioned as him.

“Where was the money?”, asked Willy.

“In my pocket”?, says an intimidated Indian.

“Well how’d he steel it then?” continues Willy, more amused than interested.

“… ahm… in the toilet”, confides sheepish Indian.

“What were you doing in the bogs with her?”, enter Nelson.

(Mumbling), “I fucked her”, Indian.

“That’s a guy,” says Willy struggling to subdue his delight.

“Well…, she… you know.”

“Nah I don’t know,” says Willy. “J’ya use a rubber?”

“Yeah two,” says embarrassed Indian.

Nelson checked the garden bar ladies loo. Sure enough, two rubber wrappers were discovered.

Nelson took the Indian aside to interoge further while Willy interviewd our friendly neighbourhood fafafeini.

“I know you took that money,” says Willy quietly to the fafa’.

“Not even,” says fafa’.

“Tell ya what. You flick me a hundie and I won’t say nothing,” says willy.

“Fiddy,’ S/he,” offers.

“Deal,” says Willy.

In summary:
Indian walks home $400+ out of pocket.
Willy buys a bag.
Whore blows all on pokies. Earns more giving blow-jobs in the park.

“fucka was annoying me all night. Was rude. Tole me to get him a beeer like I waas his bitch. Fuckem,” says Willy.