The funeral wasn’t so much a funeral as a memorial service. No body had been recovered after all. But the whole thing had been organised mighty quickly and all agreed it was a resounding success, a real treat.

The Bellevue Hill home of Mr and Mrs Gray had been absolutely transformed for the occasion. Not that it wasn’t usually a splendorous dwelling, but it’s amazing what expensive wreaths of flowers, plenty of black ribbon and freshly baked lamingtons will do to a place.

Mrs Gray had taken a personal delight in organising all this – the decorations, the wine, the cookies, the cutlery especially recommended (for a small fee of course) by a prestigious funeral home. It was almost as if she had given birth to and bred her son with the specific design that he one day mysteriously die so as she may organise his memorial service. It could have been her calling in life.

It was a feast for the senses – the colours! The smells! The velvety touch of everything! And that heavenly muzak floating all through the house.

Mr Gray himself didn’t care so much for such things, his son was gone and he was sad, but it seemed to keep his wife happy, which meant she left him alone. Just the way he liked it. And the lamingtons were pretty good.

Phillip and Vera Gray had married in a hurry. In a hurry and flurry of peach blossom and white veils and social attention. This was close to forty years ago now, and that brief pang of sexual excitement that first got them into this mess no longer seemed worth it. The older they got the more miserable they became and the harder they tried to pretend they weren’t.

The truth was, the Grays were not proud of their son. They were snobs and disapproved of Mark’s ‘bohemian’ lifestyle.

"Oh how I wish he had become a broker or real-estate agent or something respectable like that!" one or the other would cry out in moments of abject loneliness or to their family and friends. "There, there. There, there." Their friends would comfort them, secretly glad their own sons were corporate lawyers and merchant bankers and the such.

Mark was a failure. Like most children, he failed to prove the world a good and beautiful place for his parents. That’s why Mr Gray was sad now – he no longer had a hope.

By 1:30 the place was beginning to fill with guests – friends, well-wishers and those who came just for the food.

Mrs Gray rushed over to the elderly relatives, how-do-you-do-ing them, asking about Glenys and Uncle Max and poor old Godfrey. She didn’t care much for Mark’s friends because she had never really known Mark to be very popular. And besides, if he did have any mates they were bound to be unattractive, unambitious types also. Not the kind she wished to encourage.

Yet there came three very handsome young men, by far the best dressed of all the males there, who exuded an electrifying confidence and the aromas of expensive after-shave. Mr Gray was surprised (to say the least) that Mark had kept such good company.

There was also a group of tall, beautiful women in glamorous clothes gossiping quietly amongst themselves over by the fireplace.

"I heard he was a powerful drug lord assassinated by the Mafia" said one.

"No, no, why would we need to be here then? I thought he was a 45-year-old virgin who just couldn’t take it any more and did himself in. He saved up money for all this beforehand so that all who came would think him less of a weaner" said another.

"Oh, girls, who cares?! We’re certainly being paid enough not to. Now check out the loser in the trench-coat" a third woman said, pointing one beetroot-red, manicured finger at the loser in the trench-coat. He was also wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses though it was sombrely dark inside. The loner, who everyone by instinct avoided, was pretending to study a row of family photographs on one wall.

"Few weirdos around, aren’t there" said a Claudia Schiffer look-alike in a big black hat, "It gives me the creeps"

"Like that guy over there: he’s been at that plate of hors d’oeuvres since we got here. Look! He’s eaten half the lot already and the eulogies haven’t even begun yet!"

The chubby, short man by the table must have seen them looking because he held up one little pastry to them and said with a smile "You’ve gotta try these, they’re just delish"

They smiled back with obvious distaste.

A little bell tinkled somewhere and Mrs Gray summoned everybody to their seats. The speeches were about to begin, and it is much more comfortable being bored while sitting down. First to take up the podium was the little greedy man, his fingertips still glistening with oil, and there were crumbs on his two-day growth.

He introduced himself as Bartholemew, but the name, like the hired suit, didn’t quite fit him.

"As Mark’s best mate, I suffered a great loss at his untimely departure from this world" he began. "Mark was the best of men, Mark was the worst of men" here he paused for effect, looking longingly into the distance, just as he had rehearsed. "As mates we got into all kinds of scrapes. Chased a few sheilas—" he chuckled at the thought "—and are directly responsible for at least half of VB’s gross profit over ten consecutive years"

No one laughed and Barry emitted a sound that began as a chortle and ended as a forced cough.

"Anyway, Mark had a lot to give to the world: his seemingly boundless energy…his sense of humour…his incomprehensible enthusiasm for everything…enough sperm in those balls of his to populate the world twice over…"

Mrs Gray thought this tasteless and turned her head away with a roll of the eyes. The strange man at the back snorted loudly.

"…and now he’s gone…but oh well, what can you do, eh?" he smiled, not even bothering to pretend to be moved if his audience wasn’t even bothering to pretend they were amused. "Cheers!" he saluted the gathering with a glass of vintage red.

Mrs Gray stood up next clutching tightly the shreds of a tissue that she had been mangling nervously all through Barry’s speech.

"I would only like to say a word or two: as many of you know, Phillip and I didn’t always agree with Mark’s life choices, but be that as it may, we mourn him nonetheless and believe this is a tragedy that should not befall any parent. But if it was meant to be, it was meant to be" she said, dabbing the tissue remnants at the corner of one eye, dabbing away a tear of relief – "At least he can’t squander away his inheritance now" she thought.

"I would like to thank, errr, Bartholemew here for his great assistance in helping organise this little event and for his, ah, heartfelt speech"

"Heartfelt?! Ha!" whispered a bit loudly one of the beautiful blondes "For a best mate he seemed more concerned with the disappearance of the pistachios than the disappearance of his friend"

"I have also asked Revered Conrad West to say a few words" announced the deceased’s mother.

A tall, balding man with sunken, expressionless eyes stood up. His vestments were spotless and crisp and he looked a bit like a hand puppet – big plastic head on a disproportionate, flimsy body. Growing up Mark had always amused himself with a little game of seeing how close he could come to pronouncing the Reverend’s name as ‘Worst’ without getting suspicious looks.

"Dearly beloved" he began in a voice that had never spoken words of love "Today we mourn not the passing of a fellow human being but the passing of a dream" he grasped the sides of the podium firmly and surveyed the gathering with contempt, his passionless blue eyes resting with a particularly malicious look on the strange man up the back. It was enough to make the toughest of men cower.

"Every baby is an empty vessel to be filled with its parents’ hopes and dreams, and God’s too. As we grow we carry those precious wishes either as gifts or, errr, burdens" here the Reverend glowered at the framed picture behind the podium of a grinning Mark. "And so we make life decisions accordingly: some of us fulfil our destinies…some of us do not. But there is always hope! Oh yes – hope. The sweetest and most strengthening of all delusions. There is always hope that a person will become what they have been wanted to become…but when they pass away, well, so does that hope. It’s irrecoverable. Fond memories of a soul may live on, but what once was reassurance is now disappointment. Forever."

Mrs Gray dried her eyes with the disintegrating tissue and the Reverend cast her a sympathetic and pitying look.

"Now, let me read you a passage from the Bible: ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted’ tells us Matthew 5:4. All you mourning here today, be comforted with the knowledge that you have done all you can, ex gratia too, to steer this felo de se onto the right path and anything else, you know, is infra dignitatem. He was no rara avis, that’s for sure, and ipso facto you shouldn’t blame yourselves for this modus viviendi. You are not to blame and completely compos mentis. ‘For God commanded saying "Honour your father and your mother" and "He who curses father or mother, let him be put to death" ’ that’s also Matthew. Mirabile dictu, you see, there is a justice in the world greater than you can imagine. Have faith in this and you shall not be disappointed nor disappoint. That is God’s modus operandi. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Nil desperandum, my children, nil desperandum!"

Mrs Gray wholeheartedly agreed and again dabbed the bits of tissue at her eyes. She was positively beaming – she and the Reverend West had always shared a quiet shame of Mark.

When the holy man sat back down beside her, she touched his arm lightly and said "That was wonderful", her eyes gazing deeply into his.

"Oh Vera, you are always so kind…so gentle. What did you do to deserve all this?"

"My dear Reverend, I suppose some things were just meant to be"

The Reverend giggled annoyingly at this "Surely you see that some things that to us seem like they were meant to be were made to never be…" he pressed his sweaty little palm into hers and his eyes twinkled lasciviously.

"Well, there are, in my experience at least—" Mrs Gray’s eyes narrowed seductively "—ways of getting around such things"

"Yet there’s certainly one thing you cannot get around: underneath these vestments I am a man, with needs, hard as I try, I cannot alter" he leaned closer and whispered this in an acidic breath.

Mrs Gray ignored or didn’t notice the yellowing teeth just centimetres away from her own and answered:

"And I am just a woman…full of women’s desires, yeeeeeeeeeeaaaaarning to express them" she looked away dramatically into the distance. A look perfected by many years’ addiction to daytime soap operas.

"Let me help you, Vera, as a man of Learning, let me help you" the Reverend West clasped his hands upon her knees.

She smiled, warily at first, then with greater confidence "Oh Conrad! I always knew you would be my saviour, I always knew it!"

"There, there, Mrs Gray, we mustn’t get carried away: I’m hardly a saviour per se, though you’re very kind in saying so and I’m sure if you were a damsel in distress I would jump on my high horse and gallop to your rescue!". He giggled again, well pleased with himself, and reddened. Mrs Gray didn’t suspect the Reverend to have the facility of gentle self-mockery and so put down the ‘high horse’ to a Freudian slip.

All around them the guests were mingling: Bazza was making conversation with the man in the baseball cap and sunnies over a cheese platter, and the clique of beautiful babes was critically judging the attire of everybody present, one by one. The slick threesome were appraising the beauties as if they were champion racehorses. Various elderly relatives stood around getting tipsy and shaking their heads – "Tsk, tsk, another one gone…dropping off like flies they are"

Then the three wise men – for they had to be wise to be so well dressed – approached Mr and Mrs Gray. "Our most sincere condolences Mr Gray…Mrs Gray" said the middle one, their apparent leader. In turn they kissed the fragile hand of Mrs Gray and firmly shook Mr Gray’s one before walking out, single file, through the door, followed by the longing gazes of the flock of those gorgeous creatures in fine black taffeta and figure-hugging satin.

When one babe moved away from the rest of the herd, the black wolf – trench-coat and all – pounced: "So, errr, you must have been Mark’s girlfriend, eh?"

"Wasn’t he a 40 year old virgin?"

"Ahhh…no, no" he was left speechless and glad to be able to hide behind the sunglasses "No, not at all, he was a regular stud! Oh yes, always had chicks hanging off him, they couldn’t get enough!"

"Oh" she replied, disinterested ("Baaaa" she could have bleeped like a lamb in the same tone), and trotted back off to her friends, wagging her tight little tail.

Barry also had a go at penetrating the Fortress of Femininity. Being a stories man, he began his campaign with a barrage of anecdote:

"Hey there, you know, a funny thing happened to me just last week – you’ll appreciate this honey – I was just on Bondi road, you know, and this g—"

"Have you ever considered getting a hairpiece?" interrupted the woman. She was at least a head taller than Barry, giving him a good view of her cleavage and her a good view of his receding hairline.

He didn’t let this faze him though, and continued on a new tack:

"Why yes! Actually, just yesterday I thought to myself ‘gee, I really oughta do something about this’ " and he patted himself lightly on top of the head. "I’ve always been pretty practical like that, always a solutions man!" he grinned broadly "When I was a kid – not too long ago! – and my dog ran away, I—"

"I would really consider a hairpiece if I were you" continued the doll "it’s especially important to look after oneself when one gets to your age"

"Fuck, I’m not that old!" Barry may have been an old, disgusting sleazebag, but he still had his pride.

"Aha" she replied, already bored with the conversation, and turned back to her friends. Her failed assailant, meanwhile, sulked over back to the lamingtons and for the rest of the afternoon stayed by the food table as if his life depended on it.

Everyone hung around chatting for a while longer, there was so much food and booze it seemed a shame to waste it. With the early evening light streaming in through the French windows and all the fragrant flowers and pleasant music, it was quite a lovely little party. "Quite lovely indeed" even Mr Gray approved.

The memorial served its function – to absolve any guilt on the part of the living for living – and Mark was comfortably forgotten. Of course the food and the flowers and all would be remembered, and if ever a particular wine was mentioned somebody was sure to say "Oh yes…yes, I’ve had that once…now, where was it? …oh yes, at that charming gathering in Bellevue Hill -–they also had the most splendid arrangement of flowers I had ever seen, I remember distinctly…it was for…Matt someone…a farewell or something…but, yes, the wine was delicious".

"Ba-zzzzzzaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" called out the owner of the flat in an almost growl to his friend, the unattractive man with the receding hairline stepping out of his car.

"Markkkooooooo!" Barry called out in return, his voice a tone lower.

"Baaa-zzzzzzzzzzzaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" replied the first man, much lower again, and to this his friend repeated "Markkkoooooo" in a tone below his mates’.

Barry and Mark always greeted each other this warmly.

They were off to the beach that day. Sunday had been a scorcher and they were as giddy as schoolboys at the prospect of wiling away the hours by the water.

Bazza wore his favourite Hawaiian-style Mambo shirt, huge and bright. Like most big beer-bellied blokes he believed (quite erroneously, it must be pointed out) that by drawing attention away from his unfit body, he was more of a chick magnet. Unfortunately the theory never proved right though he had religiously worn the brightest and wackiest Reg Mombassa creations for the last 7 years or so.

Mark too wore a Hawaiian shirt, but one of those $20 BigW ones. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would make you stand out in a crowd, unless the crowd had any fashion sense. On top of his head was a very dirty and very floopy hat made of the sort of material most sensible people have their towels or bath mats made from.

Both men also donned Hang Ten shorts. They’d been wearing Hang Ten shorts since they were kids and the only thing that changed was the sizes, growing exponentially.

Barry had come to pick up Mark from his unit in Tomorrow street, Camperdown, in a beat up red Corrolla with one brown door and a Newtown Footy Club bumper sticker. Before they left they, on Barry’s insistence, checked they had everything:

"Sunscreen?"

"Check"

"Towels?"

"Check"

"Discman, speakers and every album ever released by the Bee Gees?"

"Oh, no Baz, the Bee Gees are staying put today. But I’ve got The Best of Roxette"

"Awwww…O.K., six-pack?"

" F'course. C’mon, let’s go"

So they drove down to Bondi, parking in a side street and with the money they saved not putting into a parking metre they bought two battered Mars bars on Bondi road. This was becoming a bit of a tradition with their beach outings. They couldn’t get enough. It was as if they’d once heard going to the beach was a very healthy thing to do and wanted to counterbalance this unpalatable effect with something more to their taste.

They settled down at the south end with their sticky delights, and their Roxette, and their VB and began discussing the funeral.

"Gee those lamingtons your mother makes are divine!"

"Correction, dear brother" said Mark sloping on some sunscreen "those lamingtons my mother gets made buy an illegal Indonesian immigrant cook are divine"

"Whatever, I loved them anyway. So fluffy. So sweet. So coconu—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get the idea – you liked the damn things"

"They sure were delish, but not as delish as those models would’ve been, eh?" replied Bazza, unperturbed, with a sly smile and poking Mark in the ribs with his elbow.

Mark shooed him away like a fly and replied "Oh yeah, they were somethin’…cost an arm and a leg to have ‘em there, but still…"

"But what arms and legs they had!" said Bazza because he was in a jovial mood.

"It was nice having such gorgeous babes at my funeral, even if we had to pay ‘em to be there"

"Well, it’s not quite the same thing, I mean, they didn’t really want to be there, they didn’t come out of their own free will, you know. it’s not like they were actually mourning your death. But I s’pose we had everybody fooled"

Mark gave his friend a dirty look and said with a touch of malice "So, ahh, I saw you getting barred by one of ‘em"

"Nah, nah…not barred exactly...she would ‘ave had me aright but suggested kindly I might wanna concentrate on my self-image a bit first…for my own good…you reckon I should get a hairpiece Marko?"

But Mark was more interested in bopping along to ‘She’s Got The Look’ than Bazza’s receding hairline.

"C’mon, what d’ya reckon? Eh? Should I get a hairpiece or no?" persisted Barry.

"If you think it’ll help…" replied Mark ambiguously, not looking up.

Bazza was puzzled (his forehead was so furrowed, his eyebrows looked like one) thought it best to change the subject.

"You yourself had a go at the babes, didn’t ya?"

"Yeah, they wanted me bad. I could feel it in the air – the sexual tension—"

"Yeah? I just thought it was a stuffy room"

"Shut up Baz. Anyway. They kept staring at me – didn’t you see? – and whispering. I’m sure they wanted me. Of course, when I approached one, she shied out, poor doe. Must’ve been the trench-coat scared her off"

"Either that or your ugly mug" thought Barry but kept the comment – and a rising giggle – to himself.

They sat in silence a while, sipping at their luke warm VB and staring at the surfies and shark biscuits, happy to be un-athletic slobs if it kept them warm and dry and pumped with beer.

A little plane scribbled white slogans into the sky and both men simultaneously and laconically thought "That’d be a great job" and sighed as if Fate had greater things in store for them which is why they couldn’t just be scribbling white slogans onto the sky with a plane.

The ocean hummed and danced and ignored them.

"Gee that priest is a wanker!"

"It’s what celibacy does"

"Yeah, well, you’d know, Bazza"

"Fuck off Mark"

"I mean, could he have been any more insulting? There’s gotta be somethin’ in the Bible against that sorta thing. It’s sacrilege I tell you, sacrilege"

"Yeah, he was a bit condescending…pompous, self-righteous…you’re right, a real wanker. Your mother seemed to love it though"

"She loved it aright. Dumb slut. Hitting on someone – a priest at that! – at her own son’s memorial!" Mark pouted like a kid and crossed his arms over his chest decidedly "Bitch"

"Oh, come on, he was hardly doing much to discourage her"

"Just coz she blew him at my christening he reckons he can still get some"

Bazza was stunned into silence. His own mother would certainly never do anything of the sort, particularly at a christening and to a Holy Man. Bazza even suspected she had never gone down on his father, the most unholy of men.

"Did you see the way he kept looking at me? I bet he knew" Mark continued pouting and added for good measure "I bet he knew"

"Aww, Mark, you really ought’na take things so personally, you know" Barry reasoned. He had once toyed with the idea of becoming a psychologist. "It was just a generic speech, I bet that if everyone went to their own funeral they’d be offended. You ought’na take things so personally"

"Not even my own fucking mother recognised me!…my dad – well – he never looked at me anyway, but mum! Oh, she was always lookin’ real close. Just in case I had a dirty face or somethin’…"

"But you were heavily disguised Mark. And, c’mon, it was a memorial service, people don’t want to think you’re alive, it just fucks up their newly formed ideas of the world without you in it" Barry once also contemplated being a philosopher "And the most important thing is that The Vultures didn’t recognise you"

"I s’pose" Mark moped.

"Good. Now let’s just shut up, turn up the volume and catch some rays"

And that was that. Both men lay back down on their towels and unbuttoned their shirts, revealing glaringly white and hairy chests, like grotesque white bread rolls sprinkled with flour and pubes.

Barry was a man of method, a Taurus, and his friends came to expect him to spend hours before every major outing pouring over the Gregory’s to determine the absolute best way to go. As a child Barry had once found a beloved family pet with his methodical mind and unwavering practicality when those around him were falling apart with panic and uncertainty. It was late one stormy Saturday night when it was noticed that Mr Poodles, the timid, cowardly Rhodesian Ridgeback everybody always fed too much, was missing. Being only a little tyke, Barry could slip away unnoticed while the adults fretted in their adult ways, and take it upon himself to really discover the canine; to discover something, not discover that something was missing.

"Now, if I were Mr Poodles, where would I be?" he asked himself, and being a boy of bountiful brains took out a 50cent piece – his most valuable possession – and let it lead the way: "Heads – I go left; tails – right…heads, towards the park, tails down to the ditch…"

And with this ingenious method within half an hour he had caught the dog and a nasty cold.

He loved this story and told it at least once a week.

Furthermore, Barry was the neatest person he knew and damn proud of it. If you saw just how tidy his little housing commission flat was you might think him gay. But there was a nudey calendar on the back of his toilet door and he had a more than healthy interest in girls. Besides, being professionally unemployed meant he couldn’t afford much clutter anyway. His dole payments neatly covered all his necessities. For petrol he always went to a discount servo where the petrol was at least 2 cents cheaper than anywhere else but it was so far away it probably wasn’t worth the bother anyway. He had a shopping list always pinned to his fridge with a pink plastic pig and he never bought anything he didn’t need. Apart from food and bills, he could also afford the occasional article of clothing, or a big night out, but not much else. This suited Bazza just fine, he wasn’t a party man and didn’t ask for much more than an occasional root and a constant supply of beer.

Thus Bazza had developed over the years somewhat of a beer belly, though that suited him just fine too. It must be something about the name ‘Bazza’. He was also balding, pink-faced and generally unattractive to match. Needless to say this made the occasional root he liked very occasional.

Mark and Barry had been mates for years, ever since they discovered they were dating the same girl (or ‘The Bitch’ as she was later referred to). They had a fist fight, wrote out the girl’s phone number on a few toilet door, and feeling justice had been served, forgot all about her and became the best of mates.

They couldn’t be more different, though, and that’s why they complimented each other well. Bazza brought Mark back down to earth, and Mark made Barry feel glad to be mild-mannered and sensible and never getting into trouble like Mark.

Mark, Marko, or even Mazzzzzzzzzza (in times of extreme joy and a great growl) was tallish and skinny (at least compared to Barry) and had one of those long, thin necks that stuck the head out like a turtle’s.

He was impulsive, enthusiastic, enterprising and just generally stupid. He was constantly changing from one dead end job to another ("This is the one! This is the one!" he would tell Bazza knowingly, and then a month or three later "It just didn’t feel right, you know, I just didn’t feel it"). His unit was a mess and his philosophy on bed-making was that there is not point coz you’re just going to mess it up again anyway. Consequently he had not changed his sheets in eighteen months.

There were no books in his apartment because he didn’t believe in them. "Escapist rubbish" he would say and spend the afternoon watching science fiction videos, of which he had a vast collection.

Mark was called Mark because his parents, obviously humourless folk, wanted to leave a mark on the world. He once felt a spiteful pride at having disappointed them.

"D’you think anyone’ll miss me?" asked Mark over his second schooner, their earlier conversation still in his head, livened by the alcohol.

It had gotten partly cloudy and they decided to go and sit in the Bondi Hotel.

"Oh yeah" replied Bazza without much enthusiasm.

"No, really, do you think people’ll miss me. I mean really, really wish I wasn’t dead?"

"Yeah, I s’pose" it didn’t make much of a difference to Barry, funeral or no funeral he still had his mate and when he did die, he’d worry about it then. That’s the sort of human being he was.

"No, no, have I done anything significant? What do I have to show for myself? Sure, sure, there were plenty of people at the memorial service, but we paid half of them for fuck’s sake!…let’s face it, I’m not indispensable…but then, who is…?"

It was a rhetorical question but Barry answered nonetheless and promptly too:

"Cooks and lovers"

"Huh?"

"Cooks and lovers. They’re the only indispensable people. Think about it. Where would you be without food and love? The world wouldn’t go on. It’s a well-known fact: the human species needs to feed itself and to propagate in order to survive"

"I s’pose" Mark said thoughtfully: Bazza sometimes said the most profound things. It irritated Mark to have a mate like that – one who analysed the world. It was disconcerting. "Hey – it’s your shout"

They had one more midi each and trotted off light-headedly to the car.

They were tipsy and happy and very amused when they stopped at a red light on Bondi road and right in front of them ran a girl in nothing but a towel. Her face was red from embarrassment or the heat and she clutched the towel tightly around her. All the gaping pedestrians were just extras in her story, but Mark and Barry were too careless to wonder what it was. Why pay attention to somebody else’s movie when you’ve got your own to make?

"Show us yer tits!" they called out and drove away, chuckling to themselves and feeling proud, as if they had said something wise or important.

It was the highlight of their day, they would be retelling and embellishing the story for ages – a girl crossing a busy road in absolutely nothing, now that’s something!

It was heavily overcast again on Tuesday, the neatly dressed and over-cheery studio meteorologists of the TV and radio channels had been wrong: the weather would do just as it pleased regardless of what they said.

Mark and Bazza got to the pub for a late and boozy lunch, as was their custom. This way they avoided the place being over-run by with suits filled with money and mateship.

"So let’s figure out an action plan"

"An action plan?" Mark didn’t understand "like a plan of action? Fuck Bazza, all I’m gonna do is go in, say I haven’t got their money, get threatened a bit and leave. That’s the plan"

"No, no, no, I mean your strategy, the approach you’re gonna take"

"The approach is ‘hey, how’yre doin? Sorry it turns out I can’t quite pay you back yet. Oooops’, eh Baz?"

"You’re a very stupid man, Mark" Barry said honestly "Now, are you going to be Mr Tough Guy, or a Brown Nose, or all I’m-the-one-doing-you-the-favour-here?"

Mark considered this awhile, making patterns with his finger on the side of the schooner glass.

"I s’pose the first one, Mr Tough Guy, I want them to know there’s no messing with me. These dudes can get pretty rough you know"

"Smart thinking mate, smart thinking"

Mark did feel pretty smart and grinned widely, wishing there was someone other than Bazza he could gloat to.

"O.K., so you get in there, no pleasantries, no handshakes, look ‘em in the eyes and say ‘we need to talk’ all serious. Use you best Tough Guy voice too."

"This one?" Mark practised his deep, growling monotone "We need to talk"

"Yeah! That’s it! Good. Now. Whatever they demand, say you’re prepared to give only half that"

"So if they demand to know if I’d like a cuppa coffee I say ‘yes, but only half’ right?"

"Dimwit. No, you know what I mean" Mark was still chuckling so Barry looked at him like a teacher at an uncontrollable student with wealthy parents. They were the worst. "Be firm, but fair. Fair but persistent. Persistent but—"

"O.K., O.K., I get the point Bazza" Mark replied insolently, like the uncontrollable but wealthy student he was being treated as.

And Mark did get the point: after another hour (and 3 beers) of Bazza’s coaching, he stood on the doorstep of his creditors, as Tough as they come.

As soon as the door opened, however (and it was opened quite promptly), the plan fell to pieces. Or rather, Mark did.

The man who answered the door shook Mark’s hand and said "Good to see you Mr Gray, I believe we have a little matter to discuss"

Mark and the butterflies in his stomach were ushered into a small but comfortable office that he hoped he would not be beaten to death in, like in the movies. His knees trembled and his chin wobbled.

The other men, it seemed to him, sat around like scavengers waiting to pound on the carrion. He could almost hear them salivating. Actually they were perfectly civilised: neat and reasonable. They weren’t brutes or thugs or lowlives. That was just an image propagated by the Guild. But fear and guilt have a tendency to colour things out of proportion. Right now Mark was seeing too much red.

"I, umm, well, I have had a little trouble, you see, I, errrr, trouble investing that rather large sum of money you so kindly, ahhh, lent me not so long ago…and I was just, well, wondering if perhaps it might be just possible…"

He stopped and the room fell to silence. He winced, not even realising he did, as if expecting a blow to the face.

None came.

"Are you a sportsman, Mr Gray?" asked the only man seated other than Mark.

"Well, I used to be…but it proved too hazardous"

The man looked on blankly but gave a slight twitch of the head to indicate he wished Mark to continue.

"I broke my leg you see…" he replied, scanning the three faces for sympathy.

"And which sport was responsible for that?" asked the interviewer with forced patience, like a parent.

"Chess. I used to play chess…but I’d get so wound up I’d wrap my legs around the chair legs and one time I forgot when I stood up and—and broke my legs" Mark looked down ashamed. The other men in the room remained silent, and the one sitting behind the desk clenched his jaws and the slit of his eyes narrowed.

"I ask whether or not you are a sportsman, Mr Gray, because you seem to be playing games with us" he stroked a little coffee-coloured kitten on his lap which Mark had not noticed until now. "We aren’t your competitors, Mr Gray, now are we. You shake your head. Good. I’m glad you agree with us. You see" he looked somewhat past Mark’s head "You see, we just want to help you" but the word sounded kind of strange from his lips.

Mark furrowed his brow and wondered if it would give him premature wrinkles.

"Help you" repeated the creditor "help us"

"So we are going to have to undertake physical action" informed Mark on of the other men, the muscle of the operation.

Action. Mark hated that word. It meant doing things for other people.

"Consequences. Repercussions. Responsibilities. You know the deal. This is for your own good" explained the man with the kitten using words Mark hated even more than ‘action’.

But the man with the kitten didn’t even sound so convinced himself. He was getting sick of his job – only it paid the bills: oh! The bills! They were piling up thick and fast and he could sympathise with his customers (for lack of a better term), something not recommended in his line of work.

The wife was getting nasty, the kids were growing restless – and he could do nothing but suspect the former of adultery and the latter of ADD. It was funny (though he didn’t laugh) that in a position of such power as his job gave him, he had no real control over anything.

The kitten purred in his lap. At least she loved him unconditionally.

"Good little Smudge" he whispered, tickling her chin with the pinkie on which he always wore a large ruby signet ring. It twinkled in the light and he forgot all about his associates and interrogating Mark.

His youngest son’s name was Mark too and he wondered sadly what horrible things the little tyke would get up to when he was old enough to feel real greed.

It was little Mark, actually, that had given his father Smudgie, the kitten, as a present. It was touching. Until he realised the kid had bought the kitten coz he wanted it for himself, the bugger, and knew nobody wanted to get it for him. It was worrying what a devious kid like that would grow up into – a con-artist, a lawyer, or worse, a world leader. But he didn’t want to be thinking about that, he had many other things on his mind: the mobile phone bill was 2 weeks overdue, the kitten seemed lactose intolerant and he’d have to buy some soy milk, and of course there was the Gray matter.

Mark sat like a great big broken toy on the chair in front of the desk. He wasn’t so much nervous or guilty as incomprehending. He was one of those carefree people who go through life like a box of chocolates. "I was just joking!" they seemed to say too late "I didn’t mean to eat them all, honest!". They were the sort of people who thought they could get away with It, whatever It was, and not get a stomach-ache after eating the whole box of chocolates.

So his creditors had only limited pity for him. He was just a chore, like mowing the lawn, or fixing the verandah roof that was only cheap plastic loosely bolted to the wooden beams and flapped around dangerously in high winds. It probably wasn’t even worth fixing in the first place.

"Last week you were coming in here telling us that you could get the money and interest back to us promptly. ‘No problem’ you said, ‘For sure’ you reassured us. You had us convinced, Mr Gray. Now you make us look like fools" there was a pause for the words and a blush to set in "We’re not fools, are we Mr Gray?"

"No, no! Of course not! But, see, there’s a funny story – you’ll laugh! It’s actually a very funny story, I don’t know where to begin—"

"You won’t begin anywhere, Mr Gray, for, you see, we don’t CARE" the man pronounced the word slowly and ridiculously "We don’t care about anything but that our money – plus interest – be returned to us within a week"

Mark shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and itched a mozzie bite on his ankle that had been bothering him all the while (he wasn’t sure what the protocol for relieving itches in such situations was – could it be seen as rude?).

"And if I were you, Mr Gray, I’d make sure I cared also"

Mark nodded solemnly like a child made to swear he’d never play with daddy’s antique knife collection again but not quite understanding why, though sensing the importance of the request.

The men in control exchanged looks. "Give ‘im a warning?" asked one batter of an eyelid. "Better" replied an almost imperceptible glint.

"You’ll find our policy here quite fair, Mr Gray, we’re not thugs you know, just business men, businessmen going about their business. We don’t want to hurt you, see, we just want what is ours…what we deserve" the man raised an eyebrow, questioning if Mark followed his train of reasoning. Mark nodded.

"So now" the man continued "we give you a warning. I advise you very strongly, Mr Gray, not to take this warning lightly. Because if you do—" and here he pulled out from a drawer in the massive desk a black, leather bound album filled with happy-snaps of brutalised men: beat-up, pulped, cut, disfigured figures. Presumably uncompliant customers. It sent a chill through Mark, like those Before and After pics at the doctor’s or dentist’s surgery. Somehow he could not equate the sheer horror in that book with the handsome man gently stroking with one hand a kitten resting upon the other.

"Thank you – thank you sir! Yes, yes, I understand – completely – I’m a businessman too, you know…of sorts…yes, I will take your generous warning seriously" Mark jumped out of his chair knocking it over and shook each man’s hand in turn with unnecessary vigour: he wanted to get out of there faster than he could, but once outside he didn’t feel as relieved as he expected. He sighed anyway, not a sigh of relief as he had looked forward to, but a sigh of resignation.

Mark walked down the street quite dejected.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit" he muttered under his breath like a mantra.

It wasn’t quite dusk yet but seemed so because of the dark grey clouds covering the sky. They matched Mark’s mood.

He couldn’t remember feeling so dispirited for a long time. A week at least, he figured sullenly. Actually, now that Mark considered it, it seemed more and more like he was happy less and less.

"I wonder why that is?" he wondered out loud without realising it.

The pavement beneath his feet was becoming increasingly uneven and cracked. The tip of his red, Converse Allstars sneaker caught against a protruding edge.

"Must be coz I’m careless…"

Indeed the past few years for Mark had been increasingly carefree, but carefree in the way a dog chasing cars even when there aren’t any is. Stupidly, pointlessly so.

But Mark never ran for things as practical as a car, but rather…well, he himself wasn’t too clear on what he sought.

He walked on home, brows furrowed, hands in pockets. So engrossed was he, he missed a $20 note lying idly by the kerb and a rather pretty girl giving him the eye.

Unutterable thoughts have that tendency – to distract beyond distraction. The mind grasps at shadows and blinding light, then, having realised this as futile, turns instead to grasping at the sources, the tangible things, the forms that give shadows and light. Or something. Mark wasn’t too sure.

He strolled on, not bothering to tie up his shoelace when it came undone, there was something dawning on him though outside the sun was setting.

If he could just…or maybe...nah, nah, that wouldn’t…but…only if he – nah…

His pace quickened with the thoughts running, and his heart beat more rapidly too. before Mark knew it, he was at the door of his little place, a piece of torn fly-screen flapping in the evening breeze, as welcoming to him as the wave of a pretty little wife greeting him after a hard day’s work and calling him inside to a roast dinner.

There wasn’t a key in his pocket ("Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit") but an idea in his head.

"I’ve got an idea" Mark exclaimed as a cute little waitress left with their order.

"Shit" Bazza groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Fuck off!" Mark squealed, hurt. "It’d better than your idea of getting that toupee"

Bazza touched it defensively but Mark continued, "It looks like two miserable ferrets decided to kill themselves on your scalp side by side"

"Fuck off!" this time Bazza squealed. He’d spent 45 minutes that morning in his bathroom and then another 10 minutes in front of the rear-view mirror of his car combing lovingly the hairpiece and perfecting his best Sexy Man With Lush Hair poses.

Despite Mark being so nonplussed at the idea, Bazza decided to buy a wig after all. He got out the yellow pages – they were 2 years old but it didn’t matter – and called up every WIGS &/OR HAIRPIECES listing in Sydney comparing prices and ranges before deciding, stuff it, and going to the place round the corner.

It had been a big decision for him to make and it hurt that Mark took it as a joke.

"Seriously Bazza, you’re just denying the inevitable. Oh, don’t worry, it’s a common middle-age complex. If you were rich you’d get yourself a bright red sports car. Or, if you had any scrap of sex-appeal you’d get yourself a 20-year-old with big titties"

Bazza clenched his jaw and intensified his glare on Mark.

"As it is" Mark continued "all you can afford is a second-hand third-rate rag which would fly away as soon as the convertible reached 60 anyhow, and the babe would laugh so hard he jugs would jiggle as if they too were about to fall off, but, no, you couldn’t touch ‘em anyway coz she’d already think you the biggest dick ever, and not the kind she’d want up her hot pussy" Bazza’s eyes stang "So it’s just as well that’s all you can afford"

Barry was on the brink of tears but luckily the cute little waitress came back with their stuff and they could forget about each other and look at her.

She placed a bowl of fries and a hot chocolate in from of Bazza, leaning over slightly, close to his face so he could see the gully between her breasts. She stuck out the tip of her tongue between her lips in a subconscious mannerism of concentration and Barry thought this was just the cutest thing he had ever seen: cuter than puppies. He loved anything that gave the individual or human touch. It was much sexier than tight leather or make-up.

Mark got a caramel milkshake. He would kill for anything caramel and told the waitress as much in his ‘oozing charm’ way.

She smiled politely but didn’t look up. Barry tried not to smile himself and said "You been working here long? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before"

She flashed a lovely, genuine smile at him. He was the harmless, mopey sort of man all the girls actually were ‘just friends’ with and would go to with all their sordid Boyfriend Problems and not realise – or realise with relish – they contorted him with jealousy.

"Oh, I’m generally in the kitchen, a chef’s hand, but they’re a waitress short today so…Can I get you anything else?"

"A packet of Tim Tams that never runs out?" Barry suggested coyly, laughing at his own joke and quietly congratulating himself on an investment that was already paying itself off.

The girl giggled "I’m not a genie"

"Well, you sure look like magic to me" he replied so smoothly he surprised even himself and touched the toupee lightly with his fingertips just to make sure it was still there.

Meanwhile Mark sat back sucking the caramel liquid through a straw and bemusedly waiting to see what would happen next.

"So, ahh, what’s your name?"

She pointed to the white plastic badge on her apron. ‘Emily’ it labelled her in red writing.

"Right…well, Emily, you’re pretty busy right now, so how ‘bout you give me your number and I’ll give you a tinkle later so we can continue this lovely chat then, eh?"

Emily looked blank for an instant, weighing up whether she should bother making a disgusted face and walking off in a huff, or just laughing cutely, saying "you’re sweet" and walking off as if he was just joking.

Behind them a teenage couple kissed with a loud slurp.

"I...err...well…that is…" poor Emily stammered and Mark snorted with contempt.

"O.K., look, I don’t usually do this, but seeing as you’re such a sweetie, I’ll make an exception for you darking: I’ll give you my number and when you’re good ‘n ready give us a call, eh love?"

She handed over her order pad and pen as Barry reached over for it confidently. You wouldn’t know it that he hadn’t picked up a girl in many, many years.

When he had finished scrawling his name and number, she quickly walked away without another word.

Barry gave Mark an I-told-you-so look and smugly sipped his hot chocolate.

Meanwhile Emily giggled over the incident with some other waitress and went to serve the next table. At it sat a tanned and curly-haired young man in a muscle shirt and two gold chains around his neck. He beamed at Emily as if she were here to serve his every sexual need, not serve his foccaccia and scalding coffee.

"I’ll have the ahhh…the…I’ll have a steak sandwich, medium rare, with whole-grain mustard, no tomato but extra beetroot, and raw onion, not fried" she wrote it down "Actually, nah, nah, just gimme a chicken and avocado foccaccia and a cappuccino and your number eh?" with the last request he gave her the slyest smile, like this was some sort of underhanded victory or something.

She battered her eyelids sweetly and dictated a number.

"So, ahh, Emily, when should I call ya?"

"Oh, anytime, I s’pose. Don’t worry if a guy called Barry answers and pretends not to know me. That’s just my uncle: he reckons he’s funny. Just keep insisting. Tell him you know we’re together – he’d love that – and you wanna fight him for me"

The self-proclaimed Adonis kept staring lewdly at her and when she finished talking winked and made one of those clicky sounds with the side of his mouth.

She hid her look of disgust with a forced little smile, pivoted on the heel of one foot and with a slight wiggle of the butt – which her greasy admirer made no secret of checking out – walked away back into the kitchen where she belonged.

Mark and Bazza always had a mid-week brunch at the Paradox café on King street, Newtown, for two reasons: 1) the Paradox served the fattest, greasiest chips they had ever tasted, and 2) ‘brunch’ was a yuppie concept that made then feel important while allowing them to have breakfast – the most important meal of the day – at a decent hour, straight after they woke up, around midday or so.

It was raining that Wednesday, though "It always rains on Wednesday" one or the other would complain.

"Have you ever noticed, right" Barry said suddenly forgetting the weather and putting a chip in his mouth "that there are, like, certain recurring…things every so often?"

Mark hadn’t and picked up 2 chips from the bowl, squeezing them together so the oil ran down his hand before putting them in his gob. He wished Bazza would notice that he had something important to say too.

"Like coincidences. Fr’instance, when my sister got pregnant, I suddenly kept seeing pregnant women everywhere when before there had been none. Not that I noticed anyway. And this Emily chick now, well, just the other day I got a call from some weirdo looking for an Emily and wanting to beat me up coz I told him I didn’t know any Emily. And now I meet one. Freaky, huh?"

"Nah Bazza, you’re dreamin’. And you haven’t even heard my idea yet"

"But what if it’s like an omen or somethin’? what if things like that happen on purpose, to bring attention to something, eh? What then?"

"Then you shut up and listen to what I have to say or it’s going to be your fate to get my fist in your jaw" Mark was getting impatient. He hated not being listened to, especially when he had something important to say. Typical only child.

"I bet I’ll be seeing lots of pretty girl now. It’s the wig I tell you" Bazza wasn’t listening to his mate, but wouldn’t have heard a bomb siren, so engrossed was he in his own rambling "But I’ll need to get a can of talcum powder"

"Huh?" Mark looked across the table as if The World’s Biggest Dufus was sitting there.

"Talcum Powder. You know, the white stuff you sprinkle on babies’ bottoms. I’ll put some on my new hair. Like dandruff"

"What the fuck?!" this was momentarily more interesting than what Mark wanted to talk about "Why in hell’s heavenly name would you want people to think you had dandruff, you gross goose?!"

"Because I want people to think I have real hair. Wigs don’t get dandruff, see"

That was almost too clever for Mark. He shook his head in awe and disbelief. "Fuck! Did you come up with that yourself?"

Bazza contemplated taking credit for the idea but decided his ego had been fuelled enough today already.

"Nah…read it in a Roald Dahl book as a kid...kinda stuck with me"

"Very clever idea…hey, hey, speaking of clever ideas, I had quite a thought last night, about my situation, what I should do about it"

"Oh yeah"

"Well, I’m Adam’s apple deep in debt, right?"

"Right. You’re drowning in it buddy: you’re like an elephant in quick-sand, a paper boat on a stormy ocean. You’re like—"

"Yeah…so what should I do?"

"Find a means of paying it off? That’s my suggestion anyhow. Face your parents, work out a scheme with them…maybe if you got a proper job you might even be able to get a bank-loan too… I’ve also heard of these credit card scams where you—"

"No, fuckhead, I’m gonna fake my own death!"

"O…k…" Bazza said unsurely

"See? That way I get out of it scott free. It’s foolproof"

"O.K., and how are your creditors going to find out about it, eh? When they just come up to your door, will you say ‘hey, look at me – I’m dead. Oooh, now I cannot pay back the vast amounts of cash I borrowed from you. Sorry. No hard feelings, eh?’ "

"Shut up. I’ll make it a huge, spectacular death. It’ll be in all the papers. Just last week they had something like that, and we’re gonna do the same"

"WE? The two of us? You and I, stressing the I part here?!" Barry obviously wasn’t as keen as Mark anticipated.

"F’course. With your sharp sense of organisation and my fearlessness – well, we’re unbeatable. It’s foolproof. You’ll see, by this time Monday we’ll be gloating over a job well done"

"I’m still not sure…"

"Party-pooper! You’re such a scaredy-cat, Bazza, and it’s not like we’re doing anything really illegal. All we need to do is get a fancy convertible – supposedly what got me into this debt – and drive it over a cliff early one morning when there’s not too many people around" Mark had this look on his face like a kid trying to get his little friend to eat 2 pieces of bread with a suspicious piece of brown something in between. Only he wasn’t going to burst out giggling any second. No, Mark was a professional: it had taken him years to get his used-car-salesman style down pat. That’s how he was able to always get what he wanted and be where he was now.

"Yeah…but—"

"Awww, c’mon! How hard could it be? The car’ll be in my name, I’ll leave a wallet or something in there too, maybe write a little suicide note, and hey-presto, by 5pm it’ll be on the channel 10 news. Sure there’ll be an investigation, but all the better coz if anything those fucking creditors will be prime suspects. The suckers won’t be able to chase me down coz I’ll be laughing a ghostly little laugh all the way to the bank! Then you organise a memorial service, something tasteful, you know, I want people to realise how much they’ll miss me, so lots of booze. Even invite the suckers, and if they harass my parents, well, all the better, they can afford it"

"Sounds like a plan…"

"A sound plan, my brother, a sound plan" admitted Mark feeling very wise, his elbows on the table and fingertips pressing firmly against each other.

"Just one question" asked Barry toying with the last chip "who’s going to pay for all this?"

There were times when Mark hated Barry for his practicality.

Mark stood on the front step of the local moneylenders (an old family business) and knocked.

Knock. Knock, knock, knock.

There was a feeling of some dread weighing down his stomach that he didn’t know how to account for.

Knock. Knock, knock, knock.

A vague image came into his head of birds of prey circling high above him in a sky made pale with heat.

In fact the day was not so hot, completely overcast and cool from the previous day’s rain. Nonetheless Mark was sweating, and a waft of his of BO reached him as he lifted up his arm to knock again.

Knock. Kno—

This time the door was promptly opened and a tall, expressionless man ushered Mark inside.

"Come in, come in" said the man "we’ve been expecting you"

"Well of course – I did call" Mark replied, politely outraged. Yet there was something in the man’s tone that he knew of Mark’s coming through some demonic omniscience rather than Mark’s own warning.

The hall was dimly lit, but the office was bright and sterile – matching the immaculate suits of the three men inside. It wasn’t very large, but very neat ("Ahh, they’re all the same!" thought Mark triumphantly).

"Goodafternoon Mr…"

"Gray. Mark Gray…or double-0-69 as they call me in the – ha, ha…hem" Mar’s joke fell flat. The men stared at him blankly, not even with disgust. They were used to nervous humour, they were like the dentist.

Mark scanned around the room. There centre piece was a big, bare desk surrounded by several beige filing cabinets and uncomfortable chairs – all IKEA furniture – and the ivory-coloured walls were adorned with prints of postmodern flowers behind one of which there was bound to be a safe.

It certainly wasn’t a richly furnished room and Mark wondered if this racketeering stuff was so profitable a vocation after all. Of course the men wore expensive clothes and had expensive tastes, but they lived beyond their means. It was a typical attitude: they could do anything they wanted and thus did more than they actually did want to just to make this perfectly clear to everyone else.

There was no carpet and instead an ugly well-worn linoleum covered the floor. Mark tapped at this with the toe of his sneaker. He didn’t like it, but surely if he’d known the state of the previous carpet he would have preferred the lino infinitely.

The previous carpet, you see, and the body wrapped in it, was at the present time disintegrating in a tank of acid out in an industrial area of the western suburbs somewhere. The body had up until quite recently been a live and weary fellow, important enough to think he could cheat the great McKernel and Sons, Financiers. They had lain him on that shag-pile carpet, as beige as the filing cabinets, tied his chubby little wrists with barbed wire, because it was handy, and filled his great gob with handfuls of twenty cent pieces, because he was greedy.

They kicked and beat and mocked him.

Suffocating, only his eyes could scream, but then they took turns punching those too, "So you’ll never see nothing ya can scam again!" they shouted. When he pissed his pants they joked he ate gold coins and tsk, tsk, tsk, didn’t he know they’d just turn liquid and flow out down the drain?

When he did a shit they stood back in solemn silence. "That’s enough" one said and walked away, returning with a butcher’s knife. It was thrust with hatred and anger between the ribs beneath the heart. It made a ghastly grrrshhh, grrrshhhh on the muscle and marrow, and shloop, shloop as it went through the gore.

Needless to say the carpet was all ruined, and they all thought this a shame. They wrapped the corpse up tightly in it, like a doner kebab, and in the dead of night removed the bundle, returning later, unnoticed, lowered from their murderous high and carrying only the dark knowledge of their deeds.

There was a bowl of Minties on the desk and Mark reached for one. They weren’t as good as Fantales, but when something’s free it certainly tastes better than when it isn’t.

"Oh, do help yourself!" the handsome face behind the desk remembered its manners "There’s plenty more where that came from" he smiled.

Mark mumbled a thank-you.

"Now, what business brings you here?"

Mark mumbled something else, shifting the mint around his mouth.

The man laughed and continued "Well, I suppose it’s obvious what business brings you here – the money business, right!" he grinned, his teeth straight and white like a row of freshly washed nappies hanging off the line on a windless morning.

"Well—"

"Or more precisely, improving the quality of your life through money. Of course, I know your type"

"Actu—"

"Please. You have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide. I’m a man who enjoys his luxuries too…so, what’s your sweet tooth? Flashy girls and fast cars – vice versa? – or antique art and fine furniture? Horse racing? Thai sex tours? No?"

"Oh no no!" Mark had to laugh "It’s nothing like that!"

"Anyhow – oh, please, do have another Mintie – it’s the quality of what you have, not the quantity that counts"

Mark, who had reached into the bowl before being invited to, played with the lolly in his hand while contemplating a reply.

"Quality…that’s…ahhh…real important"

"Why, of course it is! It’s what makes anything worth having or experiencing – the quality! It’s like, you don’t go into a shop and ask for, say, a suit, you go into a shop and ask for a damn GOOD suit. It’s the damn good you’re after, not the fucking suit!"

Mark blushed and slowly looked down at his own attire – worn out red Converse Allstars shoes, never been washed jeans, t-shirt that proclaimed ‘not enough sex makes your eyes go fuzzy’ in fuzzy writing. The other men looked down at him too and in their judgemental silence nothing could be heard but Mark sucking ferociously on the Mintie.

"The point is, Mr Gray, we seek quality." The man looked so forlorn Mark inadvertently snorted.

"You laugh, but Mr Gray, how can I not look sad when it is often an arduous and disappointing search? How can I not be concerned, I ask you that" he paused so Mark could look appropriately concerned also "What would life be without the little things? Qualitiless! Like…Ferrerro Rocher without the coconut!"

"Crown Lager without those fancy bottles!"

"Polo shirts without personalised monograms neatly embroidered on the left breast"

"Motels without complimentary bars of soap" now he was getting the idea.

"Restaurants without valet parking….yes, it would be quite a different world without all those things, the ones that make the difference between quality and, well, not quality. But what is quality? Go on, define it!" Mark was challenged and caught taking another Mintie at the same time.

"I…well…I don’t really—"

"See? See, it’s impossible!" and what a delightful little triumph it was for the man behind the desk to proclaim it so "We know we like it, we know it’s important, but we can’t even say what exactly it is! Isn’t that funny?!" he giggled and was about to say "Have you ever heard of Robert M. Pirsig, Mr Gray?" and continue on that lovely philosophical tangent with his new friend, but Mark got a word in.

"Shouldn’t we be discussing…business?" he raised an eyebrow as if it was a Serious Question. Really it was just a twitch somehow caused by him stretching out his tongue to a back molar and dislodging a piece of stuck goo.

"Ahhh, yes – business"

And business they discussed – like two old women at a fete.

A price was agreed on, a rate of interest decided upon, details of the transaction finalised, and a file even established for Mark Gray, though that was merely a formality, the most important (and dangerous) things are stored in men’s minds and hearts. Both parties reassured themselves the other would upkeep their end of the bargain.

"For sure you’ll get your money back…it’s no problem". Mark hadn’t been asked to provide collateral. The company had what they liked to call a Life Insurance policy.

They all smiled distrusting little smiles, it was all part of the ritual.

Nothing having been left to say or do, Mark sneaked a final Mintie and the men exchanged pleasantries.

"Goodbye Mr Gray, we look forward to seeing you again soon" said one of the men on behalf of all three and stuck out his hand "…and our money!" he added, his eyes twinkling with mirth or malice, Mark couldn’t be sure which.

"Goodbye Mr Mackre— McKernel, sorry, sorry, McKernel…"

They let the slip-up slip (like a freshly caught fish into the bucket) and saw Mark out the door.

He breathed a sigh of relief and strolled down the street as if it was no less than the Yellow Brick Road itself. And to Mark everything did seem paved in gold, and the trees and shrubs and grasses the colour of 100 dollar bills.

Everything had…quality.

It was wonderful to be rich. He was the same person, in the same clothes and in the same life, and all that separated him from this morning was the knowledge of a huge number of – of what? – of tokens belonging to him. He laughed – how silly it was that something so arbitrary, and symbolic could mean so much to so many and give him such power. To think that those colourful little strips of plastic with little value of their own could be seriously traded for things with real value! It was like a game! A child’s game or toy!

Mark would buy a sports car, a bright red sports car (that’s what makes them go faster, you know, the red). He couldn’t wait! He receded down the street, his mind already going as fast as the new car would. He barely spared a thought for Bazza who at that time, poor thing, was frantically searching for his hairpiece in Mrs Pumpernickel’s prized petunias.

He had been diligently researching all afternoon modeling agencies to hire mourners for Mark’s memorial. He even insisted on checking out the goods himself. Yet as systematic and thorough as he was, so were his rejecters.

"No thank you!" the managers would shriek in a staccato as if he had insulted them.

Perplexed and dejected Bazza walked back to his car, getting lost in the winding streets (the rows of renovated terrace houses all looked the same to him) and he could just sense a parking ticket flapping happily between his windscreen and wiper as if it was he most harmless thing in the world.

Suddenly, a little wind picked up. It tussled Barry’s hair and he smiled proudly – he had hair!

A breeze blew again and tickled his scalp…and kept on tickling…kept on tickling a bit too much.

"Hang on" thought Barry stopping mid-stride with the effort "something’s not right" he was, after all, an astute fellow.

He felt the back of his head and felt the sticky toupee glue. The hairpiece was coming unstuck.

"My hairpiece is coming unstuck!" Barry shrieked as if expecting someone to care.

Suddenly another gust of wind hit at the hair and tore it right off. Barry pirouetted (quite elegantly for a man of his age and stature) in an attempt to catch it.

In the process his hands got stuck to the top of his head and he ran or stumbled a few steps like a hostage to the terrorist wind.

Meanwhile, the toupee was having a much better time, wafting happily through the air, out of reach of greedy hands and greasy heads. Having eventually had enough air, it landed, like a very hairy butterfly, in Mrs Pumpernickel’s prized petunias.

Barry wished he could just call "Toooooooooooooupeeeeeeeee…heeeeeeere toupee, toupee, toupee…" out to it like a cat and it would come bouncing back and curl up nicely on hi head. But instead he had to sneak into the little garden, trampling all over the pretty plants and search for his lost hair while the flower petals screamed in pain.

He was not aware Mrs Pumpernickel was watching from her lair.

"Oi— you!" she shrilled, squinting beady little eyes at Barry.

"I’ve, ahh, I’ve lost my hair…"

"Well, I can see that! But what the hell are you doing in my petunias, you lout?"

"Looking for it!"

"Your hair?! You fool! Your haaaaaiiirr?!" she screeched.

"Yes, you see—"

"I see you massacring my beautiful flowers – my children! Get out – out, out, out, out, out!"

"But – but it cost me—"

"OUT! Out before I call the cops, you dole-bludging, dope-smoking, sex-crazed, migrant lover you! Get out!"

Bazza obeyed, geriatrics scared him like nothing else. It was something about how close they were to death, maybe it was contagious.

He jogged to the corner, then rested for twice as long as his run. He was about to walk off more sullenly than before when he spotted, right in front of him, Top Quality Modelling Agency.

Right where Harding’s House of Whores used to be, he noted and walked in confidently.

There he got lucky, not like some used to, but booked a few good-looking girls for Sunday. And he didn’t get a parking fine after all.

So Bazza was able to happily drive off into the sunset (the clouds were clearing), his mind busy forming lists of lists he’d have to make.

People to talk to…car yards to visit…things to talk about with people to talk to…formal-wear hire places (cheap)…

Barry’s mind was still busy the following morning as he waited in Mark’s living room eating a Violet Crumble, his breakfast. He liked to start slow – opening only a little bit of the wrapper, just enough to reveal the hard, smooth chocolate beneath. Then he would run the tip of his pink tongue over the tip of the brown bar, leaving a snail trail of saliva, like morning dew. He would then carefully – so delicately – with his teeth bite off the front layer of chocolate, not touching the honeycomb, oh no! again the tongue would flit out, getting its first taste of the yellow stuff, tingling with the sensation, moistening the surface.

After that would come the first bite, a nibble really, then a long, lingering chew – another bite, again the meditative mastication, letting the flavour linger, and a third bite.

Of course then Bazza would have to pull back the purple wrapper a little bit further, but it wouldn’t interrupt his trance. Another nibble – yes! Yes! – the chewing more rapid, more urgent, more – more! More! – more intense really. A final pulling back of the wrapper – it wafts to the floor forgotten – and then with one final triumphant gulp – it’s all over.

Such is life, thought Barry with melancholy, wiping away the last golden crumbs, such is life.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Mark was trying on clothes. He wasn’t usually too fussed about his attire, but this was a special occasion, he had to look right.

"Ta-da!" he jumped out from the doorway sporting a short-sleeved white shirt and a shirt, crooked tie.

"Is that your old school shirt Mark?" asked Bazza cynically, the world seemed a sad place now.

"Well, what if it is?" answered Mark with a question, looking a round the room with guilt.

" ‘It’ is the fact that in it you look like someone who should be selling me overpriced cars, rather than someone who should be buying them"

"I was going for the retro schoolboy look" Mark replied sulkily, already leaving the room "The dork and nerd image are big nowadays you know"

Next he came out in an almost new polo shirt, which looked quite spick until Bazza asked to see the back.

"Fuck Mark! It says ‘APPY ‘ARRY’S ABBATOIR: WE PUT THE LAUGHTER BACK IN SLAUGHTER, you can’t wear that! Remember you want something that says claaaaaaaaaas…you want a shiny new sports car, not a shiner from a humourless vegetarian!"

Mark sulked away again, coming back in turn with a muscle shirt, a trench-coat, his mother’s blouse ("how did that get there?") and one of those t-shirts with a printed-on vest and bow-tie. All through this Barry was very patient, but when Mark came out in an off-beige safari suit, he really had to say what was on his mind.

"I wouldn’t be caught dead in that Mark!"

"So I should save it for the funeral?"

"You should save me time and yourself embarrassment and just wear that dark blue shirt with the huge white hibiscus flowers and let’s go already!"

"O.K.! O.K.! What – are you my wife now?!" but Mark obeyed anyway and off they went in search of A Bright Red Sports Car, as giddy as children.

They had no luck at first, searching everywhere from Auto Alley, Parramatta, to Chatswood Toyota: nothing was good enough for them.

"We want something fast"

"And sexy"

"And not to safe, we want something that’ll mangle up beyond recognition"

"Remember sexy"

"So no Volvos"

"But quality" this was Mark’s new favourite word.

"Yes, definitely a car that a rich, desperate, suicidal loser would buy to make himself feel better"

"Oi! I resent that!"

"What?!" squealed Barry defensively "You said yourself you wanted something flashy!"

Mark didn’t reply to that, instead just sent his friend a death stare.

They were about to leave the place when Mark spotted a girl in a mini.

"Check out the chick in the Gosford skirt" he said pointing his head in the right direction.

"Oh yeah" replied Barry who didn’t know what a Gosford skirt was. Mark didn’t either, actually, and just wanted to seem like he knew something Bazza didn’t. If he hadn’t spent all his childhood family vacations in Club Med Fiji he might have realised Gosford is close to The Entrance.

Mark sauntered over, giving his best sports-car-owner impression.

"Heya…we’re, ahhh…we’re looking for a car"

The girl in the mini laughed.

"The people who come here generally are!"

Mark laughed along with her, hiding his embarrassment. Bazza blushed, he knew what he wanted to look at, and it wasn’t the curves of the new SAAB.

The girl’s laugh died down and she sighed, her plentiful bosom heaving, the white little lycra top stretching across those breasts stretching a little more.

"So…how about showing us your…" Mark paused, focusing all his energy on keeping his eyes averted and not making a Freudian slip "…cars"

"Sure. Come this way. What sort were you thinking of?"

"Something sporty…very sporty"

"Well, we have the—"

"Safety and money aren’t an issue, we just want speed and looks" interjected Barry.

"Do you have something like that in the colour red?"

"We can pay cash"

The girl looked put out, many people wanted sports cars, and red ones too, some thought that makes them go faster, but nobody ever admitted they didn’t care about safety. That seemed as taboo as admitting one likes to eat fried chicken skins with an extra layer of oil and salt. It just wasn’t done. People had to be healthy, safe, and clean – even if they didn’t know why.

Nonetheless, this lovely young lass was the yard’s top seller (employee of the month three times in a row!) and if the gentleman would rather a shiny coat of paint rather than ABS braking, she would give him the shiniest car in the lot! It didn’t make a difference to her, but a big difference to her pay cheque.

She had been the youngest child of six, and the only girl, and thus quickly learnt the best way of getting something was to let the potential giver think they wanted to give her what she desired and that nothing would please them more. And upon reaching puberty she realised the best way of doing that was through her womanly wiles. From then on it would be "Yes sir! No sir! Oh what a naughty proposition sir!". She would be a real sweetie pie, people are never on guard in front of a fool (how foolish of them!).

But Barry was intimidated. He was afraid of what a wench like that could do to a weak guy like him, and preferred not to find out.

So they left not having done any deals though Mark tried very hard to get the girl to give him her number.

"Hhhmmmm-pfffrrrr" Bazza sighed noisily on the way out "are we really going to find what we’re looking for before tomorrow?"

"Oh c’mon! tomorrow never comes, eh? This was your idea in the first place, of course we’ll find it and it’ll be the best fucking car we could ask for!"

And indeed the next one was the charm. The salesmen didn’t look away in disdain at the very sight of them, and the yard was filled with lots of expensive looking cars. The place was called Automobiles of Distinction and Class, just off Parramatta road.

Mark’s mouth practically watered at the sight.

The owner of it all, Sylvester ("Just call me Lester") was a very polite and eager to show them around. He had a little mo, trimmed neatly, eyes as happy as a child’s, and a machine-gun way of talking.

"My cars are unbreakable – unnnnnnnn-breakable – and unbeatable. Absolutely top-notch value, very safe – oh yes – very safe, very reasonably priced too. Great variety, huge even – as you can see – and I offer the best deals: just pay and drive away! Unnnn-beatable, as I’ve already mentioned, couldn’t beat ‘em if you were the Energizer Man himself!" he chortled at the joke "You’ve come to the right place – sorry what was your name again? – we’ll find the perfect automobile for you, I guarantee it! My own personal guarantee, it’s a thing of Distinction and Class, you know, ha, ha! Yes, look around, lots of fine cars here, all of the finest quality!"

"Quality, eh?" Mark wanted to make sure. What was it with that word?

"Oh yes! This for instance, this lovely little Mazda, that’s the MX5 – two-door convertible, 6-speed manual, 4-cylinder engine at 113kW. And all for only—"

"What about that red one over there, we’re really after something a little more…flashy"

"Oh that? That’s a beauty ain’t it? The Alpha Romeo Spider. A 4-cylinder again, but only 5-speed manual. Of course it’s got ABS and dual airbags. Very safe!"

"Do you have anything a bit more…reckless? We think these modern safety features are a bit gimmicky, you know, not really worth it"

"Yes, yes, I agree sometimes. Can’t help thinking maybe it’d be best to just die if you have an accident than be left a vegetable. Quite right"

Sylvester liked these fellows, they weren’t like all the others, safety mad and paying any amount for peace of mind. They would all die in the end too.

He was definitely a people-person though. Perhaps just an extroverted introvert, but he was cheery and people liked him well enough; he seemed harmless. Which is funny really because he didn’t have what might be termed ‘the happiest of lives’. Obliging in nature, Sylvester had been pressured by his father into marriage; a marriage with Little Miss Seemingly-Right, the girl next door. She was having it off with his brother, their child was an uncontrollable pyromaniac, and his house always smelt of cat-piss. Men of lesser wills would have killed something already or turned to alcoholism. Not Sylvester though – he had an Outlet.

The outlet for Sylvester’s fears and frustrations was Irish dancing. Twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursday, 6 till 9 with Lady Shiobhan O’Shaughnessy ("If yer can’t prinounce it, doon’t boother comin"). Apart from it being energetic and inspiring, Sylvester now had the firmest calves this side of Michael Flattely.

It worked wonders – everyone was surprised! – and Sylvester would recommend it to anyone who cared to listen.

Apart from the dancing, he attended poetry readings once a month, occasional art classes ("Oh, but I’m not an artist" he would say modestly) and very long, solitary fishing trips ("Just so we don’t think he’s too much of a pansy" his friends whispered, but Sylvester just loved seafood)

Bazza liked him immediately.

"I must say you’ve gotta be the friendliest sales guy we’ve talked to all day. You obviously love your job"

"It’s the people I love, the people. There’s something so rewarding in seeing that excitement in their eye when they finally posses that special car. You can tell they’re going to have lots of fine memories in it, memories and adventures. I’m sure we all know what sort of adventures we’d like to get up to the back seat of one of these sexy things, he, he, they’re guaranteed chick magnets I tell you"

Bazza and Sylvester chuckled in a brotherly way and Mark rolled his eyes, he was getting impatient.

"Oh look – a five cent piece!" Barry bent over to pick up the find from a crack in the concrete, revealing a crack of his own.

"I never pick up anything less than a dollar" commented Bazza’s new mate Lester. "I don’t see the point really: I’m the owner of Automobiles of etc, etc, and it hardly seems fitting. Oh no, not that I’m a snob, I just prefer to leave the silvers there to be found by someone who appreciates them more"

"Yeah? Well I see it as finding five dollars in a hundred little pieces"

The two men exchanged looks and slight nods of mutual appreciation.

"Aaaaaaaaaanyway, tell us about this fine creature here" Mark interrupted the little love-in stepping in front of Bazza and patting a bright red convertible.

"This is a dreeeeeeeeeeeeeam, it’s perfect, abbbbbsolutely perfect for you. I love the Porche 911, and you’ll love it too. It’s got Triptonic automatic transmission, a 3.6 litre 6 cylinder engine with 6300rpm and 282 horsepower – wow! – not to mention – and you’ll really love this – the Grand-Prix style gear-shifting buttons on the steering wheel" Sylvester winked at Mark who whistled softly, as if he knew why he was impressed.

Bazza tuned out, he wasn’t interested and suddenly felt queasy, it was something about that particular shade of red. It always had that effect on him, he didn’t know why. The mind has a funny way of doing things like that, blocking out the unpleasant but with a curious barricade over which the self sometimes stumbles. Barry as a child you see – he was in third grade to be precise – had a teacher who was very, very nasty. She had it in for him, he was convinced, and at every opportunity would drag him by the ear out in front of the class to do one thing or another. Right now he could not say what she looked like or even remember her name, but somewhere in the recesses of his brain stuck her electric red nails, the electric red nails that once used to stick into his soft, 9 year old arms when he was a Naughty Boy and dared ask why.

Those nails were the exact same colour of the Porche which an hour later Mark drove out of Automobiles of Distinction and Class.

Bazza would like to have hung around and chatted to Sylvester longer, but didn’t really have anything worthwhile to say except his story about Mr Poodles. But for some reason he didn’t feel like telling it, so with an awkward smile and a wave he drove off sullenly in his old Corrolla. Sylvester was sullen too. he thought he might have a potential new Irish-dancing recruit here.

Meanwhile Mark was happy: he was going out tonight "To test out the car. I’m gonna pick up, so I don’t really want you around, sorry Bazza". Barry was mopey already, so it didn’t make him feel that much worse.

In the city, as he stopped at some lights on Broadway, a young couple walked past arguing, for a few seconds giving him a glimpse into their life.

"I can’t believe you’re doing this!"

"Fuck – babe! What do you mean me?! You’re the one that—"

"Fuck off! If it hadn’t been for you and that—"

"Oh, don’t bring that up again, you’re so petty!"

"As if you’re not. Always worried about—"

"Oh shut-up, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Hurry the fuck up, we’re gonna be late"

They were all dressed up, it was Friday night after all, and both looked very pretty. Barry couldn’t even imagine where they were going. How he longed to be like that, fresh faced and fresh smelling, his cheeks coloured by an anger passionate with love, not hatred.

The best part of his day had been the Violet Crumble.

Mark failed to get laid and was in a foul mood the morning of his ‘death’.

Bazza got to the messy little flat at 3am, as arranged, and the two men were drinking coffee. Very strong coffee.

"I can’t fucking believe it—" Mark grumbled "the juiciest bait and no fish biting"

"Maybe you were just at the wrong watering holes…"

"What?! No! I went to all our favourites: McGrog’s Tavern…Dancin’ Danny’s Discorama – the Pick-Up Palace we used to call it, remember? –…even the RSL…and of course Sluts-R-Us, the old Crown Hotel…"

"So what happened?"

"Well, as soon as I’d mention I had gotten a brand new Porche convertible just that afternoon, and would she kindly like to go for a spin, I’d get a roll of the eyes or a you’ve-gotta-be-kidding laugh, you know the one, and I’d be left alone again…one even slapped me" Mark said caressing his cheek in remembrance.

"The public cheek-slapping…wow…not even I’ve ever gotten one of those…"

"I just don’t get it…"

"Well, that’s because no-one’s stupid enough to give it to ya!"

Mark shot Bazza an evil look in reply.

"Sorry, sorry, just a little morning humour. I mean, chicks just don’t go for that sort of thing any more – the flashy car, the fancy suits, the dinners, the flowers, the attention…it’s passe"

"Oh, you’re full of shit Bazza. That car salesman guaranteed it was a chick magnet…you’re full of shit"

"Yeah, you’re right, more likely it’s just you personally they object to" Barry risked the comment because it was too early for Mark to be vicious in his full capacity, but gritted his teeth just in case.

"Nah, nah, you may be onto something for once…so what do women want?" asked Mark, adding for good measure "Though I don’t see you getting laid left right and centre"

"That’s because I have freely chosen the life of celibacy, thank you very much, women are too high-maintenance nowadays. They want…integrity"

"Integrity eh? Whatever happened to being able to get a sheila into your bed with one up-town dinner and a show?"

"Dunno mate, dunno"

"Well what’s the use of having a sports car if it can’t guarantee you three big-titted 20 year olds in the back seat?! What’s the world coming to if it’s not ‘best dressed, first in’? Where’s the order?! There’s no order! It’s chaos, I tell you! It goes against the laws of nature – survival of the fittest – the best endowed – with cars or clothes or cash – get without questions the choicest cuts: quality begets quality!"

"Geez, settle down Marko!" Bazza played the parent, realising some of the irony in what Mark was saying. They weren’t quality and at least he knew it. "What’s gotten into you?"

"Oh, come on! Like you don’t feel it too! – the pointlessness, the monotony – we’re going round in circles Bazza!"

"I…don’t know what to say…monotony? Please! Really! We’re faking your death, that’s hardly something we do everyday!"

"Sure, but it feels as though we do. I mean, it feels like we do everything we do for the same reasons…to get away. That’s the monotony"

Bazza couldn’t argue with that, faking someone’s death seemed the ultimate in ‘getting away’ from something.

"From what?" he finally asked after a pause.

"Oh, I don’t know! the monotony? But that’s it – getting away – that’s the monotony, it’s like we’ve always been trying to get away from the monotony of trying to get away from the monotony of—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it already" Bazza was suddenly very irritable. It wasn’t just that Mark was right (which usually produced more of a mopey-jealous melancholy), it was more that suddenly the vague but persistent uncomfortableness in his stomach was brought up in a vomit of words, and there was no getting away from its putrid stench now.

In a weary silence they washed their mugs and cleared the table for want of something productive to do, but the floor remained strewn with porn mags and odd socks and the wrapper from Bazza’s Violet Crumble lay where it fell to the ground the previous day.

In the daylight the apartment never looked so bad or so sad, it was just a regular bachelor’s pad (the discarded pizza boxes and overdue video rentals being a status symbol), but in the dark…well, nothing is radiant in the dark. That’s why children are afraid of it.

They left the building as if they were off to a funeral when really it was just the death.

"Do you reckon we should settle down?" whispered Barry with the intensity of a lover proposing marriage.

"I reckon we are settling down" replied Mark getting into the car, which in the dark didn’t make Barry feel so queasy.

"Yeah, I s’pose you’re right, this is a kind of end to all our troubles…it’s a fresh start from now on, no more of all this fucking around, trying to get out of one thing or another"

Mark nodded lightly, but his friend didn’t see, so he just started the engine and off they rode through the silent streets that at that time only belong to the garbagemen.

By the time they got out on the Princes Highway, Bazza’s mood was already improving.

"I’ve got so much to do today…" he thought out loud.

"How about we really kill me?"

"…talk to your mother…"

"Oh, she’d love the idea!"

"…tell her I’ll take care of everything…"

"You’re sweet Bazza, you’re probably the only thing keeping me tied to this wretched earth"

"…I’ll tell her I’ll clear out your apartment…"

"Good idea. Give it all to the Salvos, maybe somebody can find use for my junk when I’m gone" Mark looked longingly out the window, he hoped his impressive yoyo collection wouldn’t get into the wrong hands.

"…we don’t want her going there herself after all and finding you alive and well…"

"That’d be terrible for the old cow, she’s always wanted me dead"

"…and I’ll have to help out with the invites, call up a few people…"

"Who’d wanna come to the funeral of a sad loser like me?"

"Well, I’ve already organised the models" replied Bazza for the first time hearing what his mate was saying.

"Models, eh?" Mark remembered and cheered up.

"So you wanna go to the beach on Monday?"

"The beach?" Mark stared at Barry’s profile and contemplated "Sure, why not"

They rode on in a content silence.

Eventually, when Mark could take no more of it, he turned on the radio. The song playing was ‘We’ve Got To Get Out Of This Place’ and Barry chuckled.

"What’s so funny?" Mark had always found this song kind of sad, he always wondered whether they did get out of that place after all, or if they were caught and held down by Responsibility.

"Ahhh, nothing…"

"No, c’mon, share the joke"

"It’s just the song…."

"What? You’re laughing at a pair of young lovers trying to escape a stifling world of no hope to make a life of freedom and promise?"

"No, no, it reminds me of something, that’s all" Barry said as if that was the punchline.

"And that might be…" Mark nudged, he had enough problems already without his dumbass of a friend not wanting to tell a joke; it was probably about him anyway, that’s why.

"A summer holiday when I was 16 or so. In port Macquarie. It was the end of year 10 and I wanted to spend all summer hanging out at the mall with my mates, drinking goon and learning how to smoke a cigarette properly. But my parents insisted and grudgingly I went. I actually thought ‘hey, this mightn’t be so bad after all, there’ll be plenty of babes, maybe I’ll lose my virginity’ but then, on the first morning, all white and eager to hit the beach, who should I see there, just sprawled upon the sand, but Mr and Mrs Menkes from school. He was the history teacher, she taught geography – I don’t think it was a good marriage. Anyhow, I pretended I didn’t see them and just ran, got the hell outta there and avoided all the popular beaches and places from then on. That’s how I found the nudist beach, by being a loner and exploring. So I was down at the nudist beach one day, completely starkers, trying to get rid of my very prominent shorts mark look at titties. Then, from behind a rock, holding hands and totally in the nuddy came out Mr and Mrs Menkes"

"So?" asked Mark annoyed that the anecdote didn’t explain the meaning of life, or, at least, make Bazza look really, really foolish.

"So I failed both history and geography the following year"

"No, I mean so what does this have to do with the damn song?"

"Oh, that’s what I was listening to on my new walkman – I had gotten it for Christmas – at the time of the incident. It was kind of ironic, don’t you think? I mean, I just wanted to get outta that place"

"O.K. Bazza, just put on Roxette"

"Sure, but we’ll have to remember to take it out of the CD player before we plunge the car over the cliff"

Mark grumbled as if the idea of saving his favourite CD thoroughly displeased him. Maybe it was just Bazza’s mothering and the fact that he, Mark, would have forgotten otherwise.

The top of the convertible was down – it was cold but those who don’t normally drive convertibles always believe it is the only way to do so – and Barry’s head was getting chilly. He stroked one hand over the bald scalp and wished there was something he could do about it.

They drove on to a little known lookout near Cronulla where the view was great and the barricade rickety. Mark had known about the spot from his brief stint as a council labourer and absolutely insisted on it. It was a high, rocky point with deep, treacherous water beneath. Moreover someone was bound to see the flying care from the town and all they would have to do is stroll down through the park and catch a bus back home.

The view was truly gorgeous. The first silver rays of sunlight were beginning to spear through the darkness and the khaki trees were coming alive with birdsong.

Mark and Bazza sat in the car quietly for a while, taking it all in. For a moment it seemed as if time stood still, if there was such a thing as time at all.

"Right, let’s get on with it then" said Mark after he’d had enough serenity.

Bazza got out, feeling all cleansed and holy and promptly stepped on a skink, killing it.

"Ahh!" he yelped, he wasn’t a greenie, just so harmless he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He even had trouble killing mosquitoes sometimes.

"Errr, ya girl! It’s just a fucking skink, nobody’s gonna miss it!"

"How do you know?! It could’ve had a family to look after you know, children to feed, a mortgage to pay off…"

"You dickhead!" Mark jeered.

"What?! You don’t know – I bet insects have their own secret armies commanded by wise generals and ruthless kings, it’s a whole civilisation I’ll bet, complete with table manners and traffic wardens. They’ll take over the planet one day, I tell you, and it’s people like you who’ll be enslaved first! You just wait and see!"

"You just wait and see this get done on its own – c’mon Bazza, stop moping over your little lizard friend and help me!"

The idea was to jam the accelerator and prop up the back wheels of the car. Mark was about to do it in that order too but Bazza sneered revengefully, "Now who’s the dickhead, eh?"

After a few minutes though, everything was in place – the sun poking up above the horizon, the car purring nicely, its back wheels hoisted up on a lever like contraption Bazza had made – and the men sighed sighs of conclusion.

"So this is it"

"Sure is"

"Here we go then"

"Yes we do"

"Aright then"

"Let’s do it"

"Ready?"

"Ready"

"Go"

The lever was lowered and the empty car raced over the edge.

They stood like statues watching.

Barry, thinking of breakfast, asked "What now?"

The car hadn’t even hit the water yet, it was still making its sad and slow trajectory into the sea.

Mark liked the question. He was a man of action, he didn’t concern himself with what was or could have bee. Thus, not even averting his eyes from the red dot on the pink horizon, he replied simply "The funeral"