Somewhere between Perth and Adelaide, hammering along at 130 an hour in a stolen Torana with a Winnie Blue dangling from his bottom lip, radio tuned into nothing, nothing but fuzz out here in the Badlands.
Where the fuck had it all gone wrong? He knew, of course he knew. It was obvious. It all went wrong when he started using his own product. That was Rule No. 1. You sell the shit, but you don't use it. You start using, you start getting stupid.
But it couldn't hurt to try, right?
Well, it did hurt. It hurt because it burned away everything he needed and everything he loved until he was an empty shell, an animal without a care, only desire.
A desire for more.
Fuck! What was wrong with people? Why did they have to play the hero? You see, Ray, using my blade-sharp reflexes and quick wits, I knocked the pistol out of his hand and wrestled him to the ground.
Dreaming of their five minutes of fame, we'll be back after these commercial messages, which detergent is right for you? Never works that way, a struggle, the gun goes off, another tragic end. Why are people so stupid?
Somewhere between Perth and Adelaide, hammering along at 130 an hour in a stolen Torana, AC/DC blaring, petrol is running low. The sign says there's a servo up ahead, and it's all going to happen again. Always the same way. He was on a highway to hell alright.
Let's dance. Today it's the TAB Tango.
The dance is simple.
One. Stop the car on the pavement, jump out, run in.
Two. Jab the shottie heavenwards, pull the trigger, plaster settles in your hair.
Three. Announce your intentions. Everybody down! This is a robbery! All the money. In the bag. NOW.
Four. Out the door, in the car, dump it in the suburbs and head home for tea and bikkies.
But the dance is never that simple. Because he needs it. He needs it now. And the job that should have paid his rent just buys him a fleeting, temporary euphoria. Lying on the floor, arms outstretched. Christ-like, maybe. But no. God is dead, and if he weren't, he's not welcome here.
And so the dance begins again.
The jacks have nothing and he tells them to their face. He's a straight shooter.
He shoots straight.
"You're fucked, son," they tell him, "we've got you on CCTV."
"That could have been anyone, you've got nothing, jack."
And then, the pit opens.
"We've got a witness."
"Do you really think I'm going to tell you?"
"You're looking at 15 years."
"But maybe we can do a deal."
"You want money?"
"I want information. Who ordered the hit on The Tiger?"
"I'm not a fucking dog, mate. I'm not a FUCKING DOG!"
"15 years, G.D. That's a long time. That's a lot of showers. How many showers is that, Mick?"
"That's five thousand four hundred and seventy five showers, Roger."
"That's a lot of showers, G.D. You're gonna have an arsehole a freight train could run through."
"Mate, if I dog, I'm dead. They'll slit my fucking throat."
"We can protect you, G.D."
"Protect me? PROTECT ME? Are you fuckin' joking? I saw what happened to Sammy Boy!"
"You don't have a choice. You're not going to gobble your way out of this one, Gobbledock!"