five posts in ten days...that's our promise to you...

The year was 1980, I was a promising law student at the University of NSW, with a fiery, blonde, Croatian girlfriend whose fuck-head of a father would brew his own ‘Slivowicz ’ (some sort of 80-proof Slav paint thinner), force me to drink with him, then arm-wrestle me, call me a weakling pussy-cunt and threaten to bash me to death if he ever caught me fucking his daughter. Good times.
I weighed 57 kg and looked like a two-iron with ears: he was twenty-six years my senior, weighed 90 kgs and looked like a mediaeval castle door from where I was usually cowering.
One of my best friends was Steven XXXX, we called him ‘The Brain’, because ostensibly he didn’t have one. ‘The Brain’ wasn’t necessarily inherently stupid by birth, however he’d done things in his life which defied reason, even the envelope-pushing reason of a twenty year old, sliver spoon. ‘The Brain’ lived with his parents round the corner from my girlfriend and her homicidal father, down on the river at Lane Cove, in a magnificent six-bedroom mansion.
Sorry, ‘The Brain’ HAD been living there up until a month earlier, when he’d burnt down the kitchen trying to make magic mushroom pancakes at 2am whilst already under the influence of magic mushroom lasagna. In response to a ‘him or me’ ultimatum from his third wife (‘Snap the Cunt-Face Dragon’) ‘The Brain’s’ father made ‘The Brain’ pack his meagre bags and banished him from the family residence forever.
‘The Brain’s’ old man was a very scary guy. His name was Bob and he was a builder by trade; we’d have called him ‘Bob the Builder’ except that cartoon hadn’t been conceived yet, so we just called him ‘Scary Bob’. Anyway, ‘Scary Bob’ owned his own construction company ‘BHC Ltd’ (not the real name), a very successful operation which built most of the ‘Pizza Hut’ restaurants in NSW back in the eighties/nineties and made him a very wealthy, very scary, very connected-in-a-construction-industry-kind-of-way kind of guy.
Now despite ‘Scary Bob’ having recently exiled his idiot son from the family mansion, ‘The Brain’ still retained a managerial position within ‘BHC Ltd’, in an act of nepotism that made most of the hard-working, competent employees round there want to kill ‘The Brain’ and inter his remains under a ‘Pizza Hut’ floor during the next concrete-pour. They would have done it during the last concrete pour, however ‘The Brain’ slept through that one, courtesy of an all-night ecstasy binge that left him unable to make the 6am rendezvous with the five trucks from Boral, which duly returned to base and flushed sixty grand’s worth of unsupervised concrete down the drain before it set hard in their steely bowels. Doh…

To be continued…