 
### The Badminton Club

### Published by Alexander Doodis

### Copyright 2014 Alexander Doodis

### Smash words Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One - Friday

Chapter Two - Saturday

Chapter Three - Sunday

Chapter Four - Monday

About Alexander Doodis

Bonus Interview with Alexander Doodis

**CHAPTER ONE - FRIDAY**

There are many hard men in Queensland, but the hardest and fiercest of them all was a young cook from up north near Cooktown.

He was the roughest and toughest of all the hard men to put on a rugby league jumper, but he was a player virtually unknown except to those who knew him, and only the keenest of fans would recognise the name. He was one of the most terrifying opponents imaginable, a wide, stocky forward most feared in club competition; in fact this twenty-four year old didn't tackle, he just laid a huge paw on an opponent's shoulder and the poor soul felt his knees give under the unbearable pressure. With hands like shovels, almost every tackle produced a foul; a punch, a kick or more often than not, both.

His name was Craig Turner, and he locked horns with some of the most brutal players in the game. Craig was hardly a tall fellow, but he was a fearsome tackler and a brutal forward. He played for the West Cooktown Hunters and although he was one of the most feared in the history of the game, he never played first grade.

Not only was he a tough competitor, Craig Turner was a freakish scoring machine. In four seasons with the Hunters, Craig scored more tries per season than any other player in the history of the sport; anywhere. In one season of twenty games he scored 103 tries. He racked up an amazing 321 tries in 80 games over four seasons and no player has ever come close to that. He had incredible acceleration and a faultless side step. In fact it was said that Craig had radar built into the toes of his boots and stealth coating meshed into the lining of his jumper; and this steered him around, through and over the top of everyone between him and the try line. Twice Craig scored eight tries in a match, three times he scored seven, seven times he scored six, nine times he scored five and in fourteen matches he scored four! As far as Craig was concerned scoring hat-tricks was an average afternoon's work.

Craig had developed a killer instinct and his attitude on the field was one that mixed focus with pure hate of the opposition. During his fourth season with the Hunters his talent was recognised by Bert Prescott, a talent scout and General Secretary for the Queensland Rugby League who was holidaying in the top end and happened on a local match where Craig had scored a double hat-trick. Craig was immediately selected for the Queensland Country side that took on the League's best players in a 'friendly' match between Country and the Queensland State of Origin team, the Maroons, in Brisbane on that fated May evening. This was to be a training, practice match before the Maroons played New South Wales in their series decider on Sunday night.

In fact that Friday was the coldest and wettest winter's day in Brisbane for more than sixty years. The temperature that night was close to zero, the frost was like ice blanketing the ground, the fog was as thick as cardboard, and the mud was ankle deep. It's always hot in North Queensland, and none of the Queensland Country team really wanted to play in that miserable weather, least of all Craig. And he expressed his opinion in no uncertain terms to his coach.

"Tough luck, mate," said the coach, "We're all in this together."

Fair enough, thought Craig. But little did Craig realise that this was to be his first and final appearance on the football field as a representative, or otherwise. This was to be a showcase match between Queensland Country and the Queensland State of Origin team, the Maroons, at Suncorp Stadium in Brisbane in front of 18,000 people; all mad Maroons supporters who had come to watch their team train. This was to be a light practice game for the Maroons before their State of Origin decider the following night. The New South Wales Blues had won the first match 26 – 16 and Queensland had won the second match 32 – 18 so the decider was critical for both teams.

Everyone had written off Country as a team of young and inexperienced Queensland yokels, as none of them had ever played a first grade match. In fact, not only had Country arrived in Brisbane the day before and didn't seem particularly interested in training, that night they had been evicted from a city Night Club for being drunk and disorderly, and their captain, George 'Bulldog' Diamond, together with their full back, 'Driller' Bucknall, were arrested at 3am for pissing in the foyer of their Southbank hotel. As a matter of fact, the only player to be in bed before nine pm that night was Craig!

In addition to Country's poor work ethic, tempers between the two teams were frayed long before the match began. Bulldog Diamond had had a drink or three too many after practice down Cooktown oval the previous week and intimated to a news reporter that he may have had intimate relations with the Maroons Captain's sister in the back aisle of the Cooktown library. Word got back to the Maroon squad and everyone from the Chairman of Rugby League to the caretaker at Stadium Park was denying the rumour. Of course anyone who knew Bulldog well would have realized immediately that the story could not possibly be true as Bulldog was more likely to be struck by lightning seven times in a day than step foot in a library. But Bulldog was a marked man before he stepped foot onto the Brisbane field. Or at least he would have been if he wasn't arrested for pissing in the foyer of the hotel. So that meant every player in the Country team was marked.

A few minutes into the match that day, Craig laid out one of the Maroon players and was immediately sin binned for ten minutes. He headed off to the dressing room, but not before winking at his coach, 'Bitters' Halligan, a very sly wink indeed.

"You didn't really knock him out just to keep yourself warm in the dressing room, did you Turner?"

A smile creased the edges of Craig's lips, "Who? Me?"

"Just watch yourself Turner. You get back out there and play like a man, you sissy!"

Within fifteen minutes of being back in the action Craig had scored three converted tries and was all smiles; in fact he looked quite like a prom queen at the annual ball. Bitters sent Craig a message: "Stop looking so goddam relaxed!" A menacing grimace of determination immediately covered Craig's face, and he looked ugly, magnificently ugly. All of a sudden he had the savage beauty of a beast that was a cross between the Incredible Hulk and Conan the Barbarian.

It didn't take long for the match to explode and for the 'friendly' match to become very unfriendly indeed. What followed was a bloodbath that has become legendary, being dubbed 'The Battle of Brisbane.' Craig scored another two tries in the final fifteen minutes of the half and the Maroons Vice-Captain, "Mad Dog" Riley, from the well-known Riley police family, his father being Chief Commissioner and his brother heading the Drug Squad, singled Craig out for particular attention. The one-eyed Maroons crowd at the Stadium roared their approval as Riley gave Craig a late and high chop to the back of the head just outside the ref's field of vision. Craig looked a little cross-eyed and confused but he let it go. After all, he had scored five converted tries in forty minutes and was on a roll. But it wasn't long before Riley, just one minute before the half time siren, appeared out of nowhere and Craig took a forearm smash to the face, his nose squashed in like a pumpkin after Halloween. This time the ref saw what happened but let the matter lie as Riley pleaded that he meant to catch Craig across the chest and that Craig had ducked. This bloody Riley was as cunning as a shithouse rat.

But it would not have dawned on Riley, or his team mates for that matter, that you don't play in the Cooktown League unless you can look after yourself on the football field, and in the dark country roads around Cooktown, or Weipa, or Cairns. The brutality was just beginning, and as the teams were running onto the field after half time Craig could see the Maroons were eying him off and smirking. He sensed what was about to happen.

After half time all hell broke loose and it became arguably the darkest day in Rugby League history. The match became so barbaric, so inhumane, so chaotic and homicidal that referee Jock Watson, a twenty year veteran of the game, did the unimaginable; after fifty minutes of play he abandoned the match!

Robert Blamey, the famous Rugby League historian who was an eye witness to the game that Saturday afternoon, best summed up what happened next, "From the start of the second half it was an all in brawl. Turner scored another converted try for the Country team and that was the spark that caused the ultimate explosion. Three Maroons players attacked Turner and he went wild. He broke the legs of both Joelson and McHenry as the other players on the field joined in the melee. By the time coaches and those on the sidelines had separated the players, the Maroons back, Buckner, was lying flat on his back, his face looking like a chewed up Mintie. Buckner happened to be the third player who had jumped on Turner's back and everyone assumed that he, Turner, was the culprit, though Craig Turner himself vehemently denied the proposition. The Maroons coach later swore black and blue that he saw Turner "spit out a piece of Riley's nose."

But the match reached its highlight when in the middle of the all-in melee a spectator ran onto the ground and jumped on Craig's back. Craig assumed it was a Maroons player so he stood upright and thumped two massive backhanders into the spectator's face, shattering an eye socket and number of front teeth in the process.

The referee had had enough. The whistle was blown, the match was stopped and the referee left the ground, vowing the match was over and that's that! Queensland Country were disqualified!

Twenty-six players just stood there. Two coaches just stood there. Eighteen thousand spectators just stood there. No one knew what to do. This had never happened before in Rugby League history and is not likely to ever happen again. After a minutes silence, the police and ambulances took the injured spectator away and the players slowly marched back to their dressing rooms. No one spoke.

And then there came a stirring; at first it was almost a gentle murmur from the crowd. And the gentle murmur turned into a rumble, a rumble that only got louder. And then the rumble turned into a rampage and the rampage into carnage. Dozens of Maroons fans began to stampede onto the ground, bottles and fists were thrown and a riot had begun; peaceful spectators were attacked and forced to flee as the violence spread.

Some of the spectators, now masked and anonymous, wielding sticks and broken plastic seats, fought one another and turned on the few police and security guards allocated to maintain order at this 'friendly' match; and some police were seen running for their lives as fights began to break out everywhere. Australia is not known for its football hooliganism, but after the riot squad eventually showed up and restored order before the unrest spread to the streets, there were over a hundred arrests and the hospitals were flat out that evening treating the unconscious and those suffering from head and other injuries. It was a miracle no one was killed.

The players and the officials had by this stage of course made a bee-line for the dressing rooms. And fast! Back in their team dressing room, Craig got probably more than he counted on. He was about as popular as a turd in a lunchbox. At first no one spoke, but everyone was looking at him; after all, when the match was abandoned Country Queensland was leading the Maroons 36-0 and was totally humiliating the Queensland State of Origin team. But the team blamed Craig for their disqualification and the abandonment of the match that denied them ultimate glory and a chance to be selected as first grade players.

"Piss off Craig."

"You're as fucking useful as an ashtray on a surfboard."

"... or a parachute in a submarine."

Even the team Manager had a go, "Get back to the hotel by yourself you useless turd. Go on. Piss off!"

Craig felt as welcome as a fart in a phone box; lower than a snake's armpit.

Fuck this, thought Craig as he grabbed his sports bag and stormed out, I need this like a fucking submarine needs a screen door. But deep inside Craig knew that he had personally and single handedly humiliated the Queensland State of Origin team by scoring six converted tries. 36–0! Craig managed an ever so slight smirk of satisfaction.

As Craig was walking through the Member's car park to get to the taxi rank outside the ground, a surly voice wearing a Queensland Maroons t-shirt yelled out, "Hey you. We'd like to have a quiet word with you."

"Yeah, sure; what can I do for you?" grunted Craig.

Maroons t-shirt came close and lashed out with a short left that would have caught Craig on the nose if he hadn't moved his head slightly to his left. "Now why would you want to go do a thing like that?" he asked.

"Cause you're a friggin' loser mate, you and your poofta team."

"You're making a big mistake, pal," said Craig about to turn and walk away. But his words were interrupted by Maroons t-shirt swinging another hard left towards his jaw.

Now Craig would never go looking for a fight, and he'd gladly walk away from one, but if push came to shove he'd never shy away from one either. He let out an audible grunt, took a step back to balance on his right foot, ducked the incoming punch, and let go a sizzling right hander flush onto Maroons t-shirt's jaw. His mouth fell open in shock and pain as Craig let go a blistering barrage of lefts and rights, smashing into his face and chest. Maroons t-shirt fell like a sack of potatoes and Craig dug his knee into Maroons t-shirt's throat, then started punching him in the head at about two hundred punches to the minute when, from the shadows behind him, there came a God-awful roar.

At first Craig thought it was a car accelerating towards him, but out the corner of his eye he saw Maroons t-shirt's offsider, a brontosaurus of a man with a Ned Kelly beard wearing a red-checked flannel shirt, racing towards him. Craig barely had time to duck to his right and slingshot upright before slamming a left hook into his jaw; one punch was all it took before the brontosaurus looked like he was asleep standing up. Bastard, thought Craig, and decided to give the brontosaurus what was commonly referred to up north as the Cooktown Kiss – a head butt that removed most of the monster's nose, cheeks and front teeth. Brontosaurus collapsed at Craig's feet.

Craig closed his eyes as his adrenalin hit hyper-drive. That's all I need, he thought; sent off in the most important game of my life, probably banned for life, and now this! Craig had had enough of Brisbane and all he wanted to do was go home.

As Craig opened his eyes, a twinkle appeared in the corners of his eyes, and a cheeky little smile appeared on the corners of his lips, and he begun to practice what is known up north as Cooktown Folk Dancing; on the duo's faces. "Take this you bastards," he hissed out loud as he dug his heels into their faces and began rocking, crossing-over, back-stepping, shaking and turning, and all the while laying his boots into their ribs, kidney's, face and balls.

What Craig hadn't noticed through all this mayhem was the black stretch BMW parked about thirty meters from him near Caxton Street. It was a beautiful vehicle and its occupants were obviously used to travelling in style; they understood the meaning of luxury and sophistication in every area of their lives. The car boasted a state of the art sound system, full cocktail bar, flat screen TV, neon lights including neon lit floor and luxurious leather seats and belonged to Barry Minton, the Premier of Queensland. Craig Turner could have only dreamt of such a lifestyle.

My name is Alexander Doodis and I am a DJ and of course that's not my real name because in the world I live in your real name is usually hidden or at least hidden the best you can because, well, just because! Anyhoo, I heard about Craig Turner before I actually met him because I knew his uncle a few years ago when I worked up in Sydney as a DJ and he was the best bouncer in town and me and him used to have a few drinks and a few chicks and if I remember those nights clearly, and I think that I do, a good time was had by all. So I kept in touch with Craig's uncle until he retired as a bouncer and moved to Barbados where he basks in the sun and owns a little bar by the beach and generally enjoys a quiet life. So he tells me about his nephew Craig and I tell Bert and Bert is up near Cairns and sees this match that Craig is playing in, and signs him up to play for Queensland Country straight away. Anyhoo, as it turns out I got to know Craig over the years since he was unceremoniously chucked from playing footy, perhaps a little unfairly I might add, and I got to hear and even experience some of his stories. So I thought I'd share them with you.

Inside the black limo sat Barry Minton, the Premier of Queensland, Bert Prescott, general secretary of the Queensland Rugby League, Nino Salita, professional hit man, and me, Doodis. The Premier pours himself another glass of Dom Perignon 2004 and nods at Prescott, "He's quite a boy this Turner fellow."

Prescott: He certainly is. I reckon he's just the bloke you're looking for.

Premier: I reckon you might be right, Bert. You certain he can do the job, Doodis?

Me: As cert as your tips, Mr Minton.

Nino: Want me to have a word with him, Mr Minton?

Premier: Not yet, Nino. I'll drop you off at his hotel. Maybe wait till he settles down a bit.

Prescott: You got anything racing tomorrow, Barry?

Premier: Yeah. I've got 'Rainbow Ridge' in the sixth but it's a dog. Put your money on 'It's Afraid'.

Prescott: A sure thing?

The Premier closed his eyes and whispered, "Sure thing." To the driver, "George, get us outta here!"

Craig was dirty; real dirty. He knew he'd never play footy again and he'd given up his job as a cook thinking he'd make a name for himself in the game he loved best. And all because some big shot Maroons supporter couldn't handle his team losing. Ah bugger it, steamed Craig, the bastard deserved the beating, and a whole lot more besides.

Craig crunched his way through the member's car park looking for the taxi rank. Even though Queensland Country had technically won the match, he felt he'd let his side down and couldn't face boarding the team bus. Besides, they didn't really win the game, and it was made known to him in no uncertain terms that he was not welcome on the team bus. Pissed off, he looked up at the clear night sky and declared, "Geez boss, you sure got it in for me." Craig's foot hit some loose gravel and he fell flat on his face. He stood, dusted himself off, noticed a tear in his new pair of jeans, closed his eyes for a second and yelled, "Fuck this!" and propelled himself towards the nearest taxi before any further damage was done.

He never noticed the black limo following him.

The team was staying at the Hilton Hotel in the city, but Craig couldn't face them so he let the taxi driver drop him off at a rooming house in Paddington, just off Caxton Street near the ground. Craig cracked open one of the two bottles of Jim Beam Black Label he'd bought on the way to the rooming house and took a swig. He then poured himself an enormous bourbon and soda highball and took a very healthy slurp. He sat staring at the ceiling and weighed the merits and demerits of fighting a dead certain ban from his favourite sport and debated what he was going to do for money when he got back to Cooktown. He certainly wasn't going to go back to cooking. Stuff that! Working in the stinking hot kitchen for next to nothing a week was out of the question. Stuff that! Maybe I'll sell fucking suits or frocks or something, thought Craig as he smiled to himself. Stuff that! Stuff it all!

An hour or so passed and Craig was onto his second bottle of bourbon, still staring at the ceiling, when there was a knock at the door. "Who the fuck?" Craig opened the door and there stood a little guy, no more than five and a half foot tall, wearing neat black pants and a purple woven jumper that screamed, 'I'm a young man trying to look old!'

Craig: Who the fuck are you?

Nino: Now that's not a nice way to greet a stranger, Craig. I might be here to inform you that you have won the Lottery.

"That's funny, mate. Now piss off." Craig moved to close the door but was too slow and Nino was inside the room faster than a speeding bullet.

Nino: Again. That's not a nice way to greet a stranger.

Craig gave Nino a quizzical look, "So what do you want? You from the League? Because I can handle being banned for life but I'm not gonna tolerate people barging into my room in the middle of the night."

Nino: Hold your horses mate, I'm not from the League. I just popped round to have a little chat, that's all. Rough night, eh?

Craig: You can say that again.

Nino: So how are you feeling?

Craig: How am I feeling? Fucked! That's how I'm feeling.

Nino: Yeah, I can imagine. So? You gonna offer me a drink?

Craig: Who are you, again?

Nino: Let's sit down and I'll tell you all about it. By the way, what do you do for a crust?

Craig: Nothing now. I was a cook at a hotel in Cooktown when this match came up, so I decided to chuck it in.

Nino: A cook, eh? I thought you were a chef.

Craig: Yeah? Who you been talking to?

Nino: That's not important for now. So you thought you were going to be picked up by one of the League teams?

Craig: Yeah, I was positive; silly me. But I had the runs on the board.

Nino: Pretty tough gig, cooking.

Craig: Yeah. Long hours; you gotta be there first thing in the morning weighing and measuring and prepping ingredients and assembling dishes for fuckin' strangers, and then you gotta be there last thing at night cleaning and scrubbing. And you gotta work weekends and holidays; it's a prick of a job but in Cooktown you do what you can.

Nino: Kept you fit, I bet?

Craig: And what for? I've got nothing now.

Nino: That's where I come in. I want to offer you a job.

"Yeah," said Craig, very suspiciously. "Doing what?"

Nino: The Badminton Club.

Craig paused and looked at Nino like he was some sort of alien. "Mate, I play Rugby League and you want me to work in a badminton club? You gotta be fuckin' kidding, right? What are you gonna pay me, five bucks an hour? Mate, I'm gonna be polite. You better have another drink and be on your way."

Nino poured himself a highball, then introduced himself and they made small talk for a while, just about this and that and nothing much in particular and Craig became a little more relaxed. Nino then got back to the topic at hand, handing Craig a piece of paper. "Be at this address tomorrow arv at four o'clock and I'll introduce you to the boss, and you can have a bit of a look around the club if you want. Just wear something nice okay?"

Craig: I'll see.

Nino: Well I'd best be off, Craig.

Craig: Like a bucket of prawns in the hot sun?

Nino: Yeah, catch you tomorrow.

Craig: Yeah, maybe.

Nino: Oh, and don't forget to bring your sports bag.

Craig: What? We gonna play badminton?

Nino opened the door, turned back to Craig and whispered, "Why not? You got nothing to lose, Craig."

And he was gone.

Craig had another quick drink or three, brushed his teeth and hit the sack, still dirty on the world. He closed his eyes and thought to himself, what the fuck have I got to lose? I've got nothing better to do. And within seconds the big Queenslander was snoring like a chainsaw stuck on overdrive.

**CHAPTER TWO - SATURDAY**

At four o'clock the next day, a mild Saturday afternoon, Craig was standing in front of the Badminton Club, eying what appeared to be two bouncers in the narrow doorway, both enormous and menacing, both wearing jet black tuxedos, both looking like monstrous Samoan wrestlers. Something didn't quite add up; the sign above the door was not flash and it read, "Badminton Club." The building looked quite small and narrow; nothing flash there either. All the tiny windows had been blacked out and there was no noise coming from inside the building. The street around the Club seemed pretty dark and dingy, and there didn't seem to be anyone else around, except for a couple of homeless blokes across the road having a quiet drink.

"What are you looking at?" snapped the taller of the two bouncers.

"Ease up, Frank," said the shorter of the two, giving Craig a serious once up and down. "It's just your clothes, man. Kinda not appropriate for this place; and as for the sports bag?"

Craig, wearing a 'Cooktown Lives' t-shirt and stone washed jeans, sighed, "It's the best I got mate, sorry. I was meant to meet someone here for a game of badminton, that's all."

"A game of badminton! A wise guy eh?" The taller of the two bouncers stepped forward. "So who were you supposed to meet, then?"

The door of the Badminton Club opened and out stepped Nino Salita, "It's okay boys, Craig is my guest tonight."

The two bouncers pulled back a little, and relaxed.

Craig: Badminton, eh?

Nino: Welcome to the Badminton Club, Craig. Come on in.

As Craig entered the Badminton Club his eyes sprung open and looked like two giant donuts.

Nino gently pushed Craig through the front door, "Follow me."

From the outside, the Badminton Club was, in fact, a very nondescript building. The facade was an off-putting hodgepodge of faux classical columns, strange and useless decorative elements with penitentiary-style small windows and a depressing faded grey colour scheme, and a modest faded painted sign above a narrow doorway; you'd walk right past it if you didn't know it was there. And most people didn't. The most accurate way to describe the building was 'anonymous'. And that was how the patrons liked it. Many building designs around the world can inspire either love or hate; the exterior of the Badminton Club inspired indifference. And, again, that was how the patrons liked it. The building had a very narrow frontage so of course the average punter strolling around the Valley would walk right past it. The building was narrow, but it was very long; very long indeed. But inside the Badminton Club, there existed another world.

Craig and Nino walked up to the front reception desk and were greeted by a hostess wearing a heavily decorated white half-mask covering her eyes, cheeks and nose. "Hi Vikki, can we have a mask for Craig please." Vikki handed Nino a white Zorro mask that only covered his eyes and nose, and she dug out a different one out for Craig. "Put it on, Craig. You'll see why in a minute."

The mask covered Craig's entire face; it was glossy white and very slick, with large cut-away hollow eyes, "Okay, Nino. I'll play along." Craig put his mask on and looked at himself in the huge mirror behind the reception desk. It was a friendly enough looking mask that also somehow screamed, "Don't fuck with me!" Craig liked it.

Nino: Come on; I'll show you around.

Craig took a deep breath and proceeded in. Upon entering the venue, guests were immediately hypnotized by an incredible menu of entertainment including aerial acts, burlesque dancers, jugglers, clowns and magicians. Guests were met at the door by the Ringmaster and escorted to their tables by a multitude of theatrically themed characters: there were knights, jesters, action heroes, alien invaders, femme fatales, angels and demons, except that the staff masks were all glossy white.

"There's a masked ball on tonight so the staff have to get in on the program," laughed Nino.

With each step he took, Craig heard a crescendo of chatter and laughter around him. He looked at Nino for reassurance and got a smile; he relaxed a little. All the guests in the Club were also wearing masks and Craig was mesmerised with the spectacle of it all; there were masks of every colour and design imaginable. There were simple masks that covered the entire face, ones that were joker-like and very colourful, masks that had large headpieces and collars with bells on them, ones with long noses and bulging eyebrows and high foreheads, as well as fairies, goblins, wizards, and many, many others. In fact there was not a bare face to be seen and Craig guess correctly that the punters were really enjoying their evening here.

Small groups of people in dazzling costumes talked and drank and danced and laughed while deep, bass House music played inconspicuously in the background. Craig, still clutching his sports bag, followed Nino about a step behind and asked, "Why are only the staff wearing white masks?"

"It sends a message to the guests; lets them know who's who."

Fair enough, thought Craig. Inside, the Badminton Club was built around someone's fantasy to create a unique place where fashion, art, design, music and people form a unique dimension of inspiration and entertainment. The Club had four levels and a rooftop garden that all blended in with a glass dance floor suspended over a crystal pool creating the most extraordinary sensory experience.

Open twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year, and designed over four levels, the two thousand capacity venue was able to host up to four hundred guests on the rooftop alone. The Club boasted several stages, a central catwalk, intimate dance floors, prime view VIP tables, an indoor funfair, bars in several rooms from the most intimate to the forty foot public bar, and two restaurants, one casual and the other formal. The visual and sound technologies were of the highest quality, making the Badminton Club one of the best of its type in Australia, and the Club played host to not only the resident DJ Doodis, but a host of performances by visiting international DJs and more mainstream artists as well as many other celebrities who happened to be in town.

The Badminton Club was certainly a tantalizing experience for the wealthy, the cultured, the creative, the hip and at times, the not so hip, offering a night out very different to the normal and the mundane. In short, the Badminton Club was designed to be a place where the wealthy could be seen and could spend their money. Cash! And loads of it!

A shiver travelled down Craig's spine as he got his breath back, "Holy shit!"

"Holy shit, alright." Nino was smiling. "You sure you still want that game of badminton?"

"Okay, Nino, what's the go with all this? You dead set had me thinking I was being offered a job in some old people's social club."

"Come on, Craig. Let me explain and then I'll introduce you to the boss."

The Badminton Club was owned by Barry 'Bad Boy' Minton, the recently elected Premier of Queensland. Very few people knew his nick name was Bad Boy, and fewer still knew he owned the Badminton Club. Nor did many people know he owned brothels, race horses, a "private" casino, tourist resorts, a tobacco smuggling operation, and had his fingers in many other interesting pies. In fact Barry was a stand-up kind of guy, a pillar of Brisbane society and a member of the Liberal Party most of his adult life. He was a sophisticated man; well educated, well read and well-travelled. Barry knew what he wanted out of life and he knew how to get it; by any means possible.

The Badminton Club was his head office so to speak. It was located in an old building that used to house a gymnasium and gentleman's club just off Brunswick Street in Fortitude Valley. The gentlemen of Brisbane used to go there in the 1930s and 1940s, sip on a whiskey and ice, and yes, even on the odd occasion play badminton! When Barry bought the building he of course named the building after himself but no one had ever worked that out. According to Barry, calling it the Badminton Club seemed the most logical name for that was kind of what it always was anyway. The fact that it coincided with his name was just that- a coincidence. And there were many coincidences in Barry Minton's life.

Nino led Craig through a small, blackened glass door behind a bar on the third level. Another huge Samoan bouncer stood nearby, obviously ready to pounce if any unwanted guest happened to accidently wander too close. Through the door was a small reception area with a stunning blonde sitting at a clear glass desk. Behind her was the entrance to a large office where Craig could just see a sophisticated man sitting with three others, all four immaculately suited up, all on armchairs around an immense antique style coffee table. Nino took his mask off and indicated that Craig should do the same.

Nino: Hi Fanny, the boss in?

Fanny gave Craig a very serious once up and down, then looked dreamily at Nino, "Barry's waiting for you. I'll call him out."

"Goodo," said Nino. "Oh, by the way, Craig Turner, meet Fanny Whippard. Fanny Whippard, this is Craig Turner."

"Lovely to meet you Fanny," chirped Craig, a little dubious.

"Lovely to meet you too, Craig." Fanny walked through to the back office and Craig gave Nino a serious look of uncertainty.

"Yes it is. And don't you ever even think about making fun of her name."

Fanny came back out a moment later with an elegant and highly distinguished grey haired man in his early sixties following her. Craig straightened his t-shirt as Barry Minton walked straight up to him while maintaining eyes contact, smiled, and gave Craig a gentle yet assertive handshake. Barry was somewhat extroverted, quietly positive, and Craig liked him immediately. While maintaining eye contact with Craig, Barry almost inaudibly addressed the others, "Guys, let us have a moment alone."

Craig swallowed hard and kept his gaze on the Queensland Premier, but within a few short minutes Barry had Craig feeling very relaxed and explained to him exactly what the deal was; the work he had to do, the days and hours he had to work, the money he was to be paid, and a couple of the perks that went with the job: free food on the nights he worked, free board and free tips whenever Barry heard of a good thing at the track. "So what do you reckon, Craig? Are you in?"

Craig's last girlfriend, Kaylah, ended their relationship after just four weeks, storming out of the pub in Cooktown after Craig had 'forgotten' his wallet for the third week in a row, yelling, "You're fucking tighter than a fish's arse." Craig heard Barry Minton mention the word 'free' too many times to turn the job down. And besides, he had nothing else to do.

Barry maintained eye contact and asked quietly, "Can I trust you, Craig?"

Craig motioned with his chin and whispered, "Yes. You can."

Barry nodded slightly, smiled the broadest smile, and again shook Craig's hand, "Done deal. You be here by four on Monday and Nino will have your uniform ready, just give him your measurements on the way out. Oh, and for the next few days you can either stay with Doodis in a spare room or I have an old flat in New Farm you can use. We'll work out something more permanent for you later. Either way, let Doodis know what you decide and he will organise a key for you." Barry walked Craig to the office door, gently slapped him on the back and told him to behave himself till Monday.

Barry Minton owns many properties, including an old block of flats in New Farm just around the corner from the club, and offers Craig use of an empty flat till Craig finds his own place. I live in a unit block, the Emporium, in the Valley, but Craig tells me he'd prefer to be alone a while till he finds his feet in Brisbane and I say fair enough.

I am driving Craig to the flat and Craig pumps me with heaps of questions about Barry and his business and I'm not sure how much I should explain but I do my best without risking telling Craig too much or being too specific. Sometimes it is better not to speak about certain things, for his safety but also for mine.

I explain to Craig that Barry is a powerful man and that he runs a type of 'service' business for very powerful interests. His office at the Badminton Club is a kind of meeting place for these interests; it is a place where the two worlds of business and corruption intersected, though I don't use the word, 'corruption'.

I explain that as Mayor of Brisbane, Barry dominated everything that happened in the city; and that now as Premier of Queensland, Barry dominates everything that happens in the State, including those institutions that are meant to control and combat crime and official corruption. I explain that at these meetings held at the Badminton Club decisions are made on Government contracts that are put out to tender for important, and other, public works. These contracts included infrastructure projects such as roads, buildings, disaster reconstruction and modernising government office blocks as well as rubbish collection, road maintenance, water, and power supply. Most often the people who attend these meeting include property developers and the public servants whose job it is to finally approve these projects.

These meeting are held very frequently and mostly on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, the days Craig will be working. These meetings almost always involved either receiving or handing over of large bundles of cash either as kickbacks or as bribes to all sorts of individuals such as unionists, police, judges, senior public servants, business people and politicians from all parties and levels of government. The core group of Barry's 'mates' allowed them to milk the public cow, and milk it they did. I give Craig an example: a representative of a legitimate public company would attend the meeting. That company is legit so it will comply with all the requirements detailed in a public tender to, say, renovate a government building. For a fee that company will be guaranteed the job but if, and only if, they sub-contract the work to other mates associated with Barry; these sub-contracting companies, Barry's mates, could not compete in the tender process because they could never fulfil the legal tender requirements and could easily be discovered to be close to Barry. Meetings would then be had with the bureaucrats who were the final decision makers on the tender and the unions who had to guarantee a job done with no undue delays. At the end of the day, monies were distributed all round and everyone was happy. So Barry and his mates were always at arm's length from the official and legal tender process, the huge public companies made guaranteed profits, and Barry's mates had an untouchable cash cow. Simple.

Anyhoo, in Queensland everything was possible, for a price.

Everything at these meetings was aimed at carefully not disturbing the delicate balance that governed a long accepted and shared system that allowed the State and all those in the know to prosper. And although his role was secret given the political position he held, Barry was the puppet master at the centre of this complex division of spoils. These meetings were so secretive that they often required the help of what they called the Ringmaster, whose job was to either accompany and 'look after' Barry if he went to a late night meeting in or outside the Club, and at times, to pick up and drive home certain mates who were concerned about attracting attention and who could not risk being seen otherwise. After these meetings everyone ended up at Barry's private dining room at the Club and quite often someone had a drink or five too many so it was the Ringmaster's role to dispatch these individuals home in one piece. In addition, it was the Ringmaster's job to greet guests at the door when they entered the Club and to make sure everyone behaved themselves and did not upset the peace.

Craig's head was in a spin trying to soak in all this information. I stop outside the old flats and give Craig the keys to flat five and a piece of paper with my address and phone number and tell him to ring me if there is a problem. "Oh, you do understand that you are the new Ringmaster?"

"What happened to the last one?"

"Gavin? He's retired. Bought a pub up in Toowoomba."

Doodis had taken off and Craig stood in front of the block of flats. It was only five-thirty and it was already dark, but he could see the flats clearly enough. What a wreck! Craig thought the land would be worth a fortune being so close to the city, but the flats were old. Very old! And you could smell the cat piss from the outside. The mostly disintegrated brick fence was host to a row of rusted letter boxes that looked eerily alive in front of the dim street lamp.

The front yard was overgrown, the foyer entrance was unlit and looked dingy, and the street was quiet as a church mouse. Craig didn't go into the block straight away; in fact he didn't know what to do so he stood out front and stared at the crumbling structure. What fucking mess did I get myself into this time? I can't wait to look inside, he groaned to himself. But what about this job, eh? Working three nights a week, Monday to Wednesday, looking after Minton and his crook friends and getting more money in three days than he'd earn in a month as a cook. Not a bad earn! Wearing a suit in a posh club rather than hauling shit in a hot kitchen! And what about the free feed and rent. Not bad. Craig was beginning to feel a little more cheerful.

"Admiring the view?"

Craig jumped; then immediately composed himself as he gave the girl with the deep voice a quick up and down. She was one hot piece of work; pixie face, short blond hair, slim, buxom and wearing a skirt that looked like it was painted on, on the tightest arse Craig had ever seen. Tits on a stick, just the way he liked them. She was about six foot tall and in her forties; a little older than Craig would have preferred, but hey, he was new in town and didn't know anybody.

Craig threw her a keen, expressive smile, "Jesus! You always sneek up on people like that?"

The girl squinted her eyes and gave Craig a quick, wary look. "I'm Elizabeth. I live in flat six."

"Nice to meet you Elizabeth," said Craig throwing a huge hand in her direction. "My name's Craig, and I guess I'm staying in flat five."

"Moving in on a Saturday night with nothing but a sports bag; you renting or squatting?"

"Neither. I'm minding," said Craig hesitantly.

"Minding your own business, I bet," she smiled. "Go settle in and come over for a cuppa, I'm in the flat across the hall."

"Sure thing."

Elizabeth gave Craig a smile that hit him like a meteor shower, then bounced into the block of flats like a catwalk model. Craig waited till he heard her front door open and close, then he walked through the foyer, thinking how hungry he was and how a nice juicy chicken kebab wouldn't go astray. In fact it would go down just fine, but Craig's thoughts were interrupted by the stench in the foyer and his appetite suddenly disappeared. Cat stink! The images of a juicy kebab were now overtaken by images of giant cockroaches, diseased rats and mould-like worm larvae dripping from the walls. Ah fuck it, he thought, it's only for tonight, and tomorrow I'll find a neat little motel somewhere nearby. So he raced up the stairs, stood outside the door to flat five and reached for his key, when flat six's door opened and Elizabeth, breathing deeply but without uttering a word, stood there blinking with a strange look on her face, then disappeared back into her flat leaving her front door open.

Funny sheila, thought Craig as he cautiously approached her door, carefully listening to make sure there was no one else in the flat.

"Don't worry, the boyfriend's out of town. You wanna beer?"

Craig stood in the doorway, uncertain what to do. But he had to admit his tummy was beginning to grumble like an orchestra and a drop or three wouldn't go down too badly either. In fact if Elizabeth was a generous sort she might lay a sandwich or two his way.

"Well you coming in or you gonna stand out there like a freaking scarecrow?"

Craig peeked into the apartment as Elizabeth ducked into what must have been her bedroom. "If you want that beer," she yelled in her deep, raspy voice. "There's a six pack in the fridge; grab a couple and I'll be out in a sec." Craig found the kitchen, took two beers from the fridge and swallowed one of two huge Anzac cookies laying on the bench, and walked back into the lounge. He didn't feel like sitting down so he stood and waited in the middle of the room staring at the bedroom door, thinking should he or shouldn't he? He didn't need to come to any conclusion because just then Elizabeth came out wearing nothing but the tightest little excuse for a bra and a pair of matching g-string panties. Each was made of the brightest and most exquisite sheer stretch and see-through red mesh, with luxurious black sequined ribbon lacing; each designed to making a man's heart race, and Craig's heart was racing; in bucket loads. In fact Craig was sizzling so bad he forgot about his hunger very quickly.

Craig downed his beer in three swallows and passed the other to Elizabeth. She downed hers just as fast and clasped Craig's arm tightly and ushered him to the back of the living room and onto the sofa.

"Come over here and keep me warm you great galoot." And of course Craig always did as he was told. "Do you know how to spell 'Elizabeth'?" Craig nodded that he did. Then why don't you use your tongue to write my name in my mouth?" Craig couldn't hold back a smile and his huge arms wrapped Elizabeth into his chest as he slid both hands into her bra and his tongue into her mouth, tracing the letters of her name: E L I Z A B E T H. Her tongue, wet and sloppy, then lunged into his mouth and Craig felt his inner animal being released into the wild. Her breasts felt like house bricks and Craig began wondering if they were real. "Do you like them," she crooned?

"They're firm enough to fuck."

Elizabeth gave Craig a cheeky little smile and pushed her tits together with her hands as if to check whether Craig was telling the truth. "I guess there's only one way to find out."

Next thing Craig knew he was being led to the bedroom as Elizabeth almost ran to her bed and began ripping Craig's clothes off him like paper in a cyclone; and she had him on top of her, his cock between her tits, rubbing him up and down hungrily before Craig could blink twice. Craig's cock was so hard he could have banged nails into cement with it and she worked him that long and hard his eyes began to roll around in the back of his head. He managed a quick glance and noticed the serious, determined expression on her face; especially the stern eyes and the way she bit her lower lip. Elizabeth was clearly enjoying herself, and so was he.

Elizabeth slid Craig's cock out from between her breasts and slowly moved down on him, popping his entire cock into her mouth, massaging it gently with her tongue. About now Craig was ready to explode like fireworks on new years' eve, but at that moment Elizabeth took him out and whispered, "On my face. Please." At which time she grasped Craig's cock in both hands and began to flick it across her face. Craig exploded. "Looks like I'm not the only one getting wet," she laughed, rubbing his cum all over her face with one hand while the other still worked Craig's cock.

Craig collapsed in a heap, his eyes rolling around aimlessly. He couldn't believe how dizzy he felt. It must be his hunger returning. Elizabeth collapsed next to him.

"Hey, Elizabeth, you wouldn't mind if I ate another of those Anzac cookies in the kitchen, would you? I'm kind of hungry."

"What! You ate one? You idiot. They're full of hash."

"Fuck off! Really?"

"You fucking moron," she screeched. Then her voice softened and she whispered. "Do you want to fuck me, Craig?"

Craig couldn't believe what he heard. In the dim bedroom light he meekly nodded yes.

"Say it then!" she demanded. "I want to hear you say it."

"I want to fuck you."

"Of course you do," and she sat back up and began to work Craig's cock with her mouth again.

Elizabeth gently massaged his cock with her tongue and it didn't take long before the heat-seeking missile was ready to find its target. Craig flipped Elizabeth onto her back and she quickly put him inside her. Craig began gently pulsating his torso but Elizabeth was moving faster and faster till he could barely keep up, and when she sensed he was ready to deliver, she slowed down, before starting again. She must have been working him like this for at least an hour; when with an enormous groan, he exploded again, and stronger than the first time. The heat-seeking missile was right on target; mission accomplished.

"How long since you've had a good fuck," she asked?

"About a minute ago," Craig mumbled, sweating like an out of control sauna. He smiled and kissed Elizabeth's face. "Good night, babe."

"What do you mean, 'Good night babe,'" she crooned. "Let's do it again."

Craig felt an internal groan rising from his mid-section, but managed a painful grin, "I really want to sleep now."

But Elizabeth had other plans. She was sitting up, her eyes planted firmly on his cock. Craig briefly opened his eyes and saw she had that same expression on her face; biting her lower lip. Within seconds Elizabeth was on her knees, moaning and groaning and sucking him like there was no tomorrow. She alternated between sucking and jerking and Craig couldn't believe that his cock was still responding. "Cocky wants more, I see," she whispered as she upped the tempo and Craig gasped and grunted and wondered when all this was going to end. She must have been going at it for the best part of half an hour and it didn't seem there was anything stopping her, and finally Craig exploded again, stronger again than the times before. Elizabeth swallowed the lot and was licking his cock as if she couldn't get enough.

Craig rolled onto his side and prayed for sleep as the hash kicked in well and truly. "I dead set wouldn't mind a bit of sleep," he pleaded.

"Oh come on, Craig, a strong bloke like you!" And he felt Elizabeth's palms slide over the surface of his back and her tongue on his spine, all working their way down towards his bum. Craig couldn't believe it. He shivered, not a little shocked because as if taking orders from the drill sergeant, Private Winky stood to attention. It wasn't long before Elizabeth's tongue had joined in the feeding frenzy around his arse and she was going at it like a school of starving piranhas. She was going at it that long, Craig lost all concept of time and space. Her tongue, mouth and both hands were working him like a perfectly tuned racing car and somehow Craig managed to explode again, for the fourth time, and again, stronger than the times before.

Craig had seen a documentary on old boxers who suffered in later life from the knocks to the head they received in the boxing ring; they could barely think, let along speak or function properly, and that was how Craig felt at that moment. And the hash was taking over his system; his insides were moaning and groaning for sleep and the thought of belting Elizabeth into unconsciousness had definitely crossed his mind, and if he wasn't such a gentleman he just may have done so.

"Isn't this fun?" she hummed.

"Wha, what?" mumbled Craig, in agony and half asleep.

"Isn't this just awesome?"

"Yeah. But I gotta get some shut eye," rambled Craig.

Now he wasn't a religious man, but at that moment Craig closed his eyes and prayed for sleep. He buried his head in the pillow hoping to be left alone, but Elizabeth would have none of that. "Let's get cocky up and hard again," she said. Craig then prayed that his cock would somehow wither away or die. But he felt her ted on his thigh and she began stroking Private Winky again, and like a true soldier, he responded appropriately. How the fuck does she do that, he wondered?

Elizabeth pulled Craig onto his back and mounted him, her legs around his shoulders and the lips of her ted fitting nicely over his mouth; all the while giving Craig's cock an enormous tongue lashing. Craig's tongue proved to be almost as big and thick as his cock as he began licking as fast as a lizard drinking. But by that point Craig was a robot; on automatic. Elizabeth squealed and screeched and squawked with delight for what seemed like forever, and she had perfect timing as she treated Craig as though he was some sort of fun fair trampoline and after a long while they both exploded at the same time; he with despair and penile agony feeling like someone had blowtorched his cock, she screaming and shaking and howling like a wild coyote.

By now the effects of the hash were overpowering and Craig could take it no more. At some point he must have fallen asleep, snoring with the gentle hum of painful satisfaction. But it wasn't long, or so it seemed, before that gentle hum turned into a God almighty roar. And after fighting the possibility of waking up, Craig somehow realised that the roar was not coming from him; it was coming from somewhere outside Elizabeth's bedroom. In fact it seemed to be coming from the street below. Elizabeth was shaking and literally hitting him to wake up, but all Craig wanted to do was sleep.

"Get up you big oaf; the boyfriends are home!"

Craig's eyes sprung open in shock, "Boyfriends?"

"Yeah, you heard right, you big ape. Now get your clothes on and get out the back door; fast!"

Craig didn't ask any questions, he was just thankful she didn't want to make love again. So he threw on his clothes, grabbed his sports bag, and followed Elizabeth to the back door.

"Now get out, you fuckin' galah," and she pushed him out the door. Craig nearly plunged down the back stairs, but steadied himself just in time. Now what, he thought as he maneuvered himself down the stairs and found himself in the car park behind the block of flats? Up the drive way to the front of the unit block Craig could see four motorbikes parked in the visitor's parking bay, and standing next to them were four of the biggest, fattest, ugliest bikers he'd ever seen, and Craig could hear their voices as they made their way to the foyer of the block of flats, and they sounded very drunk indeed. In fact the tallest of them punched the side of the brick flats and the thud could be heard clearly all the way to the back of the block of flats. No pain; the monster just laughed.

Craig could barely walk straight and his brain was completely numb, but he managed to stumble to the front of the flats, wondering how long he should wait before sneaking into flat five and getting horizontal; and he didn't give a shit about the stink or the condition of the flat. From the street he noticed the light was on in flat six and he could make out the silhouette of Elizabeth surrounded by her four boyfriends, and it looked like she was being mauled and devoured; the five figures were ripping the clothes of each other like they were tissues and he could hear the grunts and squeals of pleasure from the road.

Ah fuck it, thought Craig. Good on you, Elizabeth, and I'm sure you know how to enjoy yourself, but this is none of my business and buggered if I'm going to spend the night listening to you and your gorilla boyfriends relish in your joyous bliss while I try to sleep in that rat infested shithole across the corridor. Craig reached into his sports bag, dug out his phone, and found the piece of paper scrunched in his jeans pocket. He looked at his watch and gave a double blink: three thirty in the morning. Bloody Elizabeth had been working him for ten hours! Ah bugger it, he thought, and dialled the number.

"Hey Doodis, Craig here. I think you'd better come pick me up."

**CHAPTER THREE - SUNDAY**

Craig woke up that Sunday morning, but he didn't quite know what was going on. He knew he was awake because his groin felt like it had been run over by a lawn mower, but he didn't want to open his eyes. He still felt the remnants of his hash cookie hangover, but he wasn't sure exactly where he was, though he did remember Doodis picking him up outside Elizabeth's block of flats. Elizabeth! If her boyfriends hadn't shown up when they did he'd probably be dead from exhaustion by now. Craig smiled to himself, but then his face became deadly serious.

Suddenly everything fell into place. Since arriving in Brisbane, Craig had managed to score six converted tries against the elite of Queensland footballers, get his team disqualified, get into a fight in the Stadium car park, get a job looking after the biggest crooks in Queensland, and get rooted by a nymphomaniac who had deliberately ravaged his dick without any mercy. Bloody hell, boss, he thought to himself as he opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, not bad going for forty eight hours. But what do I do now?

Craig yawned, stretched, swung his feet out of bed, found his sports bag, grabbed a fresh pair of jocks and stepped into the lounge. Silence; there didn't seem to be anyone around. At least the place looks neat and tidy, he thought. He found the bathroom, grabbed a fresh towel from the linen closet and had a long, hot shower. He didn't bother shaving, went back to the bedroom and changed into his grey broad shorts and a white 'REBEL FM rocks Cooktown' t-shirt. So what do I do now, he wondered as he slipped on his running shoes?

Craig didn't feel particularly hungover, well, perhaps a little queasy, after downing one of Elizabeth's giant hash cookies, but he did feel particularly peckish; in fact Craig was so hungry he could have eaten the arse out of a low flying duck. His stomach wasn't just grumbling; it was fair dinkum rumbling, hissing, and roaring like a jet engine stuck in first gear. He checked his phone and noticed there were two messages:

Doodis: "Hope you're ok this morning. There's a spare key on the coffee table. Make yourself at home and I'll be back later."

Nino Salita, "I'll be at the gym at one o'clock this arv. Come to the Valley Pool in Wickham Street if you feel like a workout."

Craig checked the time: eleven o'clock; plenty of time to grab a bite and have a bit of a look around before finding the pool. He checked himself in the mirror, liked what he saw, pocketed the keys to the unit, took the elevator to the ground floor, and stepped into the warm Brisbane sunshine.

Doodis lived in a complex called the Emporium; built on four levels, the complex was designed in a giant horse shoe shape with coffee shops, restaurants, boutiques, a pub and a myriad of other exclusive shops on street level, and three levels of apartments above; very impressive indeed.

Craig eyed the entire complex and noticed one cafe in particular, Mugs Coffee Shop, and thought, yep, that sounds like me. The cafe was set back more than the others and had an outdoor seating area out the front where the sun was shining. Looks good enough to me, Craig thought, so he brought a newspaper from a convenience store on the corner and strolled in. He stepped up to the counter, quickly studied the menu and ordered and paid for his breakfast from a dour looking waitress sporting more tattoos on her body than teeth; though her smile was friendly enough and she assured Craig it wouldn't take long arriving and if he didn't mind taking a seat, she would bring it to him personally.

Now Craig didn't have to be a psychic to tell that this girl wasn't particularly happy so he said, "My name is Craig, by the way. I'm staying upstairs with a friend for a few days."

The girl seemed to finally notice Craig, giving him a double blink and a slow up and down, "Well it's a pleasure to meet you, Craig. My name is Ava and like I said, if you'd like to grab a table I will bring you your brekky soon. Very soon."

Craig took the hint and found an empty table outside in the sun, away from the other patrons. He unfolded the Sunday paper, sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and pointed his face to the sun. How good is this, he thought? So many traumas the past couple of days and here I am, relaxing in the sun as if I don't have a care in the world. He looked down at the paper and stared at the photo on the front of the sports section. "Shit!" he moaned a little too loud. A couple of heads turned three tables down but Craig ignored them, because there he was, in living colour, smashing the face of a spectator at the Country versus State of Origin squad 'friendly' the previous day. Yesterday! Crikey, it seemed like a week ago.

The double shot latte arrived very quickly and was more than acceptable, and the food arrived promptly thereafter, and it wasn't too bad either. Craig ordered enough food to end world hunger, or at least to feed a decent sized African nation: a double order of Eggs Benedict, a side order of Chorizo Sausage topped with Paprika Potatoes, Peppers and Spanish Onions, and a second side order of Crispy Pork Belly, with Blueberry Pancakes and orange juice to top it off. Craig stuffed his face like there was no tomorrow, impressing the staff and anyone else watching. He had his table cleared, burped quietly into the back of his hand and ordered another latte and orange juice before opening the Sunday paper. And there he was on page three; the Premier of Queensland wearing a hard hat and an orange vest over his suit, leaning over a shovel and turning the first sod of a new government building. Well good on you, mate, thought Craig who couldn't help but smile, hard at work earning my wages.

Craig was skimming through the paper glancing at the headlines and the photos, feeling the last of the hash hangover trying to dissolve, when Ava, clutching a mug of coffee, sat down at his table. Here we go, thought Craig; I do seem to attract all the hard cases. "How you doing, Ava? You on your break?"

"Yeah. I get five minutes every hour."

"That seems very generous of management," Craig smiled.

"And what do you do for a living, Craig?"

"Me? Why, I'm an information professional."

"So you're into computers?"

"No. I'm a librarian, down in Brisbane for a few days attending an information professional's conference." Craig pointed to a window on his right, "I'm staying up there, on the third floor, with a mate for a few days."

"You're a librarian!" squeaked Ava, with a laugh tinged a little with disbelief. "You sure don't look it!"

"Why is that funny?" grunted Craig as if hurt. "Someone's got to sort the books after the kids have bulldozed their way through them."

"I'm sorry, Craig. It's that, well, you kinda don't look like a school librarian."

"It's a huge job, Ava. I have to prepare cards, sort computer records, organize pamphlets and coordinate storytelling for the younger children. It's a killer job, let me tell you!"

"It sounds it."

"Now what about you, Ava? You look a tad more than just a little downcast. I know it's none of my business and you can walk away any time you like, but I'd love to know your story. Did you fake your own death and are now living under a new identity? Or are you a drug mule about to take your boogie board for a holiday to Bali? Or are you the victim of a stalker, or maybe a bit of embezzlement?

Ava closed her eyes, sipped her steaming coffee, opened her eyes and looked seriously at Craig, "Nothing like that, Craig" she smirked. "I'm the victim of bad taste in men."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Ava. I didn't realise it was that serious."

"Anyhow, I'm from England and I've been backpacking around Australia for the past couple of months and found myself here in Brisbane. I moved into a bedsitter just up the road and I met a guy. He seemed nice enough at the time but it turns out he's a real control freak and now insists on dropping me off to work and picking me up and knowing where I am every minute of every day. He travels around a bit so I never know when he's going to be back in Brisbane. It seems I have to be at his beck and call 24/7. I can't make any friends because if he finds out all hell breaks loose; he belted a guy I work last week just because we were chatting after work, he's so jealous. I'm thinking of moving but he's a member of a motorcycle gang and I'm scared he'll track me down. I didn't know he was a biker when I met him."

Craig nodded his head deliberately, assessing the situation. "Is he in town at the moment?"

"I don't think so. At least I haven't seen him in a couple of days."

"I'll tell you what, Ava, you seem like a nice kid; I have a friend I'm catching up with this afternoon and he seems to have some contacts in the area. How about I ask him if he knows of a secure complex you can move into and I'll let you know, okay?"

"Oh Craig, that would be wonderful. I really got to get out of where I live now. I finish work in about half an hour, but I'll be here all day tomorrow. I better get back to my shift now." Ava stood and looked meaningfully at Craig, "I'll see you tomorrow, won't I, Craig?"

Craig smiled at her, "Yes you will."

Craig thanked Ava for his breakfast as she waltzed back to work and thought, I really should learn to keep my big mouth shut and mind my own business. I think I'll take my hangover for a walk then meet up with Salita and have a little workout; I reckon I need one.

Craig walked out of the Emporium onto Wickham Street and turned towards the city skyline. He was about to ask for directions to the Valley Pool when, there it was; about 300 meters in front of him and across the street. Well, that's close and convenient, he thought. Craig had a bit of time up his sleeve so he wondered what he should do next. He realized his sports bag was a bit light on and as that included all the possessions he had in Brisbane, maybe a bit of shopping was in order. He turned back towards the Emporium and decided to give his credit card a bit of a shakedown.

Across the road he noticed a huge sports store; Sportz Inc. Craig ducked across the street and couldn't believe what he saw; the store had everything from archery equipment to yoga gear, and everything in between. He bought a few t-shirts and singlets, shorts, socks and undies, a couple of towels and a cool black and grey track suit.

Back at the Emporium, Craig strolled into a men's boutique like he owned the place. He bought two fashion shirts, one white and the other light blue, a pair of grey dress pants and a new pair of jeans, half a dozen high end t-shirts, a lightweight black leather jacket, and a nice pair of black slip-on leather boots.

After a good feed and some serious retail therapy Craig felt totally satisfied with himself. He took the mountain of shopping bags upstairs and neatly put his new clothes in the wardrobe. Doodis wasn't back yet from wherever he was so Craig did a few stretches, shaved, put on a new t-shirt and shorts, threw one of his new towels into his sports bag, adjusted his sunglasses, and headed out to investigate the Valley Pool. It was time to meet up with Nino Salita and have a workout. Geez, Craig thought on the way out, Minton better be fair dinkum and pay me otherwise I'm in a bit of strife.

The Valley Pool is located at the corner of Wickham and East Streets at Fortitude Valley and has been there since 1925. Craig walked through the entrance, paid the entry fee and immediately noticed an impressive fifty metre outdoor, heated pool and grandstands. The facade of the building was original 1920s, but inside it was very modern indeed. Off to the side he saw the gym and had a peek through the window. At the front reception desk stood a number of older blokes and there were a dozen or so others working the weights and the treadmills. There was no music that Craig could hear but the gym was brightly lit and seemed pleasant enough. He eyed a couple of punching bags and thought, that's as good a start as any. He didn't see Nino Salita, but thought he'd walk in and warm up anyway.

The blokes at the reception desk gave Craig a quick up and down, nodded a brief hello and went back to minding their own business. Craig walked up to a free standing, sixty five kilo, black boxing bag with a white target where the head would have been; it was on a solid stand and had a full-height hitting area that was both moveable and useful for punching and kicking.

Craig started to warm up with some joint rotations; he began to make circles with his feet first, then worked his way up through the knees, hips, spine, neck, shoulders, elbows and finally his wrists. He grabbed a skipping rope and gently bounced around for five minutes. He had noticed a few sets of leather mitts on the floor, picked up the largest pair that just fit his hands comfortably, and approached the bag.

Craig began by slowly circling the bag to the right, feeding a light jab for every two steps he took. After a couple of minutes he substituted the jab with a light cross punch, and soon after with a 1-2 combo, a jab followed by a cross, then repeated the same drill but now built the combo to a 1-2-3 jab-cross-hook.

He started off slow, and every so often the group of middle aged men at the front counter looked up so see what was going on. His thoughts turned to his home and he felt his blood begin to cook and attack his brain. Craig lived with his parents; Pop, the most gentle and peaceful of men, his mother Meg, an angel of a woman, and his older sister, Melissa, ten years older than Craig, who had recently moved south to Cairns to work as a hairdresser.

Craig stopped, and standing three feet from the bag, he tapped it lightly with his right hand, then let go five powerful lunges that could be heard throughout the gym. He stopped again, tapped the bag this time with his left hand and let go another five powerful lunges. He repeated this a few times, then repeated the same drill but now substituted the jab for a 1-2 combo, and after a couple more minutes, substituted the 1-2 for a hook punch or ten. Each time he lunged a little bit faster, and a little bit harder. Each time Craig increased his tempo, the blokes at the reception desk looked up briefly before returning to their conversation.

Craig was thinking; remembering. He is twenty four and quite fit now, but it wasn't always the case. By age sixteen, Craig was tall for his age, but very overweight, very pimply, and very clumsy; very clumsy indeed. He fell, he dropped things, he mumbled and he stumbled. In fact, Craig was not only clumsy, he was also introverted. He kept to himself and he was never much good at school, never interested in study, never interested in sport, and certainly not at all social. He was tall, overweight, and stupid; a one-stop shop for bullying.

Craig was considered to be an 'awkward' kid, and was targeted at school because he was awkward; and when you are bullied in a small country town, it never stops. Even the teachers had given up on him, convinced he was lazy and intentionally awkward to get attention. The principal, Mr Dunphy, insisted on a meeting with Craig's dad and told him, "The quicker Craig leaves school and gets a job in a factory, the happier he will be. I'm sorry to tell you this, Mr Turner, but I must be open and honest with you. Your Craig is never going to amount to more than a factory worker."

Straight right, straight left, short right, short left; again. And again. Faster, stronger, and faster again. The blokes at the reception desk were still deep in conversation but they lifted their eyes and looked at Craig more often. Craig was now circling the punching bag like an eagle circling its prey; his brow was knotted, his nostrils were flared, and his lips were pursed in a peculiar grin. Craig had been physically and emotionally abused by his classmates since primary school, though in his teens the abuse got harsher and more frequent as the other boys were learning to assert themselves. Most days he was pushed, prodded and punched. Most days he would get home with bruises and quite often a bloodied nose. And most days both his mum and dad would shake their heads in despair.

Left hooks. Right hooks. Left hooks. Right hooks. Left hooks. Right hooks; each time faster and more and more powerful. Craig's punches were now explosive, and at that moment Craig was thinking about that last day at school when he was in grade ten. It was his sixteenth birthday and Craig looked to his teachers like he was daydreaming, though in fact he spent the day trying to work out how he was going to get away from the bullies after school. But after school his dad was waiting for him at the school gates and he felt relief; Craig had secretly planned that this would be his last day at school. Ever!

But the bullies were there too; six of them. Their leader, Ray Jamison, was captain of the school cricket and basketball teams; all the girls were in love with him and all the boys in awe of him. "Brought the cavalry, did you, Turner?" he challenged. "Time for your punishment Turner; you've been a bad boy today!"

The girls giggled and egged him on, and Jamison moved closer to the pair with his henchmen close behind. "Ya need your daddy to protect you, do ya?" he laughed. "Come here, you prick. It's time to get your just deserts." His father placed a protective arm around Craig and began to lead him away, when a rock was thrown that hit Craig on the back of his head. Dad turned around and was about to say something just as Jamison and his mates jumped the pair of them. There was no escape, but to cut a long story short an ambulance came and both Craig and his dad were treated for cuts and contusions. Craig had to have stitches to his head and his father was treated for a mild heart attack, a broken arm and a fractured jaw.

Craig stopped punching for a moment and those now staring at him in the gym weren't certain if it was sweat or tears streaming from his eyes. He then closed his eyes and exploded, smashing the target on the punching bag with a ferocity never before seen at the Valley Pool; Craig detonated hundreds of blistering jabs over the next fifteen minutes. Now, the Valley Pool received some very interesting characters indeed; aside from the gamblers, pimps and many other shifty fellas, there are footballers, kick boxers, bouncers, and many other hard men from inner city Brisbane who go there on a regular basis. But never before had anyone seen anything like Craig pounding that punching bag that day; and quite likely never will anyone see the likes again.

Just before the ambulance arrived Jamison had casually strolled up to his father, whose body was convulsing uncontrollably, and said, "When you least expect it, old man, I am going to come around to your place in the middle of the night and smash you dead with my cricket bat." He then turned to Craig, pursed his mouth like a fish, took a deep breath and spat the biggest lime-green loogie onto Craig's face, a good portion of it entering his mouth. Two days later the police paid his dad a visit and charged him with assault of a minor; Jamison was only fifteen at the time. Eventually his dad was given a suspended sentence and put on a twelve month good behaviour bond, but Craig doesn't believe he ever really recovered from the shock of being attacked. Craig's father was a gentle man.

And then the slugfest with the punching bag intensified with an incredible barrage of non-stop go-for-broke punches, and the bag was weaving and groaning and rocking and tilting so violently, the men at the front counter swore it was going to fly off its hinges. After his father was issued with the summons to appear in court, Craig went out and bought himself a couple of books on body building and kick boxing, locked himself in the garage and spent the following summer working out, sometimes eight hours a day. He changed his diet to include mostly natural food, and at night he ran at least ten kilometres each session. By the end of that summer he was in fantastic condition and beginning to look and feel like a body builder.

Craig punched faster and harder until he had everyone's undivided attention. And they were becoming more and more impressed as he slammed another left, then another right, then another left-right combination.

The time gaps between punches became less and less until the sound of one continuous punch echoed around the entire complex; every punch was deliberate and hit its target with exact precision. Like some sort of superhuman robot, Craig kept the momentum going for over half an hour until his arms felt like were ready to snap away from his shoulders. Craig wasn't tired; he felt exhilarated. In fact the men at the front counter, totally transfixed by the exhibition, felt more exhausted by just watching him.

Now, Craig never did return to school, but at four pm after the first day of school the following year, Ray Jamison was found semi-conscious slumped under a tree near his home, his nose squashed into his face, his cheek bones broken in a number of places, and most of his front teeth lying beside him. When questioned by the police, he swore black and blue that he had no idea who did it, and to this day he trembles in terror at the mere thought of that afternoon. And after that summer, Craig felt much better about himself; he got a job as a junior cook at a local pub, the Drunken Croc Hotel, and joined the local rugby league team, eventually being selected for the all-Queensland Country team. But that was all stuffed up now.

Craig stopped, dropped to his knees and felt the pool of sweat beneath him. There was a deathly silence in the gym. Everyone kept their distance from him, but there were at least a hundred people milling around; all speechless. Craig opened his eyes and became aware of the silence and saw the people gathered around him. He stood, looked at the punching bag and noticed the gash where the target used to be; in fact the bag looked like it had been run over by a ten ton truck. He turned and noticed Nino Salita was now part of the group of older men staring at him in disbelief from behind the reception desk; Craig calmly walked up to the manager of the gym, gave him back the leather gloves and asked meekly, "What do I owe you for the punching bag?"

After a quick shower, Craig met up with Nino out the front of the gym. Together they walked out of the Valley Pool complex and onto Wickham Street.

"You right for a jog?" asked Nino.

"I'm with you, kemosabe," replied Craig.

"Then let's go."

Craig followed Nino as he dodged traffic crossing Wickham Street and ran through the Emporium, dodging even more traffic crossing Ann Street, then jogged along the hustle and bustle of James Street, through the street lined coffee shops, restaurants and Woolstores of Teneriffe, past the Powerhouse Museum and around to New Farm Park, along Brunswick Street back into the Valley, and past the mix of shops and night clubs. Nino pointed out exactly where the Badminton Club was relative to the Emporium and the boys then turned left to cross the Story Bridge and into Kangaroo Point, running along the cliffs above the Brisbane River. Craig was stunned by the incredible river and city views and wall to wall residential towers on one side of the river and commercial towers on the city side.

Craig had to look twice when he realised there were hundreds of people either abseiling and climbing the Kangaroo Point cliffs; in fact the whole place was a hive of activity with heaps of people picnicking and relaxing in the parklands as others kayaked and paddle boarded down the Brisbane River. Around him were hundreds of people riding their bikes, roller blading, power-walking, strolling and jogging just as he and Nino were doing. Running through the streets of Brisbane like this, Craig felt like the fox staring at the chicken coup; the girls were beautiful. And as it was a cool afternoon in Brisbane with the sun was shining as it was, all Craig was thinking in that moment was, what a great day to be alive.

The pair jogged to a point above the cliffs and Nino stopped. "You tired already, old man?" asked Craig laughing as he caught his breath.

Nino smiled and pointed over the cliffs, "That's what's known as the Kangaroo Point Stairs. Its a hundred and seven steps to the bottom. Race you down, back up and down again?"

Craig looked over the side and brimmed with joy. "You're on," and he flew past Nino and down the steps. Nino and Craig finished together down the bottom of the stairs, they finished together back up the top, but Nino had somehow managed to just beat Craig back to the bottom as both collapsed onto the grass, next to the river by the board walk. By the time Craig got his breath back he realized his legs could have made a great ad for vanilla custard; they felt like burning jelly, but he was craving for more and he made a mental note to remember this place. "How fucking awesome was that!" he said. "And I must admit, you're not in bad shape for an old man." They both laughed as they slowly ambled their way through the crowds along the board walk snaking the river and past the old Maritime Museum to Southbank proper.

They strolled in silence along the riverfront, around an enormous man made beach, then they turned right onto Little Stanley Street, a strip of about thirty eateries. Nino led them to The Big Cat Cafe, what looked to Craig as a very high class establishment, where they ordered a jug of mineral water and a double shot latte each, and watched the punters walking about or just sitting around enjoying the afternoon.

"You hungry?" asked Nino.

"You betcha," howled Craig, so both men studied the menu with an intensity bordering on the religious. Nino started with the veal agnolotti, followed up with lamb chops served with mint, peas and a goat cheese sauce. Craig tucked into the sea bass en croute served with sauce mireille followed by roast duck liver served in brown butter sauce and a healthy dose of garden veggies. Both men then sat back patting their stomachs with intense satisfaction. "Not a bad little city we got here, eh Craig?"

"Too right, Nino. Not bad at all."

"You okay starting at the Club tomorrow, then?"

"I'll be there, alright."

"I was wondering, Craig. Do you reckon you're up for a little earn tonight?"

Craig raised an eyebrow, "I might be. What have you got in mind?"

Nino pointed to the coffee shop next door, "See Grumpys Cafe over there, next door?"

"Yep," said Craig, surprised at how busy Grumpys was; there must have been at least two hundred people stuffing their faces and there wasn't an empty seat in the house.

"It's owned by a character called John Denison. The boss did a deal with Denison a few months ago that didn't go quite according to plan. My understanding is that Denison was in financial trouble and the boss tried to bail him out by lending him $600,000. It was only short term and it was a verbal agreement. As part of this agreement, Denison was to 'sell' Grumpys to a company controlled by the boss, but the sale was for six months only. After six months Denison had to buy Grumpys back for $750,000; making the boss a cool profit of 150 G's; you follow me?"

"Like a lamb to the slaughter."

"Yeah, Right," said Nino uncertainly. "Anyhow, after the six month period was up Denison complied with the verbal agreement, to the letter; the boss got his 750 G's."

"So what's the problem?"

"So here is the problem, Craig. When the boss owned the coffee shop he saw a tremendous opportunity to expand the business for a minimal outlay. You see how packed it is right now?" Craig nodded that he did. "Well it was mostly empty when the boss got a hold of it; so the boss stuck 40 G's of his own dollars into Grumpys and quadrupled the turnover. "

"That's great."

"Yes it is. Except after the boss got his 750 grand back, he wanted Denison to cough up the other 40 G's the boss invested in the business. But Denison has refused."

"He says that's the boss's problem, right?"

"Right."

"But the boss doesn't see it that way."

"Right again, Craig. You catch on fast. Anyhow, it is now my job to drop by the cafe and collect the other 40 G's that Denison does not want to hand over very readily. Now, the boss doesn't really expect to see the 40 G's again, so his idea is I go and try to get it, and whatever I manage to squeeze out of Denison by convincing him of the errors of his way, is half mine and half the bosses; so if you want to be my wingman tonight I'll go halves with you on my share."

Craig was never much good at school; in fact he hated every day of it and couldn't wait to get out, but when it came to counting money Craig's brain worked like a super-computer. He did the maths and realised he could earn a quick 10 G's. "Okay, Nino, I'm in."

Nino laughed, "Good, might pay for the punching bag you reckon?"

Craig joined in the laughter, "Nah, I went shopping earlier today and killed my credit card." In fact, Craig barely had a brass razoo left to his name.

"I'll pick you up at ten; downstairs at the Emporium?"

After a couple more double shot lattes and enough mineral water to fill a dam, Craig and Nino caught a cab back to the Valley Pool. Craig told Nino he'll see him later that evening, collected his sports bag, and wandered back to the unit. As he was waiting for the lift he realized he'd forgotten to ask Nino about a place to stay for Ava. Ah fuck it, he thought, I can't go around solving everyone's problems. In the lift he remembered the photo of himself in the Sunday paper punching out the spectator at the match on Friday, and he cringed.

Walking along the corridor to the unit, Craig was wondering if Doodis was in as he hadn't seen him since getting picked up at the New Farm flats. But no, the unit was deathly silent. Doodis was nowhere to be seen. It was getting on to four o'clock and after a vigorous workout at the Valley Pool, a jog through the suburbs of inner Brisbane, a deadly sprint up and down the Kangaroo Point Stairs and a big feed at Southbank, Craig was ready for a nanna-nap.

He turned on the telly and the 1950's cartoon version of Peter Pan was showing. Craig grinned. He loved cartoons and he loved the story of Peter Pan; the hot-headed boy who never grew up. He could be quite mean at times, like when he laughed at Wendy as the mermaids teased her, but all in all Peter Pan was a caring boy, especially when it came to that hot-headed pixie, Tinker Bell's safety. And of course Peter Pan loved a good bingle, especially with that Captain Hook. Craig laughed to himself and turned the volume right down. He then plugged his headset into his phone and set his music to 'shuffle'. Craig was thinking about the music he heard at the Badminton Club; mostly Techno and House music which he didn't mind at all, but he much preferred blues and roots and rock and roll. And Australian blues and roots and rock and roll was the absolute grouse.

Craig put his alarm on for nine o'clock, settled back on the couch and became lost in music by the Black Sorrows, Kevin Borich, the Backsliders and Jeff Lang before he gave one final yawn and was snoring his head off.

It;s five o'clock and I walk into the unit and see Craig asleep on the couch. I hear him before I see him. Man, that Craig can snore; he's like a little child screaming. I smile to myself and realise I haven't actually really spoken to him much at all. I have been working all weekend and I better get changed and head back to the Badminton Club asap. There'll be plenty of time to chat later.

I walk into my bedroom and I sit on my bed and stare at my wardrobe and decide on what I'm gonna wear tonight; bowling shirt, black trousers, red creepers, and zombie makeup I'll put on later at the Club. Hmmm, I grab my construction belt just in case I get the urge.

I stand up, step into the ensuite shower and turn the water to hot. The hotter the better. I love the feeling of water flowing over my body.

I step out, grab a towel, a 100 percent cotton terrycloth 36 by 60 inch Hermès beach towel, and dry myself. I brush my teeth, shave, dress and check on Craig. He looks troubled, but man that bloke can snore.

I leave.

Craig woke up to the not so peaceful yell of his alarm clock. He switched it off and buried his head back into the cushion, trying to recapture some of the peaceful sleep that was so rudely interrupted.

It was obvious Doodis wasn't around so after a few restless minutes he hauled himself off the couch, threw himself under a cold shower, brushed his teeth, put on his new pair of Levi jeans and white Hugo Boss polo shirt, carried his new leather jacket under his arm just in case it got chilly, and left the unit. Downstairs it was indeed a bit chilly so he put on his new jacket, checked himself out in a store window, liked what he saw and became aware of a deep rumbling sound. Yep, he thought, must be feeding time at the zoo again.

Craig had noticed a kebab shop earlier that day so he ordered two chicken kebabs from the Greek proprietor and washed them down with a bottle of mineral water on the side of the road, waiting for Nino Salita to pick him up. That'll do for now, he mused, and burped long but quietly into the back of his hand.

Perfect timing, for just at that moment a brand new Range Rover, black with the darkest tinted windows Craig had ever seen, stopped at the curb. The window rolled down and Nino said, "Well, you getting in or would you like me to come out and carry you?"

Outside Grumpys, Nino stopped and gave Craig a serious look. "It's simple, Craig. I go inside and have a quiet chat to Denison. You wait outside and make sure we're not disturbed. I shouldn't be longer that five, maybe ten minutes. If I'm not out in ten, or if you hear any strange noises, you come in and make sure I'm still alive. Got that?"

"Like the Pope's Catholic."

"Excellent. Now stay here and don't move."

While Nino was in Grumpys having a friendly word or two to Denison, Craig noticed that most of the coffee shops and restaurants were closed, so it was pretty quiet and the street was mostly deserted and pretty dark except for a dim street light across the road. Craig decided to position himself on the street out the front of Grumpys and watch the few punters still walking around, doing this and that and nothing much in particular. Craig was seriously captivated by an Aboriginal couple cursing and fighting in the park across the street; both were obviously pissed and the man more so than the woman, who bent over, grabbed both his legs and pulled them out from under him. Poor bloke lost his balance and went crashing onto his back, head first. His woman then began stomping all over his body, from his torso to his head. "Man, that looks an awful lot like North Queensland folk dancing," muttered Craig to himself.

Craig was still laughing out loud and generally amusing himself at the entertainment across the road when a movement to the left of the Aboriginal couple caught his eye. Like a pack of hungry wolves, four huge bikies and their skinny mole were walking through the park; the girl was clearly upset and was being physically restrained and dragged along by the biggest of the four. The other three bikies were obviously enjoying her misery, laying shit on her as they walked past Craig's vantage point; then they stopped between the street light and the Aboriginal couple who had now settled down and were both enjoying a quiet drink. "Fuck off, you abo cunts," yelled one of the bikies, lashing out at the couple with kicks and punches till they both ran off into the night.

Craig could see the bikies more clearly now and took a double blink; he was wondering whether they were the same bikies who had mauled Elizabeth last night. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Or maybe it was the Universe playing tricks on him again. Either way, Craig took a step back into the shadows, his back close to the entrance of Grumpys, and took a closer look at the proceedings in front of him.

The first thing Craig noticed about the group was the name of their motorcycle club emblazoned across their leather jackets; The Cannibals. The biggest of the bikies looked like a powerhouse in his leather jacket and giant link chain belt around his jeans, and reminded Craig of photos he'd seen of the legendary monster, Bigfoot. His three offsiders also looked pumped and fit, but they weren't as tall or bulky as Bigfoot. One bloke was stocky with a crew cut, wearing his leather jacket over a pair of ripped denim overalls. Another was bald with a pointy head, wearing his leather jacket over three-quarter broad shorts. The other was very skinny but fit, with an orange Afro hairstyle, wearing his leather jacket over what looked like Scottish tartan trousers.

The four bikies then sat on the grass, dragged the girl to the ground between them and started pawing at her clothes. Craig took a closer look at their skinny mole and realised she looked like... "No!" screeched Craig. The girl was Ava, the skinny waitress he met at the Emporium.

Craig's screech cut through the silence of the evening like a hot knife through butter. The four bikies turned to look in his direction as Craig stepped out of the shadows and begun crossing the street. The four of them immediately stood to attention and, while Bigfoot hung back holding on to Ava, his three mates turned and in unison approached Craig, stopping about six paces directly in front of him. Crew Cut was on Craig's left, Baldy in the middle, and Afro on Craig's right. Afro gave Craig a very serious once up and down, took one step forward and in a Scottish accent thick enough to spread on toast asked, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Who am I?" replied Craig. "I'm just a librarian here in Brisbane for a conference."

"Craig!" stammered Ava. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"How the fuck do you know this prick?" barked Bigfoot.

"I'm just returning from a library seminar at the Convention Centre, Ava. It was very inter..." But Craig never got to finish his sentence. When he was at school, Craig was bullied every day, and was at the receiving end of beatings quite frequently. And if there was one lesson he learned during those years, it was that if you don't lash out first, you are always at a great disadvantage in a fight. So he didn't finish his sentence, but decided it was time to make a move. His eyebrows bristled and his adrenalin hit hyper-drive as Craig took a step forward and drove a furious left hook into Afro's throat. Afro's eyes bulged out of his head as his legs buckled and he collapsed in pain and shock. As he was slumping to the ground, Craig slammed his right foot into Afro's face and the 'crack' of his jaw bones shattering was very audible indeed, echoing up and down the street.

The other three bikies looked at each other in disbelief but only for a split second as Crew Cut and Baldy moved in on him. Craig crouched low and smashed a diabolical barrage of short rights and lefts into the right side of Baldy's head before he had time to blink, lacerating his entire face and almost ripping his ear clear off his head. But instead of dropping to the ground, the unconscious bikie lurched forward and landed head first in Craig's chest. Craig threw him off and he landed on the grass as Craig booted a couple of massive dropkicks into the semi-conscious bikies' kidneys for good measure.

Crew Cut, who looked no more than eighteen, froze, took a step back and looked at Bigfoot. "What the fuck you waiting for?" Bigfoot yelled at Crew Cut. "Fuckin' jump him already!"

"Fuck that," said Crew Cut in a high pitched, squeaky voice, and ran off into the night.

Bigfoot was fuming. He back-slapped Ava across her face and, like a sack of potatoes, she dropped to the ground. Craig felt his blood turn to ice and he slowly and deliberately moved towards Bigfoot. And Bigfoot likewise moved slowly towards Craig.

"Send my love to Elizabeth, will you?" he chimed merrily.

"What?" said Bigfoot somewhat confused, and moving quickly towards Craig.

"You heard me, you fucking ape. Send my love to Elizabeth."

"How the fuck..."

And of course Bigfoot never got to finish his sentence; he swung a left that just barely connected with Craig's nose as Craig weaved to the side, and Bigfoot then walked straight into a diabolical right hook that shook Craig's entire body but made Bigfoot's face look like strawberry jam. Craig took a couple of quick steps forward and unleashed a barrage of straight lefts and rights that knocked out most of Bigfoot's teeth and tore his face wide open. But the giant was still standing.

"She's a good root, Elizabeth. And the hash cookies weren't bad either."

Under the curtain of blood and purple custard that used to be his face, Bigfoot managed a gurgling scream and somehow threw himself at Craig, who tore a short left under his heart before unleashing a stream of lefts and rights into his stomach. By this stage Bigfoot was wishing he'd never been born, and Craig was literally tearing him to shreds.

"So here you are?" came a calming voice from behind. "I work hard to earn us a living and you hang around the park playing with your friends. What sort of man are you?"

Craig looked up, gave Bigfoot what was known as a Cooktown Kiss – a head butt that destroyed what was left of his face, and turned to face Nino as Bigfoot hit the ground.

"What?"

"You heard me," said Nino, putting on a gay persona. "I work hard all day to support you and all you do is play around and enjoy yourself. And take a look at yourself; blood all over your nice, new t-shirt. It's totally ruined. I suppose I'm going to have to buy you a new one."

Ava cautiously walked up to the two men, "Craig? Are you really a librarian?"

"Of course he is, honey," said Nino, theatrically. "A man has to work, you know!"

"And you're gay!" she spat in disbelief.

Craig looked down at his ripped t-shirt, felt a trickle of blood coming from his nose, and smiled. "I'm sorry, Nino. I'll do better next time."

Ava looked at the onslaught around her and said, "Geez, Craig. Thanks for the help. But I reckon I'd better disappear."

"So where are you gonna go, Ava?"

"I might hitch down to Sydney and get a job there; and somehow save enough to get me back to London."

"Well, hang on a minute. Let me check something first." Craig leant over the sleeping Bigfoot and started rummaging through his clothes as police and ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance. "We better make a move, mate," said Nino.

"Righto; just a sec," and Craig grabbed a wallet that was thicker than a dictionary from the inside of Bigfoot's jacket. "I thought I felt something odd in there."

He dug out a pile of hundred dollar notes at least three inches thick, snatched one from the pile, put it in his jeans, and gave the rest to Ava. "You're a good girl Ava, but maybe it is time you went home to England."

Ava looked at the money, looked at Craig, gave him a loving peck on the cheek, and with tears streaming down her face she turned and was gone.

"So why'd you take the hundred dollars, Craig?"

"It was an expensive t-shirt, Nino."

Not much was said as Nino drove Craig back to the unit and Craig just had the hint of an idea that Nino wasn't particularly pleased with him at the moment.

Nino parked outside the Emporium, showed Craig a rather bulky plain brown envelope wrapped inside a clear plastic bag, and asked, "It's just after eleven, Craig; let's go upstairs, count your share of the money, and maybe head down the street for a nightcap. You up for that?"

"I am indeed," he said. But I better get cleaned up and changed though, the bloodied look is not in fashion these days. But Nino, let's be honest with each other; are you upset at me? Because if you are, and if you feel I didn't do my bit back at Grumpys, I'm quite happy that you keep the envelope. I don't want what I don't deserve."

"I'm not upset, Craig. Not at all. I know that if I was in any sort of danger, you'd be there in a flash. And you can keep the earn, Craig. You deserve it. You saved that girl and you would have done the same for me; I know that."

"So what is it, Nino? I feel a tension here."

"No tension," said Nino, getting a little emotional. "It's just that when I was growing up my dad used to tell me stories about your uncle when they were both working up the Cross in Sydney. I'm guessing you haven't heard the stories. Anyhow, I didn't really believe my dad at the time, I thought he must have been exaggerating; you know, a father telling tall tales to his son. But after watching you with that punching bag today and the way you dealt with those bikers, Craig, I gotta say that all those stories just may have been true. Your uncle, he was a legend at the Cross."

"I met my uncle a few times and he seemed a like a nice enough bloke, Nino, but I never saw him as a tough guy," said Craig. "So I can keep the earn?"

"You deserve it, Craig. Now let's get you upstairs and then go get that drink."

Craig and Nino made their way to the unit, grateful there was no one else in the lift. Craig's t-shirt was bloodied, ruined, his jacket was bloodied, it needed a clean, and his face was bloodied, definitely needed a wash. But the first thing Craig did when he entered the unit, with no sign of Doodis again, was to sit down with Nino, open the brown envelope and count out his ten G's. Now Craig was not very bright at school, but when it came to counting money he was a mathematical genius. Yep, he smiled to himself, ten thousand dollars as promised; Craig slid the money into his sports bag and threw the bag under his bed. Then he put his bloodied t-shirt into a grey plastic bag he found in the kitchen, wiped down his leather jacket as best he could, and had the longest hot shower possible. He then put on his jeans, thankfully clean, and a red and blue striped Ralph Lauren shirt.

Craig sat on his bed, checked his phone, and saw there were three missed calls from his mother. Christ, he thought, feeling guilty as hell, what does she know? I guess I'd better give her a call if I know what's good for me; Craig smiled to himself, but felt a bit nervous. Well, he thought as he clicked her number, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

"Hey mum, Craig here. How you going?"

"Where are you, Craig?" she asked with a certain urgency in her voice.

"I'm in Brisbane; and I guess I might stay here a while."

"I reckon you'd better. What have you done, Craig? The police were here this arv looking for you."

"The cops? Geez mum, what did they want?"

"They reckon you assaulted a spectator and you nearly killed the son of the Police Commissioner."

"Don't worry, mum, I'll take care of it. If they come around again tell them you don't know where I am."

"I don't know where you are, Craig! They said you're in a lot of strife, son; what happened?"

"I got into a bit of a bingle at the match. It kind of got out of control."

"Are you ok, Craig?"

"I'm fine,' said Craig, with a note of uncertainty in his voice. "I've got a job down here and I'll be just fine. Send my love to dad and give Zeus a kiss for me. Don't forget to walk him every day and give him a bone at night."

"Righto, Craig. We all miss you, luv. You look after yourself and keep in touch, ok?"

"Ok mum. And listen, I'll sort this business out, right."

"No worries then. By the way, Craig. Nice pic in the Sunday papers."

Craig cringed, "Thanks a lot, mum. Chat soon." He hung up the phone and felt a shiver of sadness run as he thought of Zeus, his reliable old sheep dog. And what's next, he wondered; now that I've got the cops looking for me. Christ! It can't get much better than this.

Walking back into the lounge, Craig saw that Nino was slumped back on the couch, his eyes closed, "It's been a big day, Nino. If you're not up to it, we can have that drink another time; no probs."

Nino opened his eyes and stood to attention, all five foot six of him, "All good, Craig; just relaxing. Let's hit the frog and toad." Craig locked the unit and they drove in the direction of the City where they found an empty parking spot in an alleyway about a kilometre from the Emporium, "That pub we just passed is the Wickham Hotel. We can have a quiet drink there."

When they entered the hotel Craig couldn't believe what he saw. With its understated charm, the Wickham look like any old fashioned country pub, but in fact it was tired and literally falling apart. There was a large outdoor seating area, but Nino led Craig inside and into an oversized cubicle. Inside, the pub looked no better; it obviously hadn't been redecorated since the 1970s, if not earlier, and looked like some kind of dusky cantina in some unspecified tropical country with its unpretentious though tattered wallpaper, big, worn comfortable seats, the kind you can lounge in for hours, and plain old scratched-up wooden tables and benches. Yep, thought Craig approvingly, this was very comfy indeed.

Techno music was thumping away in the background, but what truly shocked Craig was the fact that Nino had taken him to a gay bar. There were about twenty men, all shirtless and ripped, grinding away and dancing and not giving a shit about anything; they were just out having a great time and Craig understood and respected that. But his eyebrows did betray a look of concern.

Nino ordered a couple of beers and Craig just had to ask, "Mate, I don't mean to judge you or anything, and please don't take this the wrong way and tell me to mind my own business if you want to, but you know the gay act you put on back outside Grumpys, and now we're sitting at a gay bar in the Valley, and I don't really care if you're gay or not, mate, but I gotta tell you straight up that I'm not. Please don't take offense or anything."

Nino blinked at Craig and burst into a fit of laughter; to the point he'd spat his beer and was coughing like a lunatic. Craig wasn't sure if Nino was having a seizure or what was going on, but the little guy was turning purple and coughing and spluttering till tears were streaming down his face. When he managed to compose himself, he looked Craig straight into his eyes and said, "Mate, I'm not gay. I'm happily married with three little kids. But I put on the gay act down at Grumpys because we're on a job and needed to get out of there and count out the money; I didn't need you getting all lovey dovey with that skinny sheila you rescued. As for the Wickham, we'll be left alone here for a quiet drink and a chat; that's all." And at that Craig felt a little embarrassed, but Nino's face was beaming with delight.

After that, both men seemed to relax and enjoy the evening; the staff were friendly, no one bothered them, and the music wasn't too loud. All in all the Wickham had a nice ambience and after a half dozen beers Craig had a glow on and the pair were very chatty indeed. In fact the Wickham was a very nice spot to finish up a busy and productive day.

"So, Nino, tell me a bit about yourself."

"Well, there's not really that much to tell, Craig. The story is that my ancestors were Roman aristocracy, but that was a long time ago. My great grandparents came from Palermo, but moved to the coast of Sicily where they raised cattle, made cheese and fished anchovies. It was a good business, but I was bought up in Sydney. My family came here from Sicily after my grandfather sold the farm and family business to his close school friend, Don Vitali, who was head of a Mafia family and needed the land for a hotel and resort. My grandparents got a good price for the land and the business; so they sold up and came to Australia for a quieter life."

"But as they say," Nino continued, "You can take the boy out of Sicily but you can't take Sicily out of the boy. My grandparents used to go back to Sicily every year or two, and when my father grew a bit older Don Vitali offered him a job; he learned the Mafia trade and became a professional hit man, eventually coming back to Sydney and working in Sydney for an underworld figure as his 'Fixer'. You could say I went into the family business and here I am, fixing any problems Barry Minton may have. And you, Craig, what about you?

"Well," Craig smiled knowingly, "There's probably not much I can tell you that you don't already know."

Nino smiled, "That's true. By the way, I couldn't help but overhear your phone conversation back at the unit."

"Yeah," recalled Craig. "My mother's very worried about me."

"What about the police, mate? Did they come around?"

"Yeah, they're looking for me in Cooktown."

"Don't worry about it, Craig. I'll make it go away."

"Yeah," Craig was excited. "How are you going to do that?"

"I said don't worry about it; it'll disappear by tomorrow. There's a reason they call me the Fixer," he laughed. "Well mate," said Nino, looking at his watch, "It's getting on to one o'clock and if I want to avoid a divorce I'd better make a move. Come on, I'll drop you off at the unit."

On the way to the car, Nino explained that there were two shifts at the Badminton Club; the first shift, the one Craig was working, was Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, while the second shift, the one Doodis was working, was Thursday to Sunday. That's why Doodis wasn't around much this weekend. Craig nodded with understanding when they'd just turned the corner and entered the dark alleyway, and both men stopped in their tracks as they became aware of a number of people milling around. If Craig was in a good mood before, it disappeared very quickly and he felt a tight knot forming in his stomach. There were half a dozen louts in their late teens swarming around two older men, possible in their fifties, and the teens were giving these older fellers a rough time indeed. And they were doing it next to Nino's brand new car!

The teens, all skinheads, looked very ferocious with their shaved heads, ripped t-shirts, and baggy pants hanging low down their backsides. The two older men looked very stylish and Craig guessed they owned the Mercedes sports car parked behind Nino's Range Rover. "They're gonna scratch my fucking car," hissed Nino.

The older men were pleading, "Please, just leave us alone."

"Leave you alone, did you say? We know you've got money, you fucking little queens. You poofters are all rich."

One of the men stuttered to the other, "For God's sake, Gerard, don't say anything, just give them your wallet."

Nino and Craig saw the fear in the older men's eyes.

"Yeah Gerard, give us your fucking wallet," raged the lead skinhead wearing a leather jacket, as he punched Gerard in the stomach. Gerard was winded and doubled over in pain as two of the gang members grabbed him and threw him to the ground. Another two held the other bloke while the remaining skinhead, who could not have been more than sixteen years old, was standing on the road egging his mates on. Leather jacket was searched their clothing and took their wallets whilst another two that Craig not noticed earlier, were across the street not doing much at all.

The sight of these men being harassed had certainly put a dampener on the evening, but the clincher for Craig came when leather jacket grabbed Gerard's face in both hands, brought it up close to his own, forced his mouth open and spat into his face. By this stage, Craig was seething and he felt a knot tightening in his stomach.

The knot in Craig's stomach tightened further when leather jacket turned his back and Craig saw the Cannibals Motor Cycle Club colours emblazoned across his shoulders and back. He could feel the knot in his stomach spreading through his body as he remembered being bullied and bashed at school, and Craig knew he was about to explode into a violent surge of rage.

Nino also didn't think any of the violence meted out to two harmless blokes just out for a nice evening of fun and entertainment was at all necessary, and he definately had seen enough. "Follow me," he seethed, as he put his arm lovingly around Craig, and the two of them entered the alleyway. They kept to the shadows of the laneway till they were about ten paces from the skinheads.

"Hello fella's," said Nino, in a very high pitched voice. "Oooo look Cameron, it's a boy party."

"Oh Garth, I do love a party," cooed Craig. "Can we join in," he asked no one in particular but was looking directly at leather jacket.

The skinheads looked at each other and couldn't believe their luck; another two dumb gays who must have been loaded with cash! Leather jacket stepped forward and smiled, "Yeah, like join the party, man." The two skinheads across the narrow road then moved off the footpath and had made their way behind Craig and Nino.

Nino looked at the older man on the ground and shrilled, "Gerard! Is that you Gerard? How are you, love? It's been ages. Look Cameron, its Gerard."

"So it is," shrieked Craig in reply. "Garth, why don't we have all these boys over to our place; fella's come over to our place and let's party." The skinheads now had Craig and Nino completely surrounded, but looked at each other in disbelief. "Come on, fellas," said Craig. "Who wants a good time?"

"You're fuckin' crazy, pal," spat leather jacket as he stepped out of the shadow and Craig couldn't believe it; yep, it was definitely Crew Cut, the bikie who ran away from the park outside Grumpys. "We're fuckin' gonna eat you for dinner," threatened Crew Cut, who obviously did not recognise Craig, but looked him in the eye and said, "And yes, I do think we are going to have a party." Crew Cut then slammed a high right towards Craig's face, but missed as Craig easily ducked underneath it.

"Aw, come on fellas. We just wanna have a good time," said Craig. As he said this the other skinheads slowly began to close in.

"You got nowhere to run, arsehole," barked Crew Cut, with a wry smile on his face.

"Like you ran from the park at Southbank, you cunt?"

Crew Cut's feeling of shock and the look of recognition became permanently etched as the grin on Craig's face was the last thing Crew Cut saw for the next six weeks till the doctors finally revived him from his coma. Crew Cut barely had time to open his mouth for a response when Craig drove a massive fist into his face, crushing his jaw and cheekbones, and the punch had enough upward thrust that it splintered his nose and sent it through his nasal cavity and into his brain. Crew Cut flew backwards and landed on Nino's Range Rover; "You bastards," screeched Nino to no one in particular as he turned and lashed out at the two skinheads closing in behind him. And for a small fellow, Nino packed an awful mean punch. In fact, what Nino failed to mention to Craig earlier that evening was that he had been the Australian Lightweight boxing champion for three years and had never been defeated; he retired from the sport because of a recurring shin injury.

Quick as a fox, Nino drove a vicious right into the chest of the skinhead closest to him, sending him backwards into the alley wall. Nino then swivelled on his right foot and karate kicked the lout in the throat, sending him to a deep and inglorious sleep. The skinhead to Nino's right froze and that was his big mistake as Nino grabbed him by his t-shirt, pulled him in close to his chest and head butted the lout so hard some of the boys in the Wickham Hotel thought a truck had backfired. With two down, Nino took a quick look to see if Craig needed a hand, but saw that the big North Queenslander had everything under control.

Craig had five of the skinheads piled up around him and was playing with the sixth. He was pushing and pulling the skinhead by his t-shirt and the boy was sobbing, "Please stop it, mister. Please!" But Craig kept tugging at his t-shirt and the skinhead was crying and angry and frustrated and didn't know what to do. At one point the skinhead lashed out and kicked Nino's Range Rover so Craig put him in a headlock, and bent him over, close to the two older men: "Say sorry, you cunt," Craig demanded.

"I'm sorry," the skinhead pleaded.

"How sorry?" Craig asked.

"I am so, so sorry," cried the skinhead. "Really! I hardly know these other guys."

Now Craig is a compassionate kind of bloke, and seeing this young fella, who must've been barely sixteen, he kind of felt sorry for him. So he let go, stood over him with his index finger outstretched, and told him to piss of and tell any other mates he might have never to be seen near the Wickham again, "You get that?" Craig pushed the boy aside and the skinhead fell into the gutter while Craig turned to the two older men, frozen on the ground near him, "And you guys better piss off too. You saw nothing, right?"

The two men, speechless with relief, nodded their thanks and ran off into the night.

What Craig hadn't noticed was that the young skinhead had picked up an iron bar from somewhere in the alleyway that must have been dropped by one of the other skinheads, and was fast approaching Craig, readying to hit him on the back of the head, when Craig heard a "fffftt, fffftt," sound.

He turned to where the sound had come from and glared at Nino, who was standing with his feet apart in a military shooting position, holding a smoking gun with both hands directly in front of him. Craig then looked around and saw the young skinhead lying on the ground, an iron bar by his side, and blood pouring from both his legs; the skinhead was trying to scream in pain, but no sound came out. He was in shock.

"Thanks Nino, I think you may have just saved my life."

"Saved your life, you prick? I didn't shoot him to save your life. He's the cunt that kicked my car."

Back at the unit and lying in bed, Craig felt dirty. He found a book under the coffee table in the lounge, "The High End of Politics" and thought he'd give it a skim, but his thoughts kept turning back to the day's events. He had a grouse workout at the Valley Pool and a great run through the streets of Brisbane. Mugs Coffee Shop made a delicious breakfast, The Big Cat made an amazing lunch, and the Wickham Hotel was good for a quiet drink, but you wouldn't want to walk in the dark streets around it. And of course he had a great earn as a result of not doing too much for Nino Salita at Grumpys. On the other hand, he had to fight off four bikies hassling skinny little Ava and then had to fight off a half dozen skinheads near the Wickham Hotel. To top it off the cops were looking for him, although Nino said he'd take care of that and the mess outside the Wickham; and he still hadn't seen Doodis, although he assumed the DJ was working the weekend shift at the Club. Craig's last thoughts before dozing off to sleep were of skinny little Ava, her many tattoos and her planting a soft peck on his cheek as gratitude. But by now Craig was snoring like an out of control buzz saw.

The buzz saw became a pounding in his head. Then the pounding became a knocking and Craig became aware that the knocking wasn't coming from inside his head but outside his bedroom. There was definitely a knocking at the front door.

Craig blinked and noticed the moon peeping through the window, "Who the fuck could that be at this time of night?"

He staggered to the front door, looked through the peep-hole and his jaw dropped.

"How on earth did you find me?" he asked after opening the door.

"It wasn't that hard, you big oaf; you told me where you were staying this morning," said Ava with a frown that turned into a smile. "So? You gonna let me in, or what?"

Craig didn't jump to any conclusions as to why Ava had showed up; they sat on the couch and shared a bottle of pinot grigio Doodis had hidden away at the back of his fridge.

"So, it's lovely to see you Ava, and please don't get me wrong, but what the hell are you doing here? I thought you would have skipped the country by now."

"Well I would have Craig, and I've been to the airport and bought a one way ticket to London, but my flight doesn't leave till six in the morning, so rather than hang around the airport like a stale bottle of piss, I thought I may as well try and look you up. Maybe listen to a few of your librarian stories for a few hours."

"Seems like you hit the jackpot," Craig laughed. "And man, I have librarian stories that will make your hair stand on end. Why, just last week a student came up to me looking for a globe of the earth; so I show him one I have on my desk. No, that's not good enough, he says. Don't you have a life-size model?"

"So what did you say to him?" laughed Ava.

"I said that I do, but it's being used right now. And one day, if I ever have a daughter, I'm going to name her Rita."

"Why is that?"

"So when she grows up she can rita lotta books."

"Have you always wanted to be a librarian, Craig?"

"No. When I was young I wanted to be a garbage collector."

"Really?" Ava asked, a little dubious.

"Yep. That's because I thought garbage collectors only worked on Tuesdays."

The conversation was going down easy and so was the second bottle of wine. But Craig was beginning to yawn and the day had finally caught up with him. "Well Ava, I'm thinking its way past my bed time. You're welcome to kip on the couch."

"On the couch? I get that you're gay, Craig, but that's no excuse for being a lousy host."

"Gay? I'm not fucking gay, Ava; not that there's anything wrong with that."

"You're not?" said Ava with just the hint of a twinkle in her eyes.

"Nah; that was just Nino mucking around."

"Well, my brute of a librarian friend, if that is the case, we have a few hours to waste. So I suggest you point me to the bathroom and you can go back to bed and wait for me."

Being the good boy that he was, Craig did as he was told. Breathing heavily in the silence, Craig slid under the cool sheets, and lay on his back, his head pillowed comfortably on the bed. How strange is this, he thought to himself; there I was one minute thinking how lovely it would be to cuddle Ava and 'hey presto' here she is. He looked out at the moon, smiled to himself and said, "Thank you, boss. You know how to look after a lonely boy who's new in town."

There was a soft knock on the door, and Ava quietly slipped into the room. "Close your eyes," she purred. And being an obedient kind of guy, Craig again did what he was told, but he could hear her moving towards him. He stiffened slightly at the sound of rustling bed linen, and in the darkened room sensed that Ava was removing her flowing t-shirt; "Are you comfortable?" she cooed.

"Like you wouldn't believe."

Ava moved quietly, and Craig felt her sit at his feet and slide her hands under the bed sheet. He felt shivers of electricity rocket through his body as Ava placed her soft, warm hands on his skin. Craig bit back a moan as Ava's soothing fingers melded into his skin and she began to massage his legs, slowly working her magic from his toes to his thighs and back down again.

For a long time there was silence, but every fibre of Craig's being was screaming with pleasure. Craig could hear her take a deep breath, and felt himself gasping as Ava curled her smooth young fingers around his red hot cock, and giggled as she tickled a very attentive Private Winky with her middle finger, "Oh, did I make you do that?"

"You did, babe, you did," Craig snorted. "And I hope that you're not going to leave me just lying around like this." Ava sat back upright. "You're not are you?" Craig asked, almost pleading. His hand was now easing up Ava's leg and he began tugging gently at her ted.

"Oh, but I've never done this before," she gasped in mock surprise and innocence. "I'm not quite sure I know what to do!"

"Just wrap your fingers around me and slowly rub them up and down," said Craig in an instructional voice that was already becoming deeper and huskier as his fingers stroked Ava's ted through the thin nylon material of her panties, making her shudder with excitement.

"Are you sure that I should," she continued in her girlie voice as she tentatively ran her fingers across a cock that was now turning purple with anticipation; then down the outside of his thick shaft. "That would be a very naughty thing to do, especially because you are the librarian."

"Oh yes," Craig groaned as he bit his lower lip when Ava neatly wrapped her small fingers around his hard-on and began swaying her hand in an almost African rhythm. And although they had found the perfect rhythm, Ava was careful not to make him cum too quickly, and after a couple of minutes, she stopped.

It seemed like forever, but then she giggled and leant across his face. Craig's tongue began lashing her nipples and tiny tits as his hand slid between her legs again and lightly massaged her soaking ted. Ava was squirming with desire as Craig's fingers fiddled and investigated and prodded until he slid two, then three, then four solid fingers into her dripping ted.

"Oh," she giggled as Craig finger-fucked Ava and suckled her nipples. "You're making me very...excited...and it feels... kinda... very nice!" Ava suddenly pulled her head back, ripped off her knickers, then bent forward and began kissing his throbbing cock as she raised a leg until it rested alongside his chest on the bed, "Oh, I feel so naughty!"

Over the next half hour it became obvious Ava loved sex. Craig kept dipping his fingers deep inside Ava's leaking ted as she sucked and licked his pulsating cock and balls. She knew when to stop and when to start again so he wouldn't cum.

Then she threw her head back, which made Craig's fingers go deeper into her as she grabbed his twitching cock, rubbing furiously until jet after jet of milky white cum flew out and splashed onto her shaking face. She then calmly squeezed the last few drop out of him, and Craig could feel her legs trembling and, being the gentleman that he was, tenderly rotated Ava onto her back and said, "I reckon you might want an orgasm yourself."

"That's very kind of you, Craig. I reckon I do," she said as innocently as possible. "But you're a librarian so you might not know what to do without researching it first."

"Don't you worry about that, lady, I've read all about this kinda stuff."

"But then you might hurt me if you put your thing inside me?"

"I wasn't planning to, quite yet," and he opened her legs, took a deep breath and, burying his face inside her, munching away like there was no tomorrow. Craig was eating like a prisoner on death row, while one hand was gently caressing her arse and the other was helping his tongue, powerfully stuffed in her ted, stroking her like a man possessed until Ava screamed in both agony and delight.

"Yes, please. Please," Ava repeated like a mantra as his thrusts got harder and faster; each plunge sending her nearer to orgasm; she had to press her face into the pillow to stop herself screaming with delight at the top of her lungs.

Both then crumbled into a heap of arms and legs and the snoring sounded like something out of a World War One battlefield. But at some point during the early hours of that morning Ava and Craig woke at the same time. "Do you want me to fuck you now?" she demanded as she reached down the side of the bed for her purse and pulled out a condom.

"I thought you'd never ask," he said grinning from ear to ear, aware that Private Winky was standing to attention like a good soldier should.

Craig slipped both his hands under her butt and lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, and he located her juicy opening with his cock, used his powerful legs to thrust into her. Ava seemed barely conscious as she was bouncing around like a rag doll on a trampoline, and Craig was thrusting his torso like a piston on a steam engine. They both grunted, growled and spat like trapped animals, and with hands, legs and waists thrashing about in mad harmony, they both came at the same time. Then they both fell asleep at the same time. Again.

Craig had absolutely no idea what time it was, but moaned as Ava dug a finger into his chest. He opened his eyes and she was standing beside the bed, fully dressed, "I have to go, Craig; I gotta catch the first plane outta here. Hope you don't mind that I used your shower."

Craig tried to sit up, but collapsed back onto his pillow, "Not at all, Ava. Call me when you get to London, I wanna make sure you're ok."

"No probs, Craig," she bent forward and kissed him that soft, gentle kiss again. "And thanks for everything, again."

And again, she was gone.

**CHAPTER FOUR - MONDAY**

It's Monday morning and I have the day off. In fact I work the Thursday to Sunday night shift so I have three days off during the week. I am sitting with Craig at Mugs Coffee Shop and the sun is beaming and the punters are either walking to work in their suits and ties or sitting around eating breakfast in their tracksuits and t-shirts and I am sipping a double shot latter while nibbling on a piece of raisin toast while Craig is bulldozing his face through a double order of Eggs Benedict with a side order of Chorizo Sausage and a second side order of Crispy Pork Belly, but his eyes are focussed on the morning paper and I can see he's reading a story about a gang war between bikies and skinheads and there's a bunch of bikies found unconscious at Southbank and a group of skinheads found unconscious in the Valley behind the Wickham Hotel. I see a photo of the Premier, Barry Minton, and he's promising to crack down on gang violence in the Brisbane inner city area.

It's a rough world out there I say to Craig and he looks at me wistfully and says yeah, don't you long for the good old days and I couldn't agree more. We order another round of double shot lattes and talk about this, that and nothing much in particular except that Craig is a little nervous about his first night at the Badminton Club tonight and of course I try to reassure him saying it'll be a breeze, mate, everyone will love you there but of course he's not convinced and I guess he won't be till he gets used to the place so after a while I stay quiet and leave him in peace to enjoy his nervous state.

Anyhoo, Craig started his new job as the Ringmaster without a hitch and showed up bang on time that Monday afternoon at four o'clock; I know because he was so scared that I took him there myself. He met and shook hands with Merv and Jerry, the two bouncers at the door, then met up with Nino who punches me in the shoulder and says, what the fuck are you doing here on a Monday? Nino gives Craig the tuxedo he's supposed to wear while working and Craig looks great in it but I can tell he feels very out of place; not much class or style about this boy! Anyhoo, Nino then introduces him to the staff and a few of the regulars and it's plainly obvious Craig doesn't remember any of their names.

Let me tell you a little about the staff who Craig works most closely with. You have already met Barry and Nino, and me of course. Merv, Jerry and Evan are the three bouncers employed at the Club. Merv and Jerry man the outside and Evan makes sure no one untoward enters Barry's private office suite on the third level. The three of them are Samoan and the three of them used to be wrestlers; in fact Merv was Oceanic Heavyweight champion for two years. They rent a house together with their families, so there are fourteen people living in a huge house somewhere Southside. Fanny Whippard is Office and Accounts Manager; she takes care of the books at the Club as well as being Barry's go-to girl, organizing his meetings and private financial structure. Sounds like a big job, but everyone suspects and I know for a fact she is much more than that. Wilson Donoghue is the Club Manager and Events Organiser; he is responsible for the orderly running of the Club. Wilson is an ex-special ops guy and his army demeanour has never left him. Then there's Vikki. She sits at the front door and is the Club's Staff Manager. Vikki makes sure that all staff are present and accounted for, and that all staff behave themselves in a professional manner.

That Monday there's about fifty tradesmen working at the Club because there's a function on tonight and everything has to be perfect and on time. We go to Barry Minton's office on the third level and he's not there yet so we wait out at reception and Fanny Whippard makes Craig and Nino a cup of coffee and I piss of and leave them all to it because it's my day off and I got better things to do than hang around when I'm not being paid to do so.

Craig takes the vanilla favoured coffee from Fanny and he whispers a meek thank you as he takes a quiet sip; delicious. "My pleasure, Craig," she says, in a husky, professional voice. "Barry will be arriving soon; through the back door to his office. I'll let you know when it's ok for you to go in."

Nino looks at Craig and hands him a tiny electronic buzzer, "Keep that in your pocket. Oh, and we call him Barry when there's no one around; he insists on it. It's Mr Minton when there's company. During his meetings you go inside and stand in front of the oak sideboard. Just stand there and don't say a word. Look at the painting across the other side of the room if you like and pretend you're invisible. With the Ringmaster standing there, meetings always seem to go smoothly."

"Seems easy enough."

"It is. Now if your buzzer goes off, that means you're needed in the Club. Don't excuse yourself, don't make eye contact with anyone, just quietly slip out and get to the Club as quick as possible and sort out whatever mess they got going there. When you're done, quietly slip back into the office and resume your position in front of the sideboard. You got that?"

"Yep. Got it."

"Good. Now if Barry stands and nods at you, you follow him. It could be into the Club, to his car, to the private dining room; anywhere. Just walk a short distance behind and make sure Barry is kept safe. If he goes into his private dining room you'll see another oak sideboard, you stand in front of that. Ok?"

"Gotcha."

"Good. Barry holds most of his meetings between 4.30 and 2am on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, but you be here at four on the dot. Those are your working hours; if you gotta work longer, do it. If Barry leaves earlier, you walk around the Club smiling at everyone; be friendly but not too friendly. You're the Ringmaster, remember that. But if Barry wants you to go with him, you go. If he wants you to escort a guest somewhere, you escort. Got that?"

"Yep. Until two or later, I'm his."

Nino smiles, "You got it, mate." Nino winked at Craig, "Sometimes after work some of the staff get together and have a quiet drink in Barry's office. You're more than welcome to join us."

Craig's instructions were simple: Make sure the boss is safe, be nice to everybody, but not too nice. Make sure everyone behaves themselves and make sure no one gets out of line.

Fanny picked up the phone on her desk, looked at Craig and Nino and nodded, "Righto, Craig, you're on."

Craig quietly slipped into Barry Minton's office, saw the oak sideboard and calmly took his place in front of it. The Premier was sitting at the polished board table with the Queensland Opposition Leader, Pauline Benson, facing him. Also at the table was Wilson Donoughue, Manager of the Badminton Club.

In Queensland, irrespective of what side of politics you are on, the dollars that a politician can bring into their Party largely determines their rank within that Party. Property developers were huge contributors to both sides of politics, and Barry Minton was a master at raising the funds necessary to run elections and contribute to his and other politician's lifestyles.

In front of him on the table, Barry Minton had four massive piles of hundred dollar notes. "I have sixty thousand dollars here, Pauline, and here is the deal: this is money is allocated to our Electricity Industry Privatisation Scheme to be announced next week. Publically, you of course will oppose the Scheme, but when it comes to the vote in Parliament, you will make sure your people don't get in the way. Now this sixty grand will be paid to you every month for the next eight months. We have a report due next week that will recommend privatisation, but we will take things slowly to get the public used to the benefits of privatisation. Eight months should do it. I would suggest a response from you, but make it as muted as possible and the response will come from you and only you, not your shadow ministers, and definitely not your rank and file; so keep everyone in check. Now, I want you to talk to the Electrical Workers Union and let them know there's another forty thousand a month to go to their leadership, through you of course, for their 'muted' response. And bloody hell, Pauline, tell them 'no demonstrations'. Do we have a deal?"

On and on their voices droned, and Craig found himself staring at the painting across the room and zoning out. The painting was called The Badminton Game by artist David Inshaw, and it was obvious to Craig that the artist was in love with the landscape he painted. He had managed to capture a moment in time while walking through the landscape and Craig sensed the intrusion of man on this environment, and he got the feeling of a distant past; events that had happened in this garden and events that had happened in Cooktown. The painting was almost photographic, but rather than capturing a moment or event in time, as a photo would have done, this painting seemed to capture something deeper; a moment different to any other and Craig could see why Barry Minton may have loved this painting: this painting seemed to have a way of bringing order to chaos.

And after standing in that office for a few hours bored shitless, it wasn't long before he began to feel guilty about taking Barry Minton's money because it didn't seem like he was really doing anything special. But after a few hours of people walking in and out of the office and the constant exchange of money and the constant drone of conversations that he didn't really understand, Craig suddenly felt the buzzer vibrating in his back pocket. So without so much as a word or eye contact with anybody he quietly slipped out of the office, nodded at Fanny who had a quiet word in his ear, and walked out into the Club.

Life at the Badminton Club is anything but boring, and there are many celebrity parties held there. I remember on one occasion, an international singing sensation celebrated his thirtieth birthday at the Club and did what any singing superstar would do to celebrate: he dressed up like Jesus and flew his closest five hundred friends from around the globe to an over-the-top soiree where the guests all dressed as apostles and sat at the biggest last-supper dinner table any of the staff had ever seen. At the end of the eight course dinner, a massive crucifix was wheeled in and the host was chained as if crucified as the guests cheered and danced and generally went nuts at the scene.

On another occasion a famous Academy Award winning actress celebrated the release of her new movie by appearing naked, except for a diamond studded tiara, riding a white horse into the Club and throwing mountains of hundred dollar bills at her three hundred guests from two giant bins attached to the horse's saddle. As she cantered to the center of the dance floor the horse stopped, she stood upright, and two tons of glitter poured onto her and her guests. The host then offered her guests all forms of debauchery, including S and M dungeons with cages stocked with frisky suede floggers and ostrich feather ticklers, scantily-clad go-go dancers, and perfectly proportioned whipping boys.

Craig understood his job was to walk amongst the throng and make sure that everyone behaved themselves, that nobody got out of line, and that a good time was had by all. On the way out of Barry Minton's office that Monday night, Fannie Whippard had quickly clued him in that Ernst Humpsteader, a publishing billionaire, famous for controlling the world's largest pornography empire, was hosting quite a bizarre birthday party for himself that night: a circus themed bash that featured a full-sized Marquee tent; all the men had to wear lion tamer outfits and all the women had to dress in bikinis and wear beards like the bearded lady.

I remember that Barry Minton rang me that Monday morning before Craig Turner started work at the Club and asked me yet again if I thought Craig was good for the job, and, for what it was worth, I again gave him my assurance. And it didn't take long for my opinion to be vindicated.

Craig stood on the third level of the Badminton Club, looked down and couldn't believe his eyes. Never having been to a circus, Craig was both amazed and mesmerised at the sight of clowns, jugglers, illusionists, hulla hoops, plate spinners and balancing acts entertaining the crowd as trapeze artists and acrobats flew through the air with the greatest of ease. In addition, there were side show games on every level and a variety of animals had been brought in: big cats, bears, monkeys and two elephants swayed their heads on the ground level. And at the sight of so many beautiful women in bikinis, it took all his powers to keep Private Winky in check. There were photographers and celebrities everywhere and Craig recognised quite a few that he'd seen in magazines at his mum's place and down the Drunken Croc Hotel where he used to work.

But Craig knew he was buzzed out of Barry Minton's office because somewhere in the Club there was trouble, and it didn't take him long to see where the problem was. He noticed a commotion one level below him. In fact it looked like a blood bath. Half a dozen guests were lying on the floor, bleeding and screaming. Three of the waiting staff were also draped on the floor semi-conscious; one of them must have been thrown through a table as she was surrounded by splinters of wood and half covered by a blood stained table cloth. The gaming machines had been overturned and Craig was certain there was at least one unconscious punter stuck under them. The two bouncers, Merv and Jerry, were unconscious near the staircase, both bleeding profusely from their heads. And the publishing billionaire, Craig assumed it was him because he was screaming the loudest, was being held up by his throat against the back wall of the Club. Holding him up was the biggest bloke Craig had ever seen; it wasn't just his height, he must have been six and a half foot tall, but he was as wide as a Sherman tank and generally built like a brick shithouse. The monster of a bloke was wearing the compulsory lion tamers outfit that showed a set of arm muscles any champion body builder would have been envious of, and he was about to flatten the petrified billionaire into a pancake-thin dumpling. There was broken furniture everywhere and all the guests, both men and women, were screeching and squealing and tripping over themselves as they tried to move away from the carnage.

It took Craig about three seconds for him to snake his way through the crowd, down the stairs and hesitate for a moment to take in the scene close up. He could see that the big bloke doing all the damage was actually bigger than he first realised, but also noticed that he was being egged on by a smaller bloke who was more than enjoying the festivities. So Craig decided to quietly introduce himself to the shorter bloke before tacking the Monster.

As he approached him, he snapped Shorty's head back with the first three punches, a series of mild left jabs to the head. Shorty went down on the fourth jab when Craig decided to walk in with a little more power. And just in case Shorty went down because he lost his balance, Craig decided to stand him up and give him a second chance.

But Shorty just stood there swaying, most probably in shock, watching Craig smiling at him as he popped him with another series of jabs, all punishing and all smashing his face to a pulp. When Shorty fell to the floor a second time, very little of his face was recognizable; in fact, unless you were a plastic surgeon, you were hard pressed to distinguish Shorty's nose from his mouth or his ears.

Now, Craig may get criticized a little for showboating as Shorty by this stage didn't look much like a winner, but Craig really wanted to get the Monster's attention, so he dug the heal of his right shoe into where Shorty's right eye socket should have been, and pressed. Then he turned. Then he pressed harder and turned his right foot faster. The crowd 'oohed' and 'aarhed' as Shorty let out a holler that seemed to silence the Club. In fact for the first time Craig became aware that the festivities had halted, there wasn't a sound to be heard and the entire guest list and staff were watching him. Everybody stood there staring at him including the Monster, still holding the pornography billionaire against the back wall; but the pornography billionaire was no longer screaming. He too was stunned by the pain inflicted on Shorty.

The first sound Craig became aware of came from the level above him; Barry Minton appeared at the balustrade and was staring down at him, a worried expression on his face. The second sound Craig became aware of came from somewhere in front of him as the Monster exploded into a spasm of extreme frenzy, dropping the pornography billionaire, and was now charging towards him like some wild, out of control animal.

Craig's boss up at the Drunken Croc, Davo, owned a killer dog. Babua was a Pit Bull, Rottweiler cross and when Davo gave Babua the right command, Babua would attack whoever was a stranger and nearest to his master at the time; and he would not stop until Davo gave the appropriate command to stop. Davo had sixteen acres out bush north of Cooktown where he grew and processed the best quality dope, and more than once Babua came in handy when it came to politely, and sometimes not so politely, asking strangers to leave the property; in fact, given the opportunity, Babua would stubbornly bite on his victim, and maul them to a painful and final death. Craig knew; he had seen Babua demolish and eat a twelve foot crocodile.

The evil in Monster's eyes as he barreled towards Craig was more murderous than the look on Babua's face at his most ferocious, and he attacked Craig in a seething, wheezing, and unrelenting barrage of punches with fists as big as dump trucks. Craig barely had time to react and a few of the Monster's punches managed to connect to his forehead, but luckily Craig's forehead was as hard as a rough diamond and he managed to turn his head just in time to absorb the blows. In fact the Monster was in such a rage that most of the punches slashed fresh air to Craig's right and were totally ineffective.

Craig had somehow managed to stay on his feet, so he took a moment to step back and regain his balanced, pivot slightly to his left and drill a thunderous right into one of Monster's kidneys. The Monster cursed and straightened himself, and that was his first mistake as he left himself wide open for Craig to let go a barrage of left and rights into his kidney that sent the Monster reeling backwards and smashing against the back wall of the Club. Craig lunged forward and tore into him with a sizzling kick to the balls and another to the stomach, followed by two ferocious kicks to his kneecap.

"Fuck you," the Monster yelled in pain. "You're fuckin' dead." He pushed himself off the wall and jumped on Craig and, trying unsuccessfully to get him into a headlock, both men lost their balance and fell to the floor. The Monster had Craig pinned down and was throwing obscenities and wild punches which Craig managed to deflect quite easily. He brought his left leg up and kneed Monster in the balls again; the Monster arched his back and Craig managed to twist himself from underneath him. He jumped to his feet, pivoted around to the correct angle and stomped his boot into the Monster's balls again.

"Fuck you," he screamed again, holding onto his balls. "You're fuckin' dead, you prick."

Somehow the Monster managed to stand and leap into the air; to Craig it seemed like the bloke was floating towards him in slow motion and he was fascinated to see the Monster almost do a three point landing on top of him. Luckily Craig's reflexes kicked in and he swerved out of the way just in time. But the Monster landed on his feet and grabbed Craig in a powerful bear hug. Craig tried to wriggle free but the Monster pushed him backwards and the two of them rolled down the stairs, over the balustrade and fell two meters to the level below. It was lucky for Craig that the drop was cushioned as he landed on top of the Monster.

And by this stage, Craig had had enough.

And then, all hell broke loose.

The Monster was still lying on the floor trying to get his breath back when Craig stood up, took a step back, and introduced the Monster to some good old fashioned North Queensland folk dancing. To some it looked like Craig was doing the Highland Fling; the tempo of a traditional Highland Fling is 114 beats to the minute, and that's about how many kicks Craig was getting in. The Monster could scarcely move as he had gone into shock, and Craig was rocking, crossing-over, back-stepping, shaking and turning, and all the while laying his boots into Monster's ribs, kidney's, face and balls. Many of the guests had by this stage turned away at the sight of this carnage, but Craig kept dancing with no intention to stop, until Nino stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Craig turned and was about wallop whoever was interrupting his rhythm, but instantly recognised Nino and stopped.

Nino smiled at Craig, "I think you've made your point, mate."

Craig looked down at the tangled unconscious mess that was the Monster, knotted his eye brows and looked questioningly at Nino, "I think I may have just lost my job."

Five figures sat quietly in Barry Minton's office. The Premier, Nino Salita, Fanny Whippard, Wilson Donoughue, and Craig.

Craig was too embarrassed to make eye contact with anyone, so he stared at the floor brooding at the mess he'd made of things since arriving in Brisbane four days ago. Was it only four days? At that moment it seemed like a lifetime. Well I guess I deserve whatever I get, he thought to himself. Maybe I did get a little carried away, and maybe I do deserve to lose my job or something worse, but geez, the guy was causing havoc and could have killed someone; quite possibly me!

Craig raised his eyes and saw that Barry Minton was standing in front of him. "I'm sorry about the commotion, Mr Minton, but I had to stop those blokes somehow."

The Premier bent down in front of Craig, looked him straight in the eyes and whispered gently, "Do you know who that bloke was, Craig?"

"No."

"That was Mike Firman, Craig, the current world heavyweight boxing champion."

"Oh geez, Mr Minton, I am so sorry."

"Sorry? Craig, you gave that bastard exactly what he deserved."

Nino chuckled, "And more!"

"So you're not angry, Mr Minton?" said Craig, rather sheepishly.

"Angry?" the Premier chuckled. "No, Craig, I'm not angry. In fact I couldn't be happier. Welcome to the team."

There was a muted knock at the door and Fanny poked her head out to see who it was, "Excuse me, Mr Minton. Ernst Humpsteader is here to see you."

"Ask him in, Fanny."

The door flew open and Ernst Humpsteader sauntered in like he owned the place; he waltzed in and marched straight up to Craig with both arms outstretched. Craig stood and Humpsteader gave him a huge, grateful bear hug.

"Goddamit pal. That was the most amazing exhibition of manic, yet controlled, violence I have ever seen. In fact, goddamit, I think you may have just saved my life. That bastard has been after me since my papers printed a story about him taking performance enhancing drugs. Anyway, boy, who the fuck are you?" he exalted, beaming from ear to ear.

"Craig is a valued member of my team, Ernst." Turning to Craig, "Craig, meet Ernst Humpsteader; this is the man whose life you just saved."

Humpsteader threw his arm out and shook Craig's hand, then hugged him again like they were long lost relations, "Well goddamit, if you weren't working for Barry here, ya sure the fuck would be working for me." Humpsteader leaned in close to Craig and whispered, knowing everyone was listening, "Of course, if you ever want to jump ship, come and see me." He then dug into his pocket, took out a business card and quickly wrote on the back. Craig took the card, noticed the logo read Only Natural Magazine, and flipped the card to see that Humpsteader had written his private phone number and the words, 'If you ever need anything. Anything.'

Humpsteader turned and looked at Barry Minton, "Now, Mr Premier, last week you asked for a three hundred thousand dollar donation and I gave you two. It seems I may have just changed my mind. The extra 100 G's will be delivered tomorrow afternoon." Then to no one in particular, "Holy shit, I've had one hell of a night. This has been the best birthday ever!" And he sauntered out.

"Well guys," said Barry Minton, sitting down at his desk and leaning back on his chair, still shaking his head in disbelief. "That's one for the books."

Wilson Donoughue smiled, "An extra 100 G's won't go astray. "The Club Manager stood, sighed deeply, and declared "Well, I guess we should all get back to work and organize a clean-up. After that I'll get Vikki to send the staff home and I'll lock up."

Nino also stood, "Yep, I guess the night is over."

"It certainly is," the Premier stood, indicating everyone was excused. As they all turned to leave, the Premier put his hand on Craig's shoulder and said, "Can you please stay behind a moment, Craig. I'd like a quiet word."

The office door was closed and Craig and the Premier sat and looked at each other.

"Do you know how much damage you caused tonight?"

Craig could feel the knot in his stomach tighten. He had a sneaky suspicion he wasn't going to get away with tonight's proceedings scot free. But if he was going to have to pay for the damage he caused while saving the life of a billionaire who had just forked out an extra 100 grand, then Barry Minton could get fucked and stick his job up his arse. "I haven't got a clue, Mr Minton."

"My guess is around forty thousand dollars."

Craig said nothing as the Premier opened a desk drawer, looked down and fiddled with some papers for a while. As the Premier looked up he reached out his arm and Craig's eye's turned to donuts. He couldn't believe it.

"Ten grand, Craig. Humpsteader is giving me an extra hundred that we'll go halves on. I'll deduct forty from your half so that leaves you ten G's. And don't you fucking argue the point."

"So I've still got a job, Mr Minton?"

"Still got a job?" he laughed. "Damned fucking straight you still got a job. And for heaven's sake, Craig, stop calling me Mr Minton. Call me Barry."

###

**ABOUT ALEXANDER DOODIS**

LARRIKIN AUSTRALIAN WRITER Alexander Doodis is the pseudonym of a Brisbane based barrister – teacher – spiritual advisor and music producer turned author.

Many of his stories are based on real life people he has met and counseled, taught, and defended: politicians, union leaders, business people, professionals, criminals, sports stars, entertainers and other creative folk, and many, many ordinary people trying their best to survive.

Alexander Doodis' uncanny ability to inject humour into his highly charged and often deliberately politically incorrect stories, which are fuelled by sex, violence and alcohol, propel him into the top echelon of adult fiction, adventure writers.

His stories feature Craig Turner, who quits his job as a cook at the Drunken Croc Hotel in North Queensland to focus on a very short-lived Rugby career. Brisbane becomes the focus of many of his womanising and crime-fighting escapades after he finds himself stranded there with nothing more than his sports bag and an offer as Ringmaster at the Badminton Club where he gets to meet many fascinating and colourful characters.

**BONUS INTERVIEW WITH ALEXANDER DOODIS**

Why do you write Novellas?

To me, short is the new long :)

I love writing stories of about 25,000 - 30,000 words. The Novella is long enough for a reader to become absorbed in a writer's world and short enough to be read in a single sitting; at home, on a plane, at the beach or on the way to work by bus or train.

I think the Novella is the most perfect and beautiful form of prose fiction. After all, movies run for about 2 hours, plays run for about 2 hours, many team sports run for about 2 hours, so why shouldn't a satisfying reading experience run for about 2 hours?

How would you describe your writing method?

I call my method of writing the Salami Method. I write 1,250 words early in the morning, and I write each scene in chronological order so the action keeps moving forward. I write one scene at a time and as I write I don't worry about quality, style, or sense. In the evening I give that scene a 'light' edit; adding or modifying any descriptions, etc. The following day I again write 1,200 words in the morning and in the evening I would light edit the 2,400 words to ensure unity between the scenes and action. And this process goes on for 20 - 25 days till I get between 25 - 30,000 words. Between days 25 - 30 I would 'heavy' edit the story, adding what I need to unify and make the story 'pop'.

I call this my Salami Method because I keep adding to the story one slice at a time :)

Can you see any of the stories in your books being made into a movie? If so, what type of actor who would you want to play Craig Turner?

I envisage Craig Turner to be the basis of a wonderful TV series, though a movie would work as well. Craig needs an actor who could reflect his emotional needs; someone who is sassy, strong, sexy and a little mysterious.

Why did you choose to tell the story with two voices; Craig is the main voice but you, Doodis, also have a first person voice in the stories?

Craig Turner is always the main character, but there were many things he didn't know that I did. So I put myself into the stories every so often.

Where do the ideas for your stories come from?

From real life; I have met and have spoken to all the characters in my stories. They are all real people, though some of them are an amalgam of a number of folk I have met.

I always organize my ideas when I walk my dogs. I walk them twice a day, at least an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon.

What is your favourite and least favourite part of the writing process?

I love it all; in particular editing and finishing. I also love the spark of getting a new idea and putting it on paper; that flash of inspiration is so exhilarating.

What is the difference between good writing and bad writing to you?

I think a lot of writers take themselves way too seriously and you can tell that by the way they write. Too much flowery language filled with long sentences, and page upon page of scenery and descriptions with no dialog or action. I prefer writing that moves quickly and keeps me captivated with lots of dialog and action.

Connect with Alexander Doodis Online:

Website: http://www.Doodis.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/doodisTV

Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/doodisTV

