 
### Monosauce: 30 award-winning monologues

### By Pete Malicki

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2016 Pete Malicki

### The moral right of the author has been asserted

### All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

### All rights reserved.

### No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher, nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

### ISBN: 9781370047109

### Title: Monosauce

### Author: Pete Malicki

### Publisher: Smashwords, Inc.

### Pete Malicki

### www.petemalicki.com

### petemalicki@gmail.com

### 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 your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table Of Contents

Introduction

Performance rights and royalties

The Monologues

A Psychopath

Apocalypse Soon

Australia: Danger Island

Captain Everything

Checkout

Cogs in Something Bigger

Conception Control

Cry For Me

Darkest Moment

Digging Deep

Disgusted

Dragula

Frenemy

Keep Calm And Go Kill Yourself

My Knight In Dull Armour

"My Name Is Steve" "Hi Steve"

Quiet Friday

Screams And Whispers

Shallow, Quick

Spam For Dummies

That Time Harold Borgenstein Went Speed Dating And Got Taken Over By All Of The Greek Gods

The Devil's Aftershave

The Flowers

The Happiest Day Of My Life

The Key

The Long Game

The Rise Of Sir Edmund

The Story Of Darling Brown

Unexpected Turns Of Events

V.D.

About Pete Malicki

Other Titles by Pete Malicki

Connect with Pete Malicki

Introduction

Monologues are a fast-growing area of theatre, with new opportunities to perform them popping up left, right and centre.

Most actors only learn short monologues for auditions. Equally, most monologues you come across are written expressly for this purpose, with a typical duration of 1-3 minutes. Longer monologues – from 5-10 minutes and onwards – aren't all that easy to find and the majority of actors don't know one by heart.

This is _not_ a good thing. There's no excuse for an actor _not_ to have at least one comedic and one dramatic monologue ready to go at all times. From a career perspective, it's beyond _undesirable_ if they don't – it's borderline _negligent_.

Why such a strong statement?

An actor who doesn't have monologues in their repertoire is like a musician who doesn't know any songs. They might be good at what they do but it will be hard for them to prove it.

Monologues provide an opportunity for an actor to showcase their work, putting them alone in the spotlight to demonstrate just how good they are. They are not designed for _auditions,_ which are usually done in front of a small panel; they are designed for _performance_ , meaning they are something you can put in front of an audience of any size. They are easily transportable, rarely being dependent on props and costumes (since we have mime and imagination to compensate) and never reliant on other actors being around. There are many thousands of festivals around the world which produce monologues, providing a platform for any actor who wants an audience. A monologue is the perfect vehicle for you to show off your stuff.

On top of that, many drama students around the world are often required to perform monologues and it's incredibly difficult to find good pieces which are longer than 2-3 minutes.

As a playwright, International Literary Manager, and former Festival Director of the world's largest short play festival (Short+Sweet Sydney), I know for sure there is a great market need for quality monologues. Quite simply, it's hard to find good ones. There are many out there but they're often weak on story and character, therefore not providing the raw materials an actor needs to shine. I had an epiphany when actor after actor told me they struggled to find a piece they liked: I realised I could help them!

So I moved the focus of my writing away from novels and full-length plays and onto monologues, emphasising rich characters and original, engaging stories that stay with you well after the performance. That said, actors thrive when they're having fun on stage, so there are also a few "silly" pieces in here which are simply designed to make people laugh.

I've been fortunate enough to have these monologues produced over 600 times around the world and win 19 major awards from them. What's more, 17 actors have won major awards from performing them. As my main aim is for people to enjoy watching and performing them, I'm glad to be on the right track.

For this volume, I've collated my best 30 pieces for you. Drama, comedy, male monologues, female monologues, gender-neutral monologues, good silly fun and dark serious stuff – this book has it all. All ages, races, genders, sizes, and personalities are catered for. And it's formatted for performance so you can print the scripts and start rehearsing.

Do yourself a favour. Learn one of these pieces. The next time someone says, "So you're an actor eh? Show me what you can do," you'll know exactly what to show them.
Performance rights and royalties

Please note that purchasing this volume does _not_ automatically grant you the right to perform these monologues.

To request performance rights, please contact the author directly on petemalicki@gmail.com and send him an email with the following information:

  * What monologue(s) would you like to perform

  * What is the event

  * Where is it

  * When is it

  * Any other details

Performance rights are almost always granted after this information has been provided.

In regards to royalty payments, a typical price is 25 Australian dollars per performance for commercial events. High school performances, speech and debate performances and fundraising events for _registered charities_ often do not incur a royalty fee. Do bear in mind that writing is part of Pete's livelihood and royalty payments – no matter how small – are always appreciated.

The key thing is to contact the author. He'd love to know when his work is being performed.

Thanks.
A PSYCHOPATH

Male

Character: Theo, late thirties, skinny-normal build.

Theo sits. He is largely unemotional and speaks with a wry, sardonic tone throughout. The lights come up and he studies the audience before speaking.

People have called me a hero, a killer, a saint and a psychopath. They even used to say the first three all in the same sentence: hero, killer, saint.

Maybe you're thinking "army." Prancing around the desert saving his country from towelheads. That ain't me. I don't give three tosses about my country and I sure as hell don't want to die for it. I'm not a cop or a bodyguard or anyone else where you'd expect "killer" and "hero" to go together.

My name is Mark Theo Carter and until recently I lived a completely unremarkable life. Last five years I hardly worked a day and more or less lived off welfare. I'm not a _stupid_ person, but I'll be the first to admit I'm inherently lazy. If someone else wants to do something for me I'm not going to get in their way. The only thing most of you would find interesting about my last five years is that I killed sixteen people. Only got charged for four of them but that was more than enough for the life sentence.

I did the first one not too long after I quit my job. My latest de facto relationship had just broken down and I was going through some shit. Killing someone wasn't exactly on my things-to-do list but, you know, the right situation crops up and you never know what might happen.

It was late at night on a Wednesday. There I was walking through Hyde Park when I come across what looks like a couple of teenagers having a root. Not many people go in the dark spots around here but I always walk in a direct line to where I want to go. When I get closer I see the guy has his hand clamped down on the girl's mouth and there's something glinting in the lamplight. He sees me and freaks a bit, holding what I can now see is a knife at her throat. "Fuck off or I cut the bitch," he says.

What a charmer. I keep walking towards him. She can't move her head but her terrified eyes fix on me. He gives me that "second and last warning" bullshit so I say to him, "You ever done this before, boy? You're holding that little butter knife like you're ready to spread some vegemite on your toast." I'm real close now. I can see he's still got his pants on. "If you don't mind me getting her a little messy I can show you a trick or two with your Swiss Army."

The guy stares at me. He recognises a stronger male. The girl's so scared she can't move a muscle, let alone work up the breath for a good scream. I crouch down beside her and look the guy straight in the eyes. He's curious so he hands me the knife.

I feel this overpowering hatred take control of me. This sensation is way too strong for me to deal with and I need to get rid of it. Fast. I grab the knife and it's over in a second. His throat is gashed open and he collapses in a heap of bleeding dead shit. I pull his body away from the girl and offer her my hand. She lies there whimpering for almost a minute before I pull her to her feet and send her on her merry way.

Got off without so much as a wrist slap for this one. Girl told the court he attacked me and I somehow managed to take his weapon and defend myself. Media called me a hero and the girl's family were ready to bloody knight me.

The second guy didn't get me quite the same reception. It was an accident, but he's one of the four I was charged for icing. I'd been helping my brother out loading electronics into his store at 3am. Drove off when I was done but came back ten minutes later because I forgot my wallet. Now there's this guy in there stuffing cameras into a garbage bag. "Oy!" I said, and he spins around to find my fist breaking his nose.

I thought it'd be over in two seconds but this guy was tough. He hit me right back and we ended up on the floor. I rolled on top of him and grabbed a fistful of his Fabio hair. Made it real easy to smash his head into the ground. It was years later before they pinned it on me; maybe if I hadn't have done him I might not have got life.

Before my trial, the shrinks all agreed I was a psychopath. Most people wouldn't have the first clue what this is. You see movies with complete crazies killing people at random or making skin suits or whatever, but that's not what a psycho is. Quite simply, we're people who don't feel guilt, remorse or empathy. That's the biggest distinction between me and you. It doesn't mean we're naturally wired to kill or that we enjoy it or seek it out, we just don't feel anything when it happens. It's like having a cup of tea.

Oh what's that look on your faces? I know you all came here to feel superior but it's a little bit early for your holier-than-thou act to start. I was a saint for the first twenty-eight years of my life, you know. Didn't hardly hurt a fly. The rapist set me off and it was only after him that I killed people. In my early twenties I actually worked at a charity helping the poor. I volunteered one evening a week at an animal shelter _and_ I was a Lifeguard. I never felt anything for any of these causes but your intellect and your emotions are quite separate things, so I did what I thought was right even though I didn't get the thrill of do-goodery all you would have.

The third guy was on a train. He was listening to that awful fucking doof doof music real loud on his phone and using his keys to graffiti the walls. The kid was getting under my skin so I pushed him in the shoulder and told him to cut that shit out. He said "Don't touch me, cunt" and kept at it.

I don't like being called names so I took his keys and put them out the nearest window. He took a swipe at my face and a minute later I've choked the little dick to death.

Four, five and six were all in a similar fashion. Young fuck-up type guys doing something anti-social in my face who didn't like it when I told them to stop. Pretty easy to finish what they started with me. Had one guy blow smoke in my face and put his cigarette out on my arm when I told him off for it. I actually enjoyed icing him.

Theo pauses and looks at a few audience members.

Okay, I know what you're thinking. This is where the line's no longer blurry. Theo's crossed all the way through the grey and he's nothing but pure psycho now. Starting fights and icing losers them is pretty uncool, yeah? Well you know what? I don't think you're all that great yourselves. Go on, who of you have ever helped a homeless? Like, _really_ helped one. Given them a grand or two or a place to stay. You're all middle class – you could do it if you wanted to. How many of you eat meat? You all know what goes on there. Overcrowded cages, diseases, Indonesian fucking abattoirs. A torturous life and a worse death but you turn a blind eye because it tastes good, right? Look at your clothes. Child labour, slave wages. You say you care, but you're still wearing the shit. Me, I'm a psychopath. I have a physiological reason not to give a toss about the above inhumanity we're all a part of. Don't you reckon that makes you kinda worse than me?

Anyway, you all didn't come to find out how miserable _you_ are. This is your Psych 101 with Theo Carter and his sixteen victims. Seven was drunk and picked a fight with me, which I well and truly won. Eight and nine were drug dealers from my old high school peddling shit in my neighbourhood. I told 'em where to go and one of them pulled a gun, so I shot them both in the laneway near my unit. Ten was... what? Is this boring you? Want me to skip ahead?

Fine, so the last guy was known to me. I used to get Christmas cards from him after I saved his life eight years back. He was down at Bondi and got his stupid arse caught in a rip, so being a Lifeguard it was up to me to rescue him. This guy bought me and the others a few drinks to thank me for the extra life. Seemed like a decent fella.

A few years later, he bumps into my friend Sam from the surf club. Buys her a few drinks, snogs her, ends up taking her home. She gets cold feet as the beers wear off but he doesn't take no for an answer so he rapes her a couple of times. She's too chicken to go to the cops so he gets away with it.

I see him all these years later on Pitt Street. I saved this fucker's life and he thanks the world by sexually assaulting my friend. So I ask myself, "Why help people?" If this prick had drowned, he wouldn't've been around to diddle Sam. It made me realise I could do society a much bigger favour by icing people I _know_ are bad than saving ones who may or may not be good. A dead scumbag is a dead scumbag, but a living person could do anything. So I took out the only weapon I had – a pen – and I stabbed this guy in the neck right in the middle of Pitt Street. Everyone started screaming and he fell onto the ground and tried to crawl away, bleeding all over the damn place. I watched him for three whole minutes before some cop had his gun in my face. Before you know it, I'm in the slammer with a life sentence.

Anyway, that's my story. Make of it what you will and judge me as much as you see fit. God knows I'm judging _you_ hypocritical shitbags.

I'm Theo Carter: hero, killer, psychopath.
APOCALYPSE SOON

Male/Female

Character: a young university student.

I can't find the milk. I've been up and down each aisle five times but there's no milk anywhere. There's no one in here which I should probably find strange but I don't. I go back to aisle three and check behind the Oreos. Oh hey, it's the milk. Who put it there? I reach in and grab two litres.

Something smashes behind me. I turn. My heart almost turns to lead when I see the man. His clothing is torn, his hair looks like it's been ripped half out, his arms are bloody. He staggers towards me, eyes glazed and unblinking. Then he says, "Brains!" I drop the milk and back away, and he starts stumbling faster. I turn to run and another bloodied man grabs me and tries to bite my neck.

Screams. Confused for a moment before finding bearings.

That's the fourth time this week. I don't normally have dreams of any kind but this last week has been nightmare after nightmare. Mum comes in. "Honey, you okay?"

"Yes mum."

"That's the fourth time this week."

This is already established. I send her away and step into the shower to rinse off the sweat and maybe a little pee. A bit later I call my girlfriend. "Hey Jules, how you?" ( _pause_ ) "Yeah, I'm alright." ( _pause_ ) "Nah, I'm alright. It's... yeah, another one of those dreams." ( _pause_ ) "Jesus, yes it's the fourth time this week. Did I make that my Facebook status or something?" ( _pause_ ) "I'm so damned tired but I have to stay awake through uni."

This all started because of movies. Every second Sunday Jules and me do a themed movie marathon. First one ever was Pixar movies, then obvious stuff like _Star Wars_ and _Lord of the Rings_. We've done heaps and heaps of TV series and we even did the entire Fast And Furious franchise. Most recent one zombies. _World War Z_ , _28 Days Later_ , _I Am Legend_ and _Shaun of the Dead_. Now, I am _totally_ not scared of zombies. What am I? A five year old? Zombies are stupid and impossible. But ever since we did this I've been having these really vivid dreams and it's starting to get out of control.

I head to university and put the undead out of my mind for a while. I sit up the back of Global Economics and watch the room fill up. This old guy Benson who has this creepy crush on me sits beside me and stares _discreetly_ at me for a long creepy minute. He totally waited until there were no other seats before sitting down so I'm stuck.

The professor is talking about how China is communist politically but fiscally capitalistic... exporter of cheap goods thanks to low cost of labour... low regulation something government something.

The key thing I learn today in Global Economics is that Global Economics is an effective cure for insomnia. I wake up when my spidey sense senses that Benson is about to zero in on my inner thigh so I jump up and run to the loo. I can't wilfully go back to that creep so I go to the library and try to study what I'm missing. I read a book called Twentieth Century Economic Policy in China, but all I'm thinking is "What would I do if a zombie came around the corner?" I'd... run through natural sciences and kick that wooden table in. The leg would be good for both whacking _and_ stabbing. Or I could make a break for the window past the self-help aisle.

What am I doing? I need to study.

The rest of the day passes unproductively. That night I dream I'm in class with Benson squeezing my thighs and staring like real deep into my eyes. It's more disturbing than the three zombies that come in and maul the Global Economics students. I wake up screaming when one grabs me from behind and starts eating my head.

"That's five times now, bumblebee."

I send my mother away and try to go back to sleep but now I'm scared of what I might dream so I lie awake until dawn. The day passes in a sleep-deprived blur. Two days later I have the dreams again, and this time the zombies are _fast_. It's utterly terrifying.

I have to do something about this. Jules comes over and we brainstorm ways to stop the nightmares. Sleeping pills? I'd rather not start at the extreme. _Increase_ my exposure to zombie films. What, immunity through acclimatisation? I doubt that'll work. Meditation, sex – worth a try – exercise, cutting out cheese, listening to Bach. Then Jules says, "Babe, I think you need to face your fears."

Fears?! "I don't believe in zombies Jules, and I'm sure as heck not scared of the _apocalypse_."

"Maybe _you're_ not but your subconscious _is_."

Now that was an interesting thought. I know zombies are not possible but _subconsciously_ I might be scared of the whole concept, just like intellectually I know all cola is the same but subconsciously give me a Coke right now damnit.

Jules looks around my room. "Move your wardrobe in front of your door tonight. If there _were_ zombies, they couldn't get to you. That way your subconscious will feel safe."

I follow her advice and block my bedroom door before I go to sleep. Funnily enough it _does_ make me feel safer. My dreams are sweet and filled with frolicking kittens, snow-capped mountains, an awesome round of laser tag and a really hot topless JESUS CHRIST A ZOMBIE JUST BURST THROUGH MY BEDROOM WINDOW!

I wake up screaming. Mum is pounding on my door. She can't get in. I get up but there's a lot of pee this time. "I'm alright," I say.

"That the sixth time this week!" she says.

I skip uni. Mum goes out so I don't get to ask her but I need to sort this out or I'll go crazy so I spend two hours nailing old fence posts I nick from down the street to the outside of my window frame. I take this super serious so I do one row horizontally then one row vertically over the top.

I don't dream that night. I wake up in my dark room, dress, push the cupboard out of the way, open my door AND MUM'S A ZOMBIE TRYING TO CLAW MY EYEBALLS OUT. Argh! Now my dreams are tricking me into thinking I'm awake when I'm actually still dreaming. Are you serious?

I move my cupboard and storm out of my room. Find a guy to install bars on all the doors and windows. It's going to cost three months of my crappy retail wages but it's the only way.

I call Carlos. Carlos is a short Spanish guy who is a hundred and ten kilos of pure, steroid-enhanced power. "Carlos? Make me strong."

Every day the nightmare creatures find a new way of getting to me and every day I counter them. I take my mum to Kung Fu. She's a black belt in four months. The zombies are backed up twenty metres deep and overrun the house. I buy a katana from some dodgy Russian guy on the internet. My dreams demonstrate that this is no good for close quarters fighting so I get my hands on a couple of knives. Still getting swamped so I make a plan to get a suit of plate mail armour. They'll never get through that.

Mum corners me a few days later while I'm dragging furniture around with my non-dominant arm and doing knife moves with my good one. "Honey," she says. Long pause. "Honey, are you being bullied in class?"

"No."

"It's just... all this army stuff. I found the crossbow, love. You're not planning anything stupid are you?"

"Stupid? No mum I'm just trying to get fit."

"By installing razor wire on the roof?"

I pause. "Best workout I've had in months."

I tune mum out and look her up and down. She's not in bad shape; she's only fifty-three and all that Kung Fu is doing her wonders. She could hold her own against the zombies, at least for a while. Would I be able to take her out if she turned? I don't know. Just because your mum's an undead monster doesn't mean it's easy to lop her head off.

In my next nightmare I've cleared the neighbourhood of the dead and I'm trying to build a giant wall to keep the place safe. Dream me is a hard arse now. A zombie – which had been inside a house I thought I'd cleared – comes out of nowhere and collapses on top of me. It's a big fat one and I'm trapped beneath it. Damn it. I need to cater for this scenario.

My greaves arrive a few days later. I drop out of uni to get in more hours at work so I can afford the rest of the suit. I'm spending a lot more time at the gym too, and please don't tell my mum but Carlos slipped me some special sports drinks so I'm getting totally ripped. I run for hours each evening so I have the stamina to escape a horde of zombies if necessary.

Seven months later the final piece of my armour, the gauntlets, arrives in the mail and the suit is complete. I wear it to bed and _finally_ I get decent sleep... for a couple of weeks. My nightmares keep exposing more weaknesses so I keep coming up with new strategies. Every day I become a little bit more prepared. Every day I get stronger, faster, smarter or otherwise more capable of survival.

People don't talk to me these days but what good are people anyway? Everyone I meet is a potential enemy in the apocalypse.

I start heading deep into the forest near our house and building fortifications there. A few rooms behind thick high brick walls. I dig a moat. Stock up on canned food. I collect years of supplies. _Decades_. I sleep here for weeks at a time. Then I stop going home.

People don't really come out here, but when they do they find me in full plate mail with a razor sharp blade or three. They don't stick around for long.

It takes many months but I finally feel prepared for the end of the world. When it happens, I will be waiting right here to slap it in the face.

Come and get me, apocalypse.

I am ready.
**AUSTRALIA: DANGER ISLAND**

Male/Female

Character: a young man or woman.

I wake up to the crackling of the intercom. The pilot says we're about to land in Sydney Australia where the local temperature is thirty-two degrees. Can you believe it? I'm in Australia! And I know he means thirty-two degrees _Celsius_ , not Fahrenheit; they have some weird way of measuring things here. As we land I see half the Americas putting on their heavy coats. Ha ha.

The guy at customs says, "G'day". They actually say this! Then he says, "How ya goin'?" Classic!

They're so friendly here. I go to the train station and try to get my bearings. "Excuse me sir," I say to a man in a suit. "Which way to the city?" He calls me "mate" a lot and even walks me to the platform I need. I really like this place!

I find my way to the YHA – Youth Hostel Australia – and settle in to my dorm. I don't mean to sleep at all but I sit down and two hours later I wake up when some crazy German girls burst in, giggling and touching each other's arms a lot. I half expect them to take their tops off, being Europeans. Sweet Jesus, they _do_ take their tops off! I'm so embarrassed but one of them starts talking to me. "Hallo. My name is Heidi und this is Helga. What is your name?"

Heidi und Helga turn out to be wild adventurers and we agree to go to the Great Barrier Reef on Tuesday. I don't realise at the time the Great Barrier Reef is more than a thousand miles away. This is really awkward as I don't want to go that far but I hate breaking promises.

I go to the Opera House and take about a hundred photos. Did you know the Opera House and the Sydney Harbour Bridge are right next to each other? I always thought that was Photoshop. I back into someone by accident trying to line up a selfie and she cusses and calls me a horrible name. "I'm so sorry, Ma'am. I didn't mean to. Please beg my pardon."

I walk the length of the Harbour Bridge. That was one of my two goals here. Walk the Harbour Bridge, and face the dangers of Australia. Did you know the most poisonous snakes in the world are mostly in Australia? They have deadly spiders too, sharks and and crocodiles which kill people every day, and most of the country is an empty desert where the sun will fry you to a crisp. I'm brave just for being here on Danger Island!

I make more friends at the hostel and meet some young Aussie guys from Adelaide. These guys are _really_ crazy. "Whaddya wanna do mate?" "Let's go canyoning." "Let's go skydiving." "Nah, let's go for a bush bash." A _bush bash_ is where you go for a bushwalk where there's no trail so you have to _bash_ your way through. They somehow just know from looking at me that I want to go on an adventure so they drag me along.

Deano, Robbo and Shorty buy a beaten up old ute and we drive south for half a day to get to this particular bushwalk they're excited about. I have to admit I'm a little terrified of these gentlemen. They are very friendly and outgoing – far more outgoing than I'll ever be – but they also seem to completely disregard every safety precaution known to man. They have no maps, no phone, no supplies, and they don't tell anyone where they are. No one can ever call me "soft" again after this adventure!

We go to a place called the Castle, which Shorty describes as "a tough stroll". I quickly realise that "tough" in Australian means "intense torture" in English. The gents are striding along and I'm puffing and panting and tripping over the millions of tree roots and loose rocks that make up what's allegedly the "trail".

Deano and Robbo see I'm struggling and hang back. "It's real cool of you to have a crack at something like this," Robbo says. I ask him what he means. "You're clearly not doing this kind of thing on a regular basis. No offense but it looks like this is the first time you've gone more than three K's in a day."

I tell him I don't know what a "K" is but I'm positive he's right. "You're a bit on the polite side, aren't ya?" says Deano.

"My momma raised me this way. She always said there ain't no way you can disrespect a respectable person."

Deano really liked that idea for some reason it made him insist on carrying my day pack. It didn't weigh too much but it felt like a truck had been lifted off my back. Walking is so much easier now.

Everyone stops all of a sudden. Robbo says, "Snake!"

I freeze. The boys form a semicircle around something I can't see. They laugh and poke at it with a stick. I'm terrified it'll come at us so I back away, trip and fall three feet down an embankment. Hurt my arm real bad. Shorty rescues me and for some reason they can't stop clapping me on the back after this. They call me "trooper" and "king of the bush". I really like it!

We get back to the car too late to drive home. I get the inside all to myself and the boys sleep outside under a sheet of plastic. Get back to the hostel the next day with both my boxes ticked.

Heidi und Helga are real impressed when I tell them about my adventure and we decide to go to the Blue Mountains on our way to the Great Barrier Reef. It's well out of the way but that doesn't matter. We go to a place called Katoomba and see the world's most amazing views.

We walk along a beautiful trail. The forest is thick and tall, with the widest range of plantlife you've ever seen. The bird calls are beautiful. Little bells, whips and chirrups. I'm in love with Australia. This place was what I was missing. All my life living in a bubble in Arkansas and now I'm finally alive! This is paradise!

Physically I'm struggling – my legs keep buckling beneath me – but I don't want to stop. Maybe we'll see a snake and I can poke it with a stick like the crazy Australians. We keep going and going and going until the German girls basically start a mutiny and refuse to go any further. "How about we go to those boulders, have a look, then come back?" "Nein! Every step forwards needs another step backwards."

It's amazing how quickly things can change. I had been an Aussie Adventurer for _one_ day and was already so much tougher than these girls. I tell them I _have_ to keep going and they're completely happy to wait for as long as I want. I leave my pack with them and say I'll be back in an hour.

The boulders are ten minutes away. There was a landslide almost a century ago and the cliff face fell right off. When I get there I have to say I'm a little underwhelmed. It's pretty but not as glorious as what I'd expected.

I navigate my way through to join the path at the other end. It heads steeply downhill for a while then gets a lot more challenging after it evens out at the bottom. Deano had mentioned this to me: "The first bit's for soft people. It starts getting real at about fifteen K's."

Still not quite sure what a K is but fifteen sounds about right. I keep going. It's pretty hard to tell which part is the path now. Now I'm starting to wonder what exactly "getting real" means. Does that mean "bush bash"? This sure is a bush bash!

After another fifteen minutes it's time to return to Heidi und Helga. I go back the way I came and it feels _way_ longer than on the way there. I mean _way_ longer. I check my phone. Ah dang! It's in my pack. "No worries" as the Aussies say. I keep going.

After thirty minutes I still haven't reached the boulders. The path is still really overgrown. It suddenly occurs to me I might have strayed off the main route. Dang! What do they say to do when you get lost in the bush? Retrace your steps? Keep on going? Wait for help? I retrace my steps but I can't see the way to get back up anywhere. It's too steep.

I keep looking and looking. This is okay, isn't it? _Worst_ case scenario I can't find the path but the German girls will come get me – or they'll call for help.

I start getting thirsty and _really_ regret leaving my pack behind. I call out, "Help! Can anyone hear me? I can't find the path! Help!" No one responds.

I sit for fifteen minutes. It's better if I don't go anywhere in case I get even more lost. But I'm too thirsty so I go looking for water.

I don't find water. There must be a river somewhere downhill so I stumble downwards, trip, hurt my ankle. I limp my way to a sheer cliff and there's no way I can get further down. I'm _really_ thirsty now. Shit. Shit shit shit shit SHIT!

I don't know what to do. I start climbing down so I can find water. Shit! I slip and fall and _really_ hurt myself this time. My leg is bleeding badly.

This isn't fair. Australia is Danger Island because of snakes and crocodiles, not dying of dehydration and blood loss!

I make a tourniquet from my shirt. I wait for help. Nothing. I wait and wait and wait but nothing happens. Except it gets dark and cold. I cry. I cry and I cry. Then I feel faint. It's night time, and I'm thirsty, and I've lost a lot of blood.

I feel faint. I feel faint.

I... feel... faint.
CAPTAIN EVERYTHING

Male

Character: a 14 year old boy. He is energetic and fast-paced.

It's hot and dark. I'm squashed in, barely able to move, my own breath the only thing I breathe in. I'm waiting. Waiting. And I leap!

I land on the lion as he races past, grabbing two fistfuls of his orange fur and squeezing my thighs into his side. He roars and I give him a hearty pat on the flanks.

We hurtle through the jungle until I grab a low-hanging vine, then I swing way up into the air and land in a tree. Adjust my loincloth as I wait. Oh, here they come – five four three-two-one BAM! I leap on the men and pull them both to the ground. "Take that, evil lion poachers." ( _as lion poacher_ ) "Noooo!" ( _as boy_ ) "Yeees!"

I tussle them up and take them both back to the sheriff. "Well done, Captain Everything. But we have a bigger problem than lion poachers. The princess has been kidnapped."

"Princess Prettyface?"

"Yes, Captain. Princess Prettyface."

"Do you know who got her?"

"The Bad Man."

I scowl. The Bad Man is... bad. Really bad. "Don't worry, Sheriff. I'll rescue her."

So I change into my flying cape and climb the Big Tree of the Jungle. I get to the very top and jump. I fall for like ten minutes until I have enough speed to zoom up into the sky. "Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, fool. It's Captain Everything!" I fly for a few minutes until I catch up to a pterodactyl. "Hey man," I say as I get into his slipstream. "Long time no see."

He says, "AARK!" ( _laughs as if at a hilarious joke_ ) That guy.

We fly past Mexico real quick and I land on a horse in Nevada. I buckle my boots on and sling a pistol over my shoulder as I ride into town. The Sheriff there is a drunk – naturally – and he's sleeping in the saloon while robbers run out of the bank across the road. They have big white bags with a dollar sign on them. "Where y'all going?" I ask in mah best twang. "Don't you boys know robbing a bank is a felony in these parts, and we _hang_ felons 'round here!"

One of the men whips out his pistol like lightning fast and shoots at me. I unholster my own weapon and shoot them bullet right out of the air. The next bullet hits him in the buttocks ( _snorts/giggles_ ) and the next hits the sign above the saloon and it swings down and smashes his partner in crime in the head. I go up to the one with the buttocks bullet and say, "Y'all messed with the wrong man. Now tell me before I kill ya like the dog you are: where's Princess Prettyface?"

"I'll never tell you!"

I punch him in the face.

"I'll tell you everything! The Joker took her."

"The Joker, eh?" I punch him three more times in the face for good luck and ride Catherine – that's my horse – down to the garage where I parked the Batmobile. Twenty minutes later I'm in Gotham City making enquiries with the Chief of Police. He's all grumpy and serious. "Captain Everything, I only trust Batman with this kind of information. What if you're in cahoots with the Joker?"

I narrow my eyes. Something's not right here. The Chief of Police is slowly moving his hand towards his gun so I quickly rip off his face and he's the Riddler. "No!" he screams. "How did you know it was I, the Riddler?"

"Oh come on. You've been trying to make an appearance ever since they didn't put you in the remake."

Anyway, long story short I get the info I need and before you know it I've snuck up on the Joker in his lair and beat a confession out of the lunatic. Princess Prettyface has been taken into the sewers. That's no place for a man in a nice velvet cape so I change into my plumbing gear and stand on a big green pipe. I go into the sewers ( _makes 'pipe' noise from Super Mario Brothers_ ).

It's dark down here. A turtle is coming towards me so I jump on it ( _'boing' noise_ ). I kick the shell and it takes out this whole row of weird mushroom men thingies and I'm all like ( _intersperses singing the 'underground' music from Super Mario Brothers with his next dialogue_ ). "I'm coming to get you, Princess." ( _sings_ ) Jump on a moving platform above some lava. ( _sings_ ) Eat a flower and shoot ice chunks out of my face. ( _sings_ ) Duck a fireball and run towards the exit. ( _sings one last time_ )

When I reach the big green dinosaur I run underneath his dumb fat arse and destroy the bridge and he falls into the lava and dies. Well, sort of. Giant turd never stays dead for more than like three minutes. But Princess Prettyface isn't at the end of the bridge.

Damn it. Where is she? I need a new lead. I head up to Baker Street in London. My best friend comes in. "Ah, hello Doctor. Are there any clues to investigate?"

"Captain Mister Holmes! It's been forever. Have you been well?"

"I've been... elementary."

"You know he never actually said that?"

"Well now he did. What about those clues?"

"Nothing, Captain Mister. But you need to know that Mrs Fountainpen on level seven died of a heart attack last night."

"A heart attack, you say? If only the body was still there for me to take a look at."

"Oh, it is."

"That's convenient. And unhygienic."

I go and investigate the body of Mrs Fountainpen. Lines on her face mean she's forty-five years old, the wedding ring on her finger won't budge so she's been married at least 10 years, soles of her shoes are worn on the inside which shows she's flat-footed. I can see from the crease pattern on her shirt that...

"Doctor! This was no heart attack. She was murdered!"

"How do you know, Captain?"

"There's a pen sticking out of her eyeball."

I reach down and pull it out. I've seen its kind before – a pen with a compass on it. This pen belongs to the Bad Man.

He's playing with me. He's leaving me clues because he knows I'll follow him. Normally I'd refuse to play his games, but he has Princess Prettyface and I need to save her. I _have_ to save her, damn it.

"I have to go, Doctor."

"Where are you going?"

"To the ocean."

So I head towards the coast. I pass through the Shire and one of those hairy-footed midgets stops me. "Mister Captain Everything! The evil wizard is trying to resurrect the dark lord from his slumber and take over the world. You're our only hope."

"I don't have time right now," I say. "Take my wand."

"Thank you, Mister Captain. But a hobbit like me doesn't know how to use a magic wand."

"It's not magic. It's semiautomatic; pull the trigger and it'll blow his geriatric brains out."

I leave the Frodo behind and trot down to the ocean. Trick my way into a pirate ship and start a quick mutiny so we don't sail off to somewhere pointless like Greece. "Captain Captain Everything," the men call me. ( _self-satisfied snort_ )

Fight off a loch ness monster in the Bermuda Triangle and kill ourselves a couple of Krakens for dinner. We lose half the crew to some sirens but fortunately they were just the oarsmen who no one had the stomach to fire even though the ship's had an engine for almost a decade.

That night, a drunken sailor leaves his cigarette lit and we catch fire. I'm the only survivor and swim to a shipwreck island. Grow a beard and catch fish with a sharpened stick for a couple of weeks. Then I stumble across an old lamp. Rub it a bit so I can see my reflection and track how the sideburns are coming along and out pops a genie.

"Master Captain Everything. You have three wishes. What will it be?

"Um, a billion dollars... maybe a spaceship so I can bust this sand heap... and the coordinates of Princess Prettyface."

The genie does a five minute song and dance thingy then grants me my wishes. An X-Wing lands twenty minutes later and I jump into the pilot's seat. "Plot in the coordinates to Princess Prettyface. Autopilot commence."

Things go smoothly until we come out of hyperspace and get attacked by Tie Fighters. I like, roll my eyes, and I'm all like...

_Sings the Darth Vader theme tune while interspersed by the sounds of laser beams and spacecraft blowing up_.

We arrive in the dimension the Princess is being held captive in and I land next to the Bad Man's tower of evil. I would have landed on top of the tower of evil but I'm not sure it was structurally capable of supporting a forty tonne X-Wing. Anyway, I leap the moat, bash down the door, kill the guards, domesticate the guard dogs, run up the stairs and burst into the Bad Man's chambers.

He looks up at me in shock and horror and _fear_. "You can't hide any longer, Bad Man, and you can't outsmart Captain Everything. Let the princess go or else."

"Never! If I can't have her _no one will_!"

Then the Bad Man grabs Princess Prettyface and throws her right out the window. No! Like a flash, I cross the room and leap out the fenster...

And I, am Captain Everything. And I, fly through the sky again. And I will rescue Princess Prettyface. | I take her in my arms. We land near a bush. She looks me in the eyes and I'm alive!

The boy pulls his shirt open on the final word, revealing a scarred torso. His glorious gesture changes as he shields his eyes from a blinding light. From here on in, he is scared, tentative and physically hurt. The pace is slower.

The lid opens up and I'm blinded as light sears into my eyes. I smell him first: cheap wine on his breath. He grabs my arms with his rough, peeling hands. As my eyes adjust I see a short white beard, short white hair, a scowling face, hunched shoulders. The Bad Man.

He pushes me against the concrete wall. I wait as he fiddles with the latch on the other box. When it's open, he grabs her wasted arms, pulls her out and shoves her down onto the block opposite me. She is naked and shit is smeared down one leg but I only look at her pretty little face.

The Bad Man puts the hose on me then ties my wrists to my ankles. I grit my teeth as he wraps the belt around his hand and shuffles back a few steps. If she looks away, he hits her too. Her dead eyes meet mine and I mouth to her "I will save you, princess."

I _will_ save her.

When it's over, he pushes me back to my box and I climb back in. It's about one metre by half a metre and I only fit by pulling my knees up and tucking my head down. Hardly a five star hotel but I'm used to it now. He drops some scraps in and swings the lid shut. The last thing I see is her face, staring at nothing.

It's hot and dark. I'm squashed in, barely able to move, my own breath the only thing I breathe in. I'm waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
CHECKOUT

Female

Character: Corine, a retail worker.

"How are you today sir? Just these?"

My name's Corinne. I'm a cashier at Coles. A "Checkout Operator." People hand things to me and I hand them back and take their money. Beep. ( _slight pause_ ) "Do you have Fly Buys? Fifteen sixty thanks." My name's Corinne and this is my thirteenth minimum wage job. I say hello and scan groceries. "Four forty change. Have a nice day." And yeah, yeah, yeah. I know it. Straight away, you're looking down at me. Dumb bitch should've gone to university or even TAFE and got herself a real job. What's a thirty-two year old doing working at Coles? "How are you, ma'am?" Beep.

At university, they'd tell me I have low SES. They'd say it's statistically unlikely I will change my socioeconomic status due to my income, education and occupation. And I have a kid, so that's about all there is to it.

"Eighty-two dollars, please."

Hey, I dodged the bullet if you ask me. I should be fucking fat like Sheree over there. "Do you have a two by any chance? Thank you."

Truth is, I _have_ climbed to the top. Job one was at the butchers. I got twelve twenty an hour and cleaned guts and bone off Perspex when I wasn't selling red-faced men and their pram-pushing wives steak and sausages. "Enjoy your lamb shanks." You think that's better than this cushy job? I tell you, this is the upper management of the service industry.

Beat.

If you can hear that voice over there, it's the Coles robot bitch who took five of our jobs. They brought in the self-checkout machines a year ago, or as we call them here, the 'free fruit' machines. See, you put your fruit straight into your bags... "Sorry? I gave you seven eighty, ma'am, it cost twelve dollars twenty and you gave me a twenty. I'm certain, ma'am. It says how much change to give you on your receipt." Sorry. Posh bitch can't count. You put the fruit and veg straight into your bags and walk away and no one knows you've nicked it. Still costs them less than five wages so they don't much care.

And that's the problem with the minimum wage circuit. We're nothing but robots being phased out by robots. I'm not just talking about the scanning and the giving of change, I mean the whole thing. We have a script, for chrissakes: "My name's Corinne and I'll be your Subway sandwich artist today. Would you like wholemeal, five grain, cheese or Italian herbs?"

Everything we say to you is word-for-word off the script and small talk beyond "How was your day?" is rarer than a customer who tips. My conversations aren't much broader than the ones had by that electronic piece of shit over there. "This was four sixty five and not four eighty, you reckon? One moment, please. Price check on Red Bull twin pack. Price check on Red Bull twin pack."

You know, it's amazing how much you can tell about someone in the one minute they take to pass through my checkout. This guy here is into porn and video games. No one else buys nothing but energy drinks. You can tell if someone's married, has kids, you can tell their income from their brand choices. How smart they are. How good they are at maths. "Sheree reckons it's meant to be four eighty. Maybe you looked at the wrong price tag?" You can tell half these women don't get fucked near as often as they want. Most people think they're better than people like me but I can see everything that's wrong with their lives in a second. The only difference is they get paid triple what I do to hate their jobs.

A few years ago I hated what I was doing much more than I do now. Job four was delivering flyers in the _suburbs_. Worked out to be four cents per house. Dogs would chase me and it rained all the fucking time, and those hardcore metal letterbox flaps that were impossible to cram flyers past... Job seven was the bakery. Didn't get paid extra for starting at 4AM and the prick of a franchise owner fired me for taking a bag of old bread from the skip. Next stop: Maccas. "Would you like fries with your unfair dismissal?"

Point is, I did a lot of shitty jobs and it hasn't been any better than Coles. Only place I can go to from here is... Aldi. Those foreign bastards get to _sit_ all day and their scanners are the total business. They're the Checkout Princes and they know it. "Welcome to Aldi, my name's Corinne. I finish in ten minutes but I'm not grumpy 'cause my feet aren't killing. You want a plastic bag for that bag of bread you'll actually have to _pay_ for one."

Here I am at the peak of the low-SES world, worrying about another redundancy. I have it made here.

Mimes scanning items.

Thirty to forty hours a week. Beep. Few bucks per hour over minimum wage. Beep. Decent manager. Beep. Close to home. Beep. Always know the specials. Beep.

The free fruit machine doesn't have a kid to feed or a lazy husband to cook for when it gets home. It doesn't have to feel bad for being a robot because that's exactly what it is. "Cigarettes at checkout four only, sir. Well there's no point yelling at me. I didn't design the store layout." Go and fuck _my_ self? "Have a nice day."

Why's it "store policy" never to swear at a customer? Guys like this angry bogan here get to say whatever they want to me and I have to bite my tongue. As cool as my manager is, he'd have me out on my arse if I dished out what was dished to me. "Cigarettes at checkout four. And why don't you take them home and stick one up your de facto wife's cunt so she gets to feel something bigger than a matchstick up there? Have a nice day."

Those thin-lipped Weight Watchers Woman's Weekly cows who sneer at you when you ask them how they're doing. "You know what, ma'am? Why don't you take that attitude home to your husband and call me from the emergency room after he slaps your ugly face in."

We need to learn to speak our minds before 'progress' takes our livelihoods. Let's say what we damned well mean for a change!

"Here's your burger, cutie. Would you like to cum on my face with that?"

"There's no sticky date pudding left because the manager's a fucking idiot and didn't stock enough, but if you're so totally devastated you're going to kick up such a fuss about it I could go out back and scrape some shit off the toilet bowl for you. Might go nicely with all those arseholes you licked today before you came here to pick on the wait staff."

"And you, ma'am. You need to realise that Diet Coke isn't going to make a difference to that humungous arse of yours. If you don't want to be so fucking fat then run around the block a few times and _stop drinking Coke_!"

Pause.

Will you look at that? I got myself all worked up. I guess it bothers me that it's only a matter of time before they give my job to a machine. It isn't faster than me. It isn't any better or worse. That automated checkout station is no different to a human cashier. Do they really need to wipe out thousands of jobs so people with shit miserable lives like mine can go back to the bottom of the bottom? These bastards could afford to keep us and it wouldn't make a difference. It's pocket money to them. Keeping us is... pocket money.

Alright, well, my shift's over now so I'm going to head home and cook. Whatever happens tomorrow, I'm happy enough to be standing at the _top_ of the bottom.

"I hope you enjoy your evening sir, ma'am. Thank you for shopping at Coles."
COGS IN SOMETHING BIGGER

Female

Character: A young woman who's recently become a celebrity.

I had no idea how all of this worked. No idea at all. That's all I can think as I stare down the barrels of a pure gold Duofold Parker pen and what I'm told is a 44 Magnum.

From the outside this world looks ridiculous: spoiled brats splurging on Lamborghinis and partying all the way to rehab. Marrying ex-boyfriends and popping out kiddies called "Blanket" and "Spec Wildhorse." I'm told to pick a hand. Any hand.

I was nobody a few years ago. Just a waitress who sang at jazz clubs on Friday nights. Didn't even make the minimum wage and often wondered if I should have met with that producer who wanted to set me up in the adult industry. I was discovered by luck. The right person came to a party at the club one night and six months later I'm a pop star.

Somewhat reluctantly, I point towards the hand holding the pen. It might be easier if he just blows my brains out all over the basement wall. I'm about to become one of them. One of those idiot celebrities with idiot personal lives for bored idiots to talk about.

A piece of paper is shoved under my nose. I'm told to sign before he makes balloon animals out of my intestines. I almost tell him they won't expand if you blow in them but he'd be too dumb to get it. I sign. He takes the contract, slides it into a folder and disappears.

I wait a minute like he asked me then head upstairs. Moments later I'm in the thick of the party again.

A couple of movie starlets come up to me with these huge, shit-eating smiles on their faces. "Oh my gawd, how far along are you?" "What you gonna call it?"

How do these people know? I've been pregnant for like two days! "I was thinking of Pixie Peaches if it's a girl or Rocket Racer for a boy."

They don't know if I'm taking the piss or being dead serious. It's hard to tell in these circles. I say nothing more and they give each other a look and leave. A movie producer appears from out of nowhere. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you. Have a minute?"

I have a minute. I'm still recovering from having a gun to my head so my schedule is more or less open. He leads me to a quiet corner and the whole room watches us from the corners of their beady little eyes. "It's a funny game, isn't it? One day you're Sally Nobody singing in a nightclub, the next you're Charisma with three top ten hits."

I nod as he reminds me how stupid my stage name is. "Let's cut to the chase. You're hot property and we want you as the lead in the sequel to _Coming Home For Death_. Contract's worth one mil and we start shooting next month."

"Um, but, I can't act. I mean, it sounds great, and I'm excited – don't get me wrong – but I've never acted and I, well, can't."

He grins and slaps me on the back. "Biggest load of crap I've ever heard. You're a great performer. Besides, when has being shit ever stopped anyone from taking a lead role?"

I'm dazzled for the rest of the night. When I get home, I tell my husband about the offer and he's over the moon. I don't talk about the threats and extortion. Not now. We make love and the next thing I know I'm in front of lights and cameras and everyone is trying to meet me and touch me and talk to me. I lose myself in the sea of celebrity again and I forget about gangsters with fancy pens and fancier firearms. My husband meets me on set and smiles to everyone and the magazines start calling him Charm. Charm and Charisma.

A couple of months into shooting I start to show. The Executive Producer calls me in for a meeting and throws a big bucket of show biz reality in my face.

"What the hell is with the muffin top? You sleeping in the goddamned catering van?"

"I'm three months pregnant."

"No, you're not. No one told you you could get pregnant so you're three months nothing. Get rid of it."

I'm so shocked I can barely breathe. I tell him he's got to be kidding and he says he has no time for a sense of humour and gives me a slip of paper with some numbers on it. I rip it up in front of him and he tells me he'll ruin me. I ask what the problem is anyway. He says they don't have a special effects budget to fix the bulge and the body shots will be screwed. I tell him to leave my trailer before I stab his misogynistic arse with my positive pregnancy test. He tells me I'm done for, leaves, and I never see him again in my life.

As furious as this makes me, I keep it to myself and never so much as sniffle in front of anyone. The director tells me he's very happy for me but we'll have to rethink some of the shots to hide "the evidence". We get towards the end of filming and it looks like the Executive Producer was all bark.

Daniel picks me up on the last day of shooting and he's stony faced. "What's wrong, honey?" "Did you sleep with Javier?"

I'm taken aback. Did I shag my _Coming Home For Death_ co-star? "What would make you say that?"

"The story and incriminating photos in _OK!_."

As if on cue, a paparazzo takes a photo where my mouth is open in shock and anger and my husband is scowling. The headline reads: "A little _too_ Charming? Charisma reacts to hubby's 'revenge affair' revelation."

We both know what's going on after that and do our best to ignore it. The "Who's the real baby daddy?" crap is pretty tough to stomach but in a weird way our deteriorating public relationship makes our actual relationship stronger.

Then, I get a call from my record company. They tell me my upcoming gigs have all been cancelled due to my pneumonia.

"Uh. I don't have pneumonia."

"According to the rags you do," says the head of A and R. "Sorry _Charisma_ , but this label ain't gonna tour an unwell pregnant chick and endanger her unborn."

He hangs up on me and I severely endanger my "unborn" by throwing half my living room into the swimming pool. Daniel is super understanding and even uses the excuse to add in that designer lamp he's always hated. We have one of those laughing-and-crying-at-the-same-time moments. It's kinda nice.

I shut myself off from the world for the next few months and slowly start to feel like a normal person again. My water breaks one ordinary day and an ambulance takes me to hospital. The media are thankfully absent but, of course, I don't get off that easily. I can't help but notice one of the midwives is the very same man who held a gun to my head and forced me to sign a contract no sane person would ever willingly sign. You know who this guy is? He's some kind of mafia goon. Thousands of perverts are placing bets on what name I'll give my child and whoever hired this guy has a _lot_ of money on me calling it Magnet.

My blood boils as I see this guy. You think celebrities want this idiocy? You think we actually _want_ to call our kids Dusti Raine and Daisy Boo and Heavenly fucking Hiraani? These people _own_ us. We are nothing but their pawns. Tiny little cogs in their enormous money-making machines. They pluck us out of nowhere and raise us all the way up to the very top of the world just to bring us crashing down in a flaming heap of debris.

No. Fuck _this_. I give birth like you wouldn't believe to a beautiful baby boy. I'm in Heaven. I wait and wait until I'm given the certificate to sign. The goon brings it to me and I write Thomas under first name.

The thick bastard stares at it and I can see the gears grinding away. "Go right ahead and sue me."

"The boss said if you don't call him Magnet, I'm to note him down as 'stillborn.' He said you'd know exactly what I mean."

"You arsehole! You're going to murder my baby? Don't you think the other nurses will notice?"

He grins at me, and I realise he has them on the payroll. My mind desperately searches for a solution and I blurt out the first thing I come up with.

"I'll give you two million if you let me call him Thomas and piss off out of my life. Let me quit show biz. You can have everything I've got in exchange for a normal life."

He tells me he'll have to phone this one through. He fumbles with a Blackberry and goes outside. Five minutes later he comes back in and dumps my boy in my arms. "Thomas," he grunts. "You'll be seeing me for the money."

I've just let a criminal extort two million dollars from me but I couldn't be happier. I have everything I could ever want or need right here in my arms and on a plane coming to meet me. I have my husband, and I have my little boy Thomas.

Tears of joy well in my eyes. I am Sally Nobody again.
CONCEPTION CONTROL

Male

Character: Sebastian, thirty-something-year-old small business owner who really loves his wife.

"Sebastian, what do you think about kids?"

What do I think about _kids_? I was _not_ expecting that question. What kind of a person feeds their husband an amazing three-course homemade dinner and drops _that_ on them when they've got a mouthful of crème brûlée?

"They're alright. Depends on the kid, I suppose."

I know she wasn't asking about my general opinion of children but I have to buy time. Vanilla-flavoured custard is leaking out of the corner of my mouth. She rephrases to "us" having kids. I grab a handtowel for my face.

"Yeah babe, I mean, of course I want kids. With _your_ looks and _your_ and brains and _my_ ... unchippable fingernails, how could we go wrong? Smart, beautiful and naturally equipped to play the harp."

Shit! I don't want kids at all! I can't stand poop and vomit, screaming, sleep deprivation and anyone who can eat three bags of lollies per day and not get fat.

The thing is, I'm a five. I'm in bad shape man, terrible shape. Every time I exercise I have to spend a fortune on chiro and physio. Had to stop jogging to keep up with the mortgage. My business is successful but not because I'm particularly smart. I just got lucky. I have seriously bad dandruff and allergies to almost everything that's in shampoo and my breath is completely immune to the most powerful breath mints. Fuck, I'm lucky to be a four. But Vanessa, she's easily a nine. Beautiful, master's degree in science, amazing body – like swimsuit model amazing – and good at everything she does and everyone adores her and she's basically perfect. I married way above my station man. _Way_ above.

"That's wonderful, hun," she says. "You know... there's never a good time to have kids... may as well get started."

Fifteen minutes later I'm having the worst sex of my life. I mean, it's amazing. Vanessa could charge five figures a day if she was in that line of work... not that I know the market value of high class escorts or anything. Anyway it's terrible because her sex moans sound like ( _moans sexily a few times then wails like a crying baby_ ).

This should make me softer than a McDonalds ice cream in the microwave but damn it, Vanessa is just too damned sexy. Barely seconds after she's said "let's have kids" and I've knocked her up. Fuck. A couple of weeks later, she yells at me and storms out of the house because I folded the fitted bed sheet the wrong way round and I have never been happier to see her period firing away at full blast.

I got lucky this time; my only saving grace was probability. The only thing I can do is never make love to my beautiful, _beautiful_ wife ever again.

I start staying back late at work. Like, 'til after midnight. We practically double our sales that month. This is all fine and dandy until Vanessa pulls me aside and says, "Hun, why are you working such ridiculous hours? I don't even get to see my own husband anymore." I explain that sales needed to increase or the company would be in trouble and she points out that I don't work in sales and all of a sudden she's suspicious.

Shit! She probably thinks I'm having a bloody affair! Even if another woman would touch me with a pool cue I would _never_ cheat on Vanessa. We make sweet, terrifying love and I leave the dishes in an unwashed heap in the sink for thirteen days until she throws a dirty plate at my head and thank Jesus she isn't pregnant.

Alright, I can't stay back at work, I can't avoid sex, how am I going to do this? I mean, I don't even _want_ to avoid sex. I could get a vasectomy. Have my scrotum cut open and my sexual organs surgically mangled. ( _looks at crotch_ ) On second thoughts, how about no fucking way. Um... well... ( _thinks for a long moment_ ) got it!

The next day I call Vanessa from the emergency room of the local hospital. "Babe, I sat on a needle! I sat on a fucking needle! I'm going to die of hepatitis."

"Oh my Lord Sebastian, how did that happen?"

I explain it had been maliciously placed in between the slats of the seat and I sat right on it without realising it was there. I even said that I must have had it pricking into me for two minutes before I noticed. If you want to tell a lie, you need to add in the little details that make it convincing.

The good thing about a potential AIDS scare is that it takes three months before your body produces sufficient antibodies to give a conclusive test result. Sometimes it takes six. I act really paranoid to buy myself maximum time.

Unfortunately, Vanessa wouldn't sleep with me _at all_ before the test came back negative. "What if the condom breaks and I get infected too?"

So I could either have a child or die an AIDS-ridden celibate. AIDS was not a good option. At least the kid might leave home at sixteen and nine months. My beautiful wife was not sleeping with me and it reminded me of when I was eighteen through thirty-one.

Six _long_ months later, Vanessa comes in to the bedroom after what must have been the best meal of my life. I swear she kidnapped a hatted chef and keeps them in the cellar. Anyways, she's wearing a sexy nurse's outfit and comes in with a letter.

"Hello Sebastian, I'm here with your test results. Shall we... open them together?"

She sits on my lap and opens the envelope. I'm not sure how well a hot nurse fantasy goes with _actual_ test results from an AIDS scare, but I go with it. She reads it.

Then she frowns.

Then she looks at me, mouth open.

Oh God, I don't actually have AIDS do I?!

"Hun, you have gonorrhoea."

"What?! How the fuck did I get gonorrhoea?"

"It must be from the needle."

"But..."

I didn't really sit on a needle. Where did I get gono-bloody-rrhoea from? "Oh yeah. The needle. Well, at least I don't have AIDS."

She takes a condom out of her purse and we have the most psychologically scarring sex I've had in months. I get a prescription for the STD and there's only two weeks before she'll want to start trying again.

This is ridiculous. I need to find another way to avoid getting Vanessa pregnant. I really want to tell her I don't want kids but I know she'll leave me and I'll end up single and lonely and desperate again.

And then the idea of the century comes to me. It's sheer, pure genius. I can't believe I skipped this and went straight to AIDS.

You can't get someone pregnant if you're having radiotherapy.

I just need to give myself cancer.

But... then I'd have cancer.

Beat as Sebastian ponders this.

Well, whatever the odds are for beating cancer there's _no_ cure for children, so that's that. The first thing I do is get a dozen phones from work – I'm a mobile phone reseller – and keep them on in my pockets. Have to wear a coat so I can fit them all in. I don't want to take up smoking so instead I go for lots of walks down to the TV tower. There's something immensely calming about staring up at a TV tower. I start taking my yoga mat down there and end up doing downward facing dog under the Channel 7 transmittal.

I go to the solarium three times a week but stop when Vanessa comments about how brown I'm getting. Do some googling and apparently alcohol can increase the risk of cancer. I'm not much of a drinker but I try the Russian thing of putting vodka in everything I drink. Then two of my employees take a photo of me sleeping at my desk with my pants around my ankles and try to blackmail me into a pay rise. Slimy bastards. They didn't realise they'd overplayed their hand until I sacked them both and rehired them at two-thirds the salary.

Then it all comes to a head one afternoon when Vanessa comes home early from the Zumba class she teaches. I'm standing with my head next to the microwave. I've put something in the door mechanism so it thinks the door's closed and it's been on defrost for fifteen minutes.

"Sebastian, what the hell are you doing?!"

I freeze.

"I, uh, I had a really bad ice cream headache!"

She screams at me about how strange I've been acting and she starts crying and I start crying... I mean, I stand there stoically like a real man... and eventually she demands that I explain what's going on.

I blurt it out. "Babe, I don't want kids."

She says, "What?"

"I'm sorry. I really don't want kids. I don't like them, they don't like me, and I'm not responsible enough to care for a dependent human being. The last four cats we got all ran away. Did I ever tell you I found Tabby at Mrs Wilkinson's house down the street? Tried to take her back but the little bastard prefers that old cow to me. Anyways, I just don't want to have children. I'm so sorry babe. I just don't."

"I can't believe you would do this! I love you. Do you really think I want you to have _cancer_ so you can get out of parenthood? Even if I wanted children I would still put you first."

I pause. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I love you and I'd still love you even if I wanted kids and you didn't."

"But you _do_ want kids."

"No I don't."

"You asked me, 'Hun, what do you think about kids?' Then you said that there was never a good time and we might as well start now. You want kids."

"But I don't. I asked you what you thought of them and you sounded so keen, and I love you, so if you want to have kids then I want to have kids."

Sebastian pauses.

"I only said I wanted them because I thought _you_ wanted them."

"I can't believe you, Sebastian. You are such a dummy."

"You might be right about that."

"Let's make love."

Well, at least there's a happy end to this story. "Alright babe. I'll just grab a condom."

Vanessa is already undressing on her way to the bedroom. "Don't bother. I've been on the pill the whole time."

Sebastian gives a foul look to the audience. The lights go off.
CRY FOR ME

Female

Character: Alicia, 20s. Dressed in black.

I'm Alicia, from Argentina. I moved to Australia when I was nineteen. Thought I'd do the world in alphabetical order but stopped when I realised Austria was next. It might sound funny to you but my proudest achievement is that I have a job.

The first few months I was a cleaner and a fruit picker but the work never lasted. It was hard to get a real job, especially as a foreigner with no skills or experience. Until I came across this ad in the local paper. It looked very much like a joke but I decided to call anyway. A man named Brian answered and after a few minutes I knew it was real. He sounded too legitimate. Brian told me they'd give me a trial and I cried with gratitude. He said it was great how much passion I was already showing.

My first morning came around and I went to a funeral. Some might say this is a bad way to start a career but I'm not a superstitious person. The deceased was an old lady by the name of Ming Chu Smith. It was a small procession and I stood near the end of the second row. I didn't know Ming Chu. I wasn't sad about a stranger passing away but there were all these people standing around and not a single one of them was crying. Half of them looked bored, like they wanted to leave and watch TV. This poor woman. She'd been here for eighty-nine years and no one loved her enough to cry.

Alicia starts getting emotional.

It was so sad. I mean, what's wrong with these people? This poor old lady must deserve at least one good sob. She was someone's mum. Someone's grandma. Maybe when she still had her own teeth she was someone's _lover_. She was certainly kind to animals. A good neighbour. I couldn't imagine how sad I'd be if it was my own darling Nana.

Alicia reaches the climax of her sadness then very suddenly sobers up.

All of a sudden tears were streaming from my eyes. I let out a noise. The woman next to me let out a sniffle then the woman next to _her_ chokes. Before you know it, they're all moaning and weeping and screaming "Why, God?"

When the service was over a man with red and swollen eyes came and gave me a big hug. "Thank you. Mum told us on her deathbed that all she wanted was for everyone to cry at her funeral. I'll put in a good word to your boss."

Brian was very happy with the report from Ming Chu's son and I passed the test. Two hundred dollars per funeral, they paid me. Plus a travel and tissue allowance. The work depended on clients but it was up to ten per week. Did you know over one hundred and fifty thousand people die _daily_? You'd be surprised how many people hire a crier.

The second funeral was for a middle-aged loner and I think I was really there to make up the numbers. It was hard to feel anything so I thought how sad it was that so few people cared about him after fifty-six years of life. I managed to cry quietly while his three relatives watched on solemnly.

Most of the time I would turn up late to avoid those, "How did you know her?" conversations. It was often difficult to find a reason to cry about dead strangers but I always managed it and the friend or relative who hired Brian's company would go home happy. Well, not _happy_ but...

One day I discovered that being a funeral fluffer had its dangers. They were burying one of the best looking guys I'd ever seen and I started my routine. A sniffle ( _sniffles_ ). A sudden sob ( _sobs_ ). A pretend cough to cover it ( _coughs_ ). The tears start flowing and I wipe my eyes with a wad of tissues. ( _begins crying_ ) I openly cry in deep, pitiful despair as this amazing, beautiful person I didn't even know or care about is dumped in the earth for good. It's just so goddamned frigging sad!

All of a sudden this woman has me by the arm and drags me away from the congregation. "So _you're_ the slut. You have some nerve showing up here."

"Who are you? I'm just here to pay my respects."

" _Everyone_ knows Rocco's wife."

She slaps me when I correct her with "widow." Turns out Rocco's sister hated her guts and hired me because she knew her sister-in-law would make a scene and embarrass herself. Unbelievable. The next day I was so rattled I went to the wrong service. Cried like I'd never been sad in my life until I saw the angry texts from Brian asking me where I was. He called and chastised me until I sobbed out an apology. We both laughed at the irony.

Things go smoothly for months after that until a prominent radio commentator dies and a dozen criers are brought in to make it look like he wasn't reviled by the entire country. I wonder what makes a person hate his fellow man as much as this man did, and how much everyone hated him in turn, and the whole thing makes me cry. The others who came with me haven't started yet and I think, "Really? These amateurs need their own crier to get them started?"

Before my grief has a chance to affect the people around me, I hear a commotion outside. I try to ignore it but it gets more and more commotiony and I realise it's protestors. Can you believe it? Security guards and funeral staff try to get it under control but it continues. People are too distracted to mourn.

I get up and march outside and see three rows of angry men and women holding signs and chanting. I scream at them. "He's dead, you idiots! Do you think he was a bad man because of what he said on the radio? Is that it? Well guess what. He didn't listen to you when he was alive and he's certainly ignoring you now. All you're doing is upsetting his friends and relatives and none of us have done anything wrong. What you're doing to these poor people makes you no better than he was. Let us mourn in peace."

A few of them looked down in shame. They didn't go away but they stopped chanting and I went back inside. The lady next to me gave me a big smile and a congratulations. "Thank you," I said. "Now start the bloody waterworks!"

The next week I got a call from a hospital in Argentina. My Nana had died. I flew home to say farewell and I was sadder than I imagined a person could be. The funeral was more or less like any other I'd been to in the last year except for one big difference – I couldn't cry. The person I loved most in this world and nothing I thought of could bring even one tear. "Forgive me, Nana. I love you so much I can't bear to spoil our last moments together with unclear eyes." But I didn't believe that.

When I returned, I told Brian I was done. He wrote me a beautiful reference but said he wouldn't give it to me until I did one last job. "But I can't cry."

"I'm sure you can. I'll pay you even if you don't."

I went and the second the service started I gushed like a broken water main. I could only think of my Nana and how ashamed I was not to have cried. What was wrong with me that I could cry for strangers and not the woman who raised me? Brian offered me an extra ten percent commission on top of my fee and I kept the job. Every funeral I go to is for Nana and every tear I shed is for her, but I still go home at the end of each day with a string of satisfied clients in my wake. Well, not _my_ wake but...

Okay, I'm due to leave for my next appointment. Goodbye, Nana. Thank you for the life you gave me. I love you and I will cry for you again soon. I will cry for you every day, sometimes three or four times.

Thank you, Nana, and goodbye.
DARKEST MOMENT

Female

Character: Jilly, 50s.

I hate parties. They're always so full of... people.

Over there is Samantha Hobbs, chatting away and charming everyone within a two metre radius. They don't know she cheated on her husband with _two_ men. There's Beck Brooke. _She_ stole a child's bicycle and gave it to her niece. Beck's talking about global politics like she knows how to save the world and plans to do it after she's finished the canapés.

Jono appears. "Jilly! This is Pete. Pete, my little sis."

A stocky man sticks his hand out. I don't take it. "Oh, hi. Sorry, I have a cold. Don't want to infect you."

Pete says no worries and touches me on the shoulder. All of a sudden, I am Pete. I'm drunk and screaming. "Who asked you what _you_ think? Huh? I didn't ask you... Don't you talk back at me! I will be as loud as I damn well please in my own house... What did you call me?" I hit my girlfriend across the face. She stumbles back and I press forwards and follow up with two more. She crumples to the ground and I'm Jilly again.

Jono and Pete are looking at me expectantly. One of them's asked me a question I didn't hear. I'm good at covering by now so I say, "Oh well, what can you say?"

They look at each other and I excuse myself. I weave my way through the gathering and into the bathroom, where I put my face under icy cold running water. I don't quite vomit but I sure feel sick.

I am cursed. The first time I make physical contact with a person, I become them when they were at their worst. I've felt the rush of adrenaline as I smash a beer glass over someone's head. The thrill of sliding someone's wallet out of their back pocket. I have lied, cheated, stolen, assaulted, sexually assaulted, carjacked and even kidnapped. The things I've done keep me awake every night.

I'm nauseous and want to go home. I've been here long enough to keep my brother happy so I go back out and tell him I'm leaving. He hugs me. It's the longest I've stayed at a party in two years and the subtext of that hug is, "I'm glad you're getting better, sis."

That night my dreams are tortured and I come to work exhausted. I tell my PA I'm flat out with the Dawson Project – which I made up four months ago – and shut myself in my office. If I wasn't on the executive I'm sure I'd have lost my job a year ago.

There's a knock at my door and in comes John Millicent. "Jilly. You look like death tied you to a tree and buggered you all night."

He used to deal cocaine and once sold to a thirteen year old. "Thank you, John. Lovely of you to notice. Do you want something?"

"Auditor's here."

Crap! Forgot about them. I head to reception and there's a young woman and a man about my age. I lose time when it happens so I use a strategy to touch them at separate times. I greet the younger one first with a smile and a nod, then step forward to shake the older one's hand.

I am Steven Holsworthy. I am fifteen and sitting in music class. Dawn Summers is at the front of class playing flute for her exam and I supress a laugh as she makes a mistake, then stops, then false starts, then rushes out of the room. I crack up. I switched part of her score for a photocopy of my butt.

The auditors are looking at me strangely and I smile at Steven. If that's the worst thing he's ever done he mustn't be half bad.

We go to the meeting room and talk about the joyous topic of corporate tax for twenty minutes. It's all fine and dandy until the young woman hands me something and brushes my fingers. I'm Chloe Wilkins. I'm texting my boyfriend. And I'm driving. I glance up and there's nothing on the road. I type in "lol babe, love you so so much." I hit send and look up and there's a dog in front of me. I swerve to miss it and... I hit a child. My stomach drops and my whole world shatters like a jigsaw puzzle thrown on the floor. I look out my window at the girl and puke in my lap. A minute later I wipe my mouth, take a deep breath, and drive away.

Chloe is leaning forwards with concern on her face. I look at her, horror on my face. There's no way she can know about my curse but as our eyes lock she knows that I know. I excuse myself and hurry out. I slam the door to my office and dry retch for two minutes with my head in a wastebasket.

Shaking and feeble, I call my brother. "Jono? It's me. I need to see that doctor. Mum's old one. I'm going to need something to sleep."

My brother gives me a number and they book me in for tomorrow. I leave work in the early

afternoon to "attend meetings for the Dawson Project." I need to clear my mind so I go for a long swim then power walk for more than an hour. Play online chess until two AM then fall asleep, utterly exhausted.

Thankfully I don't have nightmares; they tend to feel as real as the flashbacks themselves. I can't help but feel grateful that I still have sick leave as I wait in the doctor's surgery reading National Geographic.

"Jillian? Come on through."

I head down a corridor into Dr Forsyth's room. He's a skinny sixty-year-old with sparkling grey eyes. "What's bothering you, Ms Williams?"

I tell him about insomnia and stress and he takes my blood pressure. He touches me and I'm him. I'm administering a flu shot to an elderly gent. There's something in the shot. Something I put in there. Diamorphine. Enough to kill a, well, a person. It's not the first time I've done this. Not even close. I push the plunger and smile as the liquid leaves the barrel of the syringe and seeps into his arm.

"Ms Williams?"

I'm aghast. This doctor is a killer. A serial killer. "Dr Forsyth, have you been murdering your patients?" His jaw drops. I wouldn't normally comment but he was my _mother's_ doctor! "I know what you're doing. Did you do it to Edith Williams? Did you inject my mother with heroin?"

He tells me to leave. I go straight to the police station. I've never told anyone about my curse before but this man is a monster. I have to put an end to what he's doing no matter what it costs me.

But I don't go inside. They'll never believe me, what with him being a respectable member of the community and my total lack of evidence. Crap. I return to his surgery and wait in the street for over five hours for him to come out. He shuffles past and I start the engine. I look around and no one else is in sight. He crosses the road a few metres ahead. It would look like an accident. Even if I got caught, it would be worth sacrificing myself to stop him. I put the car in gear and pull out. I press down on the accelerator.

_Pause_.

I lived in fear every day for three weeks but then something miraculous happened. I met a guy called Jake at a work function, shook his hand, and nothing. No flashbacks. No visions. I had just made contact with a stranger and absolutely nothing happened. I was so elated I missed the absent look in his eyes as our hands clasped.

Four months later, I realised the significance of that handshake. Jake follows me home one evening and slips inside as I shut the door. I try to scream but his hand clamps down over my mouth. "You've been a naughty girl, Jillian. You thought no one would ever find out? Not only do I know what you did, I know you meant to do it."

"He was a murderer! He injected his patients with lethal doses of drugs. He killed my mother!"

"Sorry honey, it's a little late for the theatrics. You did what you did and you'll face the consequences."

" _You're_ doing what I did."

He sneers contemptuously at me and his hand clamps over my throat.

I close my eyes, lest I see one more person at their darkest moment.
DIGGING DEEP

Male/Female

Character: Kieran Johannsen, a young gold-digger.

Note: character says a lot of things under their breath to themselves. This is indicated in brackets.

Life is unfair. My neighbour Mark Grimshaw inherited a bunch of money from his Great Aunt Edna (I assume it was "Edna") and he used it to buy a Porsche Boxster. I drive a 1996 Ford Fiesta.

I'm not jealous of Mark Grimshaw and his beautiful Porsche Boxster but I think it's totally unfair that a guy who stacks shelves in a supermarket (I assume) can own a luxury car and I have to get around in a twenty-year-old clunker. That's why I'm looking for my own Great Aunt Edna. Not because I'm _jealous_ of Mark Grimshaw, but if that guy has a Porsche Boxster then I want one too.

I met friend Mrs Mavis Dalton at the hospital cafeteria where I work. She's a sweet old lady suffering from severe rheumatoid arthritis and I reckon she's only got months to go. Oh, "Hello Mrs Dalton! So great to see you. Look what I have. It's your favourite chocolate pudding. I made it myself." (bought it from the deli) "How's your health?"

I talk to Mavis for twenty minutes and she updates me on her beloved Mr Tabbikins. Even though I've never seen Mr Tabbikins I could pick him from a lineup of twenty tabby cats by his odour alone. Mavis Dalton's only daughter died in a car accident three years ago so she needs a friend.

On Wednesday evening I work as a bingo announcer at the local Club. "Eighty-eight, two fat ladies. Not that anyone here fits that description. Sixty-eight. Ooh, so close. _Legs_ eleven, phwoar."

They all love me there. I make it fun. At the end of each night I chat to whoever's come alone. I'm particularly close to Max Sutton who has stage something prostate cancer, and Walter Finkleson who's a different shade of grey every time I see him. He's gone through half the Dulux colour chart since we met in April.

Max and Walter aren't around tonight so I go introduce myself to Molly Alderley. "Hello dear. What's your name?" "I'm Kieran Johannsen. Two Ns and an E." "And what do you do, Kim?" I frown a little. "I'm the bingo announcer."

Molly Alderley frowns right back as she pokes around in her meat tray. I say, "You look to be in good health Molly. How old are you? Seventy? Sixty-five?"

"I'm eighty-seven. And yes dear, my health is tip top. Still on my second set of teeth."

I compliment Molly on her dentures, then she says. "What's your name?"

Alright, dementia. A dementia sufferer isn't going to know who I am, let alone put me in her will. I wish Molly a nice evening and head home.

Before you start judging me, all I'm doing is giving these lonely old darlings the one thing they're missing in their lives: some company. If that's worth their entire life savings to them, who am I to argue? That kiss on the cheek Mrs Bellevue gives me each week at the wildflower gardens is one of genuine fondness. And I really do care about how Mr Steinbach's Parkinson's disease is affecting him. You know the poor guy's signature looks like an angry spider trying to paint a Jackson Pollock? Half his cheques bounce!

Next week I have lunch with Mrs Tan during my break. "How's the hip?" I ask. "Which hip? One God give me or metal one Dr Frankenstein put in?" "Both?" "Both are terrible!"

I sip my coffee. Old Mrs Tan is supposed to be dying of something I can't pronounce but she's looking great. "Sorry to hear that Mrs Tan. I was going to take you ballroom dancing on the weekend." "Ooh, you such a charmer. Maybe weekend after."

On Thursday I play lawn bowls with Ernie Simmons, a retired engineer whose hunched back makes me think he was born to play this sport. Ernie barely left the house before I met him at Woolworths and encouraged him to get back into society. On Saturday I see Errol in the morning for tea and those invulnerable biscuits old people like to eat for some reason, then Mary at the nursing home at lunch time to help her cut her steak, then Judith in the afternoon for tea and more invulnerable biscuits. Saturdays are a real jaw workout. Errol, Mary and Judith all have cancer but they're all going strong.

Visiting the oldies keeps me on a pretty tight schedule. I barely have time to google the difference between Mark Grimshaw's 2009 Porsche Boxster and the third generation model I'll be buying.

On Sunday I knock on Judith Peterson's door. She's a different Judith. Judith _Peterson_ is my favourite and I drop in on her whenever she's feeling up to it, but she's got Lou Gehrig's Disease and these days that's not too often. I get a long blank stare. "Hello there young lady. What can I do for you?"

Uh oh. "It's me Judith, Kieran. You recognise me right?" "Oh, it's you. You're my son! Come on in Bradley."

I feel strangely upset by this. Judith hadn't shown any signs of Alzheimer's and suddenly she's so far gone she can't even tell my gender. "I'm not your son, Judith. I'm your friend Kieran. We met at Janet's Jam Stand at the church fair."

Judith stares blankly at me, then her lips twitch, then she bursts into cackling laughter. "You really thought I'd lost my marbles, didn't you! You have such a low regard for me you horrible child."

"You hateful old cow!"

Judith takes me inside and serves tea and lamingtons. She's been getting me to show her young people's things and today she insists we play a video game. I tell her she's going to hate it and load up the new Doom game. She's surprisingly into it, especially when she picks up the chainsaw. Demon limbs fly all over the screen and she cackles her head off. I give her a big hug when she runs out of steam and kicks me out. "See you next time Bradley," she says.

Next week I go to bridge club with Ethel Williams. Ethel was given six months to live nine months ago and she's still going strong. We're having a grand old time until Mrs Taubman appears out of nowhere and comes across to our table. "Hello Kieran. Lovely to see you dear. I didn't know you came to bridge club."

Ethel is stunned. "Kieran, who is this?"

Uh oh. "Er, Ethel, meet Mrs Taubman. We met at the knitting workshop run by Franny Jones."

"What are you doing going to classes run by the likes of _Franny Jones_?" Ethel says. "Are you telling me you're playing bridge with other people?"

"No no, Mrs Taubman's just a friend."

Mrs Taubman goes red in the face. "Just a friend? You told me I was quote 'The most special lady for a five hundred mile radius.'" (I said kilometre). "Now I'm _just a friend_?"

Before I know it, Mrs Taubman and Ethel Williams are going at each other's throats, walking sticks and Zimmer frames flying every which way. I jump up to leave, ducking a pump pack of sorbolene cream. It's a blur of false teeth, musty old blankets and exploding colostomy bags as I crawl to the exit.

This event finds its way into the local papers. They call it "Bridge-gate". I get a mention: "The fight broke out after it was revealed that local charlatan Kieran Johannsen had been trying to swindle elderly people of their life savings." What?!

None of them want a bar of me after this. "Mrs Bellevue? It's Kieran. Don't believe what they say in the papers." She hangs up on me! Mrs Tan comes in for a check-up but leaves without lunch. Ernie, Errol, Mary, Max – they all shuffle away when I approach them. It's particularly hurtful because it takes them more than three minutes to leave my sight.

Not a single one of them has anything to do with me after Bridge-gate. The only thing I can rely on now is that some of them forget to write a new will.

I actually miss my old friends. I meet new people but it's just not the same. The way Bill Knowles's pudding dribbles out the corner of his mouth isn't as charming as when Mrs Taubman did it. And I care _way_ less about Nancy Jones's Fluffy than I do about Mr Tabbikins.

One morning I wake up to the revving of a car engine. I assume it's Mark Grimshaw trying to make me jealous so I ignore it. Ten minutes later I get jack of it and go downstairs.

It's a Porsche Boxster but it isn't Mark's. It's a way sexier third generation model. As I stand at the end of the footpath the convertible roof starts moving back and... dear Lord, it's Judith Peterson!

"Hello Kieran," she says. "I read all about you in the paper."

I don't know how to respond. She beats me to it. "I'm dying Kieran. I have a serious degenerative disease and I've probably only got weeks to go." (She'll last at least a year) "I have no husband, a son who I haven't seen in twenty-seven years, no grandchildren. What am I going to do with my savings? If a kind soul like yourself wants my money then I'd rather see you enjoy it while I'm alive. Now, come and have a – how to you say it – _spin_ in your new car. That horrible neighbour of yours will be here any second."

I can't believe it. I stagger blindly to the third generation Porsche Boxster Judith Peterson has given me. I sit down in the driver's seat. Mark Grimshaw's going to hate me. He's going to absolutely _hate_ me.

"Did you really get me this car, Judith?" I ask.

"Yes I did."

"Even though I befriended a bunch of old people for their inheritance?"

"Nobody's perfect. At least you didn't poison their tea."

That would have saved a lot of time. "Are you really sure about this?" I ask.

"Shut up and get on with it."

I turn the key in the ignition and the engine purrs like a kitten. I look over at Judith's twisted posture, wondering how she even got the thing here. I say, "I love you Judith," and kiss her on the cheek.

Judith smiles. I pull out from the kerb, waving happily at Mark Grimshaw as he stares open-mouthed at me from beside his letterbox.

Suck it, Mark Grimshaw. Suck it.
DISGUSTED

Male

Character: 40s. Quiet and introspective but in an emotional state.

I hate cruelty. If there's one thing I've always hated, it's cruelty. I'm a peaceful person. I keep to myself, and I'm polite, and I never hurt others. By _others_ , I extend my definition to all living creatures. Obviously I eat plants, because you have to to survive, but I won't cut down trees because they're dropping leaves or whatever. I just want to tread lightly and be kind to others.

My hatred for cruelty started young. I was a small kid growing up. Others used to pick on me. When you're young, manners get you nowhere. The only thing that matters is your size and strength. Parents and teachers tell you to be polite and watch your language, but we're really just cavemen at that age. All kids want to do is dominate each other. It's a complex dynamic, but you watch kids play and there's always the bigger ones and the smaller ones and that's all that really matters to them. You only start caring about things like tact and decorum when you get older, and while I was the definite exception to this rule, it didn't stop me getting beaten up.

I was – and still am – the anomaly. I always hated cruelty. It disgusted me, right from when I was a kid. I was a small kid, and the bullies picked on me all the time. I took it on the chin, mostly, except this one time when I fought back. See, they say shy people are firecrackers in bed, and that still waters run deep, but all of this is really about repression. I'd repressed a lot of anger when I was a kid and those bullies squeezed it all out of me one day. I've even forgotten his name but he was two grades above me and he called me a pussy and pushed me every time we were near each other. He fed off my weakness, I suppose you'd say. One ordinary day he pushed me and I flew off the rails. Bam! I hit him in the face, his cheek tearing open like wet meat. I hit him three more times and he lost teeth.

Funnily enough, we didn't stay in touch. I'm sure he wears a beard now. As much as he deserved it, violence begets violence and I was disgusted by what I did. I don't know why I never looked up his name and apologised to him. Fear, I guess.

Being a victim, I was always sympathetic to the weak and vulnerable. So it was fitting that at sixteen I stopped eating meat. One day I was looking at a chicken breast and thought, 'This is the flesh of a chicken.' I was eating something's breast! It was like eating a human breast. I imagined my own ribs being torn apart and the flesh cooked. I am meat myself. Meat eating meat. It seemed so, so cannibalistic. I said to my dad, 'Dad, I don't want to eat chicken any more.' Dad looked at me funny. 'Why not?' he asked, tearing at his drumstick. 'I just don't,' I replied. 'I don't think I have to.' Dad frowned at me. 'Son, let me tell you something. Our God is a cruel one. He made life to be sustained by other life. That chicken eats worms and bugs and we eat the chicken. It's all part of a cycle.'

As compelling as dad's speech was, I didn't eat any more chicken, and this quickly extended to cows, pigs and even fish. I didn't sustain myself by eating animals. They're helpless and we can survive without them. Decades later it amazes me there's anyone left in the world who would still eat meat. Why willingly choose to kill when you could do otherwise? It sickens me, honestly. But I'm a kind person and I don't want to impose my beliefs on others. My dad never liked it, but he was good enough to let me go vego in a place where this was completely unheard of. Live and let live, he said, and that's how I live today. We can live and let live.

But I didn't agree with all of dad's philosophies. I didn't agree that God was cruel. God is the dictionary opposite of cruel. He is all about peace and togetherness. What I never liked was a hypocrite, like those madmen who blow up abortion clinics. You can't save a life that way. But what's even worse than a mere hypocrite is a monster. A disgusting creature that would hurt something for its own pleasure. Killing for food because you have to eat is one thing, hurting for pleasure is another thing altogether let me assure you. Violence, aggression, sexual crimes: they make me sick. I don't like to hear about this stuff, I really don't. It just upsets me.

I wanted to avoid being exposed to humans acting like they're still animals. I took up work in a shopping mall, selling clothes. It was all pretty reasonable there, you know, but the food court was right opposite our store, and I got so sick of seeing kids eating meat. They'd come in from their Pixar animation films filled with lovable animals then gorge themselves on burgers and fish 'n' chips. How deliciously ironic that they'd cry over Nemo then eat a fish sandwich.

It gets to me, you know. We stuff living creatures in boxes and cages, feed them poisons, let them drown in their own piss and shit, then hack at them until they die. Meat is not _murder_ as they say. The meat business is something _far_ more horrific than mere murder. It's the height of callousness and the worst of crimes and it dis _gusts_ me. It utterly disgusts me how we could turn a blind eye to this industry and live guilt-free.

I suppose then what happened was my own fault. I mean, of course I did it, but I was inviting it

on by being there. Bringing someone like me to a seafood restaurant is like asking a feminist to watch a football team rape a couple teenagers. But it was mum's seventieth and sometimes you have to forget what repulses you and do something for your family. We were at Dr Gills Seafood Emporium and I was well-prepared to eat a few plates of chips and a green salad. I could cope with that, right?

The smell hit me like a hammer when I walked in the door. The whole family was there – mum, dad, my two sisters, the cousin – so I put on my game face and joined them. Everywhere I looked was crab and lobster and bream and salmon. It felt like a war scene; friends were dying around me. There was so much horror. These poor things, having their shells torn apart by ugly women.

It's mum's birthday. Suck it up. Game face. I sat down and joined the family. I was doing everything I could to follow along. The cracking sound of crabs' knees kept distracting me. The kitchen was raucous. Flames and laughter and knives on chopping boards. It was so noisy. And the smell was disgusting. I have to go to the bathroom, I say, and I push my chair back and cross the restaurant.

The bathrooms are just past the kitchen. I hold my breath and walk a little faster. A woman and her husband are there. They're laughing. I squeeze past them, my head exploding from lack of oxygen and the stench that's sneaking into my nostrils. The woman's voice comes to me. She's saying it's a crime to serve a lobster that hasn't been boiled alive. It makes the meat harder if it's killed first. Disgusted, I go to the bathroom and vomit in the urinal. There's no way to flush it so I wipe my mouth and wash my hands and pretend it had nothing to do with me. I head back to my table. The woman and her husband are still in front of the kitchen. They're still talking about the same thing. It's hilarious, she says, watching the way they twitch around in oil before they die. Hilarious, she says. Hilarious. Being boiled alive is _hilarious_.

'That's a bit much, honey,' says the husband.

'Oh, don't be silly, dear,' she replies dismissively. 'It's nature. Life feeds off life.'

I had a moment, like I was back in primary school and bullies were picking on me, except this bully was nothing but a cruel bitch with no humanity, not a boy calling another boy names. No one was expecting what I did – least of all me! – so I wasn't stopped when I dragged her across the kitchen by the wrist. Standing behind and to the side of her, I shoved her arm deep into the vat of boiling oil. She screamed so loud every other noise was drowned out, then everything _making_ noise stopped. I wanted to scream right back. 'Hilarious, isn't it, bitch?' I wanted to scream. 'Isn't this so _fucking_ funny? I haven't laughed this hard in years, bitch. I'm going to put your fucking face in next, bitch, and laugh as you boil alive. You'll _taste better_ that way, bitch. Hilarious isn't it, you horrid, disgusting...'

I didn't say any of that. I didn't say a word. I pulled her arm out of the vat, the skin blistered and hanging loose and the oil splashing down to burn both our legs. The adrenaline left my body as quickly as it arrived and the full enormity of what I'd done practically drowned me right there. This would be the end of me. My life would be ruined.

On that day, I was the man who killed the doctor at the abortion clinic. I dropped the bomb on tens of thousands of innocent civilians to stop a war. I used cruelty to punish cruelty, and no matter what sentence the judge hands down I can never be forgiven.

I am thoroughly appalled with myself. I'm everything I despise in others. All of my virtue is nothing after what I did to that woman. I am as callous and cruel as those who would torture any animal.

I am disgusting.
DRAGULA

Male

Character: Dragula, that infamous Transylvanian. Born and raised an ocker Aussie, turned the king of the vampires.

Note: Dragula switches between an ocker Australian accent (noted in the script as "as Barry") and a Transylvanian accent (noted in the script as "as Dragula"). He throws a cape on and off to further highlight these two personalities.

( _as Dragula_ ) Greetings pathetic, unworthy mortals. My name is Drag-oula, Lord of Transylvania, Lord of the Vampires and retired Lord of the Rings. You are lucky to share my presence and those few who survive this night are the luckiest of all. You have paid to hear my story and so you shall have it!

Before I became Dragula, the tyrannical Transylvanian, I was known as ( _as Barry_ ) Barry, the thirty-five-year-old virgin plumber from Cootamundra. Me mates would say I pulled more turds than birds. "Whatever," I'd say, "there isn't a porn star in the world who's unclogged more drains than me." They slapped me on the back and laughed at me jokes.

I hated those wankers.

On me thirty-sixth birthday the boys found this broad at the pub and talked her into going home with me. I thought I was finally going to get me some but she was really under the weather and right when I got to second base she threw up in me mouth. Bloody uncharming stuff but I cleaned her up and gave her me best futon. Thought she might be up for it in the morning but she buggered off before I woke up. Stole me favourite pillow and got chunder all over me clean overalls.

Few months later me and me mate Jonno are in a Sydney pub and he makes this real interesting observation. All the pretty broads have a queer guy with them. It's like all these city chicks wear gays as wristwatches or something. I gets me an idea. What if I pretend to be a queer to get close to them? Jonno reckons it's a cracker of a plan so the next night I return to the pub wearing a black dress. Cotton On. Tight fitting around the waist, cut down one side. Made me bum look real nice.

I sat there with Jonno like we were a pair of poofs and eventually we get to talking to a group of sheilas. They were a bit rough around the edges but they kept talking about their friend _Simone_ , a model who'd just broke up with her fancy photographer boyfriend. Simone came in while I was sitting on a barstool chatting to her fat friend Lisa or Sandra or whatever. Lisa-Sandra says "Simone!" I turn around and lock eyes with the most beautiful sheila I've seen in years. I smile at her. She starts to smile back, but then she screams.

"Oh my god. I thought you were a monster! I'm so sorry. I wasn't expecting the beard."

I might've hit a few branches on the ugly tree on me way down but I'm a little offended she calls me a monster. But wait... this gives me an idea. A really good idea. An idea so freaking good I sell me house, pack up all me gear and catch a flight to ( _as Dragula_ ) Russia. I wear black clothes and grow my hair long and catch the train to Romania. My old life was lucrative so I change my Australian dollars into gold bars and lease a castle near a village filled with young women. Centuries have passed since the legends of old and the people are no longer scared. In fact, many tourists come to the area to see where it all began. And also for the cheeses.

I make friends with Igor, an old gypsy who lives by the river. I'm not sure his name is Igor 'cause I never asked but there's a high likelihood it is. Anyway, I give Igor an ingot to start rumours about a handful of virgins going missing from the neighbouring village and the seeds of fear have been planted in the fertile garden of the villagers' minds. Many months and many more rumours later and the word is out that Dragula is back

The mayor of the village calls a meeting ( _as Barry_ ) and I offer up me castle as the port of call for them villagers to come to. "It's big and safe," I say, "nothing opens those doors once they're locked."

We have the meeting and the mayor's rabbiting on about stakes and garlic so I excuse myself and go to the pisser. I change into me blacks and me cape and wait patiently, until... ( _as Dragula_ ) a young woman approaches. I pounce on her and clamp my hand over her mouth. She tries to scream as I drag her into my third biggest parlour.

"I am Drag-oula!" I boom. "I will drain the lifeblood from your virgin neck!"

The young lady faints. I whip off my cape ( _as Barry_ ) and stash me black clothes in one of them fancy tables. I run at the wall like a mad old bull and slam me noggin into the brickwork so it looks like I've been caught in a hairy scrap. I drag the young broad onto a four-poster and fan her until she wakes up. She's dazed and confused so I get straight to it.

"You alright love?" I ask with concern on me face.

"Oh my Lord, help me!" she replies. "Dracula! He was here!"

"I know, sweetheart. We had a tumble. He got me a good one on the cheek but I scared him off with... this clove of garlic I happened to be carrying here in me shorts. Thing is, he said he'd come back with some spray which protects him against it so you're not safe here."

"Then I must flee!"

That wasn't part of the plan! "No, you can't. He has a taste for your blood now," – see, I'd dabbed a bit of the gore from my head wound on her neck – "you'll be safer around all the others."

"But I can't endanger my friends," she protested.

"True. Then, you have to run as fast and as far as you can and he might not be able to find you." Then I paused, 'cause this was the good bit. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Nah, I couldn't even say it."

"Suggest it! I don't want to be his next victim."

"Well." And then I paused like me conscious was tearing at me. "Well, see, Dracula only goes for virgins, right? He loves the blood of an unsoiled maiden and all that. So if you and I..."

"Oh no! I'd sooner die than do _that_. I have to save myself for marriage."

You bloody well _will_ die sooner, you stupid tart. "You're right. It was stupid of me to even suggest it." I pause for a second. "What's that noise at the door?"

"What noise?"

I go to the door and step outside. ( _as Dragula_ ) Let me past, pathetic mortal. I will drink that virgin dry. ( _as Barry_ ) Nup. Not if I can help it. ( _as Dragula_ ) Move! ( _as Barry_ ) Oompf. That hurt. But not as much as this is gonna! ( _makes lots of banging and scuffing noises as he 'fights' himself. Speaks as Barry_ ) Take that you filthy bat! ( _as Dragula_ ) A silver cross! I have something upstairs that lets me get past those. I'll be back in five minutes. No... _ten_ minutes.

Then I stumble back to the terrified girl on the bed. ( _as Barry_ ) "You heard him, sweet cheeks. You probably won't even reach the front door of me castle within five minutes. But at least your family's here in me great hall so you'll be able to say yer farewells."

She hesitates, and I know I've got this one in the bag. "God... God will understand. He wouldn't want me to perish so young."

Yes! I move back over to the bed and we make some sweet love for at _least_ sixty seconds. I lean back and I'm about to take up smoking to properly enjoy the moment when she grabs me chest hairs and says, "That is _not_ how my first time is going down. We must do it again."

So me mates from Cooty wanted to know if it was worth the gold ingot. Three months and sixteen virgins later I'd tell 'em, "Too bloody right it was."

And that ( _as Dragula_ ), pathetic mortals, is the story of how I become Dragula, the truly tyrannical transgender Transylvanian ex-tradie who traipsed in on a Tran Siberian train to trick untainted teenagers into trading their tenderness for protection. Tremble in terror as I tear off into tomorrow!

_Dragula starts leaving. He speaks one last time as Barry_.

Or, do any of you broads want to come with?
FRENEMY

Female

Character: a schoolgirl.

Note: the character is being interviewed and pauses occasionally while the interviewer asks an unheard question.

Do I know her? Sure. We were BFF for years before she went all catatonic. She was my partner in crime, hey.

Pause.

Ask her therapist. I've gone through shit too but I can still say things like "thank you" and "hello mother dearest."

Pause.

In school. She was new and she comes into Geography. Miss Parker thinks she's cool and does the whole Donnie Darko thing: "Sit next to the boy you think is the cutest." Chloe looks at the boys one by one, not moving, bag over one shoulder, then sits down next to me and says, "sorry babe. It's not you, it's them."

She says she came here to avoid suspension. At her old school she stapled some sleeping mole's hair to the desk in music class then blew a trumpet in her face. Chloe's cool, hey, so I take her to meet the gang and she's one of the bitches from day one.

Pause.

I told you, she was my bestie. Sometimes she just rubbed me the wrong way. After a few weeks she catches on that no one likes Stephie, so she plays her. Tells her that Daniel Abercrombie – who's one of the few guys who isn't like hideously ugly – has a crush on her and Stephie totally humiliates herself be asking him out. The gang thinks Chloe's crazy funny but Stephie's always good to us even if she's a lame-arse mole. You don't mess with your own nest, hey. Anyway, she's new and she's already getting a bit too chubby for her uggies so I have to bring her down a few sizes.

So Cam-Cam has a party at her dad's third biggest mansion and we have ciders and vodka cruisers and a bunch of the least lame guys are there. I slip a little something into Chloe's Rekorderlig and everyone gets to see her get to second base with Spaz. I tell Spaz to piss off back to his mummy's trailer and we take Chloe home before she does something dumb. So now everyone thinks she's a trash bag and start called her Hoey.

Pause.

I realised what she was made of after that. Sarah Pembroke called her a slut and she's like, "So what, virgin? If I want some at least I don't have to go running to daddy." Chloe was deadly, hey. You messed with her, you messed with fire. That fat Goth bitch Ness and all her emo idiot whores started laughing at her. One day she's sitting with me in bio Facebooking on her phone. I see she's on some hot guy's profile. "You shagging that guy?" I say. "Nah, he's Ness's new boy," she says. "Serious?" I say. Then I see she's writing _from_ his profile. A hot and heavy message to Ness. Chloe strings her along for three weeks then gets her guy to tell her she's dumb and fat and dumps her. Wow – I'm impressed. On Monday Ness comes in with twice the number of fresh cuts on her arm than usual.

We are besties now and I'm the only person who can call her Hoey Chloe and get away with it. We pull pranks on all the moles and skanks and Asians. Ming Yu goes to the bathroom halfway through a maths exam and I take her paper when Mr Brady isn't looking and ditch it. She has a total spac attack when she gets back and Brady – who is super Christian and totally unqualified for this kind of thing – takes her outside where she wails like a Geisha for the rest of the test. Chlo "accidentally" pours Red Bull all over May Tan's laptop and it's screwed as. We end up pranking all the lamest people in school and loving it. I get her to leave Stephie off and they even become friends. Some of Chloe's cool rubs off on her. Yeah, everyone's pretty chilled, hey.

Pause.

No, I never _hated_ her. It's just, she stepped on my turf. You were at our school – we all know Goz was the only guy in our grade hot enough for someone like me to hook up with. Chlo bumps into him during summer hols and they end up shagging for a week before word gets to me. I'm pissed at her, but she didn't know he was mine. But she _did_. I drive her to school one day and she says, "You like Goz, don't you?" "Whatevs," I say. "You're cool with it then?" she says. "What _evs_ , mole. He's so thick even the teachers give him shit. Who cares how hot he is, hey." Then she says, "Cool. Stephie told me you fancied him so I'm glad you're cool with it."

The bitch, hey. If it was an accident it'd be cool but she did it to mess with me. I corner Stephie and I say, "What the hell?! Why'd you tell Ho-bag I liked Goz?" Stephie says she didn't think it was a biggee. "Well she's shagging him now, so yeah, it kinda is." Then Stephie says, "babe, she's doing it because you spiked her drink at Cam-Cam's."

The _bitch._ If she wants to be nice to my face then screw with me to my back, I'll show her how hot fire can burn. She wants a frenemy, I'll be the best one she ever had. School starts again and I have a real good one in the bag. Actually, it was Chloe's idea and we were going to do it to this total mole from Kings. I write this letter: "My darling John. It's been the best month of my life. I already miss feeling your hands on my naked body. Blah blah blah, I love you always, Chloe." I skip school and drive round to Small Street and put the note in Mr Brady's letterbox. He stays back to tutor the nerds and retards on Mondays so his wife will defo get it. Brady _always_ talks about his fat mole wife and they have like eight kids. You know what we called them? The Brady Ugly Bible Retards. Anyways, this is totally going to get Chloe for hooking up with Goz.

Brady isn't at school the rest of that week. I tell no one, not even Jules, who's totally good for anything. Chlo doesn't say anything; she has no idea. I ask Miss Parker, who is way too much of a try hard to have any discretion, "Where's Brady, Miss?" Miss Parker's like, "he's off sick." I say, "come on, he's never sick." She leans in and whispers, "marital problems." Lady Gaga can't read my poker face when she says this.

I'd been thinking of telling Chlo so maybe we could go snoop on Brady and see what was going on. Sunday at 3pm, speak of the devil, she texts me. "OMG I," is all it says. I text back to see if she's okay. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. Then she writes, "Apologies. I mistakenly sent that to you." Like, WTF?

I wonder who has her phone as I drive round to her place. I pull up and there's a car in her drive. Shit! I know whose it is. I run to her front door and I can hear muffled noises, a man's angry voice and slapping and banging sounds. I'm terrified but I have to do something so I kick the door three times and yell in my deepest, meanest voice, "Police!" Nothing. Then five seconds later there's an enormous bang and I feel like a thunderclap has bitch-slapped me. As much as I want to bail, my girl is in some serious trouble and I open the door. Chloe's in the living room wearing nothing but a bra and a skirt and covered in blood. I scream. She looks up at me and I see she's okay. Then I see Brady. I'm so stunned I just stare and stare and stare and before I know it there are cops everywhere and I'm being hauled away in an ambulance.

Pause.

She never told _anyone_ what happened. She hasn't said a word since. Brady's wife – or like, widow now – told the police about their "affair" and they believed her even though she destroyed the letter which "Chloe" wrote. Apparently that gives her motive. But if she really was shagging Brady, how's that make her want to kill him? It makes no sense at all. All the note does is give _him_ motive for being there, which was clearly to do whatever horrific shit he was in the middle of when I knocked on the door.

Pause.

No one "talks" to her any more you retard, but no, I don't any more. I tried for weeks but it got me nowhere.

Pause.

She tries to mask any guilt she might feel for her part in what happened by moving the blame onto Chloe.

Tell the cops about the letter? Why should I? Far as I'm concerned, the bitch owes me a "thank you" for saving her life. She's not getting anything out of me until she says it.
KEEP CALM AND GO KILL YOURSELF

Male

Character: Oscar, high blood pressure.

Hi. My name is Oscar. It's nothing personal, but I hate you.

How can me hating you _not_ be personal, you wonder? It's easy – I hate pretty much everyone and by its very definition you can't take a generalisation personally.

I wish I wasn't like this but my life these days is like that telemarketer who calls at six thirty when you're trying to make dinner. My shrink says I should try to adopt an optimist... sorry, boss is coming.

"Good morning sir. How are you today?"

"Oscar. Where's the report I asked you for?"

I'm fine thanks, David. "Which report, sir?"

"The Finch report. Jesus Oscar, I don't need a PA who needs to be told everything twice."

"I don't remember the request, sir. Did you email it?"

"Yes!"

"To Oscar Johnson or Oscar Wilson?"

You'd think a top corporate lawyer would remember which of the two Oscars working for his company had been his PA for three years. But wait, here comes the apology.

"Just bring me the damned Finch report."

Oh, that's okay sir. An easy mistake. "Aye aye."

I log on to the network and copy the file from his personal drive onto his desktop. Sometimes I wonder how this guy wipes his butt without someone to point out the toilet paper. At lunch time I head out to pick up my blood pressure medication. I'm in a rush so of course everyone gets in my way. Have you ever noticed that the general public's tendency to walk slowly and take up a far greater percentage of the pavement than necessary is directly proportionate to how urgently you need to get by?

Inside the chemist now. I say, "Hello sir. I'd really like to get high..." wait for it "...blood pressure medication."

Apparently that wasn't very funny. Apparently the chemist thinks he's airport security where they "take all jokes about safety seriously." I leave before the police come but now I'm out of time and return to work without my meds.

Ah, here comes Jane. "Oscar, can you print the quarterly report for me?" Jane is the partner's PA so she thinks she's the other PAs' boss. Jane and I do _not_ get along. "I'm flat out all week Jane but anything for _you_." Too sarcastic?

Train trip home. My carriage has three snifflers and a cougher, three loud-headphones-dickheads and someone laughing at YouTube videos. At my stop, ten people form a scrum as they vie to be first off, then walk at the speed of a crippled pensioner when the doors open.

At home I take out the book my shrink gave me: the Little Book of Calm. "Rest in a tub", it says, so I run a bath. I lean back and take a deep, soothing breath. Picture a vast green ocean. Sigh contentedly. Forget _all_ my troubles.

The bubble is burst as my phone rings. Pop! It's out of reach in my pants pocket so I ignore it, but they keep calling and calling and I'll never relax unless I switch it off. I have to climb out of the bath to answer and it's my mother.

"Oscar, I can't find your father's shoes. How can we go out without his shoes?"

A ripple appears in the vast green ocean. "A better question might be how can you go out without his heart beating. Mum, dad has been dead for eight years."

We go back and forth and round in a few circles and my already very limited patience is stepped on and smeared into the floor tiles. As much as I love my mother, it's time God did the merciful thing and moved her up to Heaven.

The next day and the ripple becomes a wave when I get to work and Jane is acting suspiciously nice. "Oscar, will you come see me in my office?"

"You mean your boss's office?"

We go to the partner's office and I immediately know she's found some way to fuck me. She's been trying for months. "Oscar, you've been promoted to Senior EA at head office."

Head office is in a different state. "As flattered as I am Jane, I can't do it. I have to stay here to look after mum."

"You don't have a job here anymore, Oscar. In anticipation of your positive response, David has already hired your replacement."

I close my eyes and picture a little ducky sitting on top of a kitty. "Unhire them. You can't just get rid of me like this. I signed a contract."

Jane is leaning in now. "We both know your heart hasn't been in it since you took that unapproved holiday a few months ago. Go out with dignity."

The wave turns into a tsunami. Before I give in to the temptation to violently murder Jane I mumble "I'm not feeling well" and go. I leave the office and call the lift. Janet from HR steps out when it arrives and she holds it open so she can finish her conversation with the person continuing down. I call on wisdom from the Little Book of Calm: "Only worry about the big things," I tell myself. Don't stress about having to wait thirty seconds in an elevator.

Jane and I never got along but how could she be _this_ heartless? She knows I have a senile parent to look after yet not only did she get me fired, she _took pleasure_ in it. "Shampoo sans shampoo. Head massage, but without shampoo." I dig my fingers into my scalp and try to latch onto the tiniest bit of composure.

This is why I hate you. It's because you enter the elevator without letting people get out first. Because you bump into me when you're looking at your phone and you tell _me_ to "Watch out, you idiot."

Wait at the lights and someone blows smoke right into my face. I fight to calm myself. "Picture yourself on an idyllic South Pacific island." I close my eyes and see global warming and rising sea levels and panicked islanders being swept out to the ocean.

Oscar stops to compose himself.

I need to try again. To try harder. "Turn into a windmill. Wave yourself calm."

Oscar waves his arms in meditative circles. He takes a deep breath and continues.

I keep going and a car almost hits me when it doesn't stop at a pedestrian crossing. The windmill has just caught fire. "Smell the blooms. Certain scents stimulate the production of the relaxing chemical, serotonin, in the brain." How the fuck does that help me in the middle of the city, Little Book of Calm? How the _fuck_ does that help me? "Invest in a fruit bowl", "Pat something", "For five minutes in every hour, I give myself permission to relax and to be calm."

This is _not_ working. My exercises are backfiring. The person in front of me turns suddenly and we collide. He scurries off when he sees the look on my face. People around me are starting to give me space.

It's all because of Jane. Jane is mean. And fat. And barely able to work the photocopier _and_ she has a weird-shaped forehead. Like, did her mum steal a Neanderthal skeleton from a museum and do some weird Jurassic Park shit to get pregnant? Because only our early ancestors should have eye sockets that protrude like that.

I reach the next set of lights and a young woman pulls up beside me, glancing up in between writing text messages. The lights change and she goes, still texting, barely paying attention to the road and almost clipping a pensioner who didn't move fast enough.

Before I know it I'm after her. I'm sprinting down the road, brakes screeching and people pointing and rubbernecking. Hatred courses through my veins. Anger and bitterness and resentment. This woman has become the representation of everything I hate about everyone. People like Jane. People like my rude, dumbarse boss. Inconsiderate, lazy, selfish people. People like you.

She stops at the next lights and I catch up within seconds. Rip her door open and pull the phone out of her hands. She screams as I smash it repeatedly against the door frame. I realise I'm screaming back at her, calling her a bitch and a murderer and threatening to break her neck as poison pumps through my blood.

I drop the shattered phone and lean in close. She's so terrified she pees herself. I'm about to do something truly horrible... and then...

I look at her.

Like, really look at her.

She looks so much like my wife did. Just an everyday person. An innocent young woman who does _not_ deserve to die. This woman didn't do it. Even if she might have hit someone ten metres down the road, she hadn't hit anyone yet. I can't punish her for a maybe.

I put my hand on her arm and look her in the eye. "Don't use your phone when you drive, okay? It's stupid and fucking dangerous."

She stares at me.

" _Okay_?"

She nods.

I ignored the people all staring at me and walk off. I'm calm now. I don't quite know why but something has made me let go. All the hatred and misanthropy is gone. Just gone.

I take out my phone and call Jane. "Jane, it's Oscar. I want to tell you something. You know that 'unapproved holiday' you keep bringing up?"

Jane sounds wary but says "Yes."

"I stayed home for a week because my wife died. She was crossing the road and a forty-two year-old man named Harry Cappari ran her over. He was talking on his mobile."

Now she's speechless. "Jesus Oscar. I had no idea."

"He got off with a suspended sentence. He'll be back on the road in less than two years."

"I'm so sorry Oscar. Look... about your job, I'll talk to David and we'll sort it out for you."

"Jane, you are a terrible person. You never asked me what was wrong, you just assumed the worst, then you got me fired. Even if you had no idea something was wrong you did this knowing I'm caring for my sick mother. I don't want to work with you anymore."

"I'll do anything I can to make it up to you."

It's too late for that. "I'll tell you what you can do, Jane. You can live with yourself. Every day you wake up, you will have to live with being the bitch who bullied a grieving widower out of his job. You are a truly miserable excuse for a human being and nothing you can ever do for me will change that. That's your burden for life. Goodbye now."

I hang up.

As I head towards the train station I do something that would make my shrink proud. Something I haven't done since my wife was killed by a selfish, inconsiderate, thoughtless person, a person who is more or less just like you.

I smile.
MY KNIGHT IN DULL ARMOUR

Female

Character: Cara, a young married woman.

I told you, I fell over, and I won't be pressing charges because no one's done anything wrong. My husband is the last person in the world who would ever raise a hand to me.

Dale is my knight in shining armour. He rescued me a few years ago. Rode his white stallion right up to the castle where I was held prisoner and saved me from.

See, my Daddy was a drunk. The kind who comes home late and screams at his wife because she didn't have a hot meal ready for him, but how could Mama know he'd be hungry at two AM? Sometimes there'd be bangs and slaps to go with the screams and I would lie there with my pillow over my head and sing lullabies and nursery rhymes to drown it out.

Mama would make me breakfast the mornings after and be extra nice to me. "Cara baby," she'd say. "I'm so proud of my little girl. I'm going to make a beautiful cheese and mushroom pizza tonight, okay sweetie?"

My favourite! "Thank you Mama!" ( _pause_ ) "But... Mama, why are you wearing those glasses? It's not very sunny in the kitchen."

"It's just a migraine, baby. Daddy had a long day at work and we had a good long talk when he got home and I didn't get enough sleep. It's nothing to worry about."

Mama started having more and more migraines and one night when daddy was screaming I went downstairs to talk to him. I wanted to tell him Mama only had migraines after he screamed at her and he should stop doing it.

"What the hell are you doing down here, Cara? Get the hell back to your bedroom. Now!"

"Daddy, please stop screaming at Mama. She only has migraines..."

"NOW!"

He came at me and I backed away as quick as I could, but I tripped over something and fell back against the bookcase and cracked a rib. Oof! It was the most painful thing ever! Daddy was real nice to us for a month after but it was worse than ever when he started again.

Dale came to our school when I was seventeen. He was a year older than the rest of the class and all the girls fancied him. So did Mark Wilson – he _really_ fancied him – but Dale only had eyes for me. We would sit together at lunch and I'd tell him all about my dreams to see the world and experience everything I could. "Don't you just love Paris, in France? It's _so_ romantic. I just love the language. Did you know I've _never_ seen a baguette in real life? I think it tastes like any other bread but I'd love to have a baguette fight."

I'd hit him with my imaginary baguette and he'd tickle me until I almost peed my pants.

After a few weeks I was telling him about my dream holiday to Fiji and New Zealand and how I wanted to stop at Egypt on the way there and Finland on the way back, and he took my hand. I felt this electric surge through my whole body. Then I leaned over and kissed him and he kissed me back and I fell head over heels in love right then and there, yessir.

We were inseparable after that and held hands in the two classes we had together. Mark Wilson was super pissed and never spoke to me again. I was in Heaven for two months, until one night when I get a knock on my window in the middle of the night.

"Cara! Cara!"

( _groggily_ ) It's Dale. He's climbed the trellis. ( _waking_ ) No! He can't be here!

"Dale, you can't be here. Go away."

"I love you, Cara. I had to see you."

"You have to go, Dale. Now!"

But it's too late. He hears the screaming and asks me what's going on, and he's halfway downstairs before I finish saying "Daddy."

I run after Dale and try to stop him but he moves like lightning. Mama is sitting at the table, crying, head in her hands. Daddy is pointing and shouting and stamping his feet. Dale grabs him and throws him up against the wall and Mama almost has a heart attack.

Dale starts screaming now. "You wife-beating piece of shit! You want a fight? Let's see how you hold up against someone your own size."

He hits my Daddy right in the face. One, two, three. Daddy drops to the ground and Dale kicks him: one, two, three. He turns to me and says, "Get your things. I'm getting you away from this monster."

Dale's got a murderous look on his face so I do what he says. I grab my purse and some clothes and we hurry out the front door. The last image I ever have of home is Mama standing at the table, white as a sheet, hand on her mouth and her eyes bugging out, and my Daddy curled up on the floor with blood bubbling out of his nose and mouth.

So that's it. Dale rescued me and he's looked after me ever since, never letting me get so much as a scratch. He got a job as a carpenter so we could rent a tiny house on the outskirts of town. We were both terrified my Daddy would come find us so Dale put in bars on all the windows and about a dozen locks on all the doors. It takes over a minute to open them.

We got married at the registry office after just a week and I was happier than you can imagine. He was the man of my dreams. Smart, strong, handsome. We were totally in love. I wish Mama could have been at my wedding but Dale didn't want my Daddy to know where I was and try to hurt me.

He worked long hours and I started to feel claustrophobic being cooped up inside all day. I started to grow flowers outside but Dale came home early one day and went crazy. "What the hell are you doing, Cara? What if he finds you and hurts you? Do you think I'll be able to live with myself? I forbid you to go outside unless I am one step behind you."

There was no way my Daddy could know where we lived, but he was so sweet to care so much about me. But... the days got longer and longer and I'm getting really bored. I really miss Mama and I'm dying to find out if she's alright, but I left my phone behind and we don't have a fixed line.

I tell Dale I want to see her. "No way, sweetheart. It's not safe. What if _he's_ there? He might try to kill you and I will just die if anything happens to you."

"I'll call her on your phone then."

"Sorry Cara, but no. What if he answers?"

"I'll hang up."

"He'll know it's you and he'll trace the call and find you. I won't take that risk."

He gets very angry and yells at me when I argue with him. I hate being yelled at so I shut myself in the bedroom. When he finds me crying he is heartbroken and holds me and kisses me and tells me I mean the world to him. He wants to make love. I really don't feel like it but he is working so hard to care for me so I do it. For him.

Weeks pass by and I sit in the house staring through the bars on the windows. Dale keeps the doors locked. I think about my dream trip. The South Island of New Zealand looks just like Heaven to me. I wish I could look at photos but we don't have a computer. Daddy might find me if I go online.

Months pass by and I forget the taste of my favourite foods. We have a freezer full of steak and sausages and potatoes in the pantry. Bacon, milk and eggs for breakfast. I haven't had a cheese and mushroom pizza in half a year.

I beg Dale to let me go shopping but an old lady got mugged at the supermarket last month and he won't put me in such reckless danger. I give him a list instead but he doesn't have time to hunt around for all those spices and vegetables nobody even likes.

We have nothing in the house that's purple. I realise I haven't seen purple in a year. I tell Dale this and he buys me a set of watercolours. I start painting all the things I can't see anymore. My old house. The Eiffel Tower. Broccoli. My Mama. I'm not a very good artist and soon my whole world is little more than crappy paintings based on things I can barely remember.

I'm getting depressed all the time and Dale starts getting angry at me. I'm safe and I have food on my table each night. I should stop being so damned selfish.

I know I should be grateful. He saved me and does everything to give me a good life. But my world was shrinking more and more with each passing week and my brave knight's armour was starting to look dull.

I take his phone out of his bag one morning as he goes to work. I _never_ should have done this, but I'm desperate to know how Mama is. I'm terrified Dale will catch me and it takes an hour to summon up the courage to call.

"Mama? It's me, Cara. How are you Mama?"

Mama cries and cries when she hears my voice. She sounds real sick. All husky and quiet and coughing a lot. She says it was just a little migraine, and she'd lost her voice with the flu last week. But she's so happy to hear from me and it's so beautiful to speak to her again.

"What the F are you doing with my phone?!"

Dale appears out of nowhere and grabs the phone out of my hand. He is so angry that he roars to the sky like a lion, and I am so darned surprised I stumble back a few steps and trip over.

And that's how it went down, officer. It was all my fault. _I'm_ the one who stole his phone and made him so angry and _I'm_ the one who fell over. Dale was an absolute prince when he saw how bad I hurt my arm. He didn't even tell me off or nothing and he took me straight here to the hospital.

Look, it's been ten minutes and Dale's going to be really worried about me. You've got your report so can you send him in here on your way out?

I don't want him to be worried.
" **MY NAME IS STEVE." "HI STEVE."**

Male

Character: Steve, a lifelong addict.

Steve stands with a notebook, scribbling in it often.

My name is Steve. ( _pause_ ) Goddamn newbies. Alright, so I'm here because I'm an addict. Always was, always will be. I've submitted to a higher power over and over but I'm still here. Doing better these days but I'll never get away.

Discovered what I was in early high school when I took my first drag of a cigarette. "Oy Steve," my friend Bootleg said. "Got us some fags from my brother." "Your brother sure does have a surplus of fags," I replied. I'd just been to maths. I thought that was pretty funny. "I don't care what you say," he shot back. "I'm putting this fag in my mouth."

Bootleg took a drag and handed it to me. I wiped his spit off and took a drag myself. Then another. Then I took the pack off him. Smoking did something my teenage body found itself compelled to repeat. I coughed and choked. It stank and tasted like the ashes from an outdoor barbeque. But I craved it even more than I hated it and I reckon I was addicted before the first exhalation.

After a month or two of smoking as much as I could get my hands on I challenged myself to smoke non-stop for a whole hour. All my mates brought their ciggies along and I didn't take a single breath without my lips around a cigarette for forty-five minutes. I sat in meditation, eyes closed, slow deep breaths in and slow deep breaths out, over and over again until I woke up in hospital.

No one wants to see their kid smoke so my folks put me through every treatment they could find, from hypnotherapy to patches to lots of yelling. One day dad says to me, "Steve, next time you want to smoke, eat a piece of chocolate. Caffeine's better for you than nicotine and it tastes a lot less nasty." He opened the pantry and there was a twenty litre tub of Mars Bars.

I quit smoking and put on eighty three kilos, which made me almost three times my weight. It took a good few months before I no longer craved fags but I was deep in the Mars by then. I'd eat one in almost every class at school and I was actually going to Maccas to get nutrition. Most of the weight came on over the summer holidays and I came back with a body like a spinning top. People my age wouldn't mess with me but I was a slow-moving target for the older kids.

I have a thick skin. Two older brothers, so I'd been copping their crap since I was a toddler getting pushed into the rose bush out front. These older kids started calling me names and I mostly ignored them, but one guy was particularly in-my-face about it on a regular basis. Told him where to go one afternoon and he says to me, "What you gonna do about it, boom batty?" and he shoves me into a fence. Laughs when one of the palings cracks under my fat arse. Doesn't laugh so hard when I pick it up and slam it sideways into his knee and watch the joint go about ninety degrees in the wrong direction.

This was a bad move for more than one reason and it was suddenly in my best interests to get in better shape. I hit the gym. Walked for twenty minutes on the treadmill and made it two point two kilometres. Next day I did the same distance in less than nineteen minutes. Did five push ups, which wasn't too hard on account of the minimal distance between the floor and my gut when I was propped up on my arms. Did ten the next day. Started working out ten to twelve times a week and ate nothing much more than steak and protein powder. Got my micronutrients from McSalads.

My day came and a group of that guy's friends surrounded me after school. I was still pretty chubby then. No chance I'd do anything useful there so I let them kick the crap out of me. It was a blur of movement on top of me as punch after kick after knee hammered into my blubber. After a few minutes I realise I'm loving it. "Harder," I hear myself saying. "Come on you pussies. Hit me harder. You want Limpy McDickface to think a pack of girls beat me up? Show him what you got." They hit me harder still and I'm washed full of blissful agony.

So by the time I hit twenty I'm addicted to adrenaline and I've fallen in love with a paramedic. Susie says to me, "Steve, I'm getting sick of seeing you in this ambulance. I know you're not a stupid person. Stop getting into fights."

"Have you ever picked up the other guy?" I say. I'm just a magnet for violent bozos."

She doesn't buy it, and she's suspicious that I only ever get beat up when she's on duty. I ask her on a date. She says no. I tell her I'll ask again the next time I see her and eventually she realises the only way I'll stop getting in trouble is if she says yes. We date and it goes well, so we do it a few more times. We sleep together. I'm embarrassingly bad at it. Thankfully she's nice enough to offer me a second shot so I try again and it's still fairly woeful.

The next day I pass a girl on the street and give her an appraisal. Sure. Why not? Say hi and she runs away. Say hi to six more girls until Rashika from Subway responds with a coy smile. I'm way better with Rashika than I was with Susie. It spurs me on to try for more. Turns out my hit rate is about one in twelve so I just have to speak to a dozen girls in a day to get laid. It's cheating but I tell myself they're just practice girls. I think I love Susie and wouldn't want to hurt her. But... I know this isn't going to turn out well.

My prediction is more than accurate. She dumps me and I'm gutted. I go from girl to girl to console myself but I start crying after every orgasm. I go home and take up smoking and binge eating again, then I open my first ever bottle of spirits and fall into such a deep, dark hole I think I've never been in a hole prior.

It dawns on me as I ricochet from addiction to addiction that the one constant in my life is loneliness. Whatever I take up to fight it, it only helps in the present. Kids never liked me, my parents gave me money but booted me out of home, I have no interests which aren't self-destructive and I've never held a job or done anything meaningful. I'm the epitome of pathetic. I drink and I'm happy while I'm swallowing, then I remember how awful everything is and I need another mouthful.

I have such a reputation by now that I actually get headhunted into AA. I open up to all the old crocodiles and their wordless empathy is nicer than anything I've come across in all my years. I try a different group for my sex addiction and next thing I know I'm going to eleven meetings a week and wondering why they let me stay in the ovarian cancer one.

There's this huge bald guy in NA who sits there knitting while we talk. After a few weeks he's given everyone in the room two scarves and a beanie. "Hey man," I say to him. "What's with the needlework?" He eyeballs me for a full ten seconds then says, "Keeps the needles out of my arms, kid. You got a problem with that, you ain't getting the winter socks."

I don't have a problem and the socks are super warm and comfy but the point is his theory inspires me. I am and always will be an addict so maybe the trick is to get addicted to harmless activities instead of substances and masochism. It's tough for my attention span but I end up getting into mathematics and finding casual work checking some accountants' sums. I go home at the end of the day and do Sudoku to keep out of trouble. It becomes the thing I do when I'm otherwise idle. See?

Steve shows his notebook to the audience, which is covered in Sudoku puzzles.

I call Susie and she hangs up on me. She doesn't reply to texts or emails. I make a plan to run into her and start hanging around drunks. Hit the jackpot one night when a guy I met walks through a glass door. Susie's on duty and I pull her aside when she arrives. I tell her I've changed and I'll do anything to get her back. "You're not good enough for me," Susie tells me. "I never was and I never will be," I say, "but I _will_ win you back."

She fixes the drunk guy's head and storms off into the ambulance.

Months later and she still hasn't spoken to me. I'm doing my support groups and I'm actually happy these days, because I know I'll win Susie back eventually. Want to know how I know? It's fairly simple really: I'm not going to stop trying. I _can't_ stop trying.

My name is Steve and I'm an addict. Thanks for listening. Checking out.
QUIET FRIDAY

Male

Character: Gordon, an everyday office worker suffering from sleep deprivation.

Note: the pace of the play increases as Gordon loses his grip.

A leafblower wakes me. Every Tuesday at seven AM, like clockwork, my neighbour's leafblower wakes me up. I drag myself out of bed and brush down my suit, searching my bedding for a tie and slipping on my loafers. Stumble into the kitchen. The fridge is spluttering like it's got Tourette's so I kick it to shut it up.

I raid the plate of sandwiches I took home last Friday and slip one into a paper bag. The paper bag drawer squeaks shut and I make my fiftieth mental note to get WD40 on my way home. Spoiler alert, I forget.

The weather's fine so I catch the train. Sit down next to a guy whose headphones would be the perfect volume if _I_ was trying to listen to Avril Lavigne. I don't say anything; last time I asked someone to turn their music down I got a black eye and a cracked rib. Two stops later another Avril Lavigne fan sits next to me and I'm hemmed in all the way to Central.

Arrive at work and go to my workstation. Santiago is on the phone. Santiago is the Chilean guy who used to work in an airport hangar. When his Spanglish dies down enough for me to vaguely hear, I immediately notice IT haven't fixed my computer.

"Yeah hi, it's Gordon from level six. My fan's still making that noise. ( _pause_ ) I know Lenovos are more useful as paper weights but it's a company computer and you're the IT guy."

Santiago takes another call and Mike from IT is effectively gone. My day is an alternation between ( _in loud, Spanish accent_ ) "You think I'm yoking? There are too many bariables" and ( _makes clicking, whirring noise_ ).

Mr Nicholson calls me in for a meeting. "Gordon, what the fuck is with you, pal? Your performance is terrible. And you look awful. I thought you went into remission." "I've never had cancer, sir. I'm just not sleeping so well."

Catch the train home at the end of the day and I'm sandwiched between a death metal fan and a trance fan who are competing for the Loudest Dickhead on Public Transport award. Kids from the other units are running up and down the stairs until dinner time, when old Mr Hirsch puts the TV on at full blast. This stops at nine and the baby starts crying. It shuts its demonic little trap just as the family of possums wake up and start their breakdancing rehearsal. They stop at around one and the owl takes over, hooting irregularly so I can't get used to it.

Wednesday morning, another leafblower comes in at seven fifteen. I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the kitchen. Sandwiches are starting to go sour. The ham one seems alright so I bag it and make my fifty-first mental note to get WD40 for the drawer. Spoiler alert, I forget, and the sandwich gives me food poisoning.

Today's train ride brings us a teenage girl who hasn't learned what an inside voice is making a series of inane phone calls. I'd be annoyed by this but something else is on my mind. LinkedIn has just sent me a job notification, and it's the most perfect job. Sales manager. Small staff. Proactive self-starter. Works well without supervision. Translation: quiet office. I have to apply.

Santiago is away but the aircon in the conference room directly opposite me is broken so they leave the door open and have back to back meetings all day. I get home and work on an application, forgoing dinner thanks to the food poisoning. There's the kids and TV and baby and possums and owl and it's hard to focus.

Thursday, six-thirty AM, the hedge trimmer. It's raining so I drive to work flanked by a motorcycle club. They must have waited around all day because they flank me on the way home too.

I read my application. I've misspelled both "excellent" and "communicator". I'll finish it tomorrow.

Tomorrow! There's no neighbourhood maintenance on a Friday. It's the one day I sleep. TV, baby, wildlife. I wake up at six fifty-five. There's drilling in the unit next door.

Drilling? But it's Friday.

"No! No fucking way!"

I leap out of bed and dash next door. ( _makes knocking noise_ ) "Hey! Hey, open up! Oh, hey, what's going on here? You can't drill on a Friday."

A tradesman stares dumbly at me. "We're redoing the kitchen and bathroom. We're drilling every day for a month."

I feel like I've been shot. No more Quiet Friday? I can't live without Quiet Friday.

I stumble back to my living room and stare out the window. The creepy neighbour who's always staring at me from his kitchen is staring at me something chronic. How am I going to deal without my Fridays?

Saturday is another leafblower day. Sunday is kids' sport. Monday is miscellaneous day. There's nothing scheduled but there hasn't been a silent one for three months. This Monday is a three dog bark-off.

It's overcast so I drive to work. No motorcycle club but I slightly sideswipe a cyclist. ( _as cyclist_ ) "Stay in your lane, you f-ing c!" ( _as Gordon_ ) Didn't even mean to change lanes.

Santiago is on the phone and he winks at me as I sit down. Winks at me? Why the hell would he wink at me? Are we trying to pull a conspiracy? I shrug it off and get stuck into the new accounts.

Then the weirdest thing happens. Linda from reception walks past and I only just see her out of my eye corner. It takes me a full ten seconds to realise she was topless. Topless! I get up but can't see where she got to.

"Santiago! Linda just went by _topless_." "Really? That do not seem likely." "I know, man, but I swear she was." "Describe her areolas." "I... I didn't get a good look."

Tuesday, seven AM. The leafblower battles against the drilling to ruin my morning and they both win. Arrive at work and notice my swipecard isn't working. Wait near the door and follow someone in. My desk is gone. In fact, the whole office is different.

"You need something?"

( _spinning around_ ) Some cranky frump is staring at me. "I work here."

"What's your name?"

"Gordon. Hang on, which level is this?"

Shit! I'd gone to level five. How embarrassing. I go to my actual workplace and the day passes in a shame coma.

Next day I get a call while walking to the station. "Mr Turner? It's Sales Force Seven. We'd like to interview you on Monday. Can you make it?"

Yes I can make it! Salvation is coming and her name is Monday. For a blissful half day I don't hear the cawing birds and sniffling commuters and loudmouthed co-workers.

That evening, it's twice as loud as ever. I knock on Mr Hirsch's door five times but he doesn't hear me, the deaf old coot. Wednesday night I go looking for the owl. Wake up in some bushes on Thursday. I'm still in my suit so I walk to work. The whole way. Arrive two hours late and sit down next to J Law. J Law? What's she doing here. "Hey J Law," I say. She pouts angrily at me. "Whoa! Settle down, J Law."

Mr Nicholson pulls me into his office that afternoon and tells me what he's about to tell me will change my life so sit down. I sit. He says he's my father. He's only ten years older than me. I know he's not my dad because my dad is a fighter pilot. For the Intergalactic Space Corp.

TV, possums. Friday might be my last day working here and it passes in a blur of fevered anticipation. That evening some neighbours are having a domestic which runs longer than the _Lord Of The Rings_ trilogy. Owl, leafblower, kids' sport. Before I know it it's Sunday evening and I desperately need to be at my best for tomorrow's interview with Sales Force Seven. I need to sleep. Knock on Mr Hirsch's door but he doesn't answer. "Mr Hirsch, open up. MR HIRSCH!"

No response. I grit my teeth and kick his door in. He's asleep next to the television so I pull the plug out of the wall. It stays on. "Damn it!" I hurl it to the ground and it scurries off into the bathroom.

The baby starts crying. I kick in that door and push my way past mummy and come nose to nose with the little shit. "Wah!" "Shut up." "Wah!" "Shut Up!" "WAH!" SHUT UP!" "WAAAH!" "SHUT THE MOTHERFUCKING SHIT UP, YOU LITTLE BASTARD!"

Go back inside and put a bucket over my head. Stuff it with blankets. No owls or possums tonight but I can hear crickets. It's winter. There aren't any crickets. And these ones are angry. I count fourteen thousand eight hundred and sixteen sheep and before I know it it's Monday morning.

Job interview's in half an hour. I shower and put on a fresh suit and jump in the car. It's only five minutes' drive from here, in that old industrial area. _Perfect_ job. I arrive and get out and... and there's nothing but a hole in the ground. Check the address I wrote down. It's the right address but there's no building here. I google Sales Force Seven. Google comes up with nothing.

They can't not exist. I need them. ( _in prayer_ ) "Sales Force Seven, I believe in you. Through the good times and the bad times alike I have kept my faith in you. I need a sign, Sales Force Seven. Just one teensy little sign."

Gordon waits for a response. There's nothing. Despondent, his anticipatory posture collapses. Exhausted now, he crosses the stage and sits back on a chair which indicates the driver's seat of his car.

Now I think about it, I never even sent my application. I take a deep breath. All I hear is my exhalation.

There's nothing here. No cars, no people no birds no nothing.

I turn to J Law. "Jennifer, do you hear that?"

She raises an eyebrow.

"It's dead silent."

She nods.

"Do you think I can possibly... get some sleep?"

A smile.

"Splendid."

Every muscle in my body melts like liquid as exhaustion takes hold of me.

"Goodnight, J Law."

Gordon sinks into the seat and drifts away with an enormous smile on his face.
SCREAMS AND WHISPERS

Male/Female

Character: a young man or woman.

When I was five I got a budgie for Christmas. My big sister named him Couscous and I taught him to say "Hello Polly," which wasn't either of our names, but hey, I was five. Couscous was my best friend and I told him everything. I would dream about him saying "Hello Polly" almost every night, and though he got out and flew away after a few months, the dreams lingered for a long time.

A few years later my big sister got a kitty and I insisted she be called Quinoa. Mum and Dad convinced me no one would know how to pronounce that so we settled on Polenta instead. I didn't like the name because I don't like the grain but mum reminded me she was Sal's cat and not mine and I had no right to throw a tantrum, despite the fact that Sal had named Couscous Couscous.

Polenta was gorgeous but very vocal. If she wasn't meowing because she was hungry – which was usually at four AM when she was near my bedroom door – she was purring like it was a competitive sport. She disappeared for a week once and I swore on Santa Claus she came home at night because I could hear meowing but it turns out she'd been trapped in a garage down the street and I got smacked for fibbing.

When I was ten I read _The Horse Whisperer_ and fell in love with the romantic notion of talking to animals. I would sit with Polenta for an hour at a time, telepathically telling her all about my friends at primary school while she meowed incessantly. Dad told me if I was going to stare at the damned cat I could feed the damned cat. I tried to feed her polenta but she didn't care for it.

The Davidsons moved in in the year 2000 and brought two dogs with them – a yapper and a barker. I developed an appreciation for the law this year because dad said he'd cave their heads in with a shovel if it wasn't illegal. Shortly after they moved in I discovered I was an animal whisperer: I could hear what they were... _thinking_ from within about fifty metres. When they weren't making an actual racket, Rex and Zippo would fill my head. I'd hear a ( _barks_ ) and ( _yaps_ ) every morning when Mr Davidson was getting ready for work. I complained about their noise and mum said I had the hearing of a hawk. Not quite sure she got her simile right.

When a twelve-year-old discovers they have psychic powers, they don't want to tell their family, but they want to tell someone. I told a friend, who demanded proof, so I headed around after soccer practice to speak to the family angelfish. I stared at it. It stared back with its beady eyes and fish mouth ( _makes a fish face_ ). "Nothing," I said. "I don't think it has a brain. But I can hear a possum outside." My friend asked, "What's it saying?" "I don't know. It doesn't speak English. I'm not quite sure what ( _makes possum noise_ ) means."

Naturally, they didn't believe me. Why would they? Why would anyone believe someone who claims to hear animal sounds in their head and how could I ever prove a chicken once told me ( _makes chicken noise_ )?

That year, I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Once I made a connection with any animal, its voice would come to me whenever I was near it. My walk to school was beginning to sound like feeding time at the zoo. Dozens of birds, cats, dogs and other creatures were chattering away in my head. An iPod on full blast was about the only thing that helped, but even that only helped so much. Imagine walking to school listening to this ( _sings a couple of lines from any popular song with interjections of cat, dog and bird noises_ ).

I was about fifteen when I proved it and got in the local paper. Someone's puppy had gotten itself lost and I heard it in a drain. No one really believed me but the family had already wasted money on an animal psychic and were desperate enough to bother the fire brigade with "the rantings of an insane adolescent," as my father was kind enough to put it.

I became a local living legend after that and my elderly neighbour Mrs Wilkshire-Smith offered me fifty dollars to find out why her beloved Tabby wasn't coming in at night. I sat down next to Tabby and petted her. She told me ( _meows_ ), which made very little sense to someone who isn't a cat, but I translated it for Mrs W-S as: "she stays inside all day because she's scared of the neighbourhood children. You should buy them video games so they spend more time indoors."

Oddly enough, this worked perfectly and all my friends got copies of Halo. People started throwing money at me left right and centre after that to fix their animals' problems. A pro jockey offered me four hundred bucks to find out why his horse had been so uncooperative over the last few months. Mum drove me to his place and I locked gazes with Princess Anne Frank. She stared at me with her deep brown, enormous evil eyes. As she looked me in the eyes, she said ( _neighs evilly_ ). I didn't like Princess Anne Frank one bit.

"Send her to the glue factory," I said without breaking eye contact. "This one's racing days are over."

It will haunt me 'til the day I die that they actually did it. I was fifteen and I didn't know there'd be consequences for condemning a horse that looked at me funny. It might have been the guilt they could sense in me or some weird sixth sense thing but all of a sudden animals hated me. Birds would swoop me wherever I went, screeching ( _angry bird noises_ ) as I hurried by. My life was a non-stop symphony of barking dogs. Cats yowled and scratched me and I always seemed to have ants crawling into my shoes and biting my ankles. I'd tried to play the horse whisperer and now my head was filled with screams – screams of rage and hate and disgust.

It was hell. I didn't sleep for a month. I tried to keep it together but I couldn't get along with anyone anymore and Mum ended up taking me out of school. She took me to the doctors. The ones near the vet. Animals' voices were filling my head – roosters ( _crows_ ), mice ( _squeaks_ ), snakes ( _hisses_ ), pigs ( _squeals_ ), lions ( _roars_ ), hyenas ( _laughs hysterically then continues with a few other animal noises – whatever the actor can manage!_ ).

It was intolerable. I tore piles and piles of medical records off the shelves, screaming and covering my ears to drown out the noises. These animals were going to kill me for what I did to Princess Anne Frank. I murdered her! They were going to avenge her. I was going to die! They were going to get me and I had to get the hell out of there, fast. I ran full bolt for the door.

They didn't institutionalise me but the doctor had read about me in the papers and more or less had the neuroleptics on standby. I was better after the whole episode. I don't hear the voices of nearby creatures anymore – not when I'm awake at least.

You know, I don't believe I'm the schizophrenic they're treating me as. The drugs affect certain neural pathways and it's just coincidence that they shut out the whispering. How'd I find that puppy in that drain? And explain why I got like twenty times the national bee-sting average last June. Either way, it's better having my head free from anything else's thoughts. There's enough going on in my human brain. Oh, one sec.

Takes phone out and answers it.

Hello? ( _pause_ ) Yes it is. ( _pause_ ) Your parakeet is depressed and you want me to talk to him? Sure, I can do that. But it'll cost you two hundred dollars. ( _pause_ ) No problems at all. I'm on my way. ( _to audience_ ) Sorry, gotta go.
SHALLOW, QUICK

Male/Female

Character: a young person suffering from severe social anxiety. He/she speaks quickly.

I grab my backpack and check everything one last time. Water, phone, first aid kit, emergency blanket, food, spare clothing, pen and paper. The basics. I take a breath.

I step outside and the sun hits me full ball in the face. My breathing quickens. It's so bright. What if I get dehydrated? Or sunstroke? The sun is dangerous. I hurry inside and get my legionnaires hat and extra water. Okay. This will be okay.

The blaring sun hits me again but I grit my teeth and go. I make it to the street. A car goes by too close and honks me. This is stupid. Why am I doing this? My shaky hands take a Valium and I put it in a dry mouth. I need to wash it down so I sip some water but I only sip a little because I don't want to run out.

I have to cross the road to use the side with the path so I look both ways. I look again. And again. Cars come out of frigging nowhere. There's nothing in sight so I bolt across, and for one terrifying moment I almost stumble and my head is filled with images of me lying helpless on the road as some hoon careens around the corner and smears my guts all over Barton Avenue. This doesn't happen but it isn't the only road.

I stop and look both ways at every driveway as I head towards the bus shelter. It's almost a kilometre away. The Valium hasn't kicked in yet and I wonder how people do this every day. Aren't they afraid? So many things can get you out here.

Someone's approaching. They're about two hundred metres away. I have the choice of crossing the road again or risking a confrontation. "Just say hello and keep walking." It's simple. She says it's simple. One hundred and fifty metres.

I panic and walk out towards the road but a car goes by doing at least seventy and I stumble back to the path. It's a fifty zone. Who is that crazy bastard trying to kill? My heart is vibrating and the dizziness is closing in. Before I know it the person is near me and I have to get myself together or she'll ask me if I'm okay and god knows what will happen after that. I stretch my arms out, nice and wide like Doctor Lawrence told me. "Scared people don't take the time to yawn."

She passes without comment and I breathe again. My head spins for a moment, then I'm okay. Confident now, I continue down the path and after five minutes I notice I'm spending less time looking up each driveway. I feel like a daredevil.

When I'm three quarters there I realise I'm feeling relaxed, but also hazy. This is bad. I should be focused. What if something happens to me because my guard's down?

I repeat the lyrics to my favourite song to stay on track. "Don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart. I just don't think he'd understand."

An agonising hour after I set off I'm at the bus shelter. There's a man there. He's reading a newspaper. Why are you here? Go away. Go away, you nasty man. Why do you have to catch this bus? I'm catching this bus.

I watch him from the corner of my eye and sit as far away from him as I can. He ignores me. I jump as he turns a page. He's reading the finance bit. No one reads the finance bit. He's pretending to read it so he can strike when I least expect it.

But I have a bigger problem. The bus. The driver won't accept coins. He'll ask why I don't have a travel pass and refuse to let me on. My breath is short and fast. Why am I doing this? "Exposure can acclimatise a person to almost anything." What a crock. What does she think I'm going to get out of this insane rollick?

The bus arrives and I freeze. The newspaper killer gets on and it leaves. I can't tell you how relieved I feel. Someone approaches and I look at my lap as they pass by.

The next bus comes and I get onto it. I panic and walk straight past the driver. There's a ticket machine just behind him. I want to pretend to put something in it and reach into my pocket but there's nothing there but my space blanket and keys and wallet. I clench my teeth, expecting him to swear at me and throw me onto the street.

"Oy!"

It's still a shock.

"Where's your ticket?"

I mumble. "What'd you say!? Pay or get off, kid."

I shake so hard I can't take out my wallet. Someone takes me by the shoulder and I yelp. Now my breathing's so hard I can't see. I fall backwards and something hits my butt (sits down). Vision returns and there's someone with the driver, then she turns and walks right up to me. "You okay?"

I nod. She smiles in this perfunctory way and disappears behind me. I have no idea what just happened. The driver has stopped yelling at me and the only three people on the bus are nowhere near me and everything seems, well, placid. Public transport is not meant to be placid.

We go for ten minutes and my stop comes up. I climb out onto a busy city street and it feels like I'm having major surgery without an anaesthetic. The sound of shouting and car engines cuts through my skin and the polluted air tears my muscles open so the sight of a schizophrenic homeless man can yank my heart right out of its cavity. This is Hell. My psychiatrist has sent me to Hell on a fool's errand to buy... what? Lindt dark chocolate? "Earning your favourite treat will link positive associations to challenging your anxiety."

"You can tell your ma I moved to Arkansas. Or you can tell your dog to bite my leg." I treat myself to a full mouthful of water. I apply some sunscreen. It's hot out here. I can't control the whole world but I can block the sun. "Or tell your brother Cliff whose fist can tell my lips. He never really liked me anyway."

When I can breathe enough to move without fainting I stumble to the nearest convenience store. There it is, right at the counter. Lindt dark. I pull out my wallet and go straight up to the guy. I put the Lindt dark in front of him. He says something I'm too stressed to hear and I give him ten and leave.

The bus stop is across the road. I know I'm going to die. The green man appears and I start crossing and there's more people heading towards me than I've seen in my life. Someone's going to push me under a truck. They might not even mean to but either way I'm dead.

Someone bumps into me and I scream. The person in front of me drops his briefcase. I stumble to avoid it and trip. Next thing I know I'm on the ground and the little red man is flashing at me. Death. Death. Death. Black pants. Shoes. Car tyres. Death. A hand reaching for my face. I howl at the top of my voice, "And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, he might blow up and kill this man!"

Everything's inexplicably black. Then slivers of white. Then colour. Then...

Well, it's not the first time I've woken in hospital. I turn my head to the side and my things are all there on the table. I turn away and there's the devil.

She says hi.

"'Exposure can acclimatise a person to almost anything.' Well guess what, Doctor Lawrence. I'm still scared of dying."

She starts speaking and I turn away from her. And there it is. My day from Hell in a thin white box. My breath becomes instantly shallow, quick. "Where's my mum?"

"She's getting coffee."

"Can you go get her?"

"Of course."

"And don't ever come back."

"I'm sorry?"

"I want a new doctor."

I turn to look at the chocolate and my whole body shakes with terror. "You ruined Lindt dark."
SPAM FOR DUMMIES

Male/Female

Character: an internet scam boss.

Boss is writing/typing.

"...to collect your five million dollar prize..." No. "Fifteen million dollar prize" – far more convincing – "please reply to this email and supply your bank details within twenty-four hours. Yours sincerely, Google." No. "Google International Headquarters." Way classier.

Ah, Muhumbo isn't it? How's my brother from the udder of another mother's love rudder? How's the work coming along? Super – let me take a squiz.

Boss takes and reads from a laptop (mimed), mouthing along. He nods approvingly, frowns, laughs, then becomes stonily sincere.

Okay Muhumbo, few things. You've never met this person before, right, yet you refer to him with "Hello firstname." Little too familiar, buddy. Why don't you try "Dear respected Sir" instead? He'll open your email and straight away get a little confidence boost. Then you go on to say, "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mularm... Muharn..." [ _frowns in concentration_ ] etcetera, but you don't acknowledge the shock he would _obviously_ be feeling while reading this. Okay? Type this: "Dear respected Sir. You must be surprised to hear from me today." That's better, isn't it? See the emotional rollercoaster you've put that guy on? He's going to be ready for anything.

Boss turns as someone approaches him.

Ah, Tatiana. There's my little lovebird. Found the man of your dreams yet? That handsome, _rich_ man?

Alright, let's see it. Hmm, yep. Yep. I see. That looks about right. Good. Ooh, that's not bad.

Okay Tatiana, this whole thing is terrible. Do you want this man to fall in love with you and give you all his money? Then you need to ditch this whole subtlety thing. "I found your profile online and we have a lot in common." A _lot in common_? I have a lot in common with my dog, Tatiana. We both pee on trees and hump anything that doesn't get away in time but I don't want to pay fifty K to fly him out of Russia. You should say "...I found your profile and have fallen deeply and irreversibly in love with you." Imagine the pure exhilaration he'll feel knowing an Eastern European beauty is in love with his bland ass.

On paragraph two you say, "I am just average girl looking for the man of dreams." Love the syntax Tati but no one wants an average girl. Rich, confident men have pride: they know what they want and that is _not_ humbleness. Change it to, "I am beautiful Russian girl with D-cup and limited inhibitions."

Boss turns suddenly.

Ah, David. How's your appeal going? Good good. Give us a gander.

Boss starts reading, muttering phrases like "tiny penis", "woeful sex life", "pathetic excuse for a male specimen." Excited, he hustles everyone in.

Alright people, come on in. Have a listen to David's email. "Do you suffer from a chronic limp dick? Do women laugh at you when your pants are down? Don't be an impotent loser any longer. Get your hands on Cialis and have her moaning for more all night. Buy in bulk – you need it."

That's poetry, David. Fucking Shakespeare. Can you imagine how ashamed any man reading that would feel? The first thing _I'd_ do is go straight out and buy a crate of that shit. David, you should add in an on-sell. Drop in some links to penis enlargement surgery and we'll cut a deal with that hospital in Thailand.

Team, this is the kind of approach we all need to be taking. You know how much this project is costing me? Flights, accommodation, hiring this [ _looks around distastefully_ ] _charming_ work space, your twenty thousand dollar fees. _Hundreds of thousands_ , is how much. You know what hundreds and thousands means? It means I want goddamn results! You are supposed to be the best spam email authors in the world but I am not seeing world-class work.

You there, Fong isn't it? Fung? _Fuong_? [ _pause_ ] Stephen, right. Hand me your tablet Stephen; show me what you've done.

Boss takes a tablet and reads for a moment. He shows the tablet to his audience.

Look team, can you all see these email Feng wrote? An email from PayPal asking users to click on the link and verify their account details. Can anyone see what's wrong with this? There's not a single typo! Nobody writes a perfect email – other than Feng, clearly. PayPal workers are only human just like you and I. [ _hands tablet back_ ] I want to see at least one spelling, grammatical or punctuation error per paragraph before you hand this back to me young man.

Alright you lot, get back to work. David, you were working on another piece were you not? Can I have a geez? Ta. [ _reading the highlights_ ] "Elsie Mueller. Fifteen year old girl. Waiting to collect my inheritance. Mum died in a car accident. Dad died during childbirth." _Dad_ died during childbirth? [ _pause_ ] I guess it _is_ a pretty rough thing to watch. "German law won't allow me to inherit until I'm eighteen. Need an adult to help."

You know what I like about this, David? Not only is this an original spin on the old Nigerian scam, but you've set her in Germany. _Everyone_ trusts the Germans. The only thing you can do to improve this one is put a bit of stress and emphasis in the right places to make it look really urgent and serious. Rewrite the whole thing in caps and it's good to go.

Boss walks away from David and sighs deeply.

Pack of idiots. David's the only one with any creative nous. Really starting to wonder if they're the right people to make me rich. Stupid people are so unpredictable.

Oh, hello Tatiana. Did you need something? [ _pause_ ] Well of course you haven't been paid yet – you haven't completed the work I'm paying you for! [ _pause_ ] I promised you payment _on completion_. [ _pause_ ] I paid for your flights, food and accommodation. [ _pause_ ] Okay, but you'll be reimbursed for the flights when I pay your fee and you can't say unlimited Fanta and Snickers isn't proper food. Snickers has the goodness of nuts. [ _pause_ ] Forget about the due date; that stuff lasts for decades. Look, I know you've all been here for a week and you're keen to wrap it up. I get that. I'll sort something out soon.

Boss turns as someone gets his attention.

Muhumbo! You startled me. What's going on? [ _agitated_ ] Didn't I make it perfectly clear that you would be paid on completion? Get back to bloody work. I really need everyone to email me their final scripts ASAP so I can start sending them out to the world.

Oh now what Feng? I suppose you want to complain about your pay as well? Great.

Boss claps his hands loudly and gets everyone to come in.

Okay, back you come. Come on. I thought we'd moved past the pay disputes but clearly it's still on your minds so I'm going to put this to rest once and for all. I told you all I'd pay on completion, and I will. I told you all I'd reimburse your flights as soon as you arrived; when I said "as soon as", like, I mean _really soon_ after. Look here, see this email? It clearly shows that I'm expecting a huge tax return any day now from the Federal Bureau of Taxation.

What's that, Feng? The hotel owner kicked you out? Well why didn't you pay the man? What kind of a human being are you staying in someone's hotel and refusing to pay?

Boss is very frustrated now and takes a moment to settle himself down. It doesn't work.

Alright! I've had enough! Email me your work and I'll pay you now. Screw it – you've worked hard enough. I can make the final edits. Happy with that, David? Of course you are; you're the reasonable one. What about you, Tatiana? Have you emailed me your latest draft? No? Well hurry up and send it through! And you, Muhumbo. Press the damned forward button and enter in my email address. Come on, you want to be paid? Then deliver the goods I'm paying you for.

Is that it? Anyone else? No? So everyone's forwarded me the emails they were working on? Yes? Good!

Boss nods a few times to himself. He looks down at the ground musingly. Without warning, he spins on his heels and runs off stage.
THAT TIME HAROLD BORGENSTEIN WENT SPEED DATING AND GOT TAKEN OVER BY ALL THE GREEK GODS

Male

Character: Harold, a dull, middle-aged man attending a speed dating event.

So, uh, I suppose that's why office supplies was a natural next step for me. I mean, what would all you ladies think if I was still just the guy managing a small team of programmers for a medium-sized programming firm, am I right? Bet you'd prefer the wholesale price on thirteen GSM you'd like that.ultra-tough tri-colour recycled paper stock, perfect for scrapbooking, am I right? I knew

Ooh, the bell's ringing. I know you can get my details from the MC but here's my card. It's printed on thirteen GSM ultra-tough tri-colour recycled paper stock.

Hey there beautiful. My name's Harold. Harold Borgenstein. Sounds Jewish but it ain't. My warrior's still got his helmet on if you know what I'm saying. Now tell me absolutely everything about yourself and don't leave out any details.

Harold nods as he listens, clearly uninterested but pretending to be. He twitches. Keeps listening. Twitches again. He convulses bodily and reawakens as a different person.

( _as Heracles_ ) Heracles! I did it. I am controlling a mortal body again. Pantheon, all you must do is say your name and the body will fall under your command.

( _to speed dating partner_ ) Pardon fair maiden, is this _Gaia_? The place of the living?

Harold convulses again and stops, blinking, disoriented.

( _as Harold_ ) Jesus, did I... blank out? Yikes. ( _remembering where he is_ ) Sorry, you were telling me all about your job as a PA. ( _pause_ ) Criminal defense lawyer, right. ( _indignant_ ) Why don't you want to talk to me anymore? Look, I have no idea what I said to offend you but I am sincerely, truly, extremely sorry. Did I have a dig at your lazy eye? Oh don't look so surprised – it's hardly a secret. Or did I tell you you looked fat? Because empire line makes _anyone_ look like a tree trunk and I'm sure you have a reasonable body under there.

Harold recoils after being slapped, then convulses again, slightly less wildly than the time before. Becomes magnanimous.

( _as Zeus_ ) Zeus! Heracles, you are right. I have taken over the mortal. Watch me leap to my feet! ( _leaps up_ ) Swing my arms like I'm slaying an evil succubus. ( _swings arm_ ) Pump my legs as I charge into battle.

Harold runs on the spot. Stops. Pants and tries to catch breath.

By the many wenches I've laid to bed and made children with, this man is in terrible shape. Heracles, was he this bad for you?

( _as Heracles_ ) Heracles. I did not try, Father Zeus. Let me give it a crack.

Harold/Heracles swings his arms around. He winces when his shoulder's in a particular position.

Youch. You are right. This arm is shoddier than those greaves Hephaestus made last century. Look, it just does _not_ go past this point here.

( _as Hephaestus_ ) Hephaestus. Uh, shut up Heracles. Uh, when was the last time you made anything? All you can do is, uh, lift things in the air like a baboon.

Harold convulses slightly and returns to being himself. After a moment of confusion, he sees his next speed dating partner.

Sorry, who are you? ( _pause_ ) Janet. I... I think I've been blanking out. ( _pause_ ) Oh no, I'm totally fine. It's that sleeping problem I get occasionally: narcissism. But forget about me – tell me how a gorgeous woman like yourself came to be at a speed dating thing instead of going to world premieres with her movie-star husband.

Harold leans forwards and smiles seductively. He twitches, then convulses fully. Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, has control of him now.

( _as Athena_ ) Athena. Oh yes, how wonderful. We have toiled away for thousands of years to reach this moment and here it is! Our return to Gaia has begun in the form of... ( _looks at self_ ) this grotty little peasant. ( _smells self_ ) Oh my, this odour would make flowers wilt.

( _becomes Apollo_ ) Apollo. What is wrong with you child-men? This man is perfectly adequate. ( _to Janet_ ) You there, by what name do you go? ( _pause_ ) Ja-net. Do you have a bow? I will show you how a god shoots an apple right out of the sky. ( _pause_ ) Why do you stare at me like cattle?

Zeus, this mortal appears to be afflicted by a minor retardation. ( _gesturing broadly_ ) Perhaps we should seek out others. ( _recoiling_ ) Ooh, this arm really is buggered.

( _as Athena_ ) This is very disappointing indeed, Father. I would hope for a more powerful vessel to convey the majesty that is us gods. It _is_ curious to have the body of a man, though.

Harold twitches and becomes Ares, God of War.

( _as Ares_ ) Ares! Rwoar! Athena, you would find the body of a man curious, seeing how unfamiliar you are with them.

( _as Athena_ ) Ares, you fucked your sister. I would rather be a virgin than a sister-fucker.

( _as Ares_ ) Whatever, Athena. You are simply bitter because none of your brothers will touch you.

( _looks at Janet_ ) Apollo, you are right – she looks just like a dying cow. Close that gaping mouth, wench. ( _pause_ ) You refuse the God of War? I will shut it for you!

Harold/Ares starts attacking Janet, trying to grab her head and close her mouth. After a moment he convulses heavily and ends up on the floor.

( _as Harold_ ) Oh dear lord. What is happening to me? ( _recoils_ ) Oof! ( _covers face_ ) Stop it! No! Why are you kicking me in the face? Help! Help!

While being attacked, Harold convulses on the ground then jumps to his feet as Hera, Queen of the Gods.

( _as Hera_ ) Hera! You there, you dare strike the Queen of the Gods? ( _dodges a blow_ ) Desist immediately, mortal, or I will crush you like a pansy Trojan warrior.

Harold/Hera dodges another blow, steps in and grabs Janet in a headlock. Momentarily, an event organiser approaches her.

( _to organiser_ ) Oh, you wish for me to leave this place? I will do so with the greatest pleasure. ( _to Janet_ ) If I ever lay eyes on you again, young whore, I will have you for breakfast, do you comprehend?

Harold/Hera pushes Janet away and walks off with her head held high. Twitches. Talks while walking.

( _as Ares_ ) Geez, mother. I'm the God of War and even _I_ thought that was cold.

( _as Hera_ ) Quiet, Ares. Greece would still rule the world if not for your pathetic weakness.

( _as Ares_ ) Do not blame me, Hera. If we had ploughed into battle and fought like men instead of following Athena's approach of _sitting_ and _talking_ and _tactics_ our enemies' blood would still drip off our blades today.

( _as Athena_ ) We would have lasted days and not decades with your cavalier approach. ( _sees cars approaching_ ) Brothers and sisters, what are these giant carriages that speed down the road with no horse to pull them?

( _as Hephaestus_ ) Uh, I do not recognise the handiwork. Looks like they would take, uh, quite a lot of steel to construct.

( _as Zeus_ ) You all have the commodity of a maiden's breast dangling off the forequarters of a bull. Let me show you how a god halts a carriage.

Harold/Zeus steps in front of a car and puts his arms out wide. He yells "Halt before Zeus!". At the last second, he dives out of the way of an uncaring driver. Convulses on the ground and becomes a very confused and unsettled Harold.

What am I doing in the middle of the street? What is happening to me?! ( _sees someone nearby_ ) Sir, excuse me sir, I need your help. I keep blacking out and I have no idea how I got outside. ( _pause_ ) Yes, do call an ambulance.

Harold convulses again and becomes Artemis, the archer goddess.

( _as Artemis_ ) Artemis. I am alive! This truly is wondrous. How shall we take advantage of our return to Gaia?

( _as Apollo_ ) Perhaps you and I could practise our beloved archery somewhere, sister.

( _as Zeus_ ) That carriage did not so much as slow down!

( _as Hera_ ) Did no one teach you to watch the road before you step out, Zeus?

( _as Ares_ ) Did no one teach any of you to strike down any obstacle that stands before you with your sword?

( _as Artemis_ ) Can you all stop taking him over and let me have a turn?

( _as Apollo_ ) Sorry Artemis.

( _as Zeus_ ) Sorry, Artemis.

( _as Ares_ ) Sorry, Artemis.

( _as Athena_ ) Do not look at me, Artemis. I did not even touch it.

( _as Artemis_ ) Let me have a turn! ( _anticipatory_ _pause_ ) Good. Now, I have an excellent idea. I am going to...

Convulses and becomes Harold. Stops dead then looks at man.

Did it just happen again? Oh man. What is going on? ( _pause_ ) I'm babbling on about the Greek gods? Why would I be babbling about the Greek Gods? I don't think they have much use for thirteen GSM ultra-tough tri-colour recycled paper stock, do you? Unless they've started a scrapbooking club...

( _as Ares_ ) Rwoar! I grow bored of this talk! Let us fight. You there, what do men call you? ( _pause_ ) Bruno. Do you care for a fight to the death, Bruno?

( _as Athena_ ) Leave this man alone, Ares, you bloodthirsty dog.

( _as Ares_ ) Oh Athena, I have no idea how frustrated you must be. You do not fight and you do not fornicate. What drives do you have?

( _as Athena_ ) I do not follow nought but my impulses, Ares.

( _as Zeus_ ) My children, I begin to tire of this useless mortal.

( _as Harold_ ) It's still happening, isn't it? ( _winces and rubs arm_ ) Ow.

( _as Ares_ ) Ah, Aphrodite. I have an idea. Seduce this man and let Athena experience her first taste of sweet love.

( _as Demeter_ ) Demeter! Ha ha, finally it is my turn!

( _as Ares_ ) Fuck off, Demeter.

( _as Aphrodite_ ) Aphrodite. What a fine idea, brother dearest. ( _to Bruno_ ) Handsome man, let me speak boldly. I am Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Beauty. I find your large frame and impressive volume of bodily hair beyond irresistible. I have bedded many thousands of men and I wish to bed you. Do you share the desire?

Harold/Aphrodite smiles seductively then embraces Bruno. They kiss, then Harold/Aphrodite pulls him to the ground.

Ooh, there is so much flesh to grip!

( _as Ares_ ) Good work, Aphrodite. Athena, now it's your turn.

( _as Athena_ ) No, I do not want to! ( _pause_ ) Oh my, this is most... well... it is actually a little...

Harold/Athena starts passionately kissing Bruno. She rolls on top of him, continues kissing, then convulses and becomes Harold. Harold pauses, then jerks up, distressed.

( _as Harold_ ) Why am I playing tonsil hockey with this hairy giant?!

( _as Zeus_ ) Enough! Athena, show some dignity. ( _gets up and gestures grandly_ ) Let us all now... ( _winces at shoulder pain_ ) Bah, this mortal is indeed broken. Let us search for a better vessel.

( _as Ares_ ) I agree, Father. Bruno, perhaps we shall have our fight to the death at some other point in time. Here is what you can look forward to enjoying.

Harold/Ares punches Bruno in the face. Convulses. Lurches to his feet and stumbles back from an enraged Bruno, ducking and weaving away from his punches.

( _as Harold_ ) Why are you trying to kill me? No, stop swinging at me. I don't know what I did but I'm very sorry. Please leave me alone! I'll give you a free ream of thirteen GSM ultra-tough tri colour recycled paper stock if you stop hitting me!

Runs off stage.

It's perfect for scrapbooking!

Exits.
THE DEVIL'S AFTERSHAVE

Male

Character: John, an adult male with a heightened sense of smell.

John is sitting. Throughout the play he does not breathe deeply – mostly through his mouth, to the degree practical.

There's one thing I can tell you about superheroes. No matter which one you're talking about – Spiderman, the Hulk, Catwoman – there's no doubt I have this right. Even if you created an entirely new one, this would still be true: superheroes don't have super smell.

That might sound funny, but think about it. What separates a superhero from an ordinary person? Powers, right? Most are incredibly strong, some can fly, others have laser beam eyes. But can you imagine one with super smell?

Superman's flying through LA on his way to pull a drowning girl from a sewer. His eyes are blistering from the millions of smog particles he's inhaling per second and the stench of a million people's shit smacks him in the face like a fist. "Ah, fuck this."

I was born with an incredibly heightened sense of smell, but alas I cannot fly nor lift a truck above my head. Wherever I go I am assailed by odours.

When I was young I wanted to swap my sense of smell for better sight. There's nothing wrong with my eyes by ordinary standards, but compared to what my nose can do I'm effectively blind. Instead of X-ray vision I had X-ray smell.

I didn't have a large number of friends. It wasn't as if I was socially inadequate, I just couldn't stand the smells of other kids. There was Donny Parkins, a popular kid, who smelled of dough and flour in the morning and acrid sweat from recess onwards. I could bear him until ten thirty, then the games of tag turned him into a stale change room two hours after a big match. The first girl who ever liked me, Judy Bloom, was an evening showerer and had nightmares. She never told me this but fear caused hormones to leak on her clothes and skin. She was stale by morning and fetid by lunch time. She tried to kiss me once but her halitosis mixed with peanut butter and white bread made me gag.

I hid my distaste a little better in high school but many odours made me vomit, and the lingering, off-carroty smell of bile in my mouth kept me in a state of perpetual weakness. Wafts of perfume came out of her armpits each time Miss Baker turned or wrote on the board. The musty book-smell would make me gag and turn my head to the side, only to catch a mouthful of rotten timber from beneath the carpet. Teachers said I was distracted. To eat, I would hold my breath and choke down sour, overripe fruit or sandwiches made from festering bread and bitter, leathery vegemite.

I was compared to Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, the murderer from the novel _Perfume_. Totally unfair. I'm not a serial-killing toad. He dedicated his life to distilling pheromones from dead redheads. All I wanted was to silence the screaming stench of life. I experimented with booze and tobacco. My first cigarette was like putting my head in an old fireplace filled with burning plastic. I still remember the searing in my eyes and the agonising pressure in my head.

If I got hammered I'd be just as obnoxious as the next underage drinker, but when I came to I could remember what happened by the chronology of smells from the night before. Mouldy bits of food stuck to the insides of foily food wrappers, rancid cigarette butts mixed with vinegary wines and fermenting, frothing beers. The smooth velvet of a pool table and the dull taste of porcelain from balls cracking against each other, the hollow tinge of chalk from the cue tip, the bite of silver coins. And blood. The metallic, steely smell of blood, sharp like a razor, rank as it congealed. The mere memory of blood made me gag.

Nothing would lessen my acute sense. Have you ever met a pregnant woman? Her oestrogen brings out the sweaty cheese of life but it's nothing compared to what I go through. What about a dog? You hear they have such powerful noses they can detect fear, but they also shove their heads into each other's arseholes for a good old sniff. I can smell a dog's arsehole from two hundred metres and let me assure you there is nothing left to the imagination. Pal and recycled vomit is five times worse on the way out.

Did you know that smell has a close link to memory? How many times have you caught a whiff of something that reminds you of the distant past? Everywhere I go I have my childhood forced – quite literally – down my throat. Walk in my shoes for a minute. The train stifles me, with sickly-sweet deodorants assaulting my sinuses and the sting I get in my eyes every time a smoker boards and reminds me of that first cigarette. The most attractive women all seem to wear the perfume my mum did when I was little; she was always one generation ahead. I can see her making sandwiches when I smell these perfumes and it is _not_ a turn on. And the city.

Here's something I want you to do. Imagine a bin filled with your ordinary kitchen waste. It's been left there for two months, totally full. Put your head in it, close the lid, and inhale until your chest swells so large it hurts. That's how the city smells to me. Every step a SWAT team of putrid aromas leaps out at me with guns blazing. I hurry through this noisome cloud and enter the building I work in, where I soak up the stone stairs and greasy metal railings, passing the fish market tuna smell of the immigration specialists on level three. On level seven, my PC's charred disc drive takes me to my first Atari and a festering wall of coffee breath pins me to my seat, closing in from every direction. But as gruesome as these odours are, the one thing I truly can't stand is my boss. Five years my junior, his aftershave brings me to my earliest memory, of a man I despise like the Devil himself. Every time I see the boss I'm filled with disgust and hatred and self-loathing, which is a pity because he's a nice guy.

On the last day I ever went outside, I visited my sister. The eggy, coleslaw-and-mayonnaise smell of her kid's sperm was on every towel in the house. Some of it was in Jen's underpants drawer, which is fairly disturbing. She asked me how I was going. "Terrible. I don't sleep, I hate my job, and I hate the way everything in this city smells." "So move to the country. Go somewhere natural; have a _tree_ change." "It stinks there, too. Nothing but cow shit at every turn. There's nothing natural about millions of cows crammed together." "Oh come on John, is it really that bad?" Ugh, I could have hit her. A lifetime of this torture and my own sister doesn't even get what I'm suffering. "I would cut off my own nose if it would help," I said. "Nothing is pleasant for me. Nothing! Roses are so pungent they make my head spin, chocolate is like bike grease drizzled over burnt sugar, even the fluoride in tap water makes me feel like I'm swallowing chemicals. How am I supposed to enjoy life like this? I can even smell the last time you pissed!"

Things were mighty awkward after that so I made an excuse and left. This seemed to happen a lot with Jen. I was always offending her. I don't drive because of petrol fumes and tyre rubber so off I walked down the street. Mere minutes later, an old man came out of his house and that smell wrapped around my throat like a noose. Cognac, cigars, and my boss's aftershave. His appearance meant nothing but I knew exactly who he was. I could recognise his smell like anyone else would recognise his face.

Without a beat I marched over and grabbed his wrinkly arm, pulling him through to the kitchen as I turned my head away from the stench of that aftershave. My earliest memory enveloped me. The Omo smell of my freshly-laundered pillow, the bark from the tree out the window and sap as possums' claws dug into its branches. A leafy breeze as my door opened and the wind was sucked in, then something unspeakably unclean as someone entered my room. Cigars, playing cards and the faint tinge of urine as his hand clamped over my mouth. Cognac on his breath. A weak, cottony odour as my shorts tore. The smell of my fear. My sweat glands opening, salty at that moment but stale as I cried into the morning. And blood. The metallic, steely smell of blood, sharp like a razor, rank as it congealed on my body.

This old man now lived just down the road from my _sister_ , from my sister's _kid_. I saw red. Blinded by the memory of his fingers pressing into my mouth and eye, I sniffed out the cutlery, groping for a knife. My hand wrapped around a big one and I slashed it towards him. Stab stab stab, five times, eight times, nine times.

I don't remember much after the petrol fumes and tyre rubber as they took me away. The overwhelming effluence of the holding cell. Days of stench – weeks of it. The court didn't believe what I said the old man had done to me. I tried to rob him, the prosecution claimed, and lost it when he refused to cooperate. My sister knew none of what went on back then and gave me a weak character reference: "I honestly don't know him that well. Maybe he _is_ capable of snapping."

I could appeal the sentence, but I actually cope in here. The thugs in this place stink as much as any other human being does but they don't wear that aftershave. I've got twenty-five years to get used to the blood and piss and sweat and sperm, but what's twenty-five years to a superhero? You think they can beat Captain Nausea? Fuck that.
THE FLOWERS

Male/Female

Character: Sam, wears a loose tracksuit over the top of army fatigues.

I never knew my mum. She died during childbirth. Lived long enough to hold me in her arms, look me in the eyes and say, "Sam." Dad said the very last moment of her life was the happiest one so at least she went out on a high.

Dad was a drug addict when I was born so I only spent a few months with him before they shipped me out to foster homes. The first people who had me were arrested for kidnapping a child in the eighties and I was forwarded on to an elderly couple before I turned one. I'm sure they were the best parents I ever had but they didn't last very long. Enid passed away in her sleep when I was eighteen months and Rex died of a "broken heart" soon after.

I was sent to an upper class couple after that and lived with Carlos and Ana _star_ sia for the next eight years. Anastarsia hated me right from the get-go because Spot – her bunny rabbit – died of shock the day I arrived. It's hardly a toddler's fault that rabbits have zero constitution but all the same I was scorned by her for half my childhood. She was the least hands-on parent in the universe, and I think I was technically raised by Nintendo. My first words were "Donkey Kong." I was home-schooled and when I was seven I'm pretty sure I topped the state in _The Legend of Zelda_.

Carlos was an even worse parent than the Gameboy. He'd come into my room about once a week to check if I'd died from malnutrition and just stand awkwardly in the doorway. After a few moments he'd shake my hand and hurry off like I was some old acquaintance he didn't want to talk to.

Just before I turned ten, my dad convinced the courts he was off drugs and got custody of me. He was over the moon. I was put on a train to Arcadia Station and dad met me there with a Labrador puppy he'd named Lucky. Lucky was so excited to meet his new best friend that he leapt right on top of me as I arrived, except I was still on a moving train and the poor thing got minced. It was a fairly mixed reunion.

A few days after I moved in to dad's pokey flat he started coughing. At first it was just a little "hack, hack," but it quickly grew worse and worse until his entire breathing cycle consisted of a gasp in and a choke out. Cancer got him when I was ten years and ten days.

Off I went to another foster home. After less than six months, my two dads Charles and Charlie were killed in an accident on the motorway. When my next foster mum died of a stroke at twenty-seven, I knew something was wrong with me. I relocated _again_ and went to see a priest.

"What would you like to confess, my child?"

"Father," I replied. "I think I'm possessed by the Devil. A lot of people around me have gone to Heaven: my mum, my dad, the Charleses, the old couple. Even Lucky and Spot. I'm not very good at maths but this many deaths seems very unprobable. How am I supposed to live if everyone around me goes to Heaven, Father? ...Father? ...Hello?"

I sat on a pew and pretended I didn't know what was going on. Might have got away with it if the ambulance hadn't backed into my new foster parents' car and caused that horrible explosion.

The next guy I lived with is still alive today. He worked at a warehouse and was terribly fond of marijuana, smoking it on a daily basis when he got home from work at 4am. I don't know how he was legally entitled to adopt but I suspect he hired someone from Gumtree dot com to be his "de facto partner" during interviews.

_Dae-mo_ and I didn't have much to do with each other, but all things considered he was a reasonable parent who got me through school and into my own apartment. I moved in with two nerds I met through World of Warcraft, but I was the only one who survived the fire.

By the time I was living alone and working from home as a programmer I was over it. What the hell was wrong with me? What evil spirit did I piss off to end up as the town death magnet? At nineteen I tried to kill myself. I nailed a sturdy hook into the rafters and slung a rope over it, looked up how to make a noose on the internet, and slipped it over my neck. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and kicked the chair out from beneath me.

There was a god-awful crack and the rafter swung down off the ceiling in an arc, smashing into my goldfish bowl and sending Bowser Junior out the window. Screw this, I said, and I leapt out after him. Fell four storeys and landed on a little old lady. Poor Mrs Bellevue. I staggered out onto the road and the car that swerved to miss me finished the old dear off.

My guilt at being the only one able to stay alive for more than five minutes tripled and I tried everything I could to end myself. Did you know if you put a gun right next to your head and pull the trigger it's still possible to hit the wrong person? I jumped off a cliff but a gust of wind blew me into a tree growing out of the rock face. The helicopter that came to rescue me... ( _Sam gestures to show an exploding helicopter_ ) I tried to drown myself but ended up with a box jellyfish in my mouth and the guy who did CPR got stung and asphyxiated. I tried explosives and exposure and electrocution but all I succeeded in doing was becoming the first person in the country to be blacklisted by emergency services.

I gave up on offing myself and came up with a mission instead. If I couldn't hold down a meaningful relationship or own a pet, the least I could do was grow some flowers. I converted my unused garage space into a greenhouse and bought a stack of vibrant, healthy plants. I watered them every day and one by one they wilted and died. I bought some more. Only watered them once; they wilted too. I tried a hundred different species but nothing lasted for more than a fortnight, even the damned succulents!

I tried everything I could think of but still no flowers. I dug up the neighbour's rose bush and planted it in the front garden. The strata manager knocked on my door and went mental but fortunately he was on life support before he could complain to my agent. I read horticulture magazines and tried everything: water, fertiliser, sunlight, shade. I read one Stephen King. I played one Mozart. They all died. Meanwhile, my mail had stopped coming. They were running out of postmen.

One day I went downstairs and saw something miraculous. There was a bud, a tiny shoot of green sticking its head through one of the hundreds of empty pots. I was overjoyed! I posted on the Pot Plant Forums and told them all about it. Took a photo after a week and sent it to my friend FloraFan8. FloraFan8 told me it was marijuana.

Marijuana?! Damn teenagers! But wait. _Dae-mo_ was a pothead. And my dad was a drug addict. Did this mean...?

I made contact with some stoner kids from high school and started hanging out. They didn't die – ecstasy! (Well, you know what I mean.) Finally my life would be normal. I could have a very slow, perpetually hungry cat. I could fall in love. Someone to say, "Honey I'm home," and make me Grain Waves for dinner.

It sucked that the only thing capable of surviving around me would quite possibly land me in prison. Why couldn't it be sunflowers? No one gets three to six months for growing sunflowers. I thought the best idea was to go somewhere where marijuana wasn't illegal so I saved my money and bought a one-way ticket to Amsterdam. A great idea but I really should have put more thought into it. No one else survived the crash.

Sam starts taking off a tracksuit to reveal army clothes underneath.

I caught the interest of someone in national security after that. "Unbreakable Sam," he called me. "Tried to kill yourself a dozen times but couldn't pull it off," he said. "Have you ever thought of joining the army?" he asked.

And that's the story of how I joined the Special Forces in Afghanistan in the only regiment encouraged to get high while on duty. They call us "The Flowers" because of all the bud. All I do is walk through the desert watching rifles misfiring and bombs randomly detonating in nearby caves. I've been captured four times now but I always get out within a day or two.

Not everyone gets dealt a winning hand, you know, but all things considered I can't complain. I may not be destined for happiness in this life, but at least I get to be useful. That's cool. Useful works for me just fine.

_Sam smiles, bittersweet_.

I'm not dying to be happy.

Sam walks off stage, leaving a dead pot plant in the spotlight.
THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE

Female

Character: Becca, a bride.

Oh. My. God. I looked _so_ beautiful. My hair was like, a bouquet of gold ringlets and I had nails to match. Pure silver bling on the ears, neck and wrists. The dress was this slim-fitting number with a sea of pearl pieces that made me look like a white mermaid. Except with legs. The light shone off me like a mirror ball and I could totally see my reflection in people's eyes when they told me how amazing I looked.

Danny looked like a prince. He was my Prince Charming and I was like Ariel, the Little Mermaid, except with legs. Except that she did have legs when the witch turned her into... ( _waves it off_ ) doesn't matter.

We got married in a five-star hotel with one hundred of our family and closest friends cheering us on. Daddy was practically sobbing while he walked me down the aisle. In a happy way but. Ellie my Maid of Honour did the most beautiful reading. Danny's lips were trembling when he made the vow – it was _so_ romantic.

It really was the happiest day of my life. The flowers were exquisite, the food incredible; I couldn't go two steps without five people taking my photograph. We ate and danced the night away and when Danny carried me up to the Honeymoon suite he made me come for the first time ever like four times.

I woke up in the arms of the man of my dreams and he had the cutest sleep face. It was all like ( _makes a sleep face_ ). I'm always totally ramished in the morning so I went down to breakfast in my nightgown.

The waiters ignored me when I sat down and I had to get my own food from the buffet. I ate croissants and baked caramel French toast and lemon pancakes alone and no one took a single photo of me.

Danny came down and straight away asked me what was wrong, but I pretended it was all perfect. The Honeymoon was the same. We went to Hawaii and it was totally like from the movies, and everyone was so gorgeous to us and everything was totally beautiful. But... the only guy who took a photo of me was some old dude who was probably hoping to catch some nip slips.

I got so depressed when I was back. I'd had the happiest day of my life, right? So... I was never going to be that happy again? Had my happiness peaked at the age of twenty-one?

Becca looks at her watch and mouths a calculation regarding the time. From this point on, she shows occasional hints of waiting for someone – fidgeting, looking around, etc.

Danny could see I was miserable no matter how much I lied about it. Married life wasn't what I thought it would be. He kept asking "What's wrong, babe? What's wrong?" But how could I tell him? He was my Prince Charming. I'd break his heart if I told him I didn't love him anymore, that there weren't butterflies in my stomach like the first eight months.

I wanted to leave him but I couldn't bring myself to say anything. I'm like, a super nice person, not a stone-cold heartbreaker. So I got Tammy, who's a total slut, to see if he'd sleep with her if she came onto him. And you know what? The bastard totally did it. Tammy came around playing the drunk and lonely card and he didn't stop her when she blew him. What a philanthropist pig!

He tried to make it right but he could never live with what he did and said he'd failed me and I deserved someone better. ( _brightly_ ) So we got divorced and I met the _cutest_ guy a couple of months later. He was really smart and made chemicals for an engineering company, or something, and we got engaged after six months. I was _so_ excited. I was going to have another perfect day.

I told Jacob my heart had been like krumped on by Danny, so he totally one-upped him on the wedding. He convinced his mum to mortgage her parents' house 'cause they were in a home and he was going to inherit the money anyway, and he bought me a _diamond_ necklace. I didn't think it was possible but I looked even _more_ beautiful than the first wedding. The dress was designed by a personal friend of Vera Wang and you would _not_ believe the shoes I got my hands on. This time I really did look like a princess.

It was beyond perfect and I knew Jacob could satisfy me like Danny couldn't, so I was even happier this time around. I had two videographers and the iPhone 4 had come out so everyone's photos looked better. I won't even _tell_ you what we did on the wedding night!

Becca's mood shifts. She mumbles "Where is he?", audible but said to herself.

But the next day was the same. Everyone was gone and the wedding day was... dead. Like, imagine you have this really cute puppy right, and you love it and play with it and it licks your face, then the next day it's not there anymore. My second wedding was like that. Gone, like a dead puppy.

Jacob wasn't as nice about my depression as Danny had been. The sadder I got, the meaner _he_ got. "Pull yourself together, Becca. You have everything you could want. A good home, a family and husband who loves you, all the money you'll ever need. What's your beef with the world?"

Such an insensitive prick. He had a nasty temperament disorder but I still couldn't bring myself to say it was over. I knew he loved me.

Things got worse and worse and you know what? I was hardly even sad that he never came out of the coma after that "driver fatigue" accident. The doctor looking after him was so sweet and a _huge_ hunk of man. He took me out to dinner the day they pulled the plug. It was _so_ caring of him.

Doctor Swann was really smart and we really hit it off. I told him how I hadn't been happy with my first marriages and he said that the trick was to keep the love alive every day. So romantic. We started dating and one thing led to another and we got _married!_

David had a flair for the theatrics so he organised for us to be dropped off at the ceremony by a _helicopter_. Can you believe that? He hired this huge property in the country and got an _actual_ Vera Wang dress and I was even happier than at the first two weddings.

The lovemaking that night wasn't great and the next day was that same disappointment. He'd organised an old-school horse and carrot ride but no one was telling me how insanely perfect I looked and it was such an anti-climax. (At least I got to have _some_ kind of climax.)

David tried harder than Danny or Jacob but it didn't help. Depression. Arguments. One evening we were out for a stroll on that rocky cliff place near that beach and he leans over the railing and poof, he's fallen to his death. I might not be a smart doctor but at least I know how to hold a railing.

Anyway, I took a couple of years off the whole love thing. Losing three husbands in three years took its toll. I didn't plan to meet Bruno but he came out of nowhere and swept me off my feet. _Total_ bad boy. Even his mum came to the wedding on a Harley. Same thing _again_. ( _sings from Wagner's_ _"Here Comes The Bride_ ") Duh, da da-da. Amazing, beautiful, perfect day. Duh, da da-da. Horrible morning after. Duh, duh, da-da, duh, da da, duh, da-da-la. Bruno died of heavy bleeding after a chainsaw accident.

Becca looks at her watch again, crosses her arms and taps her foot impatiently.

Next time I got married my dad didn't sob when he gave me away. My second cousins didn't even come. New husband died from food poisoning and the _next_ time I married like half my friends didn't even turn up. Ellie never stopped crying in happiness for me but she used a mash-up of readings she'd already done before. What was wrong with these people? They were hurting my feelings. I _hate_ hurting people's feelings.

Two months after my next husband got drunk and drowned on a boating trip I get called on by the _cops_. Suspicious circumstances, they say. Forensic evidence. Fingerprints on the steering wheel. Fingerprints on the chainsaw. Drugs in the food. Blah blah bullshit blah.

Then you know what happens next? I'm due to marry Adolfo – my most gorgeous fiancé yet – and the doctor's sister has tracked me all the way to _Italy_. I'm walking out of a bridal shop in the middle of Florence and she's just _there_ , standing there giving me the world's biggest deathie.

"You murdering bitch! I _always_ suspected you killed David. When the police came after you I knew it for a fact."

"How dare you! I loved David."

"You love no one, Becca. You pretend that you're this sweet little dumb thing but you only care about being the centre of attention. You are evil. Heartless and evil!"

"Oh my god, all my loved ones have died like tragically and you have the nerve to come here and blame _me_? You stalk me all the way across the world and say _I'm_ the one who killed them? How _dare_ you. How dare you show your ferrety little face and accuse me of the most horrible thing on the _day before_ the happiest day of my life!"

Then she says "You're going to Hell" and pulls out a _gun_. **Bang!** Shoots me in the face. On the day before my wedding! My _face_!

Becca pauses. She looks around again. A red wash comes over the stage.

( _to herself_ ) God damn it. Where is Adolfo?

I don't even believe in Hell. Joke's on her because I woke up and I was totally fine.

Beat.

I... I mean I can't remember when I put on the dress, and I... don't remember this place from the flyers. But I'm definitely supposed to get married here today.

Looks lost and confused for a beat, then looks at watch.

It's like, the fiftieth day in a row that he hasn't turned up. I'm supposed to be getting married today, but he never turns up.

( _calling_ ) Adolfo. Adolfo! You're like, super late.

Becca looks forlorn.

Why does he never turn up? It's supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
THE KEY

Male

Jonny: a thirty-something-year-old male wearing a painter's overalls. Bit rough.

I have the biggest surprise lined up for Amy. She is going to go hysterical. I mean she will have no idea this is coming and it's going to blow her mind.

There are a few minor challenges setting it up but everyone knows I don't shy away from one of those. First is I don't have a key to her place. She's been my girl for what – ten months? – but she hasn't given me "the key" yet. ( _laughs_ ) That's going to change quick smart when she realises how devoted I am to her. I am more serious than a brain haemorrhage when it comes to Amy Nelson.

That's why I'm masquerading as a painter standing up the top of the world's shakiest ladder. Not because I'm trying to rob her. I need to slip inside her second storey window without the nosy bloody neighbours calling the cops. As an added bonus she gets a free upgrade from puce to bone on her window frames. Not part of the surprise but she'll be grateful if she ever looks up from the car park.

_Jonny looks around_.

You know what? No one's looking so I'm going to slip inside. She shuts but never locks this window. "No one can get in, Jonny. It's way too high," she says. ( _climbs in_ ) There we go. Access _not_ denied. Boom!

Ah shit, I got paint on the venetians. They're this really nice shade of avocado. She's going to come in and the first thing she sees'll be bone paint on her avocado venetians. Fuck, this won't do.

I head through to the bathroom and get some paper towels to wipe 'em clean. Smear it everywhere but it doesn't come off. Try a bit of water, then Spray and Wipe, then Ajax then Mr Muscle then fucking turps. Venetians are usually PVC or some kind of plastic polymer and they're meant to clean way easier than this. I scrub all the paint out but I clearly put too much elbow into it 'cause when I was done I'd scrubbed a hole all the way through one of 'em. Jesus, I'm supposed to be surprising Amy, not ruining her décor.

Check the time. I have at least six hours before she comes back. All good, I can multitask. Call Spotlight while I set up in the kitchen. Pull out all the pots and pans I need and raid the spice rack. Amy adores Italian food and she's going to wet her panties when she tastes my tortellini. "Oh, yeah hi. Do you stock vertical venetians? Great, do you have any avocado in stock? Avocado. _Avocado_. Not the fruit, you nong. The _colour_."

Jonny puts his hand on his forehead.

The clown puts me on hold and I get started on the pasta. Bruschetta for starters, tiramisu for dessert. Amy will go _wild_ when she sees this. By the time we get to dessert she'll be mad keen to eat it right off the washboard. ( _pats stomach_ ) Alright, fresh tomatoes, expensive gruyere, field mushrooms. ( _into phone_ ) "Yep, I'm here. Okay, I'm after avocado-coloured vertical venetian blinds. Stocking any? Brilliant, can you deliver to the city? Sweet. I need them by two at the latest. Three _days_? Fuck, that won't do. Can you send 'em by courier? Don't care what it costs. Fine, I'll hold."

Useless bloody monkeys. Anyways, I spend the next ninety minutes slicing and dicing and garnishing and waiting for the store manager to call me back after I offered three hundred extra bucks for priority delivery. Toppings are ready to go on the bruschetta, pasta is cooked and ready to heat and serve. When the store manager finally gets back to me she says they can't do it! Unbelievable. I tell her I'll head out there my-damned-self as soon as I get on top of the tiramisu.

I leave the front door unlocked as I head off. Drive the ute to the nearest Spotlight store. Fuck me with a bendy tyre-iron, they don't stock avocado blinds here! Have to drive out to Lidcombe. Normally this kind of run-around would make me seriously consider killing a nun but... today is all about Miss Nelson. ( _laughs_ ) What kind of a surprise would it be if she gets this call, like, "Amy, Jonny's in prison. He strangled one of Mother Teresa's bosom buddies with her own habit."

Get to the other Spotlight and have a fairly animated discussion with the clerk there who reckons the length and number of slats I need isn't the standard deal with verticals and I'll have to get them custom made. We go back and forth a bit until I tell the clerk I'll stab her repeatedly in the face if she doesn't get me the damned venetians I want and I decide it's best I leave before she calls the cops. Might have crossed the line a little there, but come the fuck on Spotlight! What's wrong with these homemaking suckers of dicks?

I go back to Amy's. I'll just deny having anything to do with the blinds.

Jonny opens the door and instantly becomes alert.

Someone's here. No... some _ones_. There are noises. Noises that sound an awful lot like a couple of people have broken in to Amy's place to have sex. In her bed.

His mood darkens.

These break-and-entering bastards are about to get the biggest shock of their lives. Only _I_ can break into Amy's place. I go into the kitchen. Knife? Too lethal. Mallet? Tenderise the bastard's balls! Frying pan? Still too hectic. Ooh, chili powder! That'll show them. Get a big handful of this up the clacker and you'll be squirming for weeks.

I turn around and all of a sudden I'm standing face to face with some naked fella. He's just staring at me, mouth open like a fish who just found out its mother was a lesbian. I tell you, this dopey face and his semi-erect cock make him look spectacularly stupid. It's probably the only reason I don't break his neck on the spot.

"So I'm guessing you're Amy's boyfriend then." He says it all rhetorical-like.

"Who's in the bedroom?" I ask.

Then the penny drops. He wouldn't be asking what my relationship to Amy is if the cunt hadn't just been fucking her. He opens his mouth to reply and I cut him off with ( _quiet threat_ ) "Get out."

"But my clothes."

"Do you want your clothes or do you want your cock attached to your body?"

He gets the point and fucks off out of the apartment quick smart. I'm so fucking livid I could murder a puppy; I could strangle that nun for real. How could Amy even...? I mean, on the day I cooked a three-course meal for her.

Then Amy comes out of her bedroom, naked. She freezes when she sees me. We stare at each other for a long moment.

"You cheating little slapper."

"Who are you?" she says.

"Who am _I_? Who was he?"

"You're in _my_ place, pal. You don't get to ask the questions. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Jonny."

She stares at me. "Well, Jonny, I suggest you get a head start on the police."

Did she really just threaten that? "Look Amy, I don't care who that guy was. Sure, if he comes here again I'll seriously break every bone in his body in alphabetical order, but I've spent the day making you an amazing three course Italian feast. We should forget about all this and just enjoy it. But I need another fifteen with the tiramisu..."

Out of bloody nowhere, Amy charges across the room and slugs me in the mouth. I drop like a sack. She screams and punches me and screams and kicks me and it's just a messy fucking blur of noise and violence. I only catch odd words – words like "stalker" and "psycho"; the phrase "how do you know my name?" seems to come up a fair bit.

She lays off and I collapse against the wall near the kitchen door, my arse thoroughly kicked. I wipe my eyes so I can see again but they're full of blood two seconds later. Before I can even catch my breath, Amy's kneeling beside me, pressing a teatowel against my bleeding nog. Her naked breast is inches away from my face.

"How about you don't tell anyone I busted your face and I won't tell anyone you broke into my place?"

I nod.

"You're a royal fucking creep, you know that?"

_Pause_.

I nod again.

"Do you promise you'll stop stalking me? I mean, God save you if you even _think_ about breaking into my..."

I put a hand on Amy's arm. She looks me right in the eyes, furious but also... impressed? "I ruined your venetians. Let me pay for them."

She scowls. _Damn_ it makes her look sexy. "Fine. Leave cash in my letterbox but don't come near this place again after."

I nod. Amy disappears for a bit and comes back fully dressed. She wraps a bandage around my head then helps me up and opens the front door. "Fuck off now, Jonny."

I look right at her. Amy Nelson. My dream girl. Glowering at me like I'm some pervert who wants to fiddle with her nephew. I reach into my pants and take out my business card. "Enjoy the dinner, hey?"

She shoves me out the door and slams it right in my face. But she takes the card.

Few days later, I get the right-sized avocado venetians and ship them to her place. She doesn't call to thank me. I find my card in her garbage three days later.

Jonny thinks for a moment, lost.

Fuck, maybe she doesn't like Italian food as much as I thought. Monitor her outgoings for a couple of months and it turns out she eats a lot of Mexican food.

Well, thank God for that. It wasn't me after all – it was my poor choice of recipes. I look up how to cook with chillies and beans.

Amy's going to fucking adore my nachos.
THE LONG GAME

Male

Character: Paul, an everyday office worker and family man.

I wouldn't say I'm _boring_. Forty, married, two kids, accounts receivable at an investment firm. Like to watch the cricket. Fond of mustards and chutneys. Huge fan of a good relish. My wife loves me because I'm quote unquote "stable and reliable." I'm a thrill a minute.

So a person like me isn't the type you'd expect to find hanging out in a gay bar, but there I was. I was checking my phone and sipping a light beer at the bar when a man appears beside me. "Excuse me, is this yours?"

He's holding my wallet. "Yes. Thanks so much for handing it back. You could have drunk all night for free."

"Can I drink for ten minutes for free?"

How rude of me. I buy him a thank-you whiskey and he asks what a guy like me is doing in a place like this. I tell him I was supposed to meet my friend Darren, but he's stood me up. We chat about my job and family and passion for early twentieth century jazz, and he tells me he's some kind of art dealer.

He gives me his card and says we should do this again sometime. Ian Roberts. I stay for a few minutes after he's left and finish my third light beer. It's only then that I notice the only female here is behind the bar.

Bloody Darren!

Gabby's asleep so I do a crossword. Six letters. R something something G something D. Manly men and mountains. Manly men and mountains. My mind wanders over to Ian's Armani suit, velvet radio voice and unplaceable cologne. That man was so... Rugged! ( _awkward_ _realisation_ ) I put the crossword down and go to bed.

A few days later I'm handling an account for an Ian Somebody and it makes me think of him. Allowing my reflexes to take over, I pull out his card and call the number. "Ian? It's Paul, from the bar. I have a free evening. Want to do dinner?"

At six I call my wife and tell her I'm stuck at work. At six oh two I ask myself what the hell I'm doing and at six oh two and a half I get up to leave just as Ian enters. His face lights up and he steers me to a seat.

A bucktoothed teenaged waitress approaches to take our order and Ian puts a hand lightly on her arm. "We'll take the fillet mignon and a pumpkin quiche, darling. Shall I fix you up now?"

The girl falls in love with him right there. "It's all good, mister. You can pay when yer done eatin'."

Ian asks a million questions about me, never once breaking eye contact. I ask about him too but he gives quick answers and turns it back to me. The women in the room can't stop glancing over at us. Neither can half the men. I'm making them jealous. I mask a smile.

My phone rings and I glance at the screen. I panic for a second. "Something wrong?" Ian asks?

"No, it's just my wife." I don't answer. We go back to our dinner and conversation.

When we're done, Ian leaves a few coins on the table as a tip and we leave. "Paul, what are you doing Saturday?"

Saturdays are a nightmare. Kids sport, shopping, taking Gabby to see her father, my turn to cook. "Nothing. What time?"

What am I thinking? Gabby's going to kill me.

I put out my hand when we say goodbye and he pulls me into a brotherly embrace. I watch him for a full minute as he strides away, almost fainting with embarrassment when he looks back at me.

A few days later my wife pins me down and tells me to go easy at work. "Honey, I've started a critical new project," I say. "I'm going to be working extra hard for the next month or so. I'll be on the case on Saturday, too."

Our talk dissolves into an argument and it ends with me telling her she undervalues what I do and her telling me I undervalue the family. Saturday can't come round soon enough. I hardly sleep on Friday night.

We meet in the city. "Paul! Good to see you. I have something you're going to love."

Ian, looking devilishly handsome in jeans and a leather jacket, hands me a gift bag. I pull out a jar of Lizzy's homemade mango chutney. "Amazing! I love this stuff!"

I reach my hand out to shake his and he pulls me into a hug. It goes on just a little bit too long.

"Paul, do you want to do something fun?"

I try to cover the growing awkwardness. "But I'm a married man!"

He laughs resonantly. "Come with me."

I follow him all the way to a department store. Of all things, Ian starts looking through the _bins_. He fishes something out and says, "Perfect. Follow me."

We go into the store and wind our way to the electronics section. He picks up a Blu-ray player and we head straight to the front counter. "I'm so sorry, but I have to return this. Apparently it's a 'waste of our hard earned money.'"

The girl at the counter looks over at me. Thankfully, my uncomprehending blank face gives away nothing. "Do you have a receipt, sir?"

Ian hands her the thing he took out of the bin. She pushes a few buttons and hands him money from the register.

Just like that, we walk out of there eighty dollars richer. I'm a little speechless at the audacity of his scam, and when we part ways half an hour later I'm even more speechless when he slips the money into my trousers.

We start seeing each other twice a week. Ian seems to be on a mission to take me to every fine dining establishment in town. When we walk together he always has his arm over my shoulders and when we sit he stares deep into my eyes. The man has this incredible pull to him and when we're together I forget that I have a job and a life and a... family.

After a few months we're at a bar and I'm drinking full strength beers. Too many, clearly, because I end up drunk and back at his place. We laugh and watch a movie and next thing I know I'm in his _bed_. He's wearing nothing but his jocks. "Paul. I want to show you something."

Ian reaches across me, his naked chest pressing against my shirt. He picks up an envelope and opens it. "This is for Gabby."

I reach into the envelope. It's a voucher. For a day spa.

"Drop Gabby off there next Saturday after you take Ben and Sam to soccer, then come straight round here."

I slur out a response. "What about right now? No time like the crescent."

Ian smiles. "It's two AM and your wife will kill you if you don't get home right away. I've already called you a cab."

I try to throw a bit of a tantrum but he doesn't have a bar of it. He gives me two fifties from his wallet, which I can't help but see has _hundreds_ of dollars in it. "Where'd you get all that? You had nothing earlier."

"Back of a truck, Paul. Go home. Let's wait until Saturday and do it right."

Drunk, confused and disoriented, I stumble outside and climb into a cab. Go home and pass out on the couch. Gabby is livid when she finds me and doesn't talk to me for two days, but I don't care one bit. All I think about is Ian. His charisma. His piercing gaze. His chest on my chest. Give my wife the voucher as a make-up gift and she cries and says she loves me and starts blabbering about... whatever.

Next three days pass in a blur and before I know it, I've dropped the kids at sport and Gabby at the day spa and I'm knocking on Ian's front door. That boyish smile greets me as he ushers me in. There's candles and wine out. "Brunch?" he asks.

We sit down and he tucks a napkin into my shirt. "Don't get yourself dirty now, Paul."

My heart is pounding. I know where this is all leading and I'm not afraid to admit I'm afraid. He serves salmon and a rocket, pear and parmesan salad.

Five minutes in, he swears. "Paul, I'm super sorry, but I need to go out and grab something. I'll just be ten minutes. Finish your meal and head into the bathroom, okay? I've run a nice relaxing bath."

"Okay."

"Can I borrow your car?"

"Sure."

I hand him my keys. He squeezes my shoulder and says he'll be right back.

I finish the brunch. Sit back for a few minutes. Look at my watch, then shrug and go to the bath. I undress and get in. Ian is gone for ages. I think I doze off.

I wake to my phone buzzing. I reach into my pants pocket and pull it out. Gabby. Shit!

"Hi honey."

She's hysterical. "We've been robbed! Laptops, camera, television, jewellery. Everything's gone! Where the hell are you?"

Now my heart is really pounding. I know exactly where everything is. It's with Ian, in the back of my BMW. And it's heading out of the city, never to return. The bastard was playing the long game. Getting close to me so he could clean me out. The bastard is a con man.

"I'll sort it out."

I towel myself dry and dress quickly, passing a family portrait on the way out. Ian isn't pictured. This isn't even his house.

Step outside and make a phone call. "Jim. Have you got him?"

Jim says yes, they arrested him two suburbs away. ( _pumps fist_ ) Yes!

"Is he there? Can you put him on?"

Jim says sure and ten seconds later Ian comes on the phone.

"That was a pretty impressive effort, Ian, but if you'll pardon the boast, not quite as impressive as mine."

"How'd you know where I was?"

"You're driving a stolen cop car and you really can't figure it out?"

Ian is silent for a long moment. "I genuinely liked you, Paul."

I laugh. "Oh please. Spare me. But listen mate, before I say ' _catch_ you later' I wanted to let you in on a little secret."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"I fucking hate chutney."
THE RISE OF SIR EDMUND

Male

Character: Edmund Percival Hilary, a Kiwi mountain climber.

May second, 1953. The grandeur of this place is impossible to put into words. As I gaze out at the impenetrable whiteness of the mountains beyond our day's camp I reflect upon life's fragility, how easy it is for the candle of our life... no, I just said life. The candle of our _being_ to be snuffed out. These crags are so vast and the, um, ivory! The ivory snow blinds the eye as it struggles to distinguish the sun's glare from the cool white... bugger.

( _calling out – this becomes a thing_ ) Tenzing! Bring my thesaurus, will you? ( _quieter_ ) Bloody mountains. How many bloody synonyms can I find for "white?" ( _calling_ ) Come on now! How long does it take to fetch my Roget? I packed the largest edition the store had so it would be easy to find. ( _pause_ ) Well I told you not to tether it to a damned yak. You're supposed to carry it in your day pack so I can access it when I work on my diary. Thank you.

Right: white, white. Here! Alabaster, ashen, blanched. "Blanched snow"? Hmm, no. Frosted, hoary, pearly. Yes, pearly! No, wait. "Pearly" doesn't work on its own. Bugger this.

( _seeing someone_ ) Say, John, let's finish up that conversation we were having about bees. ( _pause_ ) Why? Because I'm an apiarist. ( _pause_ ) Oh, you know that but you'd rather jump into a crevasse. That sounds almost suicidal. Really not a smart move for an expedition leader. Charles! Over here man. ( _pause_ ) Look Charlie, you know what's going on around here. We're going around this damned mountain, right? ( _pause_ ) What do you mean _up_ it. How are we going to get all the yaks up the ice walls? ( _pause_ ) Just to the summit and not to the other side? What's the bloody point of that? ( _pause_ ) Well I'm going to have words with that wretched Sherpa.

( _calling_ ) Tenzing! Tenzing Jamling Norgay, why is Charles saying we're going up this mountain and not around it? ( _pause_ ) There and back? Why would we want to go there and back? Is this a shopping trip? Am I going to pick up vegemite and a new Teflon frying pan up there? ( _pause_ ) Well maybe you need to work on your accent buddy because that is _not_ what I signed up for!

_Edmund sits to denote that time has passed and it's a new day_.

May eighth, 1953. Our yaks have been disappearing. I noticed the one carrying my complete Britannica had been lagging behind so I spent some time walking with him and, well, we bonded. I gave him a name and decided I'd adopt him after the journey. The next day he was nowhere to be seen, but my encyclopaedias were strapped to a different yak. I tried to find out what was going on over dinner but these locals have appalling English. The food was fantastic though. ( _calling_ ) Tenzing! Tenzing, what was in that stew? ( _pause_ ) What?! Mr Yakkles.

Edmund faints. He rises for the next diary entry.

May tenth. The expedition has ground to a standstill. Yesterday the porter who was carrying my best four suits jackets lost his footing and perished after a two-hundred-metre fall, so the chap carrying a bunch of pants that don't match anything is a right waste of space now. We have reached the camp where most of the team will remain while those who signed up as mountaineers (knowingly or not) will continue. I'll gladly be away from these stumbling Sherpas. For the last week they've been pointing up at the summit of the mountain saying, "Everest, Everest!" Lazy buggers. It's no time to slack off. "I'll ''ave a rest' when I get to the top, thanks."

What's that? ( _pause_ ) What do you mean I have too much stuff? I sent that porter with all my bloody pants home. ( _pause_ ) _One_ bag each! Don't be ridiculous, man. My collection of bee photographs takes up more than one bag. ( _pause_ ) Ah yes, we're coming back this way. I'll sort it out. ( _calling_ ) Tenzing! Hey little buddy. You can carry an extra couple of backpacks, right? ( _pause_ ) What do you mean you're not supposed to carry anything? Isn't that exactly why we hired you? ( _pause_ ) You're not a porter? So what – you're just here to eat my pets? ( _calling_ ) Mr Hunt! Mr Hunt! Tenzing won't carry my bee photos! I want to sack him.

May thirteenth, 1953. Disaster strikes. The tubing on our gas stove froze solid overnight and warped when it thawed and now we have to eat cold porridge. A hot breakfast was the only thing getting me going each day, now I have to stomach insufferable motivational speeches from Tenzing about altitude and safety and how to stay alive. If I'd wanted to bring my mother, I'd have exhumed her before packing!

May eighteenth. Disaster strikes again. One of the men discovered my middle name is Percival. It took me long enough to come to terms with having a woman's name for a surname but this is just... ( _calling_ ) Shut up! What kind of a name's Alfred Gregory? Like, which one's your first name and which one's your surname huh? ( _normal tone_ ) I keep telling these apes my _other_ middle name is Rocky but they just snicker and call me Percy Boy. ( _calling_ ) Look who's talking, Tenzing Nor _gay_! ( _normal_ ) "Are you relaxed?" ( _bad Asian accent_ ) "No, I'm tensing." ( _normal_ ) "Are you straight?" ( _bad Asian accent_ ) "No! Gay!" ( _muttering_ ) Stupid monkey-faced yak herder. Get a real job you gay hippy!

May twenty-second. Disaster yet again. Our fearless leader Mr Hunt has paired me off with none other than Tenzing bloody Norgay. Aside from the innumerous things that irk me about the man, he's a right slacker. ( _calling_ ) Tenzing! You Hurry up with those granola bars. Come on man, you have everything.

May twenty-sixth, 1953. A slight mishap. Tom and Charles had to turn back when they discovered I'd replaced their spare oxygen tank with my Roget. They were angry, affronted, cross, displeased, enraged, furious, incensed, maddened, outraged and wrathful. They called me something synonymous to mute and misbegotten but I assured them I'd be highly qualified to capture the full breadth of their emotions in writing. Not to worry, Tenzing and I will still head to the top.

Eleven AM, May twenty-ninth. We are nearing the summit. I can barely breathe. We're scaling a vertical wall of ice. Most of our gear is at the last camp. ( _calling weakly_ ) Tenzing. Oxygen. ( _takes invisible oxygen tank, gasps in_ ) Thank you. Tenzing, while you're there, I need to find the perfect words to describe the view from the top. Can you get my pack ready? ( _normal_ ) Superb. Just a dozen more feet to climb and we'll be there.

Eleven-thirty AM. This is it. The trek has had its ups and downs but a few more steps through this paper thin air and I'll be on top of the world. A moment. ( _calling breathlessly_ ) Tenzing! Wait up. I need air.

Edmunds hobbles quickly across the stage and jumps up in the air.

Ha! I did it! First man to summit Everest! Suck it, Norgay. I mean, suck in that oxygen, buddy. The silver medal's still pretty bloody impressive. I'm sure you'll go down in history... in Nepal.

Edmund stumbles, about to pass out, when he's handed some oxygen. He sucks in gratefully.

Thank you. Look at this panoramic vision of pure beauty, Tenzing. These jagged peaks like rows of celestial teeth. Clouds like Zeus's solidified breath. The azure expanse of sky. Valleys below as expansive as... no, I just used expanse. Say, Tenzing, pass the thesaurus would you? ( _pause_ ) What do you mean you switched it for that extra oxygen tank? How am I supposed to come up with the perfect word? ( _pause; calling_ ) Tenzing!!

Edmund hobbles quickly off stage in pursuit of Tenzing.
THE STORY OF DARLING BROWN

Male/Female

Character: Darling Brown, a socially awkward, bitter bullying victim with a silly name.

Hey there. So, my name is Darling. Darling Brown. As in, that's my actual name. As in, two grown adults had the choice of calling me _Darling_ or any other name in the world, and they were like "Honey, what do you think of 'Darling' as a name?" "Nailed it, sugarplum!" My name is Darling Brown and here's my story.

So I'm a twin. God obviously thought this face was too good to squander on just one person. As first born, mum and dad for some mystical reason thought Darling would make an appropriate name for a human being. Want to know what they called my twin? Jessie. That's awkward, wouldn't-give-your-dog-this-name "Darling" and ordinary, perfectly-acceptable "Jessie".

I've had a number of theories over the years as to why I got called Darling. A pretty good one is that my parents were trying to answer the question of how a person's name affects their choices in life, with me as the variable and Jessie as the control. This theory isn't too bad because Jessie and I are _very_ different people. The other theory I like is that my parents are complete sociopaths whose very existence proves that you should need some kind of license before you're allowed to breed. You want to know the worst thing? Their names are Claire and John. Why would people with perfectly normal names call their child "Darling"?

If we're going with the social experiment theory, the first time our names ever really differentiated us was in year two. I dodged the bullet in kindy and year one, but in year two my teacher Ms Ahmed screwed everything for me. She's reading through the class role for the first time and she's like, "Andrea? _Hi_ Andrea. Catherine? _Hi_ Catherine. Darling? _Daar_ ling?!"

Let me assure you there is nothing more scarring than being laughed at by a room full of eight year olds. Not only did I have the stupid name but everyone called me by it the way Ms Ahmed did. " _Daar_ ling," they said. _Daar_ ling. _Daar_ ling _Daar_ ling _Daar_ ling. Jessie was in the same class and of course took the cue to disown me when that happened. "Us? Siblings? Brown's a common surname."

It all started right there in year two. Jessie was normal and I became the outsider. Genetically identical but socially opposite. PS fuck you Ms Ahmed.

No matter what I did, those cold and heartless eight year olds didn't want to be my friend so I did the only thing I could think of to fit in. I pretended to be Jessie. This was pretty easy to pull off – our voices and appearances are identical.

But the world didn't need more than one Jessie Brown. Jessie found out about the impersonation after a couple of days and we ended up having a very public argument about our respective identities which culminated in an equally public fist fight. Have any of you guys seen _Fight Club_? Twins having a punch up must look pretty ridiculous, like Edward Norton hitting himself in the head in _Fight Club_. Anyways, it ended with _me_ getting in massive trouble with Ms Ahmed (fucking cow), the principal and our parents. Jessie just got a sympathetic squeeze on the arm.

High school was _way_ worse. Can you imagine the teasing? Jessie fit in just as well as anyone else but I was the pariah and only got the dregs as friends. Not that some of those dregs weren't nice enough people, but they were the dregs and by association I too was dregs. I was a loser with losers as friends.

Fine. If I was forced to be the dreggy loser then at least I could be the smart one. I tried extra hard at school but Jessie was competitive and we got similar grades thanks to having the same brain. I tried sport but sucked at it; must have been the low confidence and self-esteem. After years of searching for superiority the only thing I clearly had over Jessie was my aptitude at video games. Great – what a fulfilling life that would lead to.

After school I thought things would get better. I could choose my own social circles and people had matured and were less likely to put my head in a toilet, urinal, sanitary waste bin etcetera. I could be whoever I wanted now.

But the damage had already been done. I went to a different university to Jessie – for obvious reasons – and we both ended up at the same party one night. Jessie was all like [ _Darling imitates Jessie, confident, chatty, friendly, popular_ ], and I was all like [ _Darling is Darling now, awkward, alone in the corner, bitter at having no friends_ ]. That's a pretty good impersonation of Jessie by the way.

I couldn't go out without thinking everyone was talking to me. The number of times people have said "Hello Darling" and I've done the whole turn-my-head-and-say-"Yeah?" thing. Then there's always the same awkward conversation: "Sorry, my name's Darling and I thought you were talking to me." "Your name's _Daar_ ling?" "Yeah, my name's _Daar_ ling." "Wow, your parents must have been complete sociopaths." "Pretty much."

So that was it. Thanks to my stupid parents calling me Darling and Ms Ahmed's inability to be a human being, I was screwed for life.

Naturally I asked my parents why they gave me this crippling name. You know what they told me? They told me it was because "I was so dear to them." I told them they'd ruined my life and I was going to change it to, I dunno, something from Game of Thrones or something. Mum had such a fit of hysterics she ended up in hospital – now I'm too guilty to bring it up again.

I tried a new strategy when I was in my mid-twenties. I tried to _own_ my name. You know that woman from YouTube? Sweet Brown? "I said 'oh Lord Jesus it's a fire.' I didn't grab no shoes or nothin' Jesus. I got bronchitis. Ain't nobody got time for that." Does anyone give her grief because her name's "Sweet"? No, they don't. Do you think that after months of casually dropping my name as "Darling" and _daring_ people to judge me that they actually take me seriously? Not a damned chance!

Darling has become worked up and frustrated. Takes a deep breath to regain his/her composure.

Look, I'm going to skip past the hundred other stories about why my name ruined my life and tell you how this whole experiment ended. I managed to make a friend called Rupert – can you believe that? – and we were walking to the local shops on a sunny September afternoon. It's a pretty epic story so listen close.

So I'm walking along with Rupert and he's like, "It's unseasonably warm for this time of the year isn't it Darling?", because he's a fucking grand master conversationalist. I'm like "I guess so", because sadly I'm not much better. "It's been an average of three point six degrees warmer this week than the average September weather over the past fifteen years," Rupert says. "Global warming eh?"

I'm trying to think of a better response than "Yeah", but all of a sudden something catches my eye across the road. It looks like a holdup at the newsagency. A guy with a stocking over his head is holding a pipe or something and threatening the shop assistant.

I hesitate for _one_ second then start sprinting towards the newsagency. It's a primal sprint, like I'm the cheetah chasing down the gazelle. My subconscious for some reason is saying, "Jessie would never do this. Jessie would _never_ intervene in a holdup."

The robber looks over in surprise just as I leap into the air towards him with such conviction that my body goes completely horizontal. Rupert's words whenever describing this bit are "Darling slammed into him so goddamned hard he flew across the room like a sack of rice being shot out of a cannon." Two seconds after we hit the ground I have his crowbar and I'm whaling on him, smash smash smash smash smash! I end up breaking both his wrists, his left tibia and five of his ribs.

This was as much a surprise to me as it was for Rupert, the robber and the newsagent. I've _never_ had that much adrenaline pumping through me in my _life_. In fact I'd say it was a lifetime's supply of adrenaline hitting me all at once. After I finished beating the poor guy up a couple of police cars arrived and I was interviewed for about fifty times longer than the whole ordeal went for. The newsagent said I was quote unquote "a total fucking hero" and long story short I got on the front page of the local paper with the headline "Brown Turns Thief's Day Black." Not "Our Darling Saves The Day", but "Brown Turns Thief's Day Black." They only mentioned my first name once and didn't include a single pun on it. It was almost like... I had a normal name.

So I thought a lot about this incident in the months after it happened and I know why it happened. I knew that Jessie would never do what I did – not in a hundred years. I made a split-second decision to do something that golden child Jessie Brown would never have done. I had to have more than "video game aptitude" to my name. I had to be "Darling Brown, the total hero."

I wouldn't have done that if my parents had given me a normal name. Jessie would have just run away like a chicken. That's what I would have done if my name was Jessie. I'm a hero _because_ my name is Darling. Darling Brown

I guess all I can say is... I guess, I kind of love my stupid parents.
UNEXPECTED TURNS OF EVENTS

Male/Female

Character: the harried parent of a young boy.

The sound of my alarm not going off wakes me up. Uh oh. Every day my alarm and I have a competition to wake up first and I've never once won so that can only mean it's broken. I check my phone and see it's ten past eight. "Oh no no no no no!!"

Jo stirs next to me and I freeze. It's one thing to be late for an important client, another thing entirely to wake up my murderous spouse before ten AM. After I wait for Jo's breathing to even out again I slide carefully out of bed and tread on eggshells all the way down to the bottom level. I hate having to do this in my own house. I wish Jo would stop throwing eggs at me, or at least clean them up.

Edgard is sitting with perfect straight-backed posture at the breakfast table. "Why aren't we at school, Least Favourite Parent? I'm going to be late for geography and if I get another detention Jo will kill me."

It's not Edgard's fault. Jo _makes_ my son call me Least Favourite Parent. Jo also named Edgard Edgard so we both get to feel insulted. "Son, I'm going to be late to an important meeting so we're going to have to skip school today. You can play Pokémon in the car and I'll take you home at three o'clock."

Edgard goes white, "My goodness, that won't do. The Only Parent I Truly Love does spot checks on the school throughout the year. If I'm caught, I may be singing soprano in the choir for the rest of my days if you know what I mean."

I frown. I _do_ know what my son means, but I'm fairly disturbed that he understands the threat of castration at seven years old. I don't have time to worry about it so I order an Uber while I throw on my work clothes. It arrives within thirty seconds.

I put my young son in the front seat of a nice toothless man's car. The poor thing must be terribly cold because he can't stop rubbing his hands together. I jump into my own car, start the engine, drive to work, arrive just on time for my meeting, win the heart of the rich client, get a raise, come home to my happy family and live like royalty until I die at the ripe old age of a hundred and twelve.

At least, I might have done all that if Jo hadn't parked my car in. I have an epic fit of swearing. If I so much as breathe near Jo's car and fog up the panelling I'll be dead before I reach the end of the driveway.

I order another Uber but it doesn't arrive. I'm almost desperate enough to call a taxi. Instead, I have no choice but to borrow my neighbour's bicycle.

My neighbour makes Jo look like a pussy cat. Every time I look at her house she's staring at me through the window. She spends a lot of her time in the garage, grinding a range of objects into smears on the ground. We used to have a lot of neighbourhood cats before she moved in but now the only animals we see are flying well out of human range. Katelyn is turning six next month.

I make the sign of the cross and enter Katelyn's garage. She's not there. I take her bike, cycle madly to work, impress that client and get that raise, go home, get divorced and marry someone who isn't a psychopath.

Except that I get sideswiped by a bus halfway to work and end up with two cracked ribs and a slightly crushed foot. Even worse, my pants get torn right down one side and I'll have to replace them before the meeting. Silver lining? Katelyn's bike is okay. I'm not going to be ground into dust this evening.

I arrive two minutes after the meeting starts and limp to my place at the table. The board of directors, senior executive and personal assistants all glare hatefully at me. The client is a slender woman of around forty years, dressed in a power suit and smiling schemingly at me. I don't like that smile one bit.

The meeting involves a whole lot of jargon that I get paid way too little to understand. They only have me at these things for my mathematical prowess; if anyone needs numbers crunched, I'm all like "BAM, forty-two thousand three hundred and six point three repeater." They love me for my mathematics."

"I'll engage your company for the full procurement scope if you sack that idiot who came in late with torn clothing."

The client is pointing at _me_. What?! "Smith, you're fired," says the CEO. WHAT?!

The PAs take enormous pleasure in escorting me to my desk to clear out my things. I'm almost in tears while I collect a box of Post-It Notes. Sandra doesn't bat an eyelid. She leads me to the elevator and stands behind me with her arms crossed. I can feel her smug smile burning into the back of my skull. I don't know why they all hate me so much – I never did a thing!

On a sudden impulse, I shove my way back past Sandra and march right into the board room. The directors, executives, PAs and clients all turn to look at me in perfect sync, a range of dopey expressions on their stupid faces.

"You want to flex your muscles," I say to the client. "Sack the executives. The company is bleeding money right now and you can cut the costs of their insane salaries then replace them with cheaper, better employees."

There is a stunned silence. A tumbleweed blows across the room. Some crickets jump out of at the last second and chirp noisily.

"And appoint me as CEO. I'll do it for half the salary of that clown over there."

I'm pointing at the CEO. Everyone is staring at him. Then everyone looks over at the client as she stands up. "I like your pluck," she says. "I'm in. Directors, fire the executive and appoint Smith as CEO or the billion dollar deal is off."

I can't believe it. I can't believe that worked! Forty-five heated minutes later the entire executive have been sacked and I'm the new CEO. I immediately fire Sandra then take a mental health day and leave the office.

Smiling at my own brilliance, I cycle home, spend my first new paycheque on a luxury yacht, sail off into the sunset and live out my days as an ocean-dwelling Buddhist monk. Or I might have done that if Katelyn's bike was still in the car park.

My heart drops into my stomach, which crawls towards my bowels to make its escape. Katelyn will kill me. She will literally grind my bones into dust on her garage floor. I fight the instinct to pee my pants by walking with as much purpose as I can muster. I am the CEO now. I do not fear a five year old, no matter how psychotic. I will stand up to her, face to face... with a brand new bicycle and maybe three hundred dollars cash.

I stride down to the bike store but it is A surrounded by a gang of youths and B closed. I approach who is clearly the ring leader and declare, "I will give you a hundred bucks if you break into that store and steal me the smallest, pinkest bike they have!"

"That's illegal," says the ringleader. "And immoral. Some poor man or woman is trying to make a living selling people the love and joy that is a bicycle, and you want to facilitate underage criminality to rip this poor person off? What kind of a monster are you?"

I am gobsmacked. The surprisingly articulate ringleader of the gang of youths is right. What kind of person would do what I'm doing? I will face Katelyn with the truth.

Twenty-five minutes later I reach the end of my street. There is a park at the end of my street. A park where children play. Five minutes later I knock on Katelyn's garage door and present her with a brand new bike. She nods indifferently as she mashes a Micro Machine into the concrete.

Okay, that was surprisingly easy. I cross the lawn and open my front door. Edgard is nowhere to be seen. Jo is nowhere to be seen. Jo never goes further than the fridge and Edgard should be back from school. I look around and see that Jo's left a note. "Dear censored. I have decided to leave you, because I hate your guts. I have taken the one thing I know you won't be able to live without. Jo."

"No!" I cry. Jo took my beloved son from me! "Yes!" I cry. Jo is gone! "No! Yes! No! Yes!" This is the very definition of ambivalence: two contrary emotions at the same time. I hate Jo, but I love my son. I wouldn't give Edgard up for anything. But... I _really_ hate Jo, so maybe it's okay?

There is a knock on the front door. I open up and it's Edgard. "Hello Least Favourite Parent."

I almost cry with relief. I tell my son that Jo is gone and we go straight out and change his name. "Anything you want it to be, son. Anything at all."

We celebrate this unexpected turn of events by going to Starcrusher the Fourth's favourite restaurant: Pizza Hut. It is the best day of my life. It's only when we get home after midnight that I remember that Jo took "the one thing I won't be able to live without." Thankfully, it's just my asthma medication. Thankfully, our relationship was so impersonal that Jo doesn't even know about my severe heart condition. I haven't even had an asthma attack in years.

With a smile on my face, I tuck my son in to bed. "I love you, Starcrusher the Fourth."

My son smiles at me. "I love you too, _Not_ Least Favourite Parent."

I nod approvingly. It's not perfect, but it's a pretty good start.
V.D.

Female

Character: Sophie Wong, a neurotic woman in her mid-thirties.

Today's the thirteenth of February and it's looking like I'll be getting flowers from no one but my mother for the sixteenth consecutive Valentine's Day. Not that I care. The day's nothing but pure commercialism. All the taken men out there are guilt-tripped into buying long-stemmed bloody roses and taking their ladies to expensive restaurants. The kind of restaurants where you don't have _bookings_ , you _make reservations_.

Hang on, does this sound bitter? I don't want to sound bitter. I'll be the first to admit I want a special day tomorrow. My girlfriends are always getting diamond-studded watches and white gold necklaces while I'm sitting at home alone eating three bowls of ice cream and watching _Sex In The City_. Every year since I turned twenty-five I've been so lonely on Valentine's Day I've gone out and bought a cat. I have ten cats.

Did you ever notice how Valentine's Day shares the same initials as venereal disease? V.D. I feel like that's not a coincidence, like there's a close relationship between letting someone near your vagina without a medical certificate and having to put out to thank him for the diamonds.

A voice distracts me from my fourteenth game of Spider Solitaire. "Sophie Wong? These are for you."

The "these" this person is referring to is the most exquisite bouquet of flowers ever wrapped in green and pink cellophane and courier-delivered to an Executive Assistant in her cubicle. I thank her then shake her hand then decide to up the ante and give her a hug. She backs carefully into the elevator.

My boss gives me an appraising nod as he walks into his office and for a sinking second I realise they're from him. But no. He's married, and gay, and it's not his handwriting.

So _who_ sent them? I look closer at the card and there's a message. "Pick you up. Your place. 6pm tomorrow." Okay, that's a little scary. Who are these damned things from?

Maybe it's a co-worker. One of these bastards is playing with my feelings, or, well, maybe they genuinely like me? I get up and go to Rod's desk. I look him in the eye. It's not him. I watch _Lie To Me_ ; I can read any face. I stop by every male's desk in the office, one by one. Damn it. None of these nerds are responsible. Who sent me these goddamned flowers?

When I get home I feel the greatest ambivalence. I'm hopeful and excited about my date but the whole thing is so suspicious. Is it some bastard ex-boyfriend playing a cruel prank. Will anyone even turn up?

I pour myself half a dozen gins and sort out a microwave dinner. You probably won't believe this, but I've had boyfriends every year for the last six years. Thing is, they always dump me before Christmas. My birthday's in January so they're probably sitting there thinking, "Christmas, birthday, Valentine's Day. I can't commit to three gifts in three months!"

I finish my gins and pour myself another two. How many's that? Four? I get up to do a wee and pass out in the bathroom with my knickers around my ankles.

For the sixteenth Valentine's Day in a row I wake up with a monumental hangover. My landline is ringing. This will be my mother. "Hi mum. Guess what? I have a dinner date! I met a guy at... well, I won't confuse you with the details!"

"It's Michael Lee," says my boss. "You planning on coming to work or are you getting those Botox injections you've been googling all year?"

I'm embarrassed for so many reasons. He laughs and tells me to take the day off to get ready. What a bastard! Am I so pathetic I need a whole _day_ to make myself presentable? I resist the urge to have a gin breakfast and stagger into my bedroom to get dressed.

Two hours later I wake up feeling human. I shower and dress, then I check my Facebook and my Tweets and five email accounts and blogs and forums and the comments on my YouTube videos. There's nothing of interest, so I check everything another eighteen times then switch off my Mac. I look at my watch. Half-past midday. I call the animal shelter and tell them to put down the kitten they'd kept aside for me.

The doorbell rings. It's flowers from my mother. I call her and tell her I have a date. She doesn't believe me but I don't care. I _do_ have a date. A date who... ( _realisation_ ) knows where I work and live but wants to remain anonymous.

I suddenly realise how bad this looks. Who the heck is this guy? It could be some psycho who wants to kill me! This is the stupidest thing I've done in my life. I'm about to have dinner with a stalker.

Six pm comes around and the doorbell rings. My heart is racing and I'm hyperventilating and it's a struggle to make it out of the living room. I open the front door feeling blindingly dizzy.

A man I've never seen before is standing there. He is clean-shaven and cute as pie, slim, about my height and radiating quiet pleasantness. His eyes are bright and blue. "Hi Sophie." His voice is a soft murmur. "You're probably wondering who I am." I manage a nod. "We actually went to the same school. You were three years below me. I found you on Facebook and hunted you down through a mutual friend who I swore on the Bible I would never name."

His calm manner relaxes me. "What's your name?" I ask.

"Dan. Dan Hunsford."

He takes my hand and walks me to the car, even opening the door for me. The date passes in a blur of nerves, but I quickly get the impression that Dan Hunsford has no intention of killing, raping, scamming or religiously converting me. He is a perfect gentleman who drives at the speed limit, makes eye contact, listens to every word of my nervous babble, and buys me lobster. Polite, charming and perfect in every way.

Naturally, this makes me suspicious. Suspicious of what Dan's real motive is and suspicious of Murphy's Law, which dictates I will screw him, wake up, see the photo of my grandma on his bedside table and realise we're cousins.

He drives me home and walks me to the door and I badly want to take him inside and shag him. The angel on my shoulder screams "Do it!" We stop on the threshold.

"Thank you for an amazing evening, Dan."

He smiles. "Thanks for coming. I was scared I'd scared you."

"No. Well, a little. But luckily for you I'm desperate enough to go on dates with complete strangers."

There is an awkward pause.

"So what's wrong with you?" Instantly regretting my word choice! "I mean, you're just so perfect. You're handsome, charming, funny. You should be married to a supermodel."

Dan smiles again with a hint of sadness. "Before I answer that, may I kiss you?"

I don't actually say "Hell yeah" out loud but from the way I'm leaning forwards with my lips puckered the comment would be fairly superfluous. We kiss passionately and I'm inches away from clubbing him and dragging him to bed.

"I was born a woman," he says.

There it is. There's the "something" I knew he was hiding. Thanks Murphy, you _motherfucker_!

"I'm sorry," Dan says, and he turns to leave.

Instinct makes me reach for his shoulder. His slender, feminine shoulder. "Don't you think you should've told me?" The question is more or less a reflex.

He snaps. "I told you within _two_ hours of meeting you. You think it should be my introductory line? 'Hi, I'm Dan, I used to be a chick, but I always felt like a man trapped in a woman's body so I got my tits hacked off and take bucketloads of hormones. It would take me _all night_ to tell you what they did down there.'"

After an evening of politeness and charm, this outburst comes like a slap in the face.

"Why'd you tell me at all?" I ask. Tears are rolling down his cheeks but I feel strangely empty.

He looks me in the eye. "Because I wanted to sleep with you. It would be far more awkward if the first you heard of my sex change was when I use the penis pump."

Now he refuses to look away. I bite my lip and frown. Is it gay to do it with a guy who used to be a girl? Is it so bad to be gay?

Sophie's mood and expression darkens; she is genuinely disgusted. The lights dim.

I am suddenly filled with bile. No, I will _not_ do this. I would _never_. This person before me is a transvestite; not a he, nor a she, but an _it_. How emotionally retarded and weak must it be to have its _gender_ changed? _It_ kissed me, knowing I'd like it, trying to trick me into feeling something. This "perfect gentleman" act was nothing but a disguise to hide the sicko underneath.

The manipulative, disgusting bastard.

In a fury, I unlock the front door, step inside, and slam it behind me.

The lights return to normal.

Three seconds later I open the door and say, "Do you drink gin?"
**About Pete Malicki**

Pete is a fiction author, multi-award-winning playwright, monologue expert, editor, publisher, teacher and world-record-holding video gamer.

He has been the Festival Director of the world's largest short play festival, Short+Sweet Sydney, and is currently the organisation's International Literary Manager.

His plays have been performed in over 750 productions around the world and he has won 21 major awards both locally and internationally for his work.

**Other Titles By Pete Malicki**

Novels

The Travellers' Guide To The Afterlives

Plays

 1790

 Room

Play collections

 (extra)ordinary, (un)usual I

 (extra)ordinary, (un)usual II

 (extra)ordinary, (un)usual III

 (extra)ordinary, (un)usual IV

 Manologues

 Gender Blender: Monologues for Boys and Girls

 Shorts For Girls

**Connect With Pete Malicki**

Pete's Website

The Monologue Project

Email Pete

Favourite me at Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/petemalicki
