

### Wild About Larry

### By

### G.S. Ryan

This is a work of fiction and all characters appearing in the story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by G.S Ryan

Chapter One

The Cracked Up Quack

A towering building which dominates the rooftops of an ancient city is on fire. Without warning there is a blinding flash of light, closely followed by the echoing boom of an explosion, and plumes of thick black smoke start rising slowly into the sky. Up on the fourth floor, a fair haired woman in a white sleeved dress staggers out onto a balcony. She peers back inside the apartment, using her forearm to shield her face from the scorching heat. A cloud smelling of burning wood swirls around her and she splutters and coughs as it fills her lungs. She frantically looks down below, where a mass of panic stricken people are running away from the building. She opens her mouth and her lips start moving, but for a split second there is silence. Then all of a sudden she starts squealing in a voice which sounds almost like a male straining to reach the feminine vocal range.

"Somebody help me!" she shrieks. "I'm trapped up here and I'm going to die if I can't get out!"

But as her voice travels down to the ground it dissolves in the air and fades away, and not one of the mob even looks up at her. A realisation crashes over her that she is alone and nobody is coming to rescue her.

She is now wheezing and weeping, and fearfully glances back inside the baking, blackened room. She senses that the opportunity to reach safety has now passed, and the time for deliberation is at an end. She hesitates, then slowly inches towards the balcony railing, hitches her dress up and starts to climb over it. She has decided there is only one option left now, which is to throw herself to the wind and into the arms of a merciful God.

Suddenly somebody riding a white horse comes clattering around the corner and stops abruptly by the palace entrance. It is a soldier, wearing a green uniform and peaked cap. He quickly dismounts. Then he runs across to a spot below the balcony, looks up and shouts at her in a strange mixed up accent of Australian and American, "Cooee Viv! Don't jump, yer bloody galah! I'm on my way up to get you out of there!"

The woman looks down at him and smiles. The divine intervention she was praying for has arrived, when all appeared to be lost.

"Oh Larry!" she squeals, in her unnatural voice. "I always knew I could count on you!"

He nods up towards her and salutes. His chest is covered with medals and, curiously, he appears to be wearing a false moustache.

"No worries sport." he smiles. "I'll be up in a tick".

He runs into the building and bounds up flights of stairs, pausing to usher several confused people down them as he goes. He strides along a corridor until he comes to a particular door where he stops, lifts his foot and kicks at it with the sole of his heel. The door comes away and hangs flimsily from its top hinge. He pushes it aside and dashes in to find Viv lying prone on the floor by the balcony. He bends down and picks her up in his arms. As he carries her limp body out towards the corridor, her eyes open and she smiles contentedly up at him.

He looks around the room and then down at her, and in his strange accent says "Strewth Viv! This place has really gone cactus! That's the last time I let you fire up the barbie - from now on it's strictly dunny duties for you!"

She looks up into his eyes and pleads "Will you always be here to look after me Larry? Say you will, say you will".

He smiles and says "Of course I'll always be here for you mate, just as sure as there's cold shit in a dead dingo".

Then she starts to speak huskily, in a breathy fashion which is in contrast to her relaxed demeanour. "I love you Larry O and I want your children! I want you to make love to me, right here, right now!"

He chuckles, leans down towards her and places a slow passionate kiss upon her soft lips. Then he breaks from the embrace, gazes upon her and murmurs "Oh Viv, you're hotter than a piss in a sauna".

Finally he carries her out of the room as a burning beam comes crashing down from the ceiling and falls onto the floor behind them.
It was lunchtime and Dr Heather Surning, BSc, MSc and PhD should have been helping out in the school cafeteria, but was lying on the couch in her office. She placed a marijuana joint between her lips, inhaled deeply, then exhaled. She watched the smoke slowly waft through the air, illuminating the sunbeams and shadows streaming in through the window. She listened to the sparse echo of a grandfather clock ticking across the room. As the drug travelled through her senses she looked upwards and gazed at a maze of cracks running across the ceiling. She tried to follow the lines and intersections but kept losing her way, and the thought occurred that this might be a metaphor for her life. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound of the clock rhythmically cutting slices through the silence. Then she instinctively shuddered, suddenly aware she might be listening to the sound of her career slowly dripping down a plughole.

Her thoughts drifted away and she fell into a trance, floating down a daisy chain of memories which her subconscious mind collected together. She found herself transported back to the first memory, where she was wearing a black cloak and mortarboard. Ah yes, she was graduating from Yale a year early, majoring in psychology. Flags were waving, balloons were popping and applause was being poured all over her like it was raining champagne.

People were cheering "Heather, you are so the most likely to!"

"Likely to what?" she felt herself smile.

"Likely to succeed!" they chorused.

"In what?"

"In anything you choose, of course!"

She nodded to herself. She'd long been aware of the resolve she carried inside her, an unstoppable determination which drove her relentlessly towards success in whatever she did and then, once there, restlessly moved her on. She was also aware that although she was passionate about her work, she had never felt a need for the passion of love. Neither the instant passion of a stranger, nor the lifetime love of a partner, parent or friend. She didn't understand why she should be like this and she wasn't entirely comfortable with it. But nonetheless, after her Bachelor of Science degree she went on to study hard and completed her Masters and Doctorate degrees in record time with record grades.

She now travelled on to the next memory, where she was newly qualified and had just started a post at the research hospital. Billy Maple was one of her first patients, and as well as suffering from severe depression he was delusional. He was easy enough to handle most of the time, when he believed himself to be Clark Kent, but things became more difficult whenever he turned into Superman. She recalled counselling him one grey afternoon, the dark winter days making him even more depressed than usual.

"Now then, Clark." she softly admonished. "You must both face up to and accept reality. You do not possess, nor will you ever possess the ability to fly like a bird".

Billy decided to prove her wrong there and then by jumping out of the nearest window, but all he did was prove her right and damn near kill himself.

She remembered feeling a new sensation at the time. It was the crushing weight of responsibility and it had caused her to pause for long reflection. Likeliest to succeed in anything she chose? It seemed like a lame joke, and it had been easier to leave that place than stay. And once again she felt herself abandoning this memory.

She hurried on to the next one, at the Department of Education in Washington, where the politicos had loved her work. They praised her visions, and the words she used to carve them out, of an educational system which reached out to boys as well as girls. And then they passed it all off as their own idea. She didn't mind them stealing from her because she was happy there, but after a while there was an election and a new administration with a new agenda. Suddenly every word she wrote was examined for its spin potential instead of its truth and altered by unknown, bloodstained hands. She'd been angry at the time, but she didn't want to ruffle any feathers or cause a fuss, so she said nothing and did nothing.

In the meantime a local newspaper editor got to hear about her. "Do some writing in your spare time." he'd said. "And pass it on onto me. I'll see what I can do".

Within weeks she was reading her unadulterated words in the Lifestyle supplement and realised it was time for her to move on again.

She suddenly remembered a photograph of herself, diligently writing at a desk in a study. Was it a book or news article? It could have been either, seeing as she had become both a journalist and novelist. Without even trying she somehow became a darling of the supermarket tabloids. "Heather Forever" sang a headline. "Doc Clocks Another Award" trumpeted another. But as it became clear she felt no reciprocal love for her smitten admirers, the accolades melted into a battery of camera flashes, prying eyes and lurid lies. She'd always been taught that if trouble stands in your path it's better to walk away from it than it is to try and walk through it. And that's exactly what she did. Rather than stand up for herself and fight them she decided to simply walk away, back into obscurity.

Then an orchestra started playing a waltz in her head. It was The Blue Danube and she imagined herself wearing her ball gown, dancing with an invisible partner. As her posture rose and fell along with the musical tempo, she slowly travelled down a spiral of circles. When she reached the centre she saw a piece of paper on the floor, bent down and picked it up. It was a letter from her first true love, academia. Actually, better than that, it was a job offer. Her and Harvard were drawn to each other as an artist to a canvas, and she became a professor of psychology. Here she drew a wide reputation for dispensing her illuminated intellect like a full moon shining through the darkness of a clear harvest night. With hindsight she wished she'd stayed there and remained thankful for the happiness she inhabited, instead of allowing her vanity to accept the post of Chief Executive at the American Congress of Psychologists. She still harboured last minute doubts, but allowed the ACP board to pressure her into making the move. She wouldn't have gone anywhere if she'd realised the amount of travelling the new job would involve, because – and this is pretty ironic, given she was regarded as such a high flier - she'd always been terrified of flying.

Then, without warning a rumbling, shaking volcanic memory erupted out of her mind. She was inside a crowded airplane but she couldn't understand why she was there. People were shouting and screaming accusations of terrorism at her, a mass of anonymous bodies were lying on top of her and somebody somewhere was handcuffing her hands behind her back. The judge later remarked that the pint of bourbon she'd drunk to stiffen her nerves prior to boarding the flight was probably a mistake, but he was going to have to incarcerate her as an example to others.

A voice inside her howled at him "But your honor, don't you realize I was voted the most likely to succeed?"

The supermarket tabloids saw it differently however, with the front page headline "Quack Cracks Up In Air Rage Terror".

She now imagined herself curled up into a foetal ball, tumbling through a black void with no sense of whether she was upright or upside down. She'd reached the end of the memory chain and arrived back in the present with a bump.

So here she was, washed up and wasting her life away at this school. After all those years of success, she now spent her days teaching messed up rich kids and her spare time smoking weed, trying to make sense of how she'd ended up as a comedy caricature. The crazy psychoanalyst, a ridiculed laughing stock, the person nobody else wanted to be. As these thoughts swept around her mind she felt her stress level shoot up, her heart started thumping violently and the floodgate finally burst open. Adrenaline gushed out of her brain, pumped into her bloodstream and spread through her body, seeping into her tautening, tensing muscles.

After a short while the tingling in her fingertips and tongue faded away. She felt layers of shame for working herself up into a frenzy yet again, swinging between extremes of moods to force her mind to find those lost memories of her mental breakdown in the plane. But, as usual, they remained tucked away somewhere in an unreachable recess of her subconscious. She still couldn't remember a damned thing about the events leading up to her moment of public ridicule.

The grandfather clock struck two chimes and she opened her eyes. She rose unsteadily from the couch, tottered across to her desk and slowly thumbed through her diary. Ah yes, she was supposed to be assessing those three boys from this semester's grade twelve intake in a couple of hours. She stubbed out the joint and opened a window to clear the air. She briefly glanced outside at the green hills and fields, the sea, the cloudless sky and the white dot of an albatross hovering in the distance. With hardly a pause she vacantly drew a curtain across the window to block out the invasive light. Then she sat at the desk, slipped into her practised professional mode and started making some notes. Marcia had mentioned these boys were all from particularly rich, expectant families, and she had a feeling they might be damaged goods.

While Heather Surning was serving her prison sentence, a public trial started online with discussions questioning her state of mind springing up all over the internet. Lynch mobs of total strangers assembled and before long the rumours of her descent into permanent madness became an unquestionable truth. She was convicted in absentia. So it was hardly a surprise that when she came out of jail she discovered she was alone. Her job had mysteriously disappeared along with old friends and casual acquaintances who were always busy when she called them and never called her back. Just as she resigned herself to living in her own personal leper colony and never working again, an old college classmate named Marcia Givens phoned. Heather remembered Marcia as being a campus warrior, forever organising marches to highlight the plight of the poor and disadvantaged. Back in those days she was always lecturing her fellow students that fighting for the rights of those less fortunate than themselves was part of the price of enjoying their own privileges. Heather had largely ignored her, feeling that her reasons for student protest lay somewhere between guilty conscience and youthful pretension.

Marcia explained that nowadays she was more interested in creating solutions than protesting against problems, and had embarked on a long term project to take kids out of the ghettos and give them the chance of a better life. And that was why she had used her own money to help finance the purchase of Marvin Hopkins Progressive College at Santa Domingo, California. She described how she launched herself into her new mission, becoming the cook, cleaner, teacher, principal and owner. But she found the rest of the world didn't share her interest in talented poor children. Funding had dried up and the project was close to failing. So, in desperation she had recently resorted to also promoting the school as a haven for wealthy children with learning difficulties. She was astonished to discover she'd stumbled upon a gap in the educational market, and a horde of wealthy young misfits beat a path to her school. The fees she was charging the rich kids were just about funding the free places for the poor kids, but it was all getting too much she said. Many of these new children required psychological treatment and she wondered if Heather might possibly be in a position to assist? Heather listened to this sweet melody of noble intentions and couldn't help but be impressed. Marcia seemed to be far more interested in making a difference than in making money, but Heather wasn't sure idealism was a path she wanted to travel down herself. She muttered something about it being very different to what she was accustomed to, and she'd have to think about it and call back. But Marcia also read the supermarket tabloids and spent time online, and knew she wouldn't have to wait long. Five minutes later the phone duly rang and Heather agreed to give it a go, but said she wasn't making any promises. Marcia said that was fine and, by the way, she couldn't afford to pay much.

Heather's first appointment that afternoon was with an eighteen year old boy who breezed into the room without knocking on the door and greeted her with a cheery quip of "Yo, cracked quack doc, s'up?"

"Excuse me?" she replied suspiciously, looking up from the notes she was working on.

"I been told to paddle off the line-up and into the zone and surf on in to you. Hope it's nothin' tonar".

The doctor gave this strange boy a stern glance. "Young man, will you please speak proper English when you're addressing me?"

His demeanour immediately disintegrated into an uncontrollable nervousness. He drew several deep breaths, firmly clutched his groin and blurted "Can I use the restroom please?"

He then shot out of the room and several minutes later he returned, looking slightly more relaxed. "Er, sorry ma'am. I was way stoked up there." he said. "But I'm okay now, it's cool. I'm Neil Petit and Principal Givens has told me to come and see you".

"That's better, Neil. I'm Doctor Surning and I've asked you here for the purpose of conducting an informal character assessment." she replied, shuffling through the notes.

"I've been looking through the profile supplied by your previous school. They imply you might have some minor passivity issues".

"Er, what's that mean, doc?"

"Essentially it means you take your lead from other people instead of ever attempting to take a leading role yourself in relationships and social situations".

"Oh yes, dude. I totally agree with that." he smiled.

"It also means you have a tendency to not express your own opinion and simply agree with whatever other people say".

He nodded his head and beamed "Yep, I totally agree".

Doctor Surning glanced at him directly, her eyes probing his, questioning his motives. Was he trying to make a fool out of her?

"So why do you agree?" she asked.

"Well doc..." Suddenly his smile transformed into an uncomfortable vacant expression. He paused for thought and silently shrugged.

She looked into him and could tell he wanted to speak but something was holding him back.

"It's okay Neil." she urged. "Whatever you say in my office is entirely confidential. It stays between you and me and no one else".

He stared at the ground for what seemed like a long time. Eventually he looked up at her. "It's like this." he said, almost whispering. "If you've got a mother and stepfather who kick the crap out of you every time you disagree with them, after a while you kinda learn to agree with everything they say. Then you find out pretty quickly how life is much easier with other people if you agree with them, so you end up agreeing with totally everyone all the time".

"And do you think this is any way to live your life Neil? Not having any views or opinions of your own?"

"Oh yes, I agree with that totally." he smiled once again and then grimaced. "No, hold on, I don't agree with any of it. Oh I don't know doc".

He started shifting and squirming in his seat. "Can I use the bathroom again?"

Her brow furrowed. The symptoms he was exhibiting were far more pronounced than those listed in the report from his previous school. It was almost as though they'd taken a vow of silence and simply moved this boy elsewhere so he could become somebody else's problem.

Once again he returned from the toilet and she continued the interview. "I'm going to ask you a few questions. It's entirely routine and there's nothing to worry about. It'll be a bit like a test, except there are no right or wrong answers".

Neil looked at her, perplexed. "If there are no right or wrong answers then it's not a test, is it ma'am? I should know 'cos I've been doing tests for practically my entire life".

"What sort of tests were these Neil?"

"Oh, mainly ones my parents put me on. They were supposed to make me more intelligent but seeing as I'm here now, I guess they didn't work".

She looked at him, inquisitively yet with a vague recognition. "Tell me Neil, what are your ambitions for the future? Where do you see yourself in, say, five years' time?"

"Well, before I came here to Santa Domingo I didn't have any ambition of my own. My mom and stepfather always took care of the career side of things for me. But now I've had a chance to think it over and decide where my future lies".

"And where's that Neil?"

"I want to be a professional surfer ma'am. I want to surf all over the world. I want to be as famous as George Freeth".

She glanced up from her notepad to survey him. With his scrawny frame, lank hair and thick glasses he didn't strike her as any surfer she might imagine.

"And have you done much surfing Neil?"

"No ma'am, no surfing yet. To tell the truth I can't even swim, but I can sure talk the talk, so I guess I'll be able to walk the walk without any trouble. And after all, we've got the best surfing beach in the damned country on our doorstep".

Doctor Surning added to the observations she'd been scribbling and made a mental note to check out the local beach some time. It was just down the road, yet she hadn't bothered to visit it yet.

"Thank you Neil." she murmured. "We're finished for now, but I'd like for us to have another chat this time next month".

After Neil left the room and closed the door behind him, she realised she hadn't gotten around to asking him any of the assessment questions she'd planned.

Her next interview was with a boy of the same age named Kenny. His notes described him as basically sweet natured but a hopeless dreamer, determined to see shades of wonderment around him instead of stark black and white reality. He also had a tendency to stammer when placed under the slightest level of duress.

When she did the standard ink-spot test on him he was adamant he could make out a surfboard. "That's... way weird.... totally KO.... it's... a fish board with.... four... fins, if I'm not mistaken".

He eventually calmed down sufficiently to speak fluently.

"It's my stepmom." he explained. "She wants my old man because he's loaded but all she wants from me is to see my back as I disappear down the road. My real mother died and my father was okay back then, when it was just me and him, but when step mommy arrived on the scene things changed between us".

"How did they change, Kenny?" asked Heather.

"Well for a start she got pregnant. So not only did I have a new mom I didn't want, but I also got a new sister I didn't want. And my father finally got the daughter he always wanted. Then step mommy started turning the heat on me and making it clear three's company but four's a crowd. She turned him against me by doing stuff like stealing from his wallet and planting it in my room, or saying I'd deliberately hurt the baby. And of course he always took her side. They started punishing me by taking my things away, like my laptop and my games console. Finally, when they'd taken everything away from me they took me away to boarding school".

"How did you feel about this?"

"I hated it. I kept begging my father to let me return home but she wouldn't even let me come back for school holidays. She said they didn't have any room in the house anymore, what with her having another baby girl in the meantime. And every time I started getting miserable I started getting low grades, and every time I started getting low grades they just sent me to a new school where I had to start all over again".

Kenny went on to explain how he wandered aimlessly through his own life, with a lacklustre disinterest in anything and everything, but how this evaporated within him when he discovered the joys of surfing via the internet.

"Actually I was the first of the three of us to get into surfing. The truth is I totally misunderstood what surfing the internet is all about. I thought it was something to do with sea surfing, so I started learning about it by mistake. Then the other two dudes kinda tagged along".

"Who are these other two people?" she interrupted.

"Neil Petit and Brian Lovett, ma'am. I told them if we were going to look cool when we start surfing we have to learn to speak the language first, and we should practice it every day." he proudly informed her.

He secretly harboured his new love interest, protectively cradling it within his gently rocking arms because as he himself said, "I thought my parents would take it away from me if they found out about it", as though he might be forced to abort an unwelcome baby. His parting words were "Please don't tell my... step mom... about the surfing, doc. Can it be... our secret? Please?"

She promised to keep his secret safe so long as he turned up at her office each month. She shook her head and tutted to herself as she annotated and corrected the notes supplied by his previous school.

Her last interview was with a sullen boy named Brian. She pored over his notes, which variously described him as possessing potential yet displaying episodes of anger caused by a lack of self-esteem. Of the three of them he certainly seemed the brightest and most realistic and thus, in many ways the saddest and most aggressive. She couldn't help but notice he also suffered from a facial tick whenever his emotions got the better of him.

"Listen, doctor!" he raged, his face twitching like a lunatic. "For as long as I can remember my parents have been telling me how stupid I am and what a loser I am, and how I'm going to waste my life away. Every goddamned day of my life. You wanna know why I wanna surf for a living? Because it's the only damned career idea I ever had which was my own idea, and not something being pushed at me by them, and I think it's way cool and it's gonna totally weird them out. That's why. And I've had enough of this fascist interrogation. I'm outta here".

He stormed out of the office, his face launching into a paroxysm of spasms, and slammed the door behind him. Unbeknown to anyone, he then tearfully ran out of the school building and trudged his way through the town and onto the solitude of the beach. Here he spent the sunny afternoon sitting alone on the sand, quietly sobbing a cocktail of tears of rage and sorrow, as the waves gushed back and forth with their slow ebb and rushing flow.

That evening Heather Surning lay on her couch in the dark, smoking a glowing joint and staring up into black space. She reflected upon the three interviews she'd conducted earlier that day. Those boys weren't just damaged goods; they were broken and the more she conversed with them the more she realised she was broken herself. Given enough time she was confident she would be able to piece the boys back together, but who was going to collect her memories for her and make her complete once again?
Chapter Two

One Great Guide, One True Faith

Larry is standing at a lectern in the centre of an old circular assembly room, his hands gripping either side of the desktop. He is unkempt and dressed in ragged robes. Rings of heavily armed, sombre looking men are sitting around him. It seems they are not receiving him cordially, and a well of muttering erupts into a cacophony of booing and jeering. Somebody somewhere fires a gun up in the air. Larry holds out his hands and motions the crowd to sit down and calm down, which eventually they do. Then he opens his mouth, and after a brief moment during which his lips move without speaking, he says in his strange accent "Listen mates. I know you're all feeling a bit crook about the stunts that crowd of rorting pollies have been pulling round here in Bullshit Palace but, you know, you're making me feel about as welcome as a fart in a phone box".

Someone yells "What do you think this is Larry? Bush week?"

The rest murmur their agreement. Another shouts "Who's rooting this croc Larry? 'Cos it looks like you're just holding the tail!"

Everyone except Larry laughs. "Hold on a sec, sports!" he shouts back. "I may be about as handy as shit on a stick at this public speaking malarkey and I ain't much cop at big noting myself, but I'll take anyone on when it comes to sinking nectar down me gurgler! Who's up for a drinking compo then?"

One of the men stands up, holds his rifle aloft and shouts "You can sign me up for that one Larry!"

Then gradually, one by one, more men rise in a similar fashion until eventually the whole mob is on its feet, chanting Larry's name. Larry draws his sword, points it towards the door and cries "Last one down to the boozer gets the shout in!"

He marches outside triumphantly with everyone else trailing behind him.
A long time ago the remote island of South Jefesta was at the centre of the Siminite empire. But generations of hard fought glorious success were followed by generations of corruption, neglect and decay, and its people now find themselves living in a third world state. Once they wrestled with the rest of mankind and ruled over them with a rod of gold. Today however, a mob of religious zealots and warmongering politicians squabble over the scraps that remain and fight amongst themselves. At the heart of this constant struggle is a battle of wills. The zealots are determined to ensure the immoral unbelievers of the outside world stay outside by keeping all borders sealed, whereas the warmongers are desperate to take what they consider to be their rightful seat at the world's table, to be feared and respected in equal measure. Consequently, each political party spends much of their time spying on the other, and when they're not spying on each other they're spying on everyone else.

Although one might expect such opposite views to lead to political breakdown and perhaps even civil war, both sides are aware they must present some semblance of a functioning marriage. So life becomes a long series of tiring compromises. For instance, the government has recently invested heavily in producing a website, yet nobody on the island is allowed access to the internet.

The Siminite people themselves only add fuel to this confusion with their own contradictory attitudes. For a start, most of them don't care about the outside world one way or the other. They're far more interested in ignoring their own shortcomings. For instance, they bitterly complain about their poor standard of living, yet stubbornly cling to the old, anti-materialistic religion which dominates and retards their lives. And although they proclaim a lionhearted love for liberty, they remain happiest living in a state of controlled fear, like a herd of gazelles grazing on an African plain beneath the gaze of predators. To achieve their preferred state they have sold their hopes to their scheming rulers for the bargain price that nobody actually trusts their own family, let alone outsiders, and hope is spread thinly on the ground. Sometimes it seems the only thing which binds and blinds both government and people is a timeless animosity towards the Semonite people, their only near neighbours on the much larger island of North Jefesta.

However, you shouldn't make the mistake of presuming this is some form of evil dictatorship. For as long as anyone can remember, these people have overwhelmingly chosen this system and this lifestyle by casting their votes in freely conducted and uncorrupted elections held every four years.

The native Siminite language is old and at times struggles to cope with modern articulation, so the meaning of words can be ambiguous. For instance, the same word is used for the English words assume and conclude, because in South Jefestan culture they normally mean pretty much the same thing. Similarly, the direct English translation for the Siminite word for a government ministry or department is the word execution, as a derivative of the word executive, and thus, in English, government ministers are called Executioners.

The warmongers are currently the elected power, and a number of their Executioners have recently grown tired of the parochial attitude of their citizens towards the outside world, and decided to act. They reasoned that the reason for the lack of change was that when given a choice, people simply cling on to the familiar past rather than embrace an unfamiliar future. Thus the obvious solution to this problem was to remove the choice but, given public sensitivities, it was decided this would be best achieved gradually by stealth. Neither the religious opposition nor the populace at large would be fully aware of how their lives were being altered for the better by their betters.

These Executioners were keen to implement their grand plan in a manner which avoided giving direct power to individuals, so a number of secret committees were created. Each of these then formed a number of secret sub-committees in order to dilute not just responsibility but also accountability. These in turn set up sub-sub-committees and boldly ordered their members to prepare the nation for a glorious future. Sub-sub-committee 24.23.17.82 (Education – Foreign Languages), formed by the Execution of Education, was the first to return with a proposal for how this grand future might be created.

Due to the web of secrecy surrounding the plan, nobody was aware that Doctor Kaslik Wirliv was the only member of this particular sub-sub-committee. Because he wasn't a state official – he was a history professor - he hadn't been invited to attend any of the secret meetings, so he was equally unaware he had any part to play in this sub-sub-committee.

When he received the note bearing the Execution seal he assumed it was just another piece of petty bureaucracy and without bothering to open it, he passed it on to a luckless student to carry out whatever onerous task was required. When the completed work was returned to him he sent it back to the Execution of Education without bothering to read this either. He was far more interested in preparing for the imminent arrival of some recently discovered ancient manuscripts. His own passion lay in the art of tenderly translating and dissecting such objects. He was on an intellectual quest to find and complete the missing sections of the holy Book of Edification and Understanding, written by the prophet Baqra. That there were known to be missing sections in the holy book was also a secret, by the way.

The proposal Dr Wirliv didn't see has itself been translated from Siminite and reproduced below:

CLASSIFIED EXTREMELY SENSITIVE

PROPOSAL 24.23.17.82-01

# Objective

Presently the only language spoken by the population of South Jefesta is ancient Siminite. The overall objective of proposal 24.23.17.82 is to galvanise our country and its people by replacing our native tongue with a modern vocabulary, so we may better communicate with the outside world. It has been decided by committee that the most desirable language in current usage be chosen to perform this task. Proposal 24.23.17.56 targets a date, yet to be specified, by which a percentage of the population, yet to be specified, will have mastery of the chosen foreign language to a level of proficiency yet to be specified.

The objective of this report is to propose which foreign language should be taught to a minimum standard when this directive comes into force, and how to achieve the target within the required time frame.

#

# Supporting Evidence

It can be supported that English is the most widely spoken language in the outside world. It can also be supported that Mr William Shakespeare is the most revered writer in the English language.

# Conclusion

It is concluded that English should be the standard foreign language taught to our people, and in order to achieve the required proficiency within the targeted time frame, the words of William Shakespeare should be taught to every citizen of South Jefesta. It is likely this objective will be met with resistance amongst the general public, so it is assumed it will be implemented covertly by introducing the new language into mass forms of entertainment at a politically expedient moment in time.

One Great Guide, One True Faith, One South Jefesta.

As is common in South Jefesta, nobody claimed authorship of the document. This is because it is a widely held belief that while knowledge may be power, power is in reality nothing but trouble and is to be avoided whenever possible. It is also convenient if the author is a student sensing an opportunity for a prank.

The returned proposal was created with a security level of EXTREMELY SENSITIVE. This is also a common practise because it means the document doesn't officially exist. Thus it avoids the unpleasantness of rigorous assessment and criticism from one's peers, and speeds up the implementation process. This particular proposal was quickly ratified by the Council Sub-Committee 24.23.17 (Education – Languages) and stamped with the seal of The Great Guide.

The likelihood of such a grand vision for the future resulting in all Siminites speaking 16th century English verse appears to have been overlooked, alongside the obvious argument that a new fangled language would be of little benefit to most of the population anyway. But this didn't stop Council Sub-Committee 24.23.17 from heartily congratulating itself on a job well done. For having built a nonsensical proposal and fuelled it with bogus arguments, nobody was going to have to take responsibility for failure when it inevitably spiralled out of control. In the meantime everyone was going to have to learn Shakespeare.

Thus one morning a young man stood on centre stage in a dark, deserted theatre in the capital city of South Jefesta. The empty auditorium was filled with a sleepy stillness, broken only by a beam of light projected down from the ceiling, through the particles of musty dust and onto his face. He cleared his throat, stared into the distance and nervously coughed as he composed himself. Then he began to speak.

"To be.... or not to be?" He asked.

He paused in an overly deliberate manner, his widening eyes scanning the rows and aisles of vacant seats for a response.

"That... is the quostion". He shrugged.

"Stop!" yelled the single member of the audience, an elderly looking man with balding hair and grey beard who was sitting in the front row. "Humvat, can you please tell me what a quostion is?"

"Well Kinbus, with all your knowledge of languages I'm surprised you don't know." Humvat replied languidly. "Quostion is the English word for when you ask somebody about something".

"The word you should be using is question you baboon arsed idiot! You'll have to work much harder on your English, much harder. And while you're at it will you please put the rhythm, expression and cadence I've been trying to teach you into your performance? You should be convincing me that when I look up at the stage, I'm gazing upon the brooding Prince Hamlet, not Humvat the goatherd acting the clown. You're so wooden I half expect to see somebody's hand up your backside pulling the controls. It's not good enough, simply not good enough".

Humvat stood on the stage, holding a script in one hand, a wooden sword in the other and a bored expression on his face. He looked down at his director Kinbus.

"To be honest, I'm not really interested in learning English." he replied with disdain. "England is a small, insignificant country. I don't even know where it is, and the thought of struggling through such rigorous learning for such scant reward does little to fire up my spirits. Look at this script written by this Shakespeare idiot, with all these archaic words even we don't use anymore, like thou, thee and wherefore".

He continued. "I'd much rather be learning something useful. If I'm going to have to make the effort then I want to learn a language of the present, not the past. I want to learn American instead".

He held up the sword and waved it in the air, shouting "Long live America! Long live the land of the free!"

"For Baqra's sake, be quiet!" snapped Kinbus. "Do you want to get us both locked up?"

He then quickly climbed up onto the stage, addressed the empty seats and shouted "Down with America! America is a godless land! It's like wearing a silken hat and discovering it's made of cow turd! Long live the Great Guide! Long live the one true religion! Long live South Jefesta!"

"Oh come on now," chided Humvat. "It's just you, me and an empty theatre. If we're not safe here where are we safe?"

A distant voice shouted from somewhere at the other end of the theatre. "And death to those Semonite dogs in North Jefesta!"

"Oh yes, indeed." blustered Kinbus. "Death to the Semonite dogs in North Jefesta who stink so badly even the flies won't go near them!"

He stood still for a short while before glancing furtively around the auditorium, and once satisfied the silence around him was now a true and safe and sanctified silence, he led Humvat down from the stage.

"If you weren't such an ignorant peasant from the sticks, you'd know you're never safe anywhere in this city. Come along now. The rehearsal is over for this morning. It's time for prayer." he muttered as they trudged up the aisle. "And for your information, the magic of Shakespeare is in the timelessness of his exploration of the human condition, via his stories and characterisations as much as his language. And I'll also have you know that in America they speak English, not American. Or, as I understand it, at least some form of English".

Humvat trudged along too. He hummed and hawed to himself before eventually concluding "Well, if that's the case I suppose I shall have no choice but to focus on improving my English".

"You'd be better off if you focussed on improving your acting first." grumbled Kinbus. "If you hadn't required so much schooling today before you could get to the stage where you asked your damned stupid quostion, we could have stopped off at Zola's for a quick drink before prayers".

Humvat pulled a wretched face. "No drinks for me today" he moaned. "I drank a gutful last night and today my head feels like it's ready to fall off".

"Hmm. Now I understand." mused Kinbus. "So that's why you're in such a feisty mood today".

On their way out of the theatre they stopped at a kiosk and each handed over a coupon to a clerk from the Execution of Entertainment. He collected the tickets and in return handed them each a new one.

Once outside, they joined a host of other men, all of them walking along the old, muddy, narrow street in the direction of the nearest prayer temple.

"At least now we'll be able to get back in for rehearsal after lunch." muttered Humvat, mockingly kissing the coupon. "I don't know why they don't just give us one entry ticket to use all the time and save themselves all of this mindless, stifling bureaucracy".

Kinbus raised a wagging finger and replied "The Great Guide has commanded it and even you don't question him. The bureaucracy must exist for some grand design which is beyond our reasoning".

He thought briefly and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, at least it keeps everybody busy, I suppose".

Without looking up, the crowd of men walked beneath a huge poster hanging on the side of a whitewashed building. It was a portrait of an overweight man with short fair hair, a pale face, well groomed moustache and perfectly white, smiling teeth. Resplendent in a green military uniform, his puffed out chest was weighed down by the medals which covered it. He gazed regally into the distance, located somewhere away from the upper left of the poster. A slogan beneath read "As a general loves his troops, The Guide loves his people. One Great Guide. One True Faith. One South Jefesta".

They crossed the road, entered a large square and passed through a bustling market. As they walked by one stall the pungent salty pong of freshly gutted sea fish stung their nostrils. Then came the rich aroma of coffee beans being crushed at another, followed by something being cooked with garlic somewhere and the sweet fragrance of scented flowers coming from somewhere else. Their ears were filled with the clatter of traders hawking their goods, the squealing of nervous pigs in cages, clucking hens and trumpeting cocks. Leaving the food stands behind, Humvat and Kinbus walked towards the artists and artisans. In the nearest stalls religious paintings and statues were on display. In a small workshop, the tapping noise of a shoemaker nailing a new leather sole to an upper rang out. Nearby a blacksmith dipped a red hot iron hoof into a bucket of water which sizzled and steamed. Further on, a crowd of men gathered around a tent which contained a bar and was just opening for the sale of beer and wine. Meanwhile women crowded around a stall next door, over which a dressmaker had draped her wares. There was every sort of dress. Long ones, short ones, ones with sleeves, others without, some in bright colours, some in pastel shades and others in black or white.

Humvat and Kinbus emerged from the market and continued across the square. They passed entertainers who wore bright clothing, all purples and greens or yellows and blues, and stood in small cleared circles of pavement and performed acts of juggling, comedy and magic before gathered audiences. People surrounded story tellers who narrated ancient tales whilst their assistants acted out the scenes. A musician wandered amongst them singing songs for lovers, his fingers plucking a slow melody from guitar strings. Most people watching did so with their hands firmly in their pockets, wary of stealthy thieves in their midst who might be sizing up opportunities. Kinbus passed a beggar sitting on the paving stones and looked down at him. At first he thought the man had adopted a strange kneeling posture, but then realised he had no legs. The mind boggled. How on earth did he manage to get around? The man looked up at him despairingly, but Kinbus looked away. A young smiling gypsy girl with dark hair and bright eyes, wearing a white lace shawl and long cotton skirt approached Humvat. She tried to push a small sprig of lavender into his hand but he angrily pushed it back at her, told her to leave him alone and brushed her aside.

"If you'd had the manners to cross my palm with silver I'd have given you good fortune!" she screamed after him. "But instead you insult me. By the ghost of Baqra, I swear the only fortune you'll ever see is bad!" She spat on the ground to emphasise her anger and disgust.

Humvat raised his eyes heavenwards and shook his head dismissively. They pushed on through the hustling crowd of people bartering for their shopping, and clambered up the road towards the prayer temple.

"I'm not sure that was a wise move." said Kinbus. "I don't think you really need any more bad luck than you already have. Now you'll probably find yourself reported to the authorities for your theatrical eulogy to America".

"Oh I don't believe in all that witchcraft nonsense." snorted Humvat. "In fact I don't believe in half the nonsense we're supposed to believe in".

Then he lowered his voice. "And that's something else Kinbus," he whispered. "I really don't hate America. I don't even hate the Semonites. I don't hate anyone and I don't understand why everyone else does".

Kinbus stopped in his tracks, swung around and prodded a finger against Humvat's chest.

"What are you trying to get me to say?" he roared. "We hate the Semonites because we have always hated the Semonites! We hate the Americans because they support the Semonites against us!" He strode away before angrily wheeling back around. "A curse upon you and your family of goat thieves! I never figured you for a government spy! How long have you been betraying me to the Execution of Entertainment?"

Humvat was startled by both the accusation and the strength of it.

"No, no," he stammered. "I'm no agent for the government. I mean these things I say. Truly I do, so you see, it's you who could betray me if you so wished".

Kinbus stared suspiciously into his eyes. He rifled through them for the merest hint of a deceit, in the same way he imagined the police would pull out the contents of a chest of drawers and throw them across a bedroom. Then he gradually relaxed into an uncomfortable smile.

"Please accept my apologies. You're just an empty hothead and a poor excuse for a patriotic Siminite. You're not clever enough to be able to successfully betray others".

He continued his journey towards the prayer temple and then turned back towards Humvat. "To voice such opinions is so dangerous around here though, and I don't know you well enough".

"You've been living in this city for too long." sighed Humvat. "It's made you paranoid".

They arrived at the temple, where there was another portrait of the Great Guide over the entrance. This time he was portrayed as a humble holy figure, wearing nothing but sackcloth. His beckoning hand invited the viewer into the kingdom of the true faith. Beneath it was the slogan. "As you pray to the Inventor, The Guide prays for you. One Great Guide. One True Faith. One South Jefesta".

Then, along with a mass of other men they entered the temple and queued impatiently to sign the registry. Humvat picked up the pen and, under the watchful eye of the book guard, he scribbled an entry. Then he glared at the guard.

"Tell me", he inquired as he put down the pen. "Why do I have to write my name in this book of yours every time I come to the temple?"

The guard looked him up and down frostily and replied "So we know who's in the building in the event of a fire".

Humvat returned the look. "But this is an ancient temple. There are no fire exits in this place. If there is a fire then we'll all die, so what does it matter?"

"Well if it happens then at least we'll know the names of those who have died".

"You fool! Nobody signs their real name in your register! We go through this same charade every day, and it's a complete waste of time!"

"Look, I'm just doing my job. You do yours".

Kinbus hurriedly took the pen, wrote his own entry in the register and interrupted. "Please excuse my friend. He's feeling a little peaky today".

He grabbed Humvat by the arm and steered him towards two seats in the corner of the foyer, where they sat down. "Well, did you write down your real name?" hissed Humvat.

"Of course not." hissed Kinbus in reply.

"So what's the point of it all?"

"There doesn't necessarily have to be a point to everything, you know".

Each of them took two small, worn sacks out of their pockets, tied them around their shoes and shuffled along with the rest of the men into the packed hall and stood at the back. They waited in an expectant silence until the priest entered. Clothed in cream and green silken robes, he stood before the altar, briefly genuflecting as he did so. He then closed his eyes, raised his arms with his hands outstretched and began to chant. "Bless us almighty Inventor, and protect us from all that is unholy during our short journey from the land of darkness which is all that ever was, to the land of light which is all there will ever be. Grant us the same strength you once granted to your beloved Baqra, so we too may attain the state of grace required to sit by your side. And may blessed Baqra himself bestow upon us the wisdom to follow in his footsteps".

Humvat blearily blinked in a valiant attempt to resist a sudden overwhelming desire to surrender to sleep.

The following story is true, but because it pre-dates written history, precisely where and when it took place is unknown. But it was almost certainly somewhere in North or South Jefesta, and it happened thousands of years ago when the two islands were one land, before the waters came to divide them.

A half naked man is lying on the floor of a mud hut and he has been pronounced dead by the local shaman. His eyes are peacefully closed and his family are beside him, weeping and wailing. Death visits here often and his was just an average lifespan of an average lifestyle. His wife sits praying, gently rocking backwards and forwards. As custom dictates, his children hurry to wash him down with ice cold well water and wrap up his body before it putrefies in the blistering Summer heat. Then without warning the man suddenly blinks his eyes open and wipes his wet face with his hand. At first his family are dumbstruck. Then they gasp, howl and shriek. He is supposed to be dead.

Today this would be seen as a near-death experience. A feeble failing heart made the man inert, but the shock of the cold water being poured over him was enough to spring him back to life. However, to these deeply superstitious people he has achieved the impossible by returning from a visit to the land of souls. To begin with they are terrified. They've never seen anything like this and are struggling to accept him alive, having already accepted him dead. The shaman is called back and, equally mystified, pronounces it is indeed the man they see before them and not a soulless spirit. Then they crowd around him, clamouring to hear the tale of his short time spent walking amongst the ancestors, anxious to learn their own destiny.

He tells them all he can remember. He was floating through darkness towards a distant light when he heard a soothing voice. It told him to return because his journey through this life was unfinished, and the next instant he was waking up with a wet face and unanswered questions of his own.

Word of this event quickly spread throughout the land and reached the ears of learned scholars who might be able to offer him some answers. They had long been aware of their insignificance in the universe. But they were equally convinced that they and their egos had to be more worthy than merely living and dying and rotting away, leaving their weathered bones as the only evidence they ever strutted upon this Earth in their battered glory. At first they had established a special relationship between humanity and the unpredictable forces of nature by personifying these into gods who could be bestowed upon to bring a more comfortable, benign order to their surroundings. And the greatest god of them all was the Inventor, who existed everywhere and touched everything. Later they invented a more hopeful model of the universe which promised a second life whereby death was marked by rebirth into a world which was idyllic and everlasting, compared to the miserable short first one. This was ruled over by the Inventor alone.

Although this idea of a promised land was comforting for those who chose not to question it, it remained disturbingly flimsy to an inquiring mind. It didn't stand up to the weight of argument or debate and left many mysteries unresolved. One obvious question was if this second world with a second life really existed, where exactly was it?

Meanwhile, the scholars gazed up at night towards the stars slowly circling around them and wondered if they might harbour some unknown reality. And now it became apparent that the man who had returned from the dead with his story had unfurled a glorious truth before them. It was blindingly obvious that the stars in the sky were actually gateways to the second life. The spirit of the unknown man had been travelling towards a particular star. But why, they mused, had his journey been interrupted by turning him back? Their answer to this made everything clear. The harvest of stars in the night sky was so abundant there were enough for every man, woman and child who had ever lived or would ever live. The unknown man had found his own star and was heading towards his gateway into eternity, but was returned by the Inventor so he could use his special talent to guide everyone else towards their own entrance. For how else could ordinary mortals locate a single star out there in the vastness of infinity?

In this new model of existence each person had their unique place within the universe, and this neatly fitting piece completed a spiritual puzzle. The people made the unknown man their exalted leader and worshipped him as a minor god. His heirs were likewise worshipped. Those who, through the mysticism of religious dogma, inherited and spread his original miraculous gift.

As years faded the original story grew dimmer, each keeper of the tale failing to resist the temptation to leave his own mark upon it by adding new bits or removing old ones, until the prophet Baqra standardised them in writing.

With his thoughts directed by the Inventor, he refined the ancient ideas and beliefs to create a code of conduct entitled The Book of Edification and Understanding, more popularly known as the Book of Light. This describes the dark kingdom of the past, the flickering kingdom of the present and the bright kingdom of the future. It explains how the lifespan of a man is the time spent travelling from the first kingdom, through the second and onto the third. It tells how this time should be spent gaining grace by performing good deeds, to achieve the perfect state required for a pure soul to sit by the Inventor's side at the end of this journey. It also warns that just as grace is earned, it can also be lost by bad deeds. And any soul which arrives at the kingdom of Light without any grace is sent to the kingdom of Emptiness, which is the land of torture where time stands still.

Upon his death Baqra followed in the footsteps of the original man who nearly died. He ascended into the heavens and passed through his personal gateway to sit by the side of the Inventor. Now he waits for the day when each of us requires him to guide us to our allotted gateway so we too can pass into eternity. In the meantime he is represented on earth by the office of The Great Guide, the messenger between Baqra and his people.

An hour later the crowd of men emerged noisily from the prayer room. As he and Kinbus walked along another narrow street, Humvat hissed "And I don't know why we have to spend so much time worshipping. Holy Baqra, but I hate all this praying. It's just an ancient ritual you know..."

Kinbus raised his outstretched hand in front of his face, as though to push him away. "You've gone too far now Humvat. You'll have us in all sorts of trouble with the Execution of Religion, and I will speak to you no more of such matters. You turn up at my school begging me to teach you to act. Out of the goodness of my heart I do my utmost to educate you. I even give you free private tuition and, much against my better judgement, agree to put you into a play. And the next thing I know you're trying to incite me to revolution with all your blithering, blathering talk. It's not as though we're old friends or family or anything. I mean, we've never even been formally introduced. Forget this nonsense and just concentrate on the afternoon rehearsals. Hopefully the rest of the cast have finished their work for the day and will join us. I have some important news I must pass onto them".

So Humvat shut up and ambled along, his mind recalling the events which had led him to shamelessly harangue Kinbus for a place in the drama school.

In common with most of the world today, South Jefesta is a place largely lacking the cosy insulation of a suburban lifestyle. For most people the stark choice is either backbreaking labour in fields, battling against the whims of nature, or the squalid terror of the exposed city streets and dark alleys. Either way, life is dominated by the very real threat of starvation always being but a few days away. There are no supermarkets or shopping malls or fast food restaurants in this world.

Humvat had spent most of his life as a goatherd wandering the coastal plains, until the day he made the mistake of upsetting one of the local tribal chiefs. In his case the choice between city and countryside was made for him, because the city was also a convenient place to hide. Thus he wandered in, along with the daily numbers of hopeless and hopeful people. He joined the hopeless queue, hustling up whatever work he could find, living in squalid conditions with meagre prospects and even less likelihood of a better life.

Then one night his ambitions were unexpectedly lit like a spark on a fuse when he went to Zola's bar seeking a job he'd heard about, only to find someone had beaten him to it. So instead he got talking to a wealthy friend, newly acquired for the evening, who bought him many drinks and drunkenly asked him if he had ever heard of the United States of America. Of course, scoffed Humvat. Hadn't everyone? Then his new friend told him of this glorious, magical, mythical place where by acting – yes, that's right if you can believe it, by simply pretending to be somebody else - you could tread the path to a lifestyle of gold and silver, milk and honey, even better than that enjoyed by the Great Guide. Humvat instantly decided for the first time in his life he had found a vehicle upon which to tightly harness his loose ambitions. Someday, somehow, he was going to travel to the distant island of paradise named Hollywood, and he was going to become an all conquering movie star.

Though Kinbus was unaware of it, he was helping Humvat to take his first short, tentative step on this long journey. Which just goes to show you don't have to be American to have an American Dream.

A girl approached them on the street as they neared the theatre and waved at them. She possessed the sort of looks which are pleasant enough without being stunning. Shoulder length fair hair, brown eyes and pale skin. To Humvat however, she possessed an allure hidden beneath a veil which could be lifted aside by the right clothes, cosmetics and hairstyle, and viewed in a certain light in a certain place in his dreams.

"Greetings father, hello Humvat." she smiled. "How did this morning's studies go?"

Humvat simply grinned a moronic grin towards her and tried to fight the blush he could feel creeping all over his face.

"Ah, greetings Kipdip my beloved." replied Kinbus. He glanced around himself, habitually checking for strangers cocking an ear in his direction. "Humvat has a blinding hangover. He's been spoiling for a fight all day, and instead of attempting to perfect the art of drama he spent most of the time trying to turn me into a revolutionary".

Without warning, the features of Kipdip's face turned serious and she unleashed a scolding tongue upon him. "Well hung over or not, I think revolution is a noble cause and I agree with Humvat. Things around here can't stay the same forever, and they'll have to change sometime, you know. It just requires somebody brave enough to light the fire. Are you that brave man Humvat?"

Humvat felt the alarm of reality approaching and attempted to shuffle away. "Don't look at me. Anyone that lights such a fire is an idiot. It's a wildfire and wildfire cannot be controlled – it simply burns everything in its path".

"Sshh! The pair of you!" admonished Kinbus as they approached the theatre door. What was it about modern youth, always wanting to change everything? He'd never wanted to change things when he was young. Everybody did what they were told in those days. The good old days, when they were all content to put up with their shitty, empty, little lives. Thank Baqra Kipdip's mother was no longer around to be taunted and tormented by her daughter's blasphemy.

They handed over their tickets to the clerk in the kiosk, then made their way back inside the theatre to find the rest of the students had arrived. Kinbus assembled them on the stage and addressed them.

"Gather around everyone. I have an important announcement to make".

They crowded around him noisily and he was forced to shout. "I have wonderful news for all of you! The Execution of Television has decided South Jefesta should show the world our appreciation of literature by creating a televised production of the play Hamlet, written by our friend William Shakespeare, and we – yes we – have been chosen to perform the play. And the Great Guide himself will be seated amongst the audience!"

Somebody started clapping, somebody else started up a chant of "Praise be to the Great Guide", and as everybody joined in and jumped up and down, the stage began to vibrate.

When the chanting subsided a handsome, strapping young man raised his hand. "Praise be to the Great Guide! Master Kinbus, can you tell us if the performance will be in Siminite or English?"

"That's a good question, Carbet. I believe we will be performing in English, and Siminite subtitles will be added to the TV broadcast. And it will be made available to the whole world on something called the – uh – winter net or something or other. This will hopefully show those snobby bastards in the West we are not a bunch of raving savages after all. And you, Carbet will be playing the leading part of Hamlet himself".

"I give you thanks for your faith in me Kinbus, and I shall offer extra prayers in the temple to help me find the strength to repay you tenfold. I'm glad it's Shakespeare and I'm grateful for the chance to put both my acting and my English skills to such a test".

Humvat winced. He'd nursed a dislike of Carbet from first sight which gradually developed into a fully fledged loathing. He loathed Carbet because all the girls considered him good looking when he was at best plain; he detested him because everybody seemed to think he was an acting genius just because he could do Shakespeare in no more than passable English, and he hated him because Kinbus thought Carbet was a far better actor than himself, when that patently wasn't true. Was Humvat a little envious, perhaps? No. It was pure envy, and the true reason was simple enough. Carbet represented everything Humvat secretly knew stood between himself and his Hollywood dream, yet he stubbornly refused to acknowledge. It was the comfortable, easy feeling which comes with the awareness that you have the talent to succeed rather than merely the wits to survive. Though Carbet possessed it in abundance, Humvat was merely a quick learner forever having to learn.

Kinbus continued. "Where is Kipdip? She will be playing the part of Ophelia, the love of Hamlet's life".

"Thank you, father." Kipdip replied from the crowd, unashamedly targeting Carbet with her idea of a seductive smile, with her lips slightly parted. "But neither yourself nor Carbet should read anything into this romantic pairing".

Humvat smiled wistfully to himself. He bore no resentment to Kipdip. Okay, so she might be the bosses' daughter and maybe Kinbus overindulged her and allowed his judgement to be clouded. But with her beguiling looks and sweet countenance, Humvat could forgive her anything. Even that she was besotted with Carbet.

He raised his arm and asked "What part do I get then?"

Kinbus smiled nonchalantly. "Oh, I'm sure we can find an undemanding part for you, my wooden performer. Perhaps a tree, or maybe a plank".

Then he turned to face the rest of the cast and clapped his hands. "Right then, everybody. We have one month to prepare for our performance, so you must start learning your lines straight away. I've posted up a copy of the full cast list on the wall".

Humvat pored over the list for his name and his part. Oh, great, he thought. A spearman. A talent such as his and he was being cast in a nameless, non-speaking part. It might as well be a plank of wood. The golden pavements of Hollywood seemed as far away as they had ever been.
Chapter Three

The Shark Biscuits

Larry and Viv are standing side by side inside what looks like a temple. In front of them is a white altar covered with white statues, and behind them a crowd of people are seated. He is wearing his smart olive green soldier's uniform with the red tie and he looks extremely handsome. She is wearing an intricate white lace dress, adorned by dazzling jewellery and she looks absolutely stunning. An old man who appears to be some sort of priest stands before them, swinging a small silver pot on the end of a chain and something like smouldering incense wafts around them. Larry and Viv look at each other, smile nervously, clutch each other by the hand and turn to face the priest. He clears his throat, gestures for silence from the crowd, turns towards Larry and asks "Do you, Larry, take this sheila Viv to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do." smiles Larry.

"Do you promise not to let Mr Fluffy off the chain unless you really have to? Do you promise not to chuck a sickie too often, and make sure you earn a decent crust? Do you promise not to whip the cat whenever things go down the gurgler?"

"I do."

Then the man turns towards Viv. "Do you, Viv, take this bloke Larry to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

"Do you promise to bang him like a dunny door in a storm, even when he's got a veranda over the toolshed? Do you promise not to stir the possum whenever he bends the elbow too much, gets crook and ends up calling for George? Do you promise to not give a fat rat's clacker if anything comes a gutzer and he doesn't suss it, even if blind Freddy could see it?"

"I do."

"Well, in that case I reckon I can pronounce you man and wife".

They turn to face their audience, whose polite applause generates a noisy clapping, cheering and whistling (though it actually only sounds like three or four people are making the noise) and the happy couple walk out of the temple. Waiting outside are a number of other soldiers who have formed a guard of honour. They stand in two lines, facing each other with their swords held high and joined in pairs at the tips. Larry and Viv skip through this tunnel, arm in arm, smile in smile, love in love. When they emerge at the other end, Viv beams ecstatically, looks up at Larry and says "Oh Larry. I'm so happy right now. I reckon you and me fit together like a bum and a bucket!"

He looks down at her, also smiles and replies "Well sprinkle me with bulldust! Oh Viv, you're hotter than a piss in a sauna!"
Life in the small, isolated coastal town of Santa Domingo in California runs at the pace of a slow snail on a long journey. It's the sort of place where a fight between two stray dogs out on the street makes front page headlines in next week's local newspaper. There's only one road in or out of the town, and this is simply a track that isn't asphalted or signposted. It's as though the rest of America has passed it by, and even the major television networks somehow managed to miss it. The sole provider is a small public broadcasting station which ekes out such a poor living that it regularly closes its door shut and its transmitter down when donations run dry and times get hard. Not that most of the local population would either notice or care.

After Marvin Hopkins Progressive College, the next largest building in the town is a rest home for senior citizens, and that just about sums the place up – a convenient spot to crawl away and quietly die.

Although there are plenty of reasons for the townsfolk of Santa Domingo to put guns to heads and blow either their own or each other's brains out, there are two good reasons for staying alive and sticking around. The first is the beach. Call it sucky, chewy, way sick or call it what you will, it all boils down to a long, empty expanse of sand which also happens to be perfect for surfing. A shallow run off produces a line up two hundred feet out and a five foot swell, rising to six feet on a good day or up to seven feet when it's really pumping.

The citizens have long regarded themselves as custodians of this beach, so sometime ago the city council unilaterally designated their coastal area as a state park to protect it from development. They would have sought government approval for the action, but this would have meant letting the government know their beach existed. The only access to it is via a single unmarked dirt path which runs through the surrounding swampy woodland. Given that Santa Domingo is far away from the tourist trail, the locals have largely managed to keep their beach a secret between themselves and nature.

The second reason to be happy is the nearby marijuana farm. This produces an abundant harvest of cheer that helps keep everyone in the town chilled out and sane. Thanks to the mediation skills of Eli Levenson, the only lawyer in town, the local police department turns a blind eye to the farm. This is because, as Eli pointed out, its magical harvest helps keep crime levels down to a figure which barely registers at the state law department. Thus the farm, the townsfolk and the sheriff's office get to run their own affairs without any cumbersome outside interference. And in the spirit of collectivisation, the farm also counts on the police force and judiciary as valued customers.

Kenny Savage, Neil Petit and Brian Lovett were twelfth grade students at Marvin Hopkins Progressive College. They were even more unfortunate than most of the unfortunates trapped in Santa Domingo, for they fetched up and got stranded there without having any connection to the town. When they were younger their wealthy, socially ambitious parents had expected each of them to follow the family traditions of attending an Ivy League college. But by the time they staggered towards their eighteenth year and the educational finishing line was in sight, it became apparent that these sons were feckless, inept and hopeless disappointments. So instead of preparing to send them to New England, they exiled them to this boarding school for the socially challenged on the other side of the country. Initially none of the boys knew each other, but it didn't take long for the flotsam and jetsam of their characters to drift into one another.

When founding the school, Marcia Givens appropriated the Latin phrase Foveo Factum to serve as its motto. This roughly translates as "To Encourage Achievement", and the ethos behind this is that encouragement is the basic solution to life's young problems. However, she soon became aware none of these boys were interested in achieving anything more than visiting the marijuana farm and speaking in an obscure surfing dialect. In the meantime, not only were their school grades a regular F, but their assignment scores were a regular zero per cent. Marcia was reduced to encourage them by awarding a percentage point if they wrote the correct date on an assignment, and another one if they spelt their own names correctly. This resulted in an immediate improvement, and in some notable cases the boys attained a score of as much as two per cent. The monthly sessions with Heather Surning were quickly increased in frequency to weekly ones.

Doctor Surning sat with Principal Givens in her office. They were working their way through the latest progress review.

"Marcia," she began. "After a number of discussions with these three boys, I'm convinced they've been absolutely crushed by the unrealistic weight of expectation their parents have placed upon their shoulders. They've been tutored, crammed and force-fed a diet of extra curricula on top of all the different education systems they've received at a variety of schools. In response they've given up. They now reject everything, and I mean pretty much everything, which might require them to think for themselves, apply themselves or learn. Put simply, they've just stopped trying. It seems to me the only bright spot on the horizon is – and I realize it's not an academic subject \- they all seem to have acquired a genuine interest in surfing".

Marcia Givens held a sheaf of letters in one hand and a gently burning marijuana joint in the other. She took a drag and replied "Well what do you advise me to do about it then? I've gotten a whole heap of letters here from their parents, complaining about the lack of progress they perceive their sons to be making".

She then glanced down, pondered for a moment, and looked back up. "As you know Heather, I'm into creating solutions but we're dealing with powerful people here. Depending on how they react, they could make or break this school. And the fact is, try as hard as we might, Marvin Hopkins College hasn't really been able to encourage these boys to achieve anything at all. I know I shouldn't say this, but I'm tempted to let them go and then they can become somebody else's problem".

She handed the joint over to Doctor Surning, who in turn also took a thoughtful puff before saying "I don't think that helps solve any problems, other than the school's own performance ratings. I mean none of these boys are retarded; in fact their intelligence levels are surprisingly normal. And it's not like their behavior is anti social, or psychotic, or even disturbed. In fact, surprisingly, they exhibit evidence of creative talent. The real problem here is they've become so disillusioned. I'd have to say the intensity of their education, the resultant lack of success, and the fact they weren't allowed to take any part in the decision making process has lead them to suffer from a form of depression. They've created this imaginary world of their own where surfing represents a total freedom, yet not one of them has even been out on a surfboard. If I were to prescribe a course of treatment for them, I'd be tempted to focus on this surfing aspect. They already seem to have assimilated some of the theoretical concepts without any outside help, particularly this surfing slang they've picked up, so I'd be inclined to let them go through the process of applying this to a practical situation. Hopefully they can reaffirm that not all teaching is bad, and in due process it might help them rediscover some of the joys of learning. Of course, I'd also make the surfing conditional on them achieving and maintaining better grades".

She glanced through their academic records and muttered "Which shouldn't be difficult".

"It sounds to me like your advice is to let them off the hook and give them special treatment." tutted Marcia. Then she stared at Heather incredulously, because she still remembered her as the solitary girl at college who kept herself to herself and never showed much in the way of emotional contact with anyone. In one cruel joke the class had voted for Heather as the likeliest to succeed and, to be honest, it hadn't been a great surprise to read about her finally flipping out on the airplane. But when Marcia saw what was happening in the media and online, she instinctively decided it was time to create another solution. And in the meantime Heather didn't need to know she'd been rescued. Marcia smiled at her teasingly and asked "Are you forming some kind of emotional connection with these boys? I never had you down as the maternal type".

"Sometimes it's part of the treatment." sighed Heather. "Somebody somewhere has got to show them some love. Dear Lord, they don't appear to have received any from anyone else". Then she mumbled "And I know myself what that feels like".

Marcia Givens looked long and hard at both the letters of complaint and Heather Surning. "Well, there is another motto somewhere or other at this school that we don't give up on our students." she sighed. It also occurred to her that kudos might be inherited from any form of success, and there were three wealthy and potentially grateful families who could become a rich source of alumni funding in years to come. She took one last hit and stubbed the joint out.

Over the coming days Principal Givens considered the problem and decided the school motto was, if you considered it for long enough, open to various translations. "Cherish the Deed" was her own particular favourite. It might as well have been "Whatever It Takes". After first obtaining the consent of the aforementioned parents, she encouraged the boys to invest in a surfboard each. She then allowed them to take as much time as they wanted to surf during school hours instead of attending classes. Kenny rushed to buy his surfboard from a website but Neil and Brian held back, reasoning they could make a wiser investment of their parents' cash at the marijuana farm, and in the meantime they could all share Kenny's board for the surfing.

A week later the day finally arrived when the board was delivered and they were ready for action. They loaded up Principal Givens' car, strapped the board to the roof with some lengths of elastic cord, and drove off unsteadily to experience the thrill of the real surf, on a real beach, for the first time.

Many people imagine the world of surfing as a paradise where the sun shines endlessly through a cloudless blue sky. The sea is warm and crystal clear. Huge waves rise, race towards the shore, peter out and calmly lap up against a sandy beach. This in turn consists of fine white granules that turn into a soft, sugary texture beneath wet feet. The surfers themselves are a mass of young, tanned and toned skin topped by silky blond hair. It is a carefree existence, where the answer to any of life's traumas or dilemmas is to pick up a surfboard, cry "Surf's up!" and dash down to the sea to catch a wave.

However, surfers themselves know that for the vast majority of them the reality is far from exotic. The norm is a grey sky and grey water which is so cold they resort to pissing themselves in their wetsuit to try and keep warm. Perpetual nipple rub and festering sores on knees and elbows are the souvenirs of hours spent lying on the board, desperately paddling up and down trying to catch peaks as the sea attempts to throw them off, like some kind of primeval monster swatting at an irritating fly. And the classic, continuous runny nose which comes from having seawater relentlessly forced up their nostrils for hours at a time.

Pictures of Heaven and hell aside, the truth is no matter where the surf is, it's the surf itself that really counts. For surfers everywhere are consumed by mastering this challenge thrown down by nature, the stimulation of the thrill of the chase and the exhilarating, addictive reward of a short ride on the back of a wave. And that's why they keep returning for more.

Anyone who thinks surfing culture is simply a bunch of beach bums hanging out together to go ride the waves whatever the weather, should think again Fred (or Wilma for the ladies). For not only does the surfing world have its own language, it also has divisive states of mind. The classic school of surfing is an elite establishment akin to a gentleman's club and it dates back to the days when being up for the surf wasn't just a hobby, it was a lifestyle. It says if you can't at least duck dive properly or you either don't know or don't follow the etiquette of no snaking, no stink eye and so on, then you should not be allowed out to ride the surf with other surfers. The other school is far more forgiving. It maintains the world is a free place and you can do what the hell you like so long as you can afford a board. And those other dudes had better get used to it. Resentment between them surfaces in the slang, even if the insults are as mild as calling people Fred, Barney or Wilma. Betty is the exception but hey, she always was a looker. Using the Flintstones as a source of this slang also says something about surfers' television viewing habits or, maybe more pertinently, about when they stopped watching television.

This quiet sunny afternoon, the purist crowd would doubtless have pointed at the three boys trudging along the Santa Domingo beach, and named and shamed them as kooks. After all, they were wearing belted up bathrobes, carried their towels in shopping bags and were sharing a single surfboard. On the other hand, the open house club would have hardly stirred themselves to notice them at all. The boys wouldn't have really cared either way, seeing as they weren't the type of people to try to ingratiate themselves with their neighbours or buy their way into a radical lifestyle. It wasn't that they were bohemian spirits who would spurn the opportunity to join any club which would offer them membership. They simply wouldn't know how to go about filling in the application form.

The three of them wandered along the empty sands, taking turns to carry Kenny's surfboard until they found a secluded spot. It was fringed by shallow dunes on either side and a line of palm trees to the rear. The salty air was tinged with the smell of fauna all around, mixed with the dash of a washed up rotting fish carcass lying a short distance away. They dropped the board, disrobed and sat down on their towels amongst the warm shade. Brian rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a sandwich bag which contained a grassy bundle of marijuana, a packet of cigarette papers and a lighter. He carefully rolled a joint, lit it up, took a couple of hits and passed it over to Neil.

"Surf's up today, dudes." murmured Kenny, looking out to sea. "Six foot swell breaking right to left, landing zone about a hundred yards out. Totally sick, bro. Totally sick".

Brian was now lying on his back, his neck clasped in his hands, his elbows stretched out and his eyes shut beneath the rims of his glasses as he relaxed in the sun. "Yo, Kenny" he murmured. "No need for the surfspeak dude. We're not in school now".

Kenny glanced back down at him with an angry stare which accused him of half hearted betrayal. "Surfspeak isn't a joke Brian. Not to me anyhow. When I say we've gotta learn the talk before we can learn the walk I mean it".

Then he sullenly got up, pushed Brian's feet and Neil's arm aside from the board, picked it up and carried it down the beach to the sea. He gingerly picked his way through the bands of driftwood, seaweed, shells and various skeletal and jelly-like remains which had been gradually collected from the far-flung depths of the ocean by the currents, then dumped on the beach by the strongest tides.

When he got to the water's edge he laid the board on the ground and tied the leash to his left foot. He picked the board up again and tried to find a comfortable position to hold it, eventually settling for carrying it balanced on his head. Then he started to make his gladiatorial entrance into the amphitheater that is the surf. He managed to reach a depth where his stomach was getting splashed when, from out of nowhere came what seemed like a massive wave which knocked him off his feet and backwards into the cloudy water.

His glasses went flying, and in the confusion of rescuing them he dropped the board. He felt his leashed foot being dragged from under him as the board, which floated to the surface, haphazardly lurched back towards the shore like a riderless horse running along a racetrack. He eventually managed to stay underwater long enough to untie his ankle and reined the board back in by pulling on the leash. He picked it up and staggered breathlessly back onto the beach, then collapsed on the sand, coughing and spluttering. As he lay there cursing his lack of knowledge, ability and prowess at performing even the most rudimentary exercises in this sport which had devoured him, he heard an unfamiliar voice above his head.

"G'day mate?" it said, in a strange accent that sounded more like a question than a statement. "Nice wipeout. Ever thought about trying duckdiving?"

The athletic, tanned, blond haired stranger bent down and proffered a helping hand and pulled Kenny up. He continued. "Or are you a shark biscuit?"

Kenny stared blankly at him. What the hell was a shark biscuit?

"You new to surfing?" he explained.

"Yeah, I'm new to this game and I don't know how to duck dive." Kenny admitted shamefully. "I've read up on it and it seemed easy enough, but actually doing it is like something totally different".

As he spoke he quietly wondered to himself how it was he'd never heard of the phrase shark biscuit before. After all, he prided himself on the reputation that he talked the talk better than anyone else.

The stranger nodded sympathetically as he helped Kenny pick up his board while simultaneously holding his own. "Yeah, it takes a while to get the hang of it, alright. Basically you've got to lie down on your board and paddle it out past the point where the waves are breaking, but a lot of people get pulled back in when they get there. The secret is to get both the front and back ends of the board under those broken waves, and to do that you've gotta paddle flat out like a lizard drinking. It's the one thing which makes the difference between a nice long ripper ride or a quick wipeout".

Kenny was mystified. This guy was obviously a surfer, but the language he spoke wasn't surf speak at all. And he'd hardly understood a word of the strange accent. "Um, I think I understand. Whereabouts are you from?" he asked.

"I'm from Oz, as in Australia mate. The lucky country. I've been travelling around for a while now, just me on my own with the old board for company".

Kenny's mystification quickly turned to pure, wide-eyed admiration. "Are you a soul surfer, mate?" he asked, already worshipping at the altar of this new speak.

"I been called a lot worse, but yep, I guess I am, mate. Whenever I hear the word about any decent surf, well that's where I'm headed. Though this place is in the middle of bloody woop-woop even by my standards".

Kenny immediately sensed he'd found a messiah. "I've got... two surf buddies who'd be... way stoked to meet you." he stuttered, trying to control his excitement. "Would you mind if I... introduce you?"

The stranger looked up towards the trees behind the dunes where Brian and Neil were lying in the sun, the thin plume of smoke giving away their position. "Are they up there, where the herbal aroma is coming from?"

Kenny nodded and in return the stranger gestured him to lead the way up. Kenny ran up ahead as the stranger followed, and after shaking hands and nodding heads the four of them sat cross legged in a square as Brian constructed another perfect joint. The stranger exhaled the marijuana smoke slowly and purposefully. "This is really top gear. If you blokes have got this stuff on tap I can see the attraction of this place, even if it is way beyond Bullamanka". He passed the toke onto Brian.

"Like, what language are you speaking, dude?" quizzed Neil.

"English, mate. Dinkum English".

"But that's just it dude – there ain't no Bullamanka or dinkum in any English I ever heard".

"Oh, right. I guess you'd call it Strine then." replied the stranger.

Neil looked at him blankly, no closer to understanding.

The stranger continued. "Us Ozzies like to cut our words down to size. Australian becomes 'Stralian when you get rid of the front bit and 'Stralian becomes strine when you flatten it out and say it real fast in a strine accent".

He shrugged his shoulders. "That's all there is to it".

As Kenny passed the joint to him the stranger asked. "So what brings you three to the beach at this time of day, during the week?"

They told him their story, of how they'd connived and contrived to get official permission to bunk off school whenever they felt like it, and how they'd convinced the school principal to let Kenny drive her car, but 'kinda forgot' to tell her he didn't have a driving licence.

The stranger chortled. "You lot are pulling my chain! Jeez, but you're as slick as greased snake shit!"

They looked at each other, puzzled. "Er, does that mean we're good or bad?" Brian asked hopefully.

"It means you lot are ridgy didge, which is better than good".

"But," interrupted Kenny. "That doesn't mean we're not way serious about the surfing, dude. We're just having to wade through so much crap trying to learn from books man. It ain't nowhere near as easy as it looks".

"It's easy enough to fall off the damned board" muttered Neil. "I'm getting sick of the taste of friggin' salt water".

"We should be experts by now, but we're way fuckin' nowhere" sighed Brian, his face vaguely ticking. "We're never going to crack this thing".

"Whoah now!" exclaimed the stranger. "The trouble with you Seppos is you're about as patient as a dog trying to get its leg over a lamppost, and you want everything yesterday. And you're all such a bunch of bludgers – strikes me your main problem is you blokes can't be bothered to put in the hard yakka. Instead you want it all served up to you on a plate".

The three boys looked at each other again. "Er, are we still good or are we bad now?" asked Neil.

"It means a good root and a fart would kill you, which is worse than bad".

He paused as he puffed out and sucked in the joint, waited and exhaled. Having achieved a relaxed state of mind once again he continued. "You blokes should be more like us Ozzies; we're a laid back, kinda relaxed breed of people most of the time. Do you know what the most popular sayings are back home down under?"

They all shook their heads.

"Well I'll tell you. 'No worries' and 'She'll be sweet'. They both mean much the same thing. You shouldn't worry about things that don't need to be worried over. But for the things in life you really want, that really matter to you, you should give it a right fair go. Take me for example. I arrived here yesterday morning and I still haven't been out into the waves yet. You know why?"

Once again the three of them shook their heads.

"Because I spent the whole day looking out at the surf, trying to figure it out before I make a splash. Now I reckon I've pretty much sussed it before I even get in the water".

He pointed towards a local surfer who was already in the sea. "Look where that bloke is lined up, about a hundred yards out".

"Yep." agreed Kenny. "It's breaking over there, right to left".

"Aha!" smiled the stranger. "Everyone thinks the waves are breaking there, but I know the moon is passing overhead right now and the tide is turning. If you look another hundred yards further out you'll see that for every seventh wave coming in, a flash of foam appears. That's because there's a sand bank out there and the seventh wave is a bit bigger than the rest. It becomes unstable and breaks earlier because of the shallow the sandbank creates. So you can get a ride twice as long if you wait for the right moment. And you see how the biggest bit of foam on the seventh one is towards the left end of the beach?"

They all looked out, waited for the seventh wave and nodded as he pointed.

"Well that means the waves out there are breaking left to right and then switching right to left when they hit that landing zone a hundred yards out, so you get a beaut chance to do some big time trimming as you come in".

The stranger picked up his surfboard. "Well I'm off to do some surfing now. Nice meeting you blokes".

He held his board by his side and walked towards the sea. As he trudged along he turned back towards them and shouted up "Just remember to think like an Ozzie when you're surfing and you'll get there!"

Then he jogged down and into the sea. When he reached a shallow wading depth he dropped the board flat onto the water, gave it a delicate shove and fell onto it, gripping the rails and laying flat on it. He then shifted his body forward so his chin was resting on the nose of the board, lifted his feet until they were up in the air at right angles to his knees, dipped his hands into the water either side of the board and paddled out at a frantic speed. The board skimmed over the water, the nose just above the sea level.

An approaching wave was breaking up and about to flail itself against the beach. He paddled until the set was almost upon him. Then he took hold of either side of the front of the board with each hand, and pushed the nose down and under the foaming white water. As he disappeared beneath the surface, his right foot was visible as he used his knee to push the tail end of the board down, so it didn't get caught and pulled ashore by the surging power of this wave he had now dived beneath.

As soon as the wave passed over him he lifted up the board by pulling up on the nose and pushing down with his knee on the tail and then once the board was positioned, he kicked his legs to propel himself out of the water.

He relaxed into the prone position and lay back on the board, paddling out once more with his feet in the air until he met the next wave and duck dived again. Pretty soon he was in open water and paddled until he was a distant figure, further out to sea than the line up the other surfer was drifting around.

He then sat up with his legs akimbo and bobbed up and down, as he looked out to peruse the incoming waves for the one that looked likeliest to serve his purpose. After a minute or two of what seemed like an aimless idleness, he quickly resumed the prone position and paddled furiously towards the shore to match the speed of the rushing wave he had selected. He allowed it to catch him up at precisely the spot where he previously estimated it would start breaking up and - as he mentally calculated - it took hold of the board and he was now lying down on the wave and hurtling in tandem with it as its life cycle clock started ticking down. Maintaining a precarious balance he picked himself up, positioning his back foot at the tail end of the board and his front foot towards the middle while remaining bent over, holding onto the sides. Then almost instantaneously he lifted himself up, freed his arms and jerkily held them out sideways, groping for and finding a balanced equilibrium, riding the wave in towards the shore.

He dropped through the wave which, unexpectedly, had still not broken fully and he trimmed forward for a few seconds. Then he turned and span back up to the peak of it, as he waited for the break to start in earnest. As he reached the summit of the peak for the second time, the lip of the wave started to crash over at the point where he was, and he then knelt down within the tube and angled along the peak as it roared along. When he reached the end of the tube it broke up completely into bubbling foam. He calmly stood up on the board and allowed the latent energy to carry him towards the shore. He eventually came to a standing rest at the water's edge, a couple of hundred yards away from the boys.

He stepped off of the board as the three figures in the near distance jumped up and down, whistling and clapping and hollering their admiration and approval. He bowed ceremonially and waved back towards them. Then he picked up his board, turned and walked away down the beach, off into the distance.

"That.. was.. totally awesome dudes." stuttered Kenny excitedly. "One day... we're gonna... surf like him, but first... we've gotta... learn a new talk. We've gotta start talking... Strine".

"Wow! That was like something spiritual dudes!" yelled Brian, his face twitching. "We have totally got to think like an Ozzie if we want to surf professionally!"

"Dudes," added Neil laconically. "If we want to surf professionally we'd better get two more surfboards".

Kenny glanced at Neil with a baffled look in his face. "Hey dude?" he asked. "Don't you need.. to visit the... bathroom?"

Neil looked back at him with surprise in his own eyes and smiled. "No dude, I don't think I do".

Chaos theory is a principle which, amongst other things, attempts to describe global weather patterns. It has produced the notion that the fluttering of a butterfly's wings could, through a twisting chain of events, eventually cause a storm on the other side of the world. It is possibly truer to suggest that each of the billions of souls on our planet is fated by moments of destiny which are released every second of every day, and these flutter up like spiritual butterflies. The overwhelming majority of these will fade and die the instant they are created. But, from time to time, one will have the strength or the good fortune to set itself free and gently soar up towards the ether. Then at some later time and place, it will float towards the fluttering destiny of a spiritual butterfly which has been released by another person. Having been drawn together and attracted to each other and danced a ritual courtship they will then join to produce a new destiny of their own.

The three boys didn't know it and the Australian stranger certainly didn't know it, but between them they had just set loose a spiritual butterfly which would join with another released half way around the world. These would then create a trail of destinies that would profoundly alter the lives of all of those they touched. And the moment it was released there was nothing anyone anywhere could do to change anything. For once the future has started to unravel it is as irreversible as the past.

Heather Surning had become aware she was spending too much time trying to piece together the missing memories of her fall from grace, and that it wasn't doing her any good. The voice inside her, the one which always drove her on, had fallen silent lately and all that remained was an empty, hollow feeling. She felt as though she was abandoning herself.

So one afternoon, on the spur of a moment, she decided her next appointment was going to be an inaugural visit to Neil's perfect beach. She put on her flip-flops and sunglasses, and walked along the coast road with a shoulder bag containing her laptop, a towel and sun lotion. She had the presence of mind to wear her swimsuit beneath a sarong so she wouldn't have to change in public. It felt good to get out of the stuffy office, away from the couch and breathe in the fresh salty air for a change. It also felt good to be bathed by the soothing heat of the sun on her back. She came to the dirt track, turned down it and walked through the cooler swampy forest until she reached the small car park, enclosed by a wooden fence with a gate in the corner. She trudged along the empty beach, spread out her towel and lay down on her back. Then she smoked a joint and closed her eyes. As if from nowhere the voice inside her returned, urging her to let her mind run free once again. So she did, and as usual it kept sniffing around and digging up her single memory of the chaos in the airplane, but going no further. She turned over onto her stomach and wriggled her body into the sand to fit her shape. The sun shone down on her, the light warm wind rustled through her hair and her mind drifted backwards and forwards along with the waves brushing the shore. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. She felt herself falling into the depths of her mind, and the drug inside her started to collect together a daisy chain of memories she'd never seen before.

She was waiting in an airport terminal building. Her flight home had been delayed for hours without explanation and there was still no news. She'd tried to check-in so she could claim her customary aisle seat at the rear of the plane, but the staff wouldn't let her. In an agitated state, she tried to explain that she was an extremely nervous flier, but they told her it was company policy to only check in baggage for confirmed flights. She asked what was the reason for the delay and was met with shrugged shoulders. She sat fretting nervously in a seat nearby. She got up, wandered around, sat back down again. She worried about what might be wrong with the plane. Was it an engine? The flaps? The landing gear? Any of those could mean disaster. Why weren't they making any announcements? She got up again and went back to the check-in desk to find out. She was told it was company policy to not discuss such issues, and when there was something to say, all would be revealed. She again tried to check-in, and again she was rebuffed. She was close to exploding, but rather than make a scene she tried to control herself. It was suggested, somewhat forcefully, that she might find a visit to the bar to be a calming experience, and they'd call her back when it was time. She wasn't much of a drinker but she moved to the bar as suggested, where she was comforted by liberal doses of bourbon.

There was a brief flash of black in her mind, then more new memories sprang forth. She remembered returning to the check-in desk to find that, without announcing it, everyone else had checked in and gone to the boarding gate. She was allocated the last available seat, near the front by a window. Putting her in the front was bad enough, but by a window as well? Hadn't she just told them she was a nervous flier? Waves of nausea passed through her, and with her mind loosened by the alcohol, she was close to screaming at someone. But instead she took a deep breath and marched back to the bar to quaff some more soothing magic bourbon.

Next she was boarding the plane. She asked an air hostess if she might swap her seat with someone else. No, smiled the hostess. When pressed as to why not, she simply raised her eyebrows and murmured that it was company policy.

Heather's mind went blank again and then a nightmarish memory began to unravel. Half of her fought to retrieve it but the other half fought to throw it back.

The plane was finally about to take off and she was ignoring the man sitting next to her who was trying to make polite conversation. Television screens built into the backs of seats all around her were playing various channels. Then the jet engines whooshed into life and the plane jolted forwards. All the screens simultaneously tuned into a channel which was relaying live footage from a camera fitted into the nose cone. It showed the runway rushing past and a fence at the end with traffic crossing behind it looming closer and closer, faster and faster. She remembered shutting her eyes tight and firmly gripping the armrests until she felt the aircraft lift off the ground. Then she tentatively opened them again, only to find the screens were now tuned into another camera installed underneath the plane. She stared at the world passing beneath hundreds, then thousands of feet below, separated from her by a mere thin sheet of metal. Surning felt herself sobbing hysterically that she was having a panic attack. Alarmed, her fellow passenger rang and called for assistance. A hostess promptly arrived and Surning screamed that unless the screens were all turned off immediately she didn't know what she might do. The hostess smiled patronisingly and said this wasn't possible. She did, however have something which might help. She reached into her pocket and pulled out two pills. Surning desperately popped them into her mouth and the recollection abruptly ended in another flash of black.

Then another memory slowly arrived. She was drowsily waking up. It was daytime, yet it was strangely dark outside. A storm raged, generating lightning flashes like atomic explosions and huge raindrops which crashed down like rocks. The plane was preparing to land and that damned camera in the nose cone was filming again. On the multitude of monitor screens, their destination lay ahead in the distance. As the plane wobbled in the air the approaching runway lights moved up and down, down and up, left and right, right and left. Then the whole plane started rocking and shaking, and with a rush of terror surging through her, she leapt up from her seat and pushed past her neighbour. She ran down the aisle, screaming that everyone should kneel down and say their final prayers because they were all about to die. Suddenly alarms were howling and a screaming, yelling crowd of passengers was upon her.

Her startled eyes opened and blinked in the sunshine. She'd finally remembered what happened on her fateful flight. Why had there been such a long, unexplained delay, and what on earth was in those pills they gave her? Angered, she considered what she should do with this new information and it didn't take long to come to a conclusion. Throughout her life, if she ever encountered trouble she always took the supposedly correct course of action by ignoring or avoiding it. But where had that attitude ever gotten her? And now her good reputation, which had taken years to build, had been utterly destroyed in the flash of a moment by the callous actions of an airport and airline. She decided she'd had enough of being passive, avoiding conflict and showing the other cheek. This time she was going to stand her ground and fight back. She was going to sue the sons of bitches.
Chapter Four

Performing Shakesbeard

Larry strolls calmly into a hospital and ambles up to the reception desk. He smiles an embarrassed smile at the woman sitting behind the desk. Then, still smiling, he shouts. "Stone the flaming crows! You've gotta help me quick nurse 'cos right now it's all arsehole to breakfast! I've gotta find my sheila, Viv! She's about to drop our first ankle biter and I'm supposed to be there to catch it!"

The woman returns his smile, looks up at him and opens her mouth. She too speaks in a strange Australian-American accent. "You should have thought about all this when you decided to sink the sausage, young man. You should have stuck to bashing the bishop instead. Now then, who did you say you've come to see?"

Larry starts to scream in desperation, although outwardly his appearance remains the epitome of calmness. "Are you thicker than two tons of kangaroo shit?! It's Viv! She's the one up the duff, packing the awning over the toyshop!"

The woman pauses for a moment as she flicks through a book and says "Okey dokey, I have a Viv listed as being in room 165". She points to an adjoining corridor. "It's at the end of the corridor, first left, second right, third right and first left".

Larry wanders down the corridor with his hands in his pockets, locates the room and walks in to discover Viv lying in her bed, already holding not just one but two babies, one in each arm. He freezes to the spot in shock.

Viv looks at him and says "They were on special offer today Larry – buy one get one free. What do you think of that, mate?"

"I think it's just ridgy didge." he whispers. "What make are they?"

She tilts her head to her left and says "Well, this one is a boy ankle biter" and tilting her head to the right says "And this one is a girl ankle biter".

Larry vaguely nods his head to himself as he ponders upon the significance of this. "Well in that case I guess we've got a Larry junior and a Viv junior".

She beams back at him and starts to moan in her strange husky voice. "Oh Larry baby, take me! Take me now!"
Normally the main square in the centre of the capital city of South Jefesta would be awash with the teeming noise of the market and choked by the mass of ambling people, slowly moving transport carts and wandering livestock. But today it was eerily quiet. Even the performers, gypsies, beggars, thieves and prostitutes had failed to keep their appointment. On various whitewashed walls around the square posters had been pasted up, each showing a portrait of the Great Guide dressed in a police uniform. In one hand he held up a standard issue truncheon, and in the other a pair of handcuffs. Beneath was written in large letters "Public use of this area is temporarily prohibited. When you trespass on government property, you trespass on The Guide's property. One Great Guide. One True Faith. One South Jefesta".

A number of policemen stood dotted around toting shotguns, just in case those who were blind or unable to read hadn't received the message.

Two black limousines with tinted windows slowly drove through the square and a host of scavenging pigeons fluttered their wings, took to the air and scattered before them. In the leading car sat the Great Guide himself, along with his male secretary and seven bodyguards from the elite private army known as the Public Defence Force. They were dressed in the traditional Siminite uniform of white cloak, pale yellow top and leggings held together by a wide black belt, from which hung a long wooden cudgel. In the other car sat the Executioner of Television, the Executioner of Entertainment and a general from the Grand Militia.

Sitting casually on the rear seat in their car, the Executioner of Entertainment turned to the Executioner of Television and asked. "So, my dear fellow. Pray tell me, what exactly are we doing here, where are we going and why are we in such a rush?"

The Executioner of Television was regarding his reflected face in a small mirror. He straightened his tie and replied nonchalantly. "I've no idea why we're here. All I know is that this morning, on his latest whim, the Quaint Guide decided to inspect the theatre where the televised Shakesbeard performance is to take place. He probably wants us to be there so he can berate us, and we'll have to reassure him it's a grand enough venue for a statesman of his magnitude to be seen in public".

"Holy Baqra, save us all. Well, I can reassure everyone it's a grand enough venue to shoot the fat pig's head off. It was so much easier when he did what he was told when he was told, instead of messing things up by insisting on making his own decisions. You did all of us a great service in persuading him to attend the event. I, for one, won't miss him any more then I'd miss a boil on my backside".

"It wasn't a particularly hard task. Not if, like myself, you've mastered the techniques required to survive dealing with an erratic madman. As we're all aware, he has forgotten that The Party runs this country, and he actually believes all the dreadful propaganda we trot out about him. So, I happened to mention that attending cultural events was a pleasure undertaken by most great statesmen around the world, and expressed my surprise that he hadn't been seen out in public for years. Then I asked if this was because of some Party policy I was unaware of. This of course infuriated him, and then all I had to do was point him towards our televised play by this Shakesbeard fellow and he did the rest himself. He roared that a great leader such as he should be seen amongst his people, and what sort of an idiot was I for not organising it? I apologised profusely, begged for forgiveness and he spared me my life".

"Typical. You see what I mean? How is this damned country ever going to become a civilised state when we all have to dance around one man's ego? I trust your side of the bargain is progressing smoothly, general?"

The general sat up formally in his seat, crossed his arms and harrumphed. "A project like this requires top secrecy and sealed lips. Not careless mouths flapping up and down like a whore's knickers! Suffice to say the operatives are being trained up as we speak and the army will be ready to invade the North as soon as the signal is given. You can rest assured. Now remember you two, ours is a secret society and nobody outside of this car needs to know anything about it. We will certainly have to eliminate anyone in the production team if they become aware of the plan".

The two Executioners looked at each other incredulously.

"But general," exclaimed the Executioner of Entertainment. "The plan was decided upon last month by the ruling council. Every Executioner knows about it".

"Every Executioner? You mean all of them? Holy Baqra! We have a major security alert! In order to prevent a leak, I insist we shoot them all instantly!"

"My dear general," replied the Executioner of Entertainment. "There is nobody in the entire country who will dare tell The Guide about the plan. Remember what happens to the messenger who delivers bad news?"

He ran his finger across his throat in the gesture of a knife cutting through skin, and continued. "I'm sorry if it offends you, but the Party cannot decide to assassinate its own Guide on live television, pin the blame on those Semonite scum and invade North Jefesta without having a meeting and a vote to get the necessary resolutions approved first. What sort of a government do you think we're running? A dictatorship?"

The general sighed. "I was rather hoping so..."

"Well, we're not. The government of South Jefesta is a democratic republic. Whatever anyone else might say".

The two black limousines drew up outside the theatre. Two guards dashed out of the first one and ran through the open theatre door into the foyer. They then started arguing with a doorman who was refusing to allow them in because they were unable to produce stamped entry coupons. This was resolved when the rear window of the nearest limousine wound down and the doorman caught sight of the Great Guide himself, smiling and waving imperiously at him. He instinctively responded by standing to attention, saluting with the fear and awe of somebody who has just realised their very life depends upon it. He stood motionless as the bodyguards marched past him.

Inside, Kinbus was busily directing the rehearsals. They had made magnificent progress in the past three weeks, yet there was still much work to do in the little time they had left. All of a sudden there were screams and shouts as the guards rushed into the theatre, pulled out their cudgels and waved them menacingly, then shepherded the frightened cast into a corner like sheep in a pen.

One of the guards shouted. "All of you stand in a line. Nobody enters or leaves this building!"

"Who is in charge here?" demanded the other.

Fearful of stepping forward, Kinbus raised his hand.

"I suppose I am." he murmured nervously.

The soldier pointed his cudgel towards a mark on the floor. "You stand here then. The Great Guide himself is waiting outside and you will have the honour of entertaining him when he enters".

Kinbus smiled weakly and nervously, and felt his sense of balance become dangerously fragile as he frantically clutched hold of a seat to hang on to.

A crowd of men marched towards them, headed by a man with a long beard, dressed in traditional Siminite dress. Behind him strode five of the Public Guard forming a circle around the Great Guide, who was almost hidden from view. They were followed by an old soldier and two men dressed in Western style suits.

The leading man in the traditional Siminite dress approached Kinbus and addressed him. "I am the private secretary to The Great Guide. He has heard of the great works produced in this place and decided to visit to see for himself".

He then glanced at the Great Guide who responded in silence with a simple nod.

"He wishes to see a performance of this play you are working on for the Execution of Television".

"Er, certainly, certainly. It would be an honour without parallel to perform before the Great Guide himself" fawned Kinbus. He almost added "Now I can die a happy man!", but wisely avoided it, just in case. "Would the Guide care to take a seat?"

The secretary glanced in the Guide's direction again. He responded with another nod. "The Guide says no. Seeing as the actors he loves must stand, the Guide says he will also stand".

The two Executioners and the general went to sit down.

"The Guide insists that seeing as the actors must stand, and he must stand, everybody should stand." continued the secretary.

The three of them immediately stood up again.

Kinbus bowed towards the Guide, continued to bow with his head facing the ground and walked backwards so he didn't cause offence by turning away. "Allow us 10 minutes to prepare ourselves to make a performance worthy of your exalted presence, oh divine one." he grovelled.

"The Guide says you have two minutes to prepare." replied the secretary.

Kinbus hurried to the stage and dashed behind the curtain, perplexed by how so much could be said by the Guide in such a silence. He then pulled at what was left of the few grey hairs on his head, shuffled around and nervously muttered to himself. "What can we do? Ophelia and Tatiana haven't turned up yet. Nobody apart from Carbet and Humvat has turned up yet. I can't play everybody else's parts in front of the Guide, can I? Yet I can't let them see we only have one performer rehearsing, can I? We'll all be for the chopping block if they find out. Oh shit, shit, shit".

Realising he was descending into panic, he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, managed to regain some degree of self-control and started to compose himself. "Right then. Carbet, I want you to get onto the stage, start from Hamlet's opening speech in act three scene one and give the performance of your life. Humvat, hold a spear and stand behind Carbet. And try not to get in his way. You two over there – yes you – pick up a sword each and just stand beside Humvat. Come on everyone, look lively. I must return to stand by the side of the Guide himself. Oh Baqra, pray my bladder can contain itself!"

"Well, well." Humvat thought to himself as he shuffled into position on the stage. "So there actually is a Great Guide after all. And there was me thinking he was just a figment of everyone's imagination".

A darkness and a silence fell across the stage, the curtains parted, and a light shone down on Carbet. He concentrated his gaze towards an imaginary point somewhere high up the theatre walls. With clarity and rhythm as unbelievably pure as snowflakes gently falling through a bright blue sky, he began his speech.

"To be or not to be. That is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die. To sleep

No more. And by a sleep to say we end

The heartache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,

To sleep. Perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil..."

The secretary yawned and muttered under his breath something about knowing the feeling. He glanced at the Guide and tapped Kinbus on the shoulder. "The Guide has heard enough".

Then he rose and shouted towards the stage "Thank you for that. You can stop now".

He turned to Kinbus, who was still wearing his perplexed expression, and said "The Guide wishes to know who is the actor standing in the background, the one holding the spear? He says he is struck by how he reminds him of himself, in his youth". He pointed towards Humvat.

Kinbus surveyed The Guide, fair, short, and stout and then Humvat, tall, thin and brown hair. He was now even more perplexed. Feeling like a man who'd been handed a shovel in one hand to start digging his own grave, and in the other a coin to toss and call correctly to save himself, he frantically wrestled in his mind over which was the correct response to this situation. Yes or no? Heads or tails? Life or death?

He replied hesitantly. "Well, yesss. The likeness is... fascinating... isn't it?"

He waited in expectation for a response which didn't come, and realised the silence he'd generated meant his reply was correct. He'd called heads, spun the coin and it had fallen on the ground with heads showing. He was still alive. He continued, more relaxed now. "The actor in question is Humvat Virit, one of our newer recruits. A bit raw and rough around the edges, but we think we should be able to smooth him out. Eventually".

"The Guide would like to see your Humvat Virit perform".

"But Carbet is our finest actor by far!" protested Kinbus. "I'm not sure Humvat even knows any of the lines".

He wasn't about to admit he had indulged Humvat by allowing him to be Carbet's understudy, safe in the knowledge he would never be required to shame and embarrass both himself and the whole school with one of his dreadful, idiotic performances.

"The Guide insists on seeing your Humvat Virit perform. He commands it".

Inwardly Kinbus wept. He'd just been handed back the shovel and told to spin another coin and prepare to start digging his grave again.

"Humvat!" he called through gritted teeth. "Will you please play the role of Prince Hamlet for us. Take it from the beginning of the speech which Carbet started".

Humvat was daydreaming on the stage as he stood there holding the spear. Then, out of the blue he heard his name appear amongst all the clutter of background noise around him and came out of his dream. He looked down at Kinbus and mentally replayed the conversation leading up to his name being called.

"What, me?" he asked, pointing at himself.

"Yes you!" snapped Kinbus. "Don't keep the Guide waiting!"

Before he knew it, Humvat felt light headed, weak and confused. The stage lights had been upon him all the time, but now they had seemingly turned into spotlights which had been finely tuned in order to amplify his imperfections, and at the same time they blinded him to the audience he knew was out there but could no longer discern. His throat instantly dried up like a thimble of water thrown onto a furnace, and he saw an image of himself trying to speak but merely croaking like a frog. He desperately tried to pull his trembling frame together and licked his lips. "To be... or not to be..." he stammered. "That is the quostion...."

"Enough!" shouted the secretary. "The Guide says this boy has given him an extraordinary idea. Soon we will herald the Guide's sixtieth birthday. He has decided a series of television programs should be made to portray and celebrate the great achievements of His lifetime, and your actor Humvat Virit should play the part of the Guide himself. You will direct this work, stage manager. Because of this, the play you are currently working on will have to be cancelled. It is regrettable, but I'm sure you will all agree this new project celebrating the glory of The Guide is worthier Siminite culture than this foreign Shakesbeard muck".

He scribbled on a sheet of paper, pulled a stamp out of his pocket and applied it. He then handed the paper to Kinbus. "The two of you will report to the Execution of Television next Monday. Hand this to the clerk at the entrance kiosk when you arrive".

Kinbus bowed and took the piece of paper. "Please convey our humblest thanks to The Guide and tell him we will do everything in our power to portray his miraculous greatness onto the screen".

The secretary smirked. "You'd better, because if you don't you'll be dead".

The circle of Public Guards, the Guide in their midst, marched out of the theatre. The private secretary followed closely behind. The Executioners of Entertainment and Television and the general looked at each other in disbelief and scurried after them. Kinbus and Humvat merely looked at each other in a dazed emptiness, as only the truly shocked do.

Eventually Humvat broke the silence. "Why do you think we've been chosen for this Kinbus? What's going on?"

Kinbus shook his head slowly from side to side, shakily lit a cigarette and stuttered. "I, I don't know. S-Somebody get me the bottle of brandy from the t-top drawer of the desk in my office. And don't bother with a glass".

The general and the two Executioners scurried out to their limousine and dived inside. "What are we going to do?" shrilled the general. "What are we going to do?"

"Well first of all we're going to keep calm." replied the Executioner of Entertainment icily.

There was a tap on the window and the Executioner of Television unwound it. A heavily made up, elderly woman wearing a dress which revealed rather too much stood outside. "Hello big boy." she cooed and pointed towards the other limousine. "He said you might fancy a bit of fun. I'm not expensive, you know".

The Executioner sighed and wound the window back up. "How old does she think I am?" he muttered to himself. "Today is getting worse by the minute".

Both limousines purred into life and drove away.

Both the Siminites in the South and the Semonites in the North live their lives according to the Book of Edification and Understanding, more commonly known as the Book of Light. These holy words were dictated by the Inventor directly to the prophet Baqra. Doctor Kaslik Wirliv is a history professor, specialising in ancient Siminite texts. He was sitting at a desk in his study, preparing to start translating a large number of parchments which had been found by workers digging foundations for a new building. The texts were rolled up and stored in stone jars, and the design of these jars had been confirmed by archaeologists as belonging to the time of Baqra. Wirliv dared to hope that the scripts might contain some of the missing sections of the Book of Light, and fill in some gaps in the original texts.

He carefully removed the first scroll from the first jar, gingerly unrolled it and laid it out flat on his desktop. He sat hunched over the desk and began reading it and scrawling down a rough translation. His eyes opened wide as he stared at the first sentence.

"My name is Baqra of Jefesta, and these are the words of the Inventor, which he has written through my hand." they announced. Wirliv smiled excitedly, raised his hopes still further and continued to translate.

"Previously the Inventor revealed a number of Enlightenments to me about the mysteries of this life, the next life and the path that should be followed in order to sit by His side for eternity. These were written into a book of Edification and Understanding called the Book of Light and passed amongst His people. He now speaks to me again whilst I sleep, revealing new Enlightenments which I am transcribing in this second book, so they too may be passed onto His people".

Wirliv was stunned. If this passage was real then he hadn't found a missing section of the Book of Light after all – instead, he'd found a whole new volume. He continued to translate.

"Last night I dreamt that many, many years ago the Inventor was travelling amongst the stars, the gateways into the kingdom of Light, when He passed by the Earth. He looked down on the lifeless land and water and decided to make a perfect being to fill this empty place. So He gathered His tools together and created the first creature, a tiny worm which drifted through the seas. Then He continued on His journey and after some time returned to Earth and looked upon this creature again. It lived, it breathed, pumped blood through its heart, it sensed touch, moved, ate and reproduced. However, He judged it was not perfect, so He gathered His tools and made adjustments to some of them, giving them legs so they could walk upon the land. Then He went on His way. Over time He made many visits, judged His latest creature to still be imperfect and made more adjustments, thus gradually creating all the different animals. Eventually He created a man and a woman. He viewed this latest creation and vowed to make no more adjustments, for He judged He had finally created the perfect living creature. With His work finished, He laid down His tools".

"In my dream He then said to man 'I have given you the adjustment of intelligence. You have thoughts, language, art, science, music, literature, invention and love. You will spend your days living amongst my other creations as master of them all, but you alone are perfect and will come to spend eternity sitting by my side once your living days are over. You will enjoy a perfect happiness'.

However, man replied 'But master, in giving me so many gifts you have neglected to give me the one thing I desire above all others in order to find true happiness'.

'And what is that?' He asked.

'Contentment.' replied man. 'For the more gifts you give me and the more I understand, the less content I feel'.

The Inventor grew angry. 'I bestow far more upon you than any of my creatures, and you are still not content when all the others are?' he raged. 'I have vowed to make no more adjustments. You will have to find this contentment for yourself'. And with that he turned away and departed, leaving man to contemplate".

"The meaning of this dream is clear to me. The Inventor has returned to Earth once again and sees mankind has made no progress in his search for contentment. The Inventor wishes to help, but cannot break His vow to make no adjustments to man. So once again He will visit my dreams whilst I sleep at night, and I will write down His wisdom when I wake in the morning. This second work will be called the Book of Finding Contentment".

Wirliv slowly read the text to himself with a sense of disbelief. Nobody in recorded Siminite or Semonite history had ever noted the existence of this book. He became aware his hands were shaking. He glanced across at the jars on the floor and did a quick mental calculation. It was going to take a lot of effort to translate them. His first thought was to get some assistance, but he quickly discounted this. The importance of this find meant the work would have to be done by him alone if he hoped to keep it a secret. He sighed, unrolled the second scroll and laid it out across the top of his desk.
Chapter Five

Dancing The Chocolate Cha Cha

A bedraggled youth is standing inside a room which resembles a small, dank old church hall. It appears that it also serves as a classroom, because a blackboard stands on an easel beside him. A man, presumably his teacher stands on the other side of the board and a crowd of similarly aged boys, presumably his classmates are seated on the floor before him.

The boy has a piece of chalk in his hand and writes something at the top of the board. He carries on writing, filling up the board with his words. It is impossible to tell what he's written though, because the letters are of no recognisable alphabet. They are simply a mish mash of shapes and squiggles. However, the teacher and his classmates seem to understand this strange language because they are looking at him and his work with a degree of engrossment and anticipation. When there is no more space available on the blackboard, the boy stops writing. He turns to face his audience with a haughty expression, and hands the chalk back to the teacher. With a wave of his hands the teacher gestures to all of the pupils, inviting them to come closer and admire the magical formula on the blackboard.

The teacher talks to the boy in a strange American-Australian accent. "Okay then, young Larry." he says. "You've done your punishment of one hundred lines of 'In future I will inform my teachers before I go gallivanting through the outback to the back of Bourke and along the wallaby track to the Black Stump then past the billabong onto Bullamanka where the crows fly backwards!' Just remember the next time you feel like going walkabout without telling anyone, you'll get TWO hundred lines!"

For some strange reason, everybody, including the boy laughs loudly at this, though the noise of the class sounds suspiciously like it is being produced by perhaps three voices.
Heather Surning lay on the empty Santa Domingo beach soaking up the sun. She was a regular visitor nowadays, for this place had come to represent as much a sanctuary for her as for nature and wildlife. She lazily stirred, sat up on her towel and surveyed her surroundings. Palm trees behind her, sand beneath her, clear blue sky above her and a wide open turquoise sea spread out before her. She heard a distant shouting over the noise of the waves and the birds, and noticed the three boys trying to ride their surfboards further down the beach. She turned over, lay down on her stomach and crossed her forearms on the towel to form a pillow to rest her head on. The warm gentle breeze blowing against her skin, the sound of the rolling surf and the heat on her back seemed to drain away any tension she had carried in with her. She laid her head to one side, closed her eyes and her mind drifted away. Nowadays it strolled down a randomly linked list of memories which ended in restful slumber rather than chaos in an aeroplane.

She'd decided to represent herself in court and sued both the airline and airport authorities. They strenuously denied any responsibility whatsoever, and employed their well versed tactic of rolling out their slick corporate machinery to swallow her up. Their lawyers revealed, to much mirth around the courtroom, that the flight delay which Surning now accused them of having caused her "so much pain, anguish and suffering" had actually been due to a broken toilet. With an unsmiling face she countered with her discovery of emails which confirmed that both corporations had been aware of their separate and combined mistreatment of her. Yet here they were, happy to maintain a code of silence which kept them blameless, meanwhile leaving her and her reputation dangling on a hook. She won her case. The judge ordered that from henceforth airports and airlines had a legal obligation to provide an acceptable level of service for nervous passengers, instead of withholding information from them and providing them with sedative pills which didn't mix with alcohol.

Afterwards she felt more alive and freer than she had done for years. Buoyed by these new spirits, she reconsidered her own stance on the act of protest. She realised Marcia was right. It was time to start creating solutions. How many other people had, like her, been victims of unprincipled corporate behaviour? How many other people needed protection? After spending so long running away from confrontation, she was now going to start fighting for her principles. She would, of course, still do it politely though. In the meantime, she was publicly exonerated and her tattered reputation was gradually being restored. It was time to start looking for a ladder to climb up.

Her ex-boss the newspaper editor recently contacted her, asking her to reprise her column. Two thousand words to be published each Sunday and she could return to Washington, the hub of empire to write them. Although she didn't feel a permanent attachment towards Santa Domingo, she decided that for once she was in no hurry to move on. At least not until the moment felt absolutely right, and she didn't sense any urgency in the air just yet. Her ex-boss agreed she could complete her journalistic assignments in her spare time between duties at Marvin Hopkins Progressive College. She also insisted the subject matter and written words were to be chosen and implemented by her and her alone. She might be stepping back onto the ladder, but it was going to be on her own terms this time.

Some time later – it could have been minutes, yet equally might have been hours – her eyes blinked open. She lifted herself up, took a bottle of sun lotion out of a bag resting on the sand by the towel, and rubbed some into the exposed parts of her body. Then she wiped her hands on the towel, lit up a joint, took her laptop computer out of the bag, turned it on and started to write the opening paragraph of the first edition of her new work. After her recent bitter legal experience, she wanted to write something about corporate America. She had a vague idea of what she wanted to say, but no notion of how to best convey the message. So she simply let her mind run freely and the words began to flow. She wrote the title "The American NeoEmpire" and started typing text.

"We live in a period of history when America is the most powerful nation on earth. Since the Soviet Empire imploded in 1991, we have stridden across the globe with more influence than the Roman and British Empires combined. Our troops have overseen an invasion and regime change in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Yet according to our own government we are not an empire. How can this be so? It would appear somebody somewhere is incorrect, and this situation requires some explanation. So let me take you by the hand and lead you through a story".

"I'd like to start by travelling back to June 12th 1812. This was when our government issued its first ever declaration of war, against the British. It was in response to the Royal Navy seizing and confiscating goods from American merchant ships, accusing them of supplying the Napoleonic army in France, who they were already at war with at the time".

"America reacted to this contemptuous treatment with furious indignation and the argument for war seemed unequivocal. However, in reality all this was merely a pretext dreamt up by a rich cabal known as the War Hawks, an inner circle who were close to President Madison. The real reason for the 1812 war had nothing to do with honest outrage. It was all about creating the right conditions for invading Canada, at once removing a potential enemy and increasing the fortunes of the already wealthy War Hawks".

"Even in those days ordinary Americans demonstrated rather less hunger for foreign wars than their leaders. For example, the militias from Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York State and Rhode Island refused the call to arms on the grounds they would not fight beyond their state borders. Yet despite such resistance, the War Hawks had their way and battle commenced".

"A small American force successfully defended New Orleans against overwhelming British odds and inflicted heavy casualties. But in-fighting, rivalries, scheming and treachery resulted in Detroit being occupied by British forces and the White House in Washington being burnt to the ground".

"However, the importance of this first war should not be measured by degrees of success or failure. Its significance lay in the way the agenda was driven by the interests of industrial lobbyists and fought on the basis of greed and fear despite little or no support from the electorate. These combined to establish America on the path towards becoming the empire we live in today. Ours is a new type of empire, one based on purely on commerce instead of land. It is a NeoEmpire".

Later that evening she sat in her apartment reviewing the completed article. She wondered whether she should include the obvious modern day parallels or leave it to the reader to work them out. She was also aware her summary of 1812 picked out the tastiest morsels and ignored those with a less appealing aroma, but decided historians have always done this. The written truths of history depend on who's doing the writing, and right now she was the one wielding the pen. The message in her first chapter of truth was that corporate America regarded it as a constitutional right to take the country to war whenever that war looked like good business.

The next afternoon Kenny unsteadily drove Principal Givens' car through the entrance gate at McKinley's Marijuana Farm. The narrow winding gravel path was flanked on either side by towering hemp plants, and journeying down it was like wobbling down a toboggan run. The farm buildings at the end were log cabins, just like those built by the original settlers. The car came to an abrupt halt as Kenny drove into a post set in the ground, just in front of the farm factory outlet. The surfboards, which were tied down to the roof of the car with a length of elastic cord, shot free of their fixings and the noses thudded down onto the hood. The three of them jumped out of the car.

"Jeez dude!" barked Neil. "You're gonna totally trash this car one of these days! When are you going to get trained up and get your driver's license?"

Kenny lazily shrugged off the tirade and bent down to inspect yet another dent in the front fender and pronounced nonchalantly. "It's only a scratch mate. No one will notice it, no worries".

As they neared the shop entrance a policeman wandered out. "Howdy boys." he said casually as he paused to roll himself a joint.

"Howdy, Sheriff Williams." they replied in unison.

They then trooped through the doorway and up to the counter.

"Good Afternoon gentlemen." beamed the shop assistant. "What can I get for you today?"

"I'll have an ounce of Juicy Fruit please." ordered Brian, passing over a wad of money in return for a bag of happiness.

"I'll have an ounce of Bubblegum." said Neil doing likewise.

"An ounce of Redbud for me." requested Kenny, accepting his gift bag with barely disguised glee.

They emerged from the shop clutching their treasures, carefully placed the bags in the car and reassembled the surfboards on the roof. Brian noticed yet another new dent in the car hood and rubbed it in the hope a little buffing might disguise the bruise. They then got back into the car and Kenny drove off in fits and starts towards the beach for another self-taught surfing lesson, while Brian and Neil sat in the back, jerkily attempting to roll up joints.

That night a moth fluttered through an open window into a room, carried in on the back of the soupy stillness of the warm evening air. It made straight for the dazzling brightness in the ceiling and flung itself at the light bulb. The three boys ignored the dancing shadow on the wall as they crowded around a computer screen.

"Listen to this." smiled Neil, reading aloud. "Someone who is clever is cunning as a dunny rat. A dunny is a toilet".

"If something is as scarce as rocking horse shit then it's like really rare dude." Brian informed wisely and then looked up. "Where do you hide money from a pom?"

The other two shook their heads.

"Under the soap. Ha ha! See, a pom is an Englishman. And poms don't clean themselves too often. Geddit?"

The other two stared at him blankly and went back to their work.

"And what about this one dudes," chuckled Kenny. "The microwave has gone cactus. That means it's totally stopped working. And here's another. Dancing the chocolate cha-cha. It means performing anal intercourse. Ha ha!"

He paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Uh, what exactly does that mean?"

"It means having gay sex." informed Brian, wisely again.

Kenny pulled a face. "Oh. I think I'd prefer to not put that phrase in then".

"No way dude!" Brian shouted, faint spasms starting to ripple across his cheeks. "It's totally our mission statement to be as provocative as we can. Dancing the chocolate cha-cha stays in. Is somebody getting all these down?"

"Yup." affirmed Neil, leafing through an exercise book and transcribing. On the cover of the book, written in different coloured marker pens, was the title "The 100% Unofficial Strine Phrasebook".

After their Damascene experience on the beach, the surfer boys decided to swim in the surf of the internet in their pursuit of further knowledge and understanding of Strine. They found a number of websites and downloaded an assortment of words and phrases. Now they were busily engaged in the process of assembling their own phrasebook, making translations of each entry into American English. It was a laborious exercise, but one tended with loving care and devotion nonetheless.

"G'day Doc. Ain't it a beaut?" breezed Kenny as he ambled in for his latest appointment with Dr Surning.

"Good day Kenny." she replied with a grin. "How's the stammering these days?"

"No stammer, ma'am. Everything's ripper".

"Good. How's the phrasebook coming along?"

It had been her suggestion that they arrange and compile the random samples they gleaned from the internet into an ordered collection. It was just another small step on the long journey back to an appreciation of the many wonders of learning.

"It's ridgy didge ma'am".

She searched through her case notes and asked "So what letter of the alphabet are you up to this week?"

"P, ma'am".

She updated her notes. "That's really good, Kenny. Last week you were at H. At this rate you'll be finished soon".

She closed her file. "I must say how impressed I am. I'm extremely pleased with the progress you're all making. It's good to see the three of you moving on. Not long ago you were grunting in surf speak".

"Still surfing ma'am," he smiled. "Just not a shark biscuit anymore".

Next it was Brian's turn. "Well now," he pronounced as he relaxed on the couch. "I've decided too many of the Strine words mean the same thing. You know, like for instance, there are totally loads of Strine words for puke or puking". He started to count them off on his fingers. "There's pavement pizza, carrot casserole, kerbside quiche, liquid laughter, rainbow sneeze, technicolor yawn, hugging the toilet bowl, talking to god on the porcelain telephone, tossing a tiger on the carpet, calling for George, driving the porcelain bus. There's eleven I've given you, and that's without even thinking".

Despite herself, she smiled at these phrases. "But they are an exotic and colorful usage of the English language. And amusing as well".

"Yeah," he agreed. "I do like them though, so I've decided to change some of the meanings in our phrasebook. For instance, I've shortened 'Tossing a tiger on the carpet' to 'Tossing a tiger' and it now means to throw a tantrum".

She was about to admonish him for distorting the truth and inventing his own when she realised she had spent much of her professional life doing the same thing herself. It was a hard decision, for she wasn't one of those hypocritical types who admonish "Do as I say, not as I do". So she drew a deep breath and simply scribbled an entry in her case book, noting he was exhibiting creative qualities by inventing new phrases with new meanings.

She shuffled her papers. "Okay, I think that's about it for this week." she said, and went back to her laptop as Brian got up to leave. He was halfway out of the door when he stopped in his tracks, turned back and pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. "Can you take a look at this," he mumbled with embarrassment as he handed it over to her. "And tell me if it's any good or not?"

She quickly scanned the single verse, scrawled in grubby handwriting, then rescanned it and scanned again as she tried to take in the meaning of the words.

I believed that black and white were brothers

And hate would disappear.

But failed to see the embrace of lovers

Is a manifestation of fear

"I'm not familiar with this piece of work." she replied. "Where did you get it from?"

"No, no," he stuttered, his face showing the first symptoms of exploding. "I didn't get it from anywhere. I er, I did it myself".

She looked incredulously at both the verse and him. "Well, I'm astounded Brian. Are you sure you wrote this yourself?"

He nodded firmly. Her initial astonishment gave way to admiration. "I must say I'm most impressed. What do the words mean?"

"I don't know". He fidgeted awkwardly as he tried to rebuff her praise and get to the real point of the conversation. "Can I start attending English classes again?"

"I'll see what I can do. And if you write any more poetry I'd like to see it".

The door clicked shut and she made another amendment to her notes. She underlined them, added a couple of exclamation marks for effect and punched the air with delight. At long last, a sign of progress.

Neil was last. "G'day mate." he sighed vacantly as he slumped onto the couch.

"G'day Neil." she replied. "How are you finding things these days with your new project?"

"Well, doc. It's really hard yakka 'cos I seem to get to do all the writing stuff down, and I've been as busy as a cat burying shit, but she'll be sweet".

She thought she'd caught the general drift of the last sentence and nodded her head, despite not really being sure.

"And how did you come to do all the work? Did you let the other two bully you into it?"

"Oh no, doc. I don't let people do that to me any more. I'm thinking for myself these days".

"So what are your current thoughts on the future? Do you still regard surfing as a viable career option?"

He looked at her and shrugged. "I'm not sure doc. I still like surfing big mobs, but as for making a quid from it, well I reckon I've probably got two chances – Buckley's and none. I guess I'm pretty much back to square one on the old career plan, but she'll be sweet. I'll come up with something".

She made some notes about how rapidly and effectively he had picked up the usage of Strine. "I'm glad you've come to realize it's a big decision, Neil. But don't worry too much, there's plenty of time yet before you have to decide. Just try and focus on what's achievable rather than what's fanciful and I'm sure you'll get there in the end".

Dr Surning was in Principal Givens' office for their weekly progress meeting. Marcia shuffled through some paperwork. "These boys seem to be making good progress Heather, particularly Brian Lovett. His English tutor reports he is producing some excellent work".

She tapped her smoking joint against an ashtray, passed it to Heather Surning and sighed as she further reviewed the reports. "But his grade average has been so awful for so long I can't see him ever being accepted by any reputable university in the country".

Heather took a puff and exhaled the smoke. "Well, if you really think Brian is capable of the level of scholarship required, I have a contact in the English department at UC Berkeley who owes me a big favor. I could at least get him an interview and maybe he could sit some form of entrance exam".

Marcia Givens stared long and hard at the reports before her, gathered them together and put them into a desk drawer. "Let's give it a try if he continues to perform next semester. In the meantime I think you should mention it to him as a possible target he should set for himself".

Kenny knocked on the door of Brian's room. "Shake a leg mate!" he shouted from the corridor. "Surf's up".

Brian was sitting on the floor amongst a number of books and computer printouts, all of them about Australia. Without looking up from his note pad, he shouted in return through the door. "I think I'll pass on it today dude. I'm busy writing".

Principal Givens' car turned erratically off the old coast road onto the unmarked dirt track that led to the beach. It bounced up and down along the uneven surface for a mile or so. Then it finally staggered and stuttered to an uncultured halt in the public car park, wearing one hubcap less than it had before the journey began. Kenny and Neil emerged, dressed in their recently acquired surfing uniform of knee length swimming shorts, loose fitting grunge t-shirts, wrap around reflective sunglasses and flip flops. They unloaded the surfboards from the roof, gathered their belongings together and carried everything along the sapping scorching sand. Eventually they reached their usual private spot between the dunes fringed by palm trees, and they dumped their baggage.

While Neil sat down and leant back against one of the trees and carefully assembled a joint, Kenny stripped down to his shorts, removed his glasses and painfully tip-toed down the beach, empty save for the latest deposits of les fruits de la mer, and headed towards the surf carrying the board under his right arm. When he got there he looked straight out to sea. He noticed a pod of dolphins corralling a school of fish in the distance. Their position was betrayed by a flock of gulls flying overhead, deftly hovering in the air and waiting for opportunities to pick up any waifs and strays which might come their way. A grey dolphin head majestically rose out of the water and promptly disappeared again. Kenny looked to the left and right along the deserted beach, breathed in a lungful of the fresh air and decided it was finally time to go for it. Today was going to be the big day. The surf was up and he was definitely up for the surf.

He waded into the water, pushing the board ahead of him and quickly lay on it, on his stomach, and grabbed the nose with his hands. He shuffled his body around until he felt comfortably balanced, then starting to paddle hard with his hands towards the oncoming waves.

He saw the first breaking wave rushing towards him and went through the process in his mind as he acted it out. Firstly wait until the wave is one, maybe two yards in front of you. Okay, it's five yards in front of me and coming in fast. Then make sure you're lying flat on the board, holding the nose firmly with your hands. Okay, it's getting nearer. Then use your arms to push yourself back along the board so you have one knee on the tail of the board and the other leg extended horizontally, and push down with the knee that's on the board.

Jesus, it was nearly on him. He didn't realize it was so huge. Now he was in it. Placing downward force on the tail lifted the nose of the board slightly. If it was too high the nose would take the force of this breaking wave and he'd get pushed back again. If it was too low then it would break over the tail and he'd get pushed back again. If he could only get this right then the wave would break over the nose and allow him to pass. The wave began to crash over him. All he could see was white foam all around him, all he could hear was a blurred roar and he was gasping for breath. He couldn't tell what was happening. What the fuck was happening?!

And then, within a second or two, he realised the wave had passed along with his panic and he'd negotiated his way through it. He had finally, finally, managed to duck dive successfully. He was about to celebrate when he noticed the next wave coming towards him and knew he would have to brace himself to go through the murderous process again. By this tortuous method Kenny eventually made his way out to the line up.

He lay motionless for a short time on the board, exhausted by the effort of the journey. As his body bobbed up and down on the water he took stock of himself. A dull ache had replaced any strength the muscles in his arms and calves might have possessed, and his lungs heaved, gasping for the richness of oxygen. His knees felt tender and bruised.

Neil, who was watching from his spot amongst the palm trees up on the beach, celebrated with the encouragement and support of noisy whistles and whoops. Kenny struggled to sit askance on his board and gave a weak and weary clenched fist salute back. He smiled to himself and gasped "Oh man, that was like Christmas on a stick!"

Then he took a deep breath of trepidation. Now he was going to have to get back to the beach somehow without drowning.

Heather Surning's morning contemplation of her newspaper column was interrupted by a knock on the office door. It was Brian and he was looking flustered. He passed her his notepad. "I've written a poem and you said I was to show you anything I did." he explained, uncomfortably. She took the notepad, squinted at the scrawling lines of handwriting and read aloud.

Australia in Strine

There's a lucky country somewhere down under,

See Aborigine legends litter the ground.

The Coolabah drops orange blossom in wonder

Like farmyard confetti, sprinkled around.

Go walkabout from a Billabong

To the distant shores of Adelaide Bay.

Bands of minstrel dingoes sing their song.

A koala hangs from a sunshine ray.

By Ayers Rock, marooned in a sandy ocean

A lonely yellow Kookaburra bathes

In the Katherine river which flows with devotion

Up through Darwin and into the swallowing waves.

Wandering along the wallaby track,

Set the billy to work on a brew.

Find some scrub and some grub, add a crack of the fat

For a cuppa of bush tucker stew.

Sydney Opera House sails 'neath harbor bridge.

The Queensland Barrier Reef slips like a gown.

Surf's up in Perth and life's ridgy didge,

From Melbourne city to Ulverstone town.

Go flat out like a lizard drinking the air.

Fly with the fairies alongside fools.

Roll up, roll up for the Corroboree fair

Where the games play to Rafferty's rules.

Plants with beastlike limbs, animals looking like plants

Stalk empty deserts which bloom upon the blue moon.

Jungles that kill given an unwary chance,

Surround a new world by new men hewn.

So don't toss a tiger, just pick up a tinny

Sell your worries for a brass razoo.

Get me a stubbie of grog that's skinny

And I'll chuck a snag on the barbie for you.

"I'm not certain I understand half of this, but it looks extremely creative Brian." she concluded. "It conveys to me a vivid sense of Australia and I think any student would be proud to have written this piece of poetry".

She left unsaid the thoughts she was really thinking. Although the meter was unsteady in places and some lines didn't scan perfectly, it was a miraculous production for a student with Brian's academic record. What Brian, in turn, didn't tell her was that he'd mischievously planted some verbal bombs in the text, though he was disappointed with himself that he hadn't managed to come up with a rhyme for chocolate cha-cha.

With his permission, she made a copy of the poem and excitedly presented it to Principal Givens as solid evidence that their project was capable of delivering positive results where others had failed. Marcia decided it should be published in the school annual, and Brian should also publicly deliver it to an audience at the upcoming school review. At first Brian adamantly refused, citing the suspicious aroma of a "Fascist Dictatorship Plot". But when it was put to him that the use of the principal's car was a temporary arrangement which might be withdrawn at any time, he ungracefully agreed to perform. His sole proviso was that his two friends and workmates would have to stand up on the stage alongside him. He was pleasantly surprised by Principal Givens' ready agreement to this demand, so he set Neil and Kenny to rehearsing the work. Seeing as they were going to recite the lines together he was generous enough to allow them a modicum of the authorship, which then meant Principal Givens had happy news of progress to deliver to three sets of demanding parents.

One night Heather Surning sat on the comfy chair in her living room, sipped on a glass of wine and opened the exercise book Neil had given her. The boys had finally finished their project and it now announced itself in proud multi-coloured letters inscribed on the book cover, "The 100% Unofficial Strine Phrasebook".

She smiled to herself at the first few entries. Apparently amber nectar was beer and an ankle biter was a small child. However, she wasn't too sure about the questionable taste of entries like arse/arsehole (defined as rectum, backside, ass if you must know) or the phrase "Bangs like a dunny door in a storm" (someone who is sexually promiscuous). She vaguely flicked through the pages and then stopped and flicked back through them as her mind caught up with her eyes. What was this? Crack a fat, defined as getting an erection. The phrase was mistily familiar to her, though she couldn't place it. She turned back a page. Bash the bishop; Masturbate. She turned a few pages forward. In more shit than a poofter's finger. What was a poofter? She turned to the section for definitions of words beginning with the letter P and ran her finger down the page. Hmm. Polly, Pom, Poofter. A poofter was defined as a homosexual. In more shit than a homosexual's finger? What did that mean? And then she pulled a disgusted face as she realised both the connotation and latent racism implied.

She scanned the rest of the book, put it down and drained her glass. One of the problems with giving people freedom was that they were then free to abuse the freedom. And just as with adult males, whom, if they were allowed total freedom would always end up wallowing in the lowest common denominator of pornography, boys would wrestle in smut. She was going to have to devote time for some serious discussion with them in their next sessions to define what was socially acceptable and what was not, and get some of these words removed. And then she was going to have to start reining in some of the freedom she had granted them.

The days and weeks passed by silently and imperceptibly, and the evening of the school review arrived. The three boys stood on the stage at the back of the school hall, nervously peering out through the small gap between the curtains, surveying the audience gradually assembling in the seats. Their moment of ordeal had arrived and was knocking on the door. Brian suddenly ducked back behind the curtain. With a look of shock in his eyes he peered out again and instantly recoiled again, his head throbbing and a sickening fear wedged in his stomach. "Fuck, dudes!" he hissed. "I just saw my old man sitting out there. What the fuck is he doing here?!"

Neil took a peek and darted back. "Shit! Both my mother and stepfather are here too! What's happening man?"

Kenny was reluctant to look, but pushed himself to glimpse out. "Oh no!" he shrieked. "That bitch of a stepmother is here too. Why did they have to come? They're gonna ruin everything!"

It instantly became obvious, even to them, that Principal Givens had trussed them up and stuffed them up like turkeys at Thanksgiving by inviting their respective parents of varying degrees to observe them parading upon the stage and performing. She had turned the gentle exercise into an obscene, grotesque circus act.

"Man, I need a joint, and I need it now!" Brian gasped, as he re-developed his facial twitch. "Who's got one?"

The other two shook their heads. "We're... all.. out.. mate." stuttered Kenny, fighting to get the words out.

"We've got to get down to the farm pronto, dudes." cried Neil. "Need the weed! Feed the need!" He was bent double and desperately trying to halt the flow of piss building up in his bladder and preparing to explode all over his pants.

They instantly took flight from behind the stage curtain and ran out of the fire exit at the back. Then they dashed across the car park and ran to Principal Givens' home, where her car was resting peacefully outside. While Neil hurriedly relieved himself against a bush, Kenny searched through his own pockets in a panic, pulled out the keys and tore open the doors.

"Hurry..up..man!" he screamed at Neil as he scrambled to turn over the ignition. He drove off with a roar while the other two were still trying to get in. An open back door flapped around like a wounded bird's wing, with a screaming Neil hanging off it. The car lurched to a sudden halt, Brian pulled Neil in, and then it screeched around the corner and disappeared.

Kenny drove with even more than his customary abandon, and five minutes later the car screeched into the unlit darkness occupying the shop at McKinley's Marijuana Farm. Leaving the car engine running and the lights on, they all dashed out and banged their flailing arms against the shop window, but to no avail. It was closed up for the night and deserted, the only sign of life being the warm glow of a neon light on the wall above the counter inside.

"What are we gonna do now?" howled Brian, his face twitching ever more manically.

"Calm down, calm down, we've gotta think." trilled Neil, his hands clutching his pockets.

"We're... going... to... have... to... break... in." concluded Kenny.

The other two regarded each other, pondered for a few seconds, then looked at him and nodded their agreement. Kenny went to search for a rock to hurl through the front door so they might get into the shop. He scrabbled around amongst the blackness and returned with a few pebbles and threw them at the window only for them to bounce off and back at him. One of them hit him on the head.

"Goddamnit!" he roared, the craving for a misty pacific mind driving him ever closer towards the edge where rationale becomes consumed by panic. "That... shop door is.... coming down... dudes. It's... coming down".

He strode across to the car, opened the trunk and produced one of the lengths of elastic cord they normally used to tie the surfboards to the roof. He tied one end around the front fender of the car and the other end around the shop door handle. He then jumped into the car and reversed away with a screech. The strain on the cord caused it to stretch to a seemingly impossible length. It was about to snap when the car fender gave way instead, and flew back towards the shop like a lumbering missile. It crashed into the window with a sickening thud quickly followed by an orchestra of breaking glass, creaks of snapping wood and a blurry cloud of dust.

There were a few moments of eerie silence, then the dust settled and it became apparent the entire front fascia was destroyed. The fender had shot across the interior of the shop, over the counter and smashed into the neon light. The odd spark of electricity spat out over the counter with a crack and a cackle, as the three of them disregarded safety in favour of gratuity and dashed inside. They carefully stepped around the biggest shards of broken glass, helped themselves to a bag of marijuana each and dashed outside again. Brian stood at a safe distance, shakily rolling up a joint as he surveyed the damage they had wreaked, and his face continued to twitch involuntarily.

Neil whistled, having temporarily forgotten his incontinence. "Lucky our parents are here, 'cos this is gonna cost us some".

Kenny attempted to assess any damage which may have occurred elsewhere. "At least.. the car... looks... okay." he sighed.

At that moment the sparks in the shop started to flash wildly, and showered the room with a spray which quickly transformed into small flames. Within seconds these guzzled oxygen and combined to create a whooshing inferno which sped through the building with a will of its own. The beating heat caused the boys to hastily retreat to a cooler distance, where they stared in hypnotic awe upon the lightning-like flashes filling the night, as the blaze spread from the shop to the surrounding farm buildings and the fields beyond. They then realised there was an incredible buzz to be had if they breathed in the swirling herbal smoke. Kenny, on the verge of falling over, started to giggle manically. The other two looked at him, then each other and also broke out into uncontrollable giggling. As they stood there smiling and breathing in deeply, the lonely wailing of a distant police car siren was carried along the air. The noise grew ever louder and a patrol car screeched into the farm entrance. Sheriff Williams and another officer got out and marched towards them. As they did so, Principal Givens' car caught fire and exploded like a bomb with a huge boom. They were all forced to throw themselves to the ground as various parts of the chassis flew through the air above their heads. A fire engine arrived and the crew immediately set about the task of controlling the flames.

After they all unsteadily got back on their feet, Sheriff Williams turned to the boys.

"Sincere apologies gentlemen, but I hereby arrest you on suspicion of arson. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used against you. You have the right to an attorney and if you cannot afford this, one will be provided for you".

His colleague put handcuffs on each of them.

Sheriff Williams shook his head balefully. "I tell you something boys, the judge is really gonna throw the book at you. He was due to receive a shipment from the farm tomorrow. Let's go".

He then escorted them to the patrol car.

Principal Givens was standing at the school entrance, waving off the departing parents and making polite conversation as they streamed out of the school hall at the end of the annual review.

"I'm so sorry Mr Lovett," she apologised gushingly. "I have no idea what happened to Brian tonight. Perhaps we'll see you some other time?"

Brian's father fixed her with a hard glare which signalled that he wouldn't be returning.

The police patrol car wailed into the school car park and came to a halt beside her. Sheriff Williams got out of the driver's door, while his colleague bundled the three handcuffed boys out of the back. A suspicious alertness sprang into Principal Givens' eyes. What was supposed to be a pleasant evening was now in danger of crashing down around both her and her special guests.

"I hate to spoil your evening, Marcia." sighed the sheriff. "But I'm taking these boys into custody for the night. They just burned down the farm and destroyed your car. They'll be up for a bail hearing in the morning and it would help if you could call Eli Levenson and make it down to the courthouse".

The alertness and surprise in her eyes turned to pure shock and terror. She turned to Mr Lovett for support and council, but he had already turned on his heels and was walking away, his back facing them. He was stroking his neck and wearily shaking his head.

She frowned at Brian and implored. "What's happened Brian? What about the plans for Berkeley?"

He beamed involuntarily, as another spasm twitched across his face, and muttered "Fuck Berkeley".
Chapter Six

One Great Guide, One awful Actor

They appear to be older, but it is unmistakably Larry and Viv. They are each wearing a crown and are seated on thrones inside a temporarily erected grandstand. There are people sitting all around them, doing their best to not make it obvious that they are gazing intently at their every movement. Larry and Viv have clearly become important people.

The blazing sun is shining down. Lines of soldiers dressed in khaki uniforms march past, each row turning their faces intently and sombrely up towards Larry as they pass and then smartly saluting in unison. A column of tanks followed by an array of trucks carrying missiles slowly rumble behind in the distance. A squadron of aircraft roar overhead.

Larry turns to Viv and mutters "Stone the flaming crows Viv, how much longer is this going on for? I hate these bloody drive-bys. They're about as useful as a bloke who's lost an arm and found a leg and last long enough to bore the backside off a buffalo. My throat's as dry as a dingo's donger and I forgot to siphon the python before we came out, so now I'm busting to drain me dragon as well".

Viv looks at him intently before replying in her strangely pitched and breathless manner that contrasts sharply with her statesmanlike demeanour. "Oh Larry, I love you so. Say you'll never leave me. Take me now baby. Anyway you want. Purlease!"

"Oh Viv, you're hotter than a piss in a sauna." he chuckles though, strangely, he's not even smiling.

Humvat and Kinbus approached the tall, austere grey Execution of Television building. They walked up the steps and knocked on the heavy door. Above them the winter sun hung low in the watery blue sky and shone down its rays, but it was a light without warmth. They shuffled around impatiently as they waited for the door to open, stamping feet and rubbing hands together whilst mouths and nostrils emitted snorts of steam. After a while they were allowed inside and Kinbus handed over his stamped piece of paper to the clerk on reception. The clerk inspected it thoroughly, stamped it again and carefully filed it away in a drawer. Then he ushered them through, saying "The Executioner will see you in his office right away. It's on the top floor. You can't miss it".

They ambled across to the elevator and pressed a button. The clerk waved at them and cheerily shouted "I'm afraid it doesn't work. You'll have to use the stairs".

"How many floors are there?" sighed Humvat.

"Thirteen".

He sighed again and trudged towards the staircase.

"You weren't drinking last night, were you?" hissed Kinbus.

Humvat shook his head. "I don't have any money. I'm broke".

"Good. I don't want to be climbing up all these stairs and dealing with you in a grumpy mood at the same time".

They started ascending these steps to Heaven, or maybe to hell for all they knew. A long time later they reached the thirteenth floor and staggered onto the landing where they collapsed and rested until they regained their breath. Then they opened a door and followed the corridor until they came across a unit of the Public Defenders dressed in their archaic yellow and white uniform, standing guard before a door with a name plate attached to it. It announced this was the office of the Executioner of Television.

"Where's your entry ticket?" demanded one of the guards, as the rest menacingly pointed their cudgels.

Kinbus shook his head. "I haven't got it. I gave it to the clerk downstairs, just as I was told".

"He should have stamped it and given it back to you. We're supposed to be the ones looking after those tickets".

Kinbus looked at the guard balefully and shrugged. "I'm sorry, but what can I do?"

The guard hissed menacingly. "You can go down and get it, then you can come back up again and hand it over to me, just as you should have done in the first place".

Kinbus was about to make his protests when a booming voice came from behind the door. "It's okay. You can let them in. I've been expecting them".

They entered the room. The Guide's private secretary was seated at a desk, working away. He was also wearing ceremonial robes. Without looking up he addressed them. "You're late. Been hanging around on the stairwell, I suppose?"

He pointed towards the Executioner of Television who was stood by the window, hands in trouser pockets and gazing down at the cobbled streets below.

"He makes that journey three times a day." he continued. "Me and my staff just did it in less than three minutes. You should try getting more exercise".

"Yes, Excellency." mumbled Kinbus.

"Be seated".

They flopped into two chairs set before the desk. The secretary put down his pen and regarded them. "I've summoned you here today in order to get a project of mine up and running." he said, handing them copies of a script. Each consisted of more than one thousand pages, was two inches thick and the front cover bore the title 'One Great Guide, One Great Nation'.

He lovingly patted the cover of his own copy. "You know, I always felt I had a book inside of me, and the result is this inspired story". He smiled proudly. "Everyone I've permitted to review it has been astonished by its breathtaking quality. It's the epic tale of our beloved Guide's life, and how he has led his chosen country from a backward heathen past towards a glorious god fearing future".

He surveyed their doubting faces. "Oh yes, it's all true you know, every page of it," he confirmed, misconstruing the reason for their doubt.

He continued. "If you turn to page three, you'll see a list of requirements for the cast and another one for the film crew. I want this production to start immediately so it is imperative all these vacancies should be filled quickly".

He pointed to the top of the page. "Obviously the position of the director goes to you". He nodded at Kinbus, and wrote his name alongside the entry at the top of the list, "And the role of the Guide as both a young and an old man will go to you". He nodded towards Humvat, writing his name alongside the second entry. "Do either of you have any recommendations for filling any of the other roles?"

Humvat quickly scanned the requirements. There was a princess named Medina. From what he could make out, it appeared she was the love of the Guide's life. "I'd like to suggest Kipdip from the stage school for the role of the princess." he offered.

"Excellent!" snapped the secretary, marking his script copy.

Kinbus eyed Humvat with the sort of irked glare which lets a troublesome child know you're aware of what they're up to, even though they did whatever they did behind your back. He also ran through the cast list, but couldn't find a supporting male role.

"Ahem." he coughed. "If I may be so bold I'd like to suggest Carbet, who is a great cinematic artist as well as the finest actor at my school, for one of the cameraman roles. He is also an excellent musician, so he could compose the score".

"Done!"

Kinbus gave Humvat a slight smug smile. Humvat in turn started to sulk. Carbet was the last person he wanted to be involved in this project, and Kinbus knew it.

The Executioner, who had been standing in silence up until now, spoke. "I have a suggestion which might expedite matters. Why doesn't the stage school supply all of the actors and, apart from the esteemed director and this Carbet character, the Execution of Television can supply all of the technicians and equipment".

"Excellent!" boomed the secretary. "Recruitment problem solved. See what can be accomplished when you put your mind to it?"

Then he paused and wagged a finger at Kinbus. "You will be my representative on this project and you will answer to nobody but me. I'll make sure everyone knows. I'm also going to supply you with a team of writers to carry out any necessary amendments. I'm not having any Tom, Dick or Harry messing around with my holy script. Take it, read it and make preparations, for filming starts tomorrow. Now be off with the pair of you. And get some exercise!"

The secretary rose up and whisked out of the room closely surrounded by his guards and strode down the corridor at speed. Humvat and Kinbus followed at a more sedate pace, quietly studying their scripts as they walked along.

The Executioner closed his office door, picked up his telephone and dialled a number. "It's me." he smiled. "Don't worry. It'll be a total disaster. I'll make sure of it".

There was a garbled response. "Yes, I know," he frowned. "A few idiots dress up in those ridiculous costumes and the outside world thinks we're all like that. Sometimes I wish the Americans would do us all a favour by invading us. I'd certainly be out there laying down the welcome mat. In the meantime don't worry".

He replaced the receiver and dialled another number. "I'm going out for a late breakfast." he said. "So please switch the power to the elevator back on".

Kinbus and Humvat trudged down the stairs. Kinbus thumbed through the script.

"This really is madness," he sighed, shaking his head. "I've never directed anything by camera in my life, let alone twenty episodes of a television series".

Humvat nodded his agreement. "And I've never acted for real as an extra, let alone taken a starring role".

He smiled a weary smile and chuckled to himself. "Well, it's going to be an experience". Little did he know what was waiting around the corner.

They reached the foyer and were surprised to see the Executioner of Entertainment shuffling out through the front door ahead of them.

That afternoon Kinbus was standing on the stage in the school. Even though troublemaker Humvat was notable by his absence, the troupe was making noise.

"Can I please have some SILENCE!" he roared. The noise calmed. "Thank you." he continued, in turn calming himself down. "As you all know, we're going to be making a television series about the life and times of our glorious Guide".

Spontaneous singing and clapping broke out. "There's no need for that every time we mention the Guide, otherwise we'll never get anything done." he grumbled. A smattering of applause rippled around the room, nonetheless.

"Anyhow, we're going to be working with a number of technicians from the Execution of Television and I'd like you to welcome them".

He vaguely pointed to a few men standing to his left. There was more applause.

"Oh, and by the way, the Guide's secretary has provided us with a team of writers to assist with the script. They're over there".

He pointed towards his right. There was yet more applause.

"And, lastly, the Executioner of Entertainment has also kindly provided us with troops for protection".

He waved his hand generally towards the soldiers milling around. There was no applause. Nobody could figure out whether the troops were really there to protect them, or merely to intimidate them into following the current doctrine, whatever that happened to be.

The main door opened and a young man dressed in a blue boiler suit entered, pushing a wheelbarrow full of large metal discs.

"And who might you be?" inquired Kinbus.

"My name is Parvark and I'm a cameraman from the Execution of Television." he replied. "Sorry I'm late, but I went to collect the film reels the Execution purchased for this production. By my calculations we've just about got enough to shoot each scene once. We certainly don't have enough for any re-takes. We don't appear to have been allocated many costumes from the wardrobe department either".

He surveyed his compatriots, counting the numbers in his head. "Or technicians. We're not going to have the numbers required to build much in the way of scenery." he concluded.

But Kinbus wasn't listening. Deep in thought, he thumbed through his script and replied "You'd better put some film in the cameras then. I want to get started straight away, enacting the scene where the Guide is a child and he performs his first miracle by curing a dying man. It's an interior scene so we can do it over there in the stable block. I need a boy, a middle aged man, a middle aged woman and a crowd".

He selected various people by pointing at them. Somebody had brought his son along so he could see a film being made, and he was picked to play the role of the young guide. They all stood together by the old disused stable in the corner and started to rehearse the scene excitedly.

Kinbus glanced across at one of the writers. "Did the guide really perform miracles as a boy?"

The writer shrugged his shoulders. "If his secretary says he did, then he must have". Then he paused for thought. "Although he did also say he wanted to convey a lot of symbolism in the story, so it could just be a symbol for all I know".

"Symbolism?"

"Yeah. Children are supposed to symbolise the common people and there are symbolic acts where the power of the old is handed over to the new. That sort of thing".

"Oh." gulped Kinbus, already beginning to feel lost.

A middle aged male stage school player lay on a hastily made bed of straw. Parvark and Carbet positioned their cameras, ensured the light was low but sufficiently bright and the action began. The man laid still, his eyes half closed and his mouth half open. The woman playing the part of his wife held his hand while the other women pretended to weep, and the men huddled around uselessly in the background. The boy pushed his way through the adults until he reached the bed.

"Fear not my master." he whispered to the man and softly commanded his wife "Give me his hand, oh dutiful daughter of God".

She obediently did so and he massaged it between the fingers of his own two hands. After a short while the man's eyes gradually, faintly, opened. "I'm not worthy, my Lord." he gasped through his pain.

The boy took a rag, rinsed it in a bowl of water and dabbed the man's forehead.

"Hush now, for all are worthy." he consoled. Then he whispered in his ear "I beseech ye blessed Baqra, and the almighty Inventor to bring salvation upon this poor repentant sinner, and forgive him his sins".

He continued to apply the rag, while murmuring words of encouragement. After a short while the man opened his eyes fully, sat up and exclaimed to the surrounding crowd. "Praise be to Baqra! I'm cured!"

He then staggered to his feet and raised his arms heavenwards. "And praise be to this boy! He has cured me of my affliction when no others were able!"

The crowd burst into happy laughter and congratulated the young Guide. The woman hugged him, and through her tears of happiness she cried "Praise be indeed! A miracle has occurred! We are such fortunate sinners to have this sainted boy amongst us!"

"Cut!" cried Kinbus. "That was perfect. Well done everyone!"

The next day Kinbus and some members of cast and crew were out in the nearby desert, erecting a tent by the side of an oasis where some camels were sipping water. They were about to shoot the opening scene in the script, where the Guide is born and the star shaped birthmark on his back announces him as his country's saviour. The ever-present unit of military guards stood around idly.

The air was cold, dry and crisp, eerily calm and silent. It carried no rumours of food, newly discovered shelter, scents of territorial claims, nor passionate pleas for procreation. It was lifeless. Out here in the flat wilderness the unbroken sky seemed huge compared to that of the city, and the light was sharper and harsher on the eye.

Humvat emerged from a caravan containing the wardrobe and make-up departments. He was wearing sack cloths similar to those worn by the Guide in the poster hanging at the prayer temples. He had also acquired a paler skin tone and a fair moustache, though his hair remained brown because nobody thought to bring any dye. It made for an arresting combination.

He noticed a familiarity about one of the technicians from the Execution who was fiddling with a camera on the ground. Humvat regarded him with interest. What was it about this man that stirred his memory? Ah yes – he was the drinking friend he'd made at Zola's bar, the one who revealed the vision of the heaven named Hollywood to him. Humvat was keen to renew their acquaintance.

He sidled up to Parvark and proffered his hand. Parvark shook it without looking up.

"Remember me?" asked Humvat.

Now Parvark looked closely at him, seeking recognisable landmarks in his face.

"Oh yeah," he eventually replied. "You were at Zola's sometime back, looking for a non-existent job".

He looked him up and down, dressed in his dirty sack cloth, and frowned. "Haven't you managed to find one yet?"

Humvat nodded his head earnestly. "Oh yes. In fact, I'm an actor now and soon I'll be on my way to Hollywood".

"Well, let me know when you're ready to leave and I'll hitch a ride with you!" laughed Parvark mockingly. "I've got contacts over there. By the way, your moustache is drooping".

He made his way over to the set while Humvat dabbed at the false moustache again. Despite his best efforts it continued to hang limply.

Kinbus could hardly believe how well things were going. Two days into the project and they were already ahead of schedule. He'd read through the script and found there was another desert scene where the Guide, as a young man spends a period of time undergoing deep contemplation in the wilderness. He decided they might as well kill two birds with one stone and film both scenes while they were out here, so he brought Humvat along. Humvat in turn insisted on bringing Kipdip with him for company and support. They sat together on a mat, rehearsing Humvat's lines.

"I do think you're very brave, taking on this role when you have no experience." said Kipdip, stroking Humvat's hand comfortingly.

He sighed nervously. "Normally I'd say brave or foolish or both, but to be honest I didn't really have any choice. The thing that terrifies me most is the prospect of making a complete fool of myself. Let's face it. I don't really know how to act; I haven't been studying the subject for long enough".

Kipdip soothed him, moving her hand onto his shoulder and smiled. "I can help there. Growing up in the shadows of the stage school, I've been close to acting for most of my life. Father has always placed great store by the style of acting known as method".

"What's that?"

"Well, it's where you actually allow the character you're playing to inhabit your mind. Rather than performing a part, you become the part".

He looked back at her with raised, questioning, eyebrows.

"Ok," she continued. "Let's imagine you are playing your part as the Guide. Now let's imagine that in the performance he has been travelling through the wilderness for fifty days and nights, with hardly anything to eat or drink. If you are to play the part convincingly to others, then you must first convince yourself you have experienced those fifty days first hand. You should think to yourself 'What would I be like after such a hardship? How would I feel? What would I do?' and then you apply what you know of the Guide and his character, and you think 'How would he react to these things happening around him? What motivates him to do what he does in the first place?' By such means you become him and rather than talking about a part you're playing, you'll find yourself talking about your character as though you were him".

Humvat shrugged. "So I have to try really hard to pretend to be someone else, instead of the normal level of pretence?"

"Something along those lines".

Humvat shrugged. "Okay, I'll follow your advice".

With the tent finally pegged down for the birth scene, Kinbus walked across to Carbet, who was carrying a camera.

"I know I'm asking a lot from you here." he counselled, his hand reassuringly patting Carbet's shoulder. "But I want to get a shot where we start off somewhere over there," he pointed out into the desert, "And we gradually close in on the tent. I want the audience to feel as though they are travelling towards it. What I need you to do is ride a camel and maintain a steady picture. I don't want the camera bobbing up and down and making everybody feel sick".

Carbet nodded, clambered aboard one of the camels with ease, trotted away and then trotted back. He dismounted, returned to Kinbus and replayed him the footage he had taken.

"That's perfect." smiled Kinbus. "Absolutely perfect".

Then he turned around. "Where's Humvat?" he barked. "His first scene is the next one we're shooting".

Humvat shuffled forward. Kinbus checked the script. "Right we'll start with you wandering through the desert. You're on the edge of exhaustion, when a vision of Baqra appears before you. He tells you the fate of the entire country lies in your hands, but not to worry because both he and God will give you the strength you need to complete your journey towards destiny".

He folded the script and put it in his pocket. Then he surveyed Humvat, a thick dressing gown wrapped around him. "The script says you should be half naked".

One of the women from the wardrobe department removed the gown and Humvat shivered in the cold. "Er, can I have a word Kinbus?"

"Everyone must address me as Mister Director when we're on set!" He snapped back.

"Er, mister director, I'm not at all sure my character would run around half naked in this freezing weather".

"Oh really? Well, the script says the heat is suffocating. You're now a professional actor, aren't you? Pretend it's summertime and get on with it".

Humvat bent down, picked up some scrub and dust and muttered and cursed to himself as he rubbed it into his hair. After fifty days out in the wilderness he would certainly be filthy dirty. He imagined he would also be in tatters, so he rubbed some into his threadbare clothes and started to tear strips off, further exposing the skin beneath.

Parvark lined up one of the cameras while Carbet lined up the other one.

"Okay then Humvat," announced Kinbus. "You are the Guide. You've hardly drunk or eaten for fifty days. You've gone beyond the normal limits of human endurance. You stagger around and fall over. When you get up you see a vision of Baqra before you. He is bearing both spiritual and nutritional sustenance. Ready?"

Humvat nodded.

"Action!" shouted Kinbus.

Humvat looked around, startled and bewildered. "What?"

"Cut!" shouted Kinbus. "Action means you should start acting. The amount of film we have is precious to us. We haven't got enough to waste on re-shooting any scenes, so we have to get it right first time. If we don't get it right first time then we have to run with what we've got. Understand?"

Humvat nodded.

"Action!"

Humvat stared vacantly. "What is it I'm supposed to be doing again?"

The false moustache dropped away from beneath his nose and fell to the ground.

"Cut!"

Kinbus strained. Things were not looking as rosy as they had done a few minutes previously.

Kipdip appeared. "Father!" she cried, before he had time to really lose his temper. "Let me take Humvat aside for a while and help him prepare properly. Together we'll sort out his motivation for this scene".

Kinbus waved the pair of them away with a scowl. Then he collected together a young couple who were playing the Guide's parents. A real mother handed her newborn baby over to the woman and the couple entered the tent, along with an old man who was playing the part of a minor prophet. In any half decent Siminite story a prophet always just happened to be there at the birth. His job was to bear witness to the event and confirm that some ancient prophetic text was being met.

"Action!" shouted Kinbus.

It was late at night, and Humvat and Parvark were sitting in Zola's bar, sloshing over two large glasses of wine.

"I can't figure out whether this whole Great Guide epic is turning into a comedy or a tragedy." slurred Humvat to the barman. "I've been trying my best, but it's not easy when there's only enough camera film for a single attempt at each scene. If I mess up my lines we simply move onto the next one. Only today I was supposed to be marrying my princess Medina who I must say, I'd never heard of before. I wasn't aware the Guide was ever married".

Parvark shook his head. "I didn't even know it was allowed".

The barman shrugged, as if to say he didn't know anything about it either.

"Anyhow, anyhow," continued Humvat, grappling with the flow of the conversation until he came to rest at a spot which was familiar to his memory. "Anyhow, we got to the point where the priest says to me 'Do you take this woman to be your wife', and I was so flummoxed in the anticipation of getting a kiss from Kipdip that instead of saying 'I do', I said 'Do I?' and rather than re-shoot the scene, they decided to run with what they possessed. Then I had to go outside with her and face the guard of honour, secure in the knowledge I'd just made a complete fool of myself again".

"No, no, no, my friend," slurred Parvark. "You're being far too hard on yourself. You're doing fine. You remember the scene we did where you were being crowned in the main temple, and one of the extras in the audience made that unexpected noise? I thought you improvised superbly when you challenged the usurper to take the crown for himself if he thought he was a better leader than you, or otherwise to show you the warranted respect".

Humvat nodded tipsily in agreement and laughed. "And the extra apologised profusely for ever questioning my judgement!"

"And you were extremely brave when you repelled the invading Semonite army, almost single handed!"

Humvat smiled to himself. "You're right. I suppose there have been some good moments as well".

"And your English is coming on in leaps and bounds." slurred Parvark. He turned to the barman. "He's learning it between scenes".

Then he patted Humvat on the shoulder with one hand and pointed towards the barman with the other. "Go on, give him a demonstration".

Humvat concentrated hard and recovered the words from the back of his mind by rote, slowly reeling them off. "The rine in spine..." he began unsteadily, "Falls minely on the pline".

The barman nodded with raised eyebrows, obviously impressed.

Humvat slurred "I can understand English even better than I can speak it". He paused for a small burp. "I've been watching lots of movies".

Parvark applauded and proudly laughed. "It won't be long before we're ready to conquer Hollywood, just you wait and see!"

Kinbus was directing the Guide's children, girl and boy twins, through a scene which depicted them growing up under the venerable guidance of their father. Humvat stood idly by, waiting for his moment to arrive.

It seemed to him as though the filming was taking a lifetime. It was like being at war; long periods of utter, utter boredom punctuated by brief moments of frenzied, terrifying activity. He'd started reading a book about method acting but found it boring, so discarded it. The whole thing was driving him mad, so to counter this he found a sanctuary in daydreaming about his future life in Hollywood. A mansion was obligatory of course, along with a fleet of sports cars and a girl for each day of the week. He was particularly taken with Miss Tuesday. No, hold on, that bit wasn't right. The girls disappeared, to be replaced by Kipdip. She was preparing his meal in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a negligee and a seductive smile.

"Humvat!" He heard his name being called, and returned to reality.

Kinbus was calling him onto the set. "Okay, we've just filmed the children playing together. Now you're supposed to come in and give them some parental guidance. The kids performed their scene perfectly in a single take. Do you think you can emulate them?"

Humvat nodded.

"Okay then. Everyone ready? Good. Action!"

Humvat entered purposefully through a door into the children's nursery. He greeted them tenderly and looked down upon his son, who was waving a cudgel.

"Have a care my son," he gently admonished. "In untrained hands, weapons are as dangerous in the home as they are on the battlefield. You should never play with your cudgel. The only proper place for it is when learning the arts of war, in readiness for the day when you may have to use it to defend our land".

"I'm sorry father. I will take heed of your wise words." replied the boy.

Humvat bent over the girl, who was sitting on the floor, applying medical liniment and dressing to a doll.

"And what are you doing, daughter of God?" he asked.

"When I grow up, I'm going to be a nurse." she replied. "I shall take care of our brave warriors when they return from the front, weary, bloody and battle scarred".

"That is indeed a noble vocation for a woman." he agreed. "Now I must go to parliament and serve my people. Be good for your mother while I'm away".

"We will!" they sang, and he left the room.

"Cut!" barked Kinbus. "Perfect! Well done Humvat. We might make a decent actor out of you yet!"

Humvat was in Zola's again. He seemed to be spending more and more time in this place. Almost every night the stress of the day's travails drove him here to unwind the evening away with the assistance of a few friendly drinks. He was waiting for Parvark, who was becoming similarly afflicted by the task of eking out the short supply of film.

"You still working on the biography of the Guide?" asked the barman.

"Nearly finished, thank Baqra." replied Humvat, looking down into his glass. "There's just a few more scenes left. Everyone is fed up with the absurdity to be honest, and tempers are fraying. I spent all day today going up and down in a hot air balloon, waving goodbye to my grown up children. According to the writers there was supposed to be some sort of symbolic gesture going on. Something to do with handing over power from the old to the new. I told them I didn't understand any of it, and I didn't know the guide even had any children".

He looked up, and continued. "And then the writers said the children are symbolic as well. They are supposed to represent all of us, the entire nation as part of his family".

The barman looked perplexed.

"And at that point," said Humvat "I decided to come down here to this symbolic bar for a symbolic drink".

He lifted the glass and raised a toast. "Here's to getting symbolically drunk!"

Parvark shuffled in sombrely and ordered himself a large drink. "The Execution of Entertainment have decided to start showing One Great Guide, One Great Nation on television, starting tomorrow tonight".

"But we haven't even finished filming yet!" spluttered Humvat.

Parvark nodded his agreement and drained his glass in a single gulp. "We're nowhere near ready. I just hope everything turns out alright".

Two days later another spring day was unfolding in the morning sunshine outside Humvat's lodgings. Small lizards lay dotted around on the ground, basking lazily as they gradually warmed up. Birds hid on shaded branches and filled the air with their trilling songs of love and territorial claims. Flowerbeds of vividly coloured petals slowly unfurled to reveal their treasures of nectar, ready to entice the messenger bees to transport their liquid love notes to a distant sweetheart. And various flying insects buzzed around, ambling and meandering, oblivious of one another. Inside the lodgings, however, there was the stark hush of an impending autopsy.

The first episode of 'One Great Guide, One Great Nation' had been transmitted on the national television station the previous evening. Humvat was so nervous he couldn't bear the thought of observing himself on a television screen. He hadn't even possessed the strength or will to share a moment of exhilaration in the company of others. Instead, he spent the evening pacing up and down his silent, darkened rooms, like a nervous expectant father waiting for his wife to give birth to their first child.

His nerve endings tingled with anticipation as he sat alone at the kitchen table and picked up the morning newspaper. His baby had finally been delivered and, with a sweet sickness in his stomach, he anxiously sought out the birth announcement amongst the reviews in the entertainment section. He turned the pages, and the sweetness part of the feeling instantly disappeared when he was confronted by the headline "One Great Guide, One Great Nation, One Awful Actor". It didn't look like good news for somebody, but who was this awful actor? He scanned the article:

"Last night we were served a mouth watering marvel of the modern age of television, only to see it butchered with incompetence before our disbelieving eyes. Despite the support of a lavish production, shrewd direction, breathtaking photography, a wonderful script and a superb supporting cast, the new young actor, the supposed protégé Humvat Virit, managed to produce a rendition of our glorious Guide which defied belief. Unless you happen to believe a human being is truly capable of imitating a wooden mannequin masquerading as a bumbling idiot. Apart from the racy opening scenes in which he did not appear, the level of ineptitude on show was an insult not only to our proud Guide but also to our proud race".

"It would easier to bear this burden if this was simply the least convincing performance this critic ever reviewed, but it is also a national disgrace. We must all now share in the ignominy of the knowledge this shameful performance exists, whether we have witnessed it for ourselves or not. And to make matters worse there is much more of this drivel yet to come. I strongly recommend viewers to avoid it at all costs".

Humvat stopped reading. In a fit of pique he threw the newspaper up in the air, and clutched his hands around his head as the pages separated and scattered across the floor. He recognised the face of treachery, which had been lurking in the shadows for so long and now jumped out to gleefully reveal itself to him. So he was to be the scapegoat, the convenient lackey to be blamed for the failings of others. The failings of those government morons, idiot writers, that treacherous dog Kinbus and all the other feckless fools who were supposed to be supporting the production.

How often did he request extra reels of film? He'd lost count of the number of script changes he'd fruitlessly demanded, and how many times did he ask for adequate directions, or complain they weren't being given enough time to produce the perfect production which was demanded? How many times had he privately questioned Kinbus' judgement, but kept his mouth shut instead of dressing him down, at least behind closed doors? That idiot couldn't direct a bus driver to a bus station, let alone a production as vast and complex as this one. And for Baqra's sake, how could they possibly produce a quality product when there was only enough film for a single take of each scene?

The whole damned mess he'd been thrown into was farcical. Ridiculous. And what about Parvark and Carbet? Those bastards must have deliberately messed up the camera angles. There were several occasions when he thought he'd caught Carbet attempting to take pictures of him from his least impressive side.

His uncontrolled rage of self-pity easily swallowed and spat out any argument that these accusations were only convincing if he ignored the damnable praise lavished on the production, direction and photography. But, as his initial outburst of anger began to subside, fears for his own safety began to rise. After all, hadn't the Guide's private secretary warned him anything less than an inspirational performance would result in his gruesome death? Then he realised there was a perfect way of resolving his predicament. He'd simply ignore it for as long as he possibly could. Certainly until after filming the final scene of the production that night. And then it might magically fade away on its own.

Later on the sun departed, taking the dancing spectrum of light along with it and leaving behind the empty, ghostly shell of the night. The film crew were assembled around the grounds of the royal palace in the middle of the city. Two powerful searchlights on the ground sent vivid bluish-white beams upwards at an angle into the sky. They cut a swathe through the darkness, shining an isolating glow upon a narrow balcony set amongst the rooftops. Other lamps bathed the palace courtyard below the window in a degree of light. Until recent times this place belonged to the kings and queens of South Jefesta, but it was now the residence of the Great Guide himself.

Because of security restrictions it took much effort, in terms of both time and bureaucracy to gain access to this building. But it was deemed to be essential for portraying the scene where the dashing young Guide wins princess Medina's heart by saving her from her burning room. The writers argued this moment of acceptance was a symbolic act, so only the constancy of the real palace itself could provide a fitting backdrop. Today the Great Guide was not in residence so they could complete their work.

Humvat emerged from the portable cabin which housed the wardrobe and make up departments. He was wrapped up in the cocoon of his green soldier's uniform, and once again sported brown hair and a fair moustache affixed above his upper lip. He'd managed to avoid wearing it for much of the production. He espied Parvark lumbering his camera gear across the courtyard and ran over to him.

"Have you seen the newspaper review?" he hissed.

Parvark motioned him to be silent, and surreptitiously pointed towards the nearby Public Guards stalking around the set, amongst the hoard of extras who were to play the fleeing crowd. Then he hissed back "Just be thankful certain people don't read the newspapers!"

Humvat took the advice with a brief nod and pretended to nonchalantly amble away, his mind filled with a mixture of unease at the uncertainty of the situation he found himself dragged into, and anger that he should have been dragged there at all.

Kinbus gathered together the members of the cast required for the scene and outlined the direction. Kipdip and Parvark were to proceed inside the palace and up to the room behind the illuminated balcony, along with the special effects technicians who would create an artificial fire with accompanying artificial smoke. On his signal, she was to come out onto the balcony and start screaming. Humvat was to get onto a horse, ride around the corner out of sight and wait for his own signal of her screams. When he heard them he would come charging back through the crowd. During this part of the scene, Parvark was to film from the balcony and Carbet was to film both the fleeing crowd on the ground and Humvat's triumphal entrance.

Kipdip and her accomplices duly went inside the palace to take up their positions, while Humvat hung back, close to Kinbus and nervously coughed. "Er, Mister Director, sir?"

"What do you want now?" snapped Kinbus.

"I'm having problems, um, finding the motivation for my character in this next scene..."

"What?!" Kinbus exploded. "For Baqra's sake man! The love of your life is stuck at the top of a burning building, screaming for you to come and rescue her! So you climb up and rescue her. What more motivation do you need?"

Humvat looked warily up towards the balcony. "Well, I think my character doesn't have much of a head for heights. I really think he might have second thoughts about climbing all the way up there".

Kinbus sighed. "So what you really mean is you don't have a head for heights?"

Humvat shook his head vehemently. "No, not at all. I'm quite relaxed about it. It's just my character. He doesn't like it".

Kinbus clicked his fingers in the direction of the head writer and he came scurrying over. "Can we please alter the next scene so the Guide enters the palace and runs up the flights of stairs inside in order to get to the princess's room, rather than climb up the outside of the palace?"

The writer pondered for a short while. "I suppose we could, but why should we?"

"Because my leading man has it on good authority that the Guide suffers from vertigo".

The writer fearfully stood to attention and saluted. "Please forgive me sir. I had no idea. I will personally rewrite the script this instant. I hope you can find it in your heart not to report me to the authorities for this grievous lapse of accuracy".

Kinbus waved him away. "It's really not a problem".

Then he turned to Humvat and growled. "It's a mistake anyone could make".

Humvat ignored him and turned to the writer. "I think it would be nice if I could come across a few confused people on the stairs. I could point them in the right direction towards the front door as I go up. Just to emphasise the point that even amidst all the chaos, I'm still in charge".

The writer furiously jotted down notes on his writing pad.

Humvat walked over to the horse, struggled to get up and into the saddle, trotted around the corner and breathed a sigh of relief. He'd never liked heights much. He was hardly able to walk across a bridge without feeling an overwhelming urge to jump off, and Baqra alone knew what suicidal thoughts he would have to contend with on a climb up a wall like that.

After much waiting around, while the rewritten scene was translated into new dialogue, camera angles and directions, Kinbus finally shouted "Action!"

Parvark focussed his camera around the glowing balcony high up the palace, and started to use up the remains of the precious supply of camera film. Behind the balcony window the man with the smoke machine and the man with the flame machine got to work and then retreated from the room. Kipdip took up her position screaming. "Oh Guide! Oh Great Guide! Help me! Save me! Where are you now, in my hour of need?"

This was supposed to be Humvat's signal to come charging to the rescue but he remained seated on his horse around the corner, oblivious to her cries. He was humming a little tune to himself which he was composing in his head to combat boredom. Aware the camera was using up valuable film, Kipdip struggled to the edge of the balcony, looked down upon the fleeing crowd and cast an expectant eye around for her supposed rescuer. The smoke grew thicker and she started coughing. On the ground below, and out of camera shot, Kinbus dashed around the corner.

"Humvat!" he shouted. "Get your backside around there and rescue the princess right now, you dog turd for brains!"

Humvat snapped out of his composition, kicked the horse into life and came careering into the courtyard. The fleeing crowd parted for their lives. At the sight of this, in an equal panic the horse then stopped of its own accord. Rather than ride up beneath the balcony as planned, Humvat was forced to dismount and run the final few yards.

"Is something amiss my lady?" he shouted up to her as though the flames didn't tell enough of a story themselves.

Kipdip smiled down at him. "Oh Guide!" she sighed. "I should never have doubted you. Quickly, there isn't much time. You can reach me if you climb up the wall".

Humvat had to think quickly. Somebody, somewhere had forgotten to inform Kipdip of the change of plans.

He eventually adlibbed "It is my honour to serve your highness, but I think I shall come up the stairs instead".

In his confusion, and for some reason even he couldn't fathom, he then saluted her. With Carbet and his camera, and a puffing Kinbus following him, he ran through the crowd. Then he ran through the palace doors and up the stairs, carefully avoiding the artificial flames placed at various locations. As he made his way up he made a play of assisting some of the extras standing on the stairs. He escorted them towards the exit and out of screenshot, despite their protests that they wanted to remain within the camera's field of vision. Having reached the top of the final flight of stairs, he then strode down a corridor until he came to a room which was fitted with a false door and he gave it a good kick, stamping it with the sole of his heel.

The impact was supposed to have caused the door to swing open, but instead it hung limply from its top hinge. He frantically pushed the door aside and it finally tumbled to the ground. He entered the smoke filled room, located Kipdip lying on the floor and walked across to her, wondering to himself why she wasn't at her pre-arranged position on the balcony waiting to embrace him. As he bent over her and coughed himself, he soon realised why. With all the heat and smoke in the room she really had fainted. What was he to do? He picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the door. Suddenly her eyes opened and, ever the trouper, she smiled sleepily at him and whispered. "Oh Guide. You've rescued me. I knew you wouldn't desert me".

He quickly looked around the room, desperately attempting to remember his next lines, and gazed down upon her as the words came hurtling back towards him.

"Princess," he murmured. "Would you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?"

She clutched his hand in hers and whispered. "The honour would be mine. I will".

Then came the part Humvat had been looking forward to. He bent down slightly, so his lips were almost touching hers, and enclosed them with a long, passionate kiss. Eventually he looked into her eyes, smiled a relieved smile and whispered "You've made me the happiest man on earth, my lady".

He then proceeded to carry her out of the room as a burning beam prop came tumbling down from the ceiling, narrowly missing the pair of them.

"Cut!" shouted Kinbus, once again shaking his head in dejection.

"Somebody damn near killed me with that burning beam!" bellowed Humvat as he let Kipdip go.

The head writer, having just been informed by palace courtiers there was no evidence the Guide ever suffered from vertigo, smiled. "We put it in at the last moment to add to the gravitas of the performance".

Kipdip steadied herself and slapped Humvat across the cheek, screaming "If you try sticking your tongue down my throat just one more time, I will personally cut your balls off, fry them up and force-feed them to you! You're a miserable excuse for an actor and a pathetic excuse for a man!"

Humvat rubbed his face and snarled back. "You were the one who said I should use method acting!"

Carbet and Parvark packed their cameras away, exchanging raised eyebrows and knowing glances.

"Congratulations everyone!" announced Kinbus in a deadpan fashion, deliberately ignoring the pantomime enveloping him. "We have now finished filming our production, and it's time for us to celebrate with a party. You'll find drink and food being laid out downstairs in the palace courtyard, as I speak".

He dipped a hand into one of his pockets and pulled out a few sheets of paper laced with scribbled notes. He took his glasses out of the other pocket, placed them on the bridge of his nose, studied the papers and coughed.

"And talking about speaking, I'd just like to say a few words. Now we've finally reached this auspicious moment, I'd like to take the opportunity to thank..."

He stopped in mid sentence as he looked up and realised everyone had silently crept away, rudely preferring to sample the party fare rather than sample his finely prepared speech. He sighed, screwed up the papers and dropped them onto the floor.

Several hours later the last remaining party guests were picking at the scraps spread across the tables and benches laid out in the courtyard. Some people were hungrily scooping up what was left of the food. Others were quaffing any alcohol they could find, be it in bottle or glass.

Humvat and Parvark were drunkenly slumped across a table. Humvat stirred, hicced and slurred. "Know what, old pal?"

"No, what?" giggled Parvark for no particular reason.

"Thish has been a shambles from the start. Imagine, only having enough film for a shingle take of each schene? Ridiculous! I hate thish film and I hate that damned Guide. I'll be lucky to eshcape from this with my life".

Parvark guffawed. "And you know what? Hic. After all the fuss, there's still shome film left over".

Humvat mused wistfully upon this news, and smiled to himself as a fine idea sprang forth. "Right then," he commanded. "Letsh go and jolly well use it up".

He rose unsteadily and waved his hand beckoningly, to indicate to Parvark that he was to follow suit.

"Where are we going?" shouted a bemused Parvark.

"Shh!" replied Humvat, vaguely tapping his lips with a finger. And then he whispered. "We're going back into the palace. While I'm still dressed as the Guide I think I have shomething I'd like to say to the camera, so make sure you bring it with you".

They staggered in through an unguarded doorway and tramped up and down corridors, opening and closing doors until Humvat finally found what he was looking for. He motioned Parvark to enter a room with him. It was a small anteroom which led into a larger room. They staggered in and Humvat unsteadily gestured with an arm, as if to gather the room towards him.

"Thish is the state room. I recognise it, with that picture on the wall, from previous decrees the oh so Great Guide has made on television in the past".

He slumped awkwardly into a swivel chair and harried Parvark into setting up the camera before they both fell into a drunken coma. Parvark announced he was ready to roll with a cry of "Acshun!"

Humvat looked deeply into the camera lens, tried to shape some sober direction into his meandering thoughts, burped and scowled.

"Right you lot. Great Guide here. Of course, I don't actually need to introduce myself because you all know me well, don't you? Or do you really know me? No, if you think about it for a moment you'll realise you don't know me at all. So I've decided to speak to you now because I think it's about time you got to know a few things about me".

At this point he went to stand up, but instead got caught in the chair. As the camera continued to whir, he managed to extricate himself and went over to a drinks cabinet, helped himself to a bottle and glass and started pouring. He then tottered back to the chair and fell back into it. He looked intently into the camera lens.

"For a start," he blustered. "I'm a fraud. A big fat fraud. Did you see all of those heroic exploits of mine in the story of my life? Well every single one of them is an invention".

He pondered for a moment. "Well, maybe not all of them, but most of them certainly are. And the ones which weren't invented were exaggerated. And as for my illustrious government, well, where do I begin?"

He sighed heavily. "They're all a bunch of rogues and thieves and liars. Half of them are trying to steer the country – which is you lot – in a direction nobody other than them wants to go. The other half are a bunch of religious bigots who'd have us all living in the stone age if they could. I should have got rid of them all years ago, but I lacked the strength". His concentration started to fade away and he studied the drink in the glass morosely. "I admit I've been a rotten ruler, and I think you should know that too".

He sighed as he vaguely contemplated the room. "And I've never done anything for the arts. Not a bean. All of those poor aspiring actors out there, and all I've done is leave them to be picked off by the vultures".

Then he paused for a slurp, and delivered his final line with swagger and flourish. "But the biggest fraud is that all of you, yes the entire nation are victims of a deception which is the biggest joke of the lot".

He smirked. "For you see, I'm not even Siminite. I'm actually a Semonite dog, and I've been ruling over you for 28 years of deceit. Hilarious, don't you think?"

He convulsed and laughed manically, overacting to the last.

Parvark shook his head in bewilderment and went to switch off the camera. "If you weren't going to get shot before, you are now." he muttered.

"Oh shut up, you old woman!" snapped Humvat. "This was shtrictly a private performansh for you and me. It was the best use of the camera film so far, by far. When you've had it developed we'll have a good laugh over it. Now let'sh get out of here before we get caught".
Chapter Seven

Lighting A Wildfire

Larry is wearing a white cloak, pale yellow top and leggings and a wide black belt. He is riding on a white horse at the head of a troop of knights. He holds a sword in his right hand, whilst behind him another rider carries a lance which is held upright. A yellow pennant hanging on top of it flutters in the wind as the horses trot forward in formation.

Then an opposing army of foot soldiers dressed in red uniforms marches over the brow of a hill ahead. Larry turns to face his own men, and shouts "This is no time to be making shit gravy, mates! It's Melbourne or the bush! Charge!"

He waves his sword forward in the air and leads his men towards the enemy. It doesn't take long for the two armies to converge and suffuse. During the confusion of the melee, Larry finds himself and his steed cut off from his comrades. He is surrounded by opposing foot soldiers.

"Flaming hell! It's all going down the gurgler." he mutters to himself. "Looks like I'm gonna have to get as busy as a bricklayer in Baghdad and start sinking the slipper".

Then he quickly dismounts and pulls a wooden cudgel out of his saddlebag. "G'day boys!" he shouts as he waves it above his head. "Anyone for cricket?"

He immediately strikes one of them across the head and the victim drops to the ground. He is quickly followed by another, and another, and another.

"Any more of you larrikins fancy big noting yourselves?" he challenges the few remaining soldiers around him. "Because I'd say you've got two chances – Buckley's and none!"

He menacingly lurches towards them and their spirit breaks into smithereens. They've seen enough and they flee for their lives.

Larry shouts after them. "Go and dip your eyes in cocky shit, you bunch of two pot screamers!"

His work done, he flops down, exhausted, and is approached by one of his own men, who says admiringly "Well done mate. I thought you were gonna come a gutzer there, but you were game as Ned Kelly".

"Yeah," wheezes Larry. "I shot through them like a Bondi tram, didn't I? But now I'm more tired than a one armed bill sticker in a big wind".

The soldier helps lift him to his feet and they both rejoin the fighting. The battle is soon over and the enemy flees the battlefield. His troops celebrate their victory, triumphantly carrying Larry on their shoulders. He smiles down at the soldier who'd helped him up earlier and says "You know what mate? I reckon that was just about the most fun you can have with your strides still on".

It was the next afternoon when Humvat opened his eyes. He was lying where he had fallen, facedown on his bedroom floor. His head was throbbing and thoughts milled around his mind like a school of fish swimming blindly through the murky depths of a stagnant pond. He winced and decided he was going to give today a miss. The world would have to wait until tomorrow to make an appointment to see him. He closed his eyes again and within seconds he was quietly snoring and hugging a pillow as he dreamed of the monumental glory of another embrace with Kipdip.

Hours later in the stillness of the night he awoke again with a start and sat bolt upright. He hadn't really filmed that extra scene, had he? Maybe he had. No, he definitely hadn't. He was simply imagining he had. Oh Shit. The memories were real, not imaginary. He rubbed his still throbbing head and winced again. He was going to have to get that film destroyed before it came back to haunt him. Then he turned over but was unable to get back to sleep.

Early next morning he spluttered down the telephone. "What do you mean, you sent the film off to be developed?!"

There was babbling from the other end of the conversation.

"When will it be ready? This afternoon? Okay, I'll come and collect it".

More babbling.

"What do you mean, wear some form of disguise?"

Apparently the newspaper reviews of the second episode of One Great Guide, One Great Nation savaged it as a national disgrace, and everyone in the city was up in arms. Humvat sighed, replaced the receiver and searched for his cloak with the hood before going out.

Later that afternoon he returned to his lodgings with the film cassette. He was thankful for the protection of the hood, for he detected an uncomfortable, tense mood settling over the city. He opened the front door, walked in and surveyed a small box on the floor. He carefully prodded it, wondering how it had appeared in his rooms while he was gone and the front door was locked. He cautiously lifted the lid, peered inside, saw the charred remains of a flag and instantly understood. Presenting someone with a burnt South Jefestan flag is the ultimate Siminite protest message. It accuses the offender of disgracing not merely themselves but also the entire nation, and demands them to admit their guilt and make restitution. If this is ignored the next stage of protest will be less predictable, but would likely involve the removal of limbs. Somebody out there somewhere, probably some disaffected lunatic with an imagined grudge, had discovered his whereabouts. They had left this little gift to let him know the limb removers were circling and locked doors were an irrelevance. He was in deep trouble now. He sat down and deliberated over the options available to him and the answer gradually became clear. There was but one course of action left open, and that was a direct plea for clemency and protection from the big man himself.

He hid the cassette beneath the sofa, put the hooded cloak back on and furtively made his way to the royal palace once again. He banged his fists against the huge doors and begged to be allowed inside. "I seek an audience with the Great Guide! I insist on it!" he cried pitifully.

"You know the Guide speaks to no one!" growled a surly, burly guard from behind the door. "Especially insolent dogs like you. Now be away with you, before I lose my patience and shoot your head off!"

"But my name is Humvat Virit. I have been playing the part of the Guide on television in the story of his life! I must see him!" he shouted, as he glanced around and nervously removed the hood to reveal his face.

There was the scraping sound of a shutter sliding. A head poked out and smiled condescendingly. "Oh, it's you. We all wondered how long it would take before you made an appearance here. In fact we've been running a sweepstake".

The shutter slid shut again and there was a period of silence. This was broken by the chinking sound of a bunch of keys, then the rattling of these keys turning in a number of locks, one by one. The door slowly opened and the full image of the guard appeared before him. "Apparently he'll see you." he sneered. "Come inside. He's probably been waiting for you to turn up here as well".

The mighty palace doors creaked open and Humvat entered again, but this time with the meekness of a desperate refugee rather than the swagger of a superstar.

He was met in the grand entrance hall by a member of the palace staff dressed in the ridiculous yellow and white uniform favoured by those who follow the orthodox sect of Baqra. He sniffed at Humvat, indicated he was to follow him and walked away briskly. He spoke over his shoulder. "You realise normally the Guide entertains nobody? You do realise this is a great honour for you? In fact it's unheard of, particularly for a sinful serf".

Humvat nervously nodded his tacit understanding of the gravitas and fought to keep panic at bay. His imploring speech for clemency, carefully prepared and rehearsed during his walk through the city, was fading from his mind like water pouring out of a leaky bucket.

The servant led him up and down corridors similar to the ones he had drunkenly stumbled along the other evening, until they stopped outside the very stateroom he had sullied. He motioned to Humvat to knock on the door and, without waiting he withdrew back down the corridor. Humvat steeled himself, drew another deep breath and tapped lightly on the door.

"Enter!" boomed a voice from within the room. Humvat pushed it open and, fighting the temptation to bolt back down the corridor himself, entered the anteroom and closed the door behind him. A bodyguard from the Public Defence frisked him and took his shoes, while another bade him to open another door and enter on his own. He slipped through the door and he was back in the stateroom, alone again. He walked alongside the huge table and admired the various historic mementoes, religious relics and works of art which littered the walls.

Then the swivel chair, which was facing away from him, swung around without warning to reveal the Guide seated in it. He was sitting in the same seat, at the same table where Humvat had slovenly slouched before Parvark's camera. It served to make him feel even more uncomfortable than he already was, if that were possible. The Guide surveyed him as Humvat instinctively stood rigidly to attention and stared into the distance. He knew there was a protocol to be observed, though he didn't know what the protocol might be. Nobody had bothered to tell him, so he was unsure of the rules; who should speak first and when and so on, so he stood stiffly in respectful silence waiting for something to happen.

Eventually the Guide stood up and walked across the room towards him. He carefully looked him up and down. "So," he beamed. "I've been looking forward to finally meeting you".

He circled around Humvat, closely inspected his features and continued. "It isn't often I get to take a look at myself as others might see me".

Humvat was well aware he bore no resemblance to the Guide, so these words confused and baffled him. His curiosity could no longer be contained. Ignoring any of the protocol, he bent down, took the Guide's hand, kissed a ring upon his finger and nervously stuttered "But your majesty".

The Guide withdrew his finger and wagged it in the air. "Young man. I fervently believe there should be less formality and more progress in our society." he lectured. "Inside this stateroom at least, you may address me simply as Great Guide".

"But Great Guide..." he stuttered, his gaze falling down upon the floor. "When I look at myself I do not see you at all".

"Similarity does not have to consist of a physical, cosmetic likeness." the Guide replied vaguely. "I fervently believe the truth also lies in what exists beneath, inside people's thoughts".

Humvat grew even more confused and looked back up. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand".

The Guide ambled back over to the table. "You should understand it wasn't due to mere chance you came to play the part of myself. It was brought about by the certainty of logical reasoning. You were carefully chosen for this task".

Humvat's eyebrows furrowed at this ever deepening mystery. He shook his head and absentmindedly muttered to himself. "Reasoning? What reasoning?"

"You were selected because you ask questions, because you don't accept answers and," the Guide intensified the moment with a pause as he looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot. Then he whispered. "Because I have been told you wish to light a wildfire".

Humvat pondered to himself. Light a wildfire? What wildfire? When did he ever say he wanted to start a wildfire? Then the penny dropped and his heart leapt. Holy Baqra! This was unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable. Kinbus had been right all along. Somebody was eavesdropping on their conversation with Kipdip that day when they were returning from the temple to the theatre, Baqra knows how long ago. And of course, this being South Jefesta, the spy only reported half of the conversation. He firmly and categorically stated at the time he did not want to start a wildfire, and he still felt the same way.

The difference was that in those earlier days he was playing upon a stupid Hollywood dream, whereas now he was playing for far more serious stakes, namely his life. But he seemed to be on the verge of making a powerful friendship with the Guide, and it would be disastrous to admit reticence at this moment. He had no choice but to play along with the misapprehension. He smiled what he hoped was a smile which said he understood they shared a secret never to be spoken of.

The Guide settled back into his seat. "Let me tell you something young man. Back in the days when I too was young and idealistic, I fought battles for the freedom of this country. I fought for democracy. I fought for the people. I fought against corruption and I fought against ignorance, prejudice and injustice".

Then he vacantly stared into space and sighed to himself. "And look what I've ended up with. I'm stuck half way between a bunch of religious crackpots and a crowd of half-baked expansionists, each side continually plotting against the other".

He looked up, forlornly. "I didn't realise that when you start a revolution you never end up with the type of government you think you're going to get, the one you think you're fighting for".

He paced the room and continued. "There are always too many egos and too many opportunists out there to ever permit a true freedom to exist, yet alone flourish. All they want is the chance to seize power for themselves because if they allow true freedom the people are beyond their control. What have I really achieved in my lifetime? And I don't have much more time...."

He drifted away for a few moments before his concentration returned. Then he looked back up towards Humvat. "But I still have hopes for this nation to fulfil its rightful destiny. My desire is to remove the corruption, for the corruptions of nationalism and religious dogma are worse than any other forms of corruption. I want to replace it with the power of the common people. And you know what? I think lighting a wildfire might just be the way to do it".

If Humvat was feeling uncomfortable before, then he was really becoming acquainted with the condition now. He didn't understand where this conversation was headed, and what's more he didn't want to understand it. The Guide was turning out to be a far more frightening character than the monster he had imagined him to be. He sounded like an evangelist who wanted to change the world with a wildfire which would end up getting them all killed. Whatever had possessed him to ever start that stupid, stupid conversation with Kinbus?

At the same time he was trying to think on his feet, come up with whatever gift, knowledge or morsel he might be able to use as barter, something which might conceivably save his life. Then he had a sudden brainwave, the sort of sudden idea only a pallid hangover produces. Perhaps a confidence might suffice.

"Please forgive me Great Guide, for I have a confession to make." he began. "In the heat of a moment I made a blasphemous film about you and I'm afraid I said some terrible things on your behalf. I am but a worthless sinner and I beseech your indulgence".

The Guide looked intrigued. "What did I – you – say exactly, in this film?"

"I pretended to be you before the camera and I accused you of all sorts of failings as a leader".

The Guide looked crestfallen. "Well, I haven't been as good a leader as I would have hoped for." he murmured. "So this is probably a true enough allegation. I can't disagree with the substance of it".

Humvat winced. He was going to have to offer up more information than he desired. "And then I claimed you have been deceiving and humiliating the entire country for years because you were really a Semonite from the North".

Intrigued, The Guide raised his eyebrows. "Why on earth did you say such a thing? It would cause rioting on the streets, at an absolute minimum".

Humvat shrugged. "In truth my portrayal of you has not been well received by the critics. I was feeling miserable and bitter." he said with honesty, then for good measure added a white lie. "I have been following a school of acting called method. It teaches that you are supposed to allow the part you are playing to inhabit you, and I suppose I was lashing out at the one whom I felt closest to".

He sensed that, for some unknown reason The Guide had taken to him, and he was now going to have to pursue this sponsorship and clutch it to his chest, using all his acting experience as his harpoon.

The Guide snorted with derision. "Damn those critics to Hell! What do they know about me?"

He made a note on a sheet of paper and continued. "Tell me, what has become of this piece of film you made?"

"It's on a cassette which is hidden beneath the sofa at my lodgings. I'll destroy it, I swear I will, as soon as I return home".

"No – don't destroy it. Don't waste a bargaining tool you might possibly require later. Hide it somewhere safe and keep it in case you have need of insurance".

The Guide arose once again and patted Humvat on the shoulder. "You should go now. Come back and visit me again soon. And don't worry about your misfortunes, particularly the burnt flag".

Humvat bowed his head, turned and left the stateroom. As he walked outside the building he became puzzled. He didn't remember mentioning the burnt flag.

He returned home and reached under the sofa to retrieve the film. If it was as valuable as the Guide suggested, he was going to have to find somewhere more secure to store it. He strained his arm and patted the floor but couldn't locate it. In a fit of impatience he finally moved the sofa aside and bent down to pick it up, but there was a problem. The cassette was no longer there. It had disappeared.

He frantically called Parvark to come over, and together they sifted through the lodgings without success.

Humvat started to panic. "What am I going to do? What am I going to do? If it falls into the wrong hands, I'm dead!" he howled.

"Oh stop worrying." admonished Parvark. "You've just misplaced it. It'll turn up sometime".

Some days later the Executioner of Entertainment sat at his desk in his office. There was a knock on the door and a subordinate entered.

"Executioner," he smiled. "Something has come into my possession and I think it may be of interest to you".

He dangled a cassette in the air. "Let me set it up and play it for you".

The Executioner looked thoughtfully at the screen and rubbed his chin as drunken Humvat sniggered "I'm actually a Semonite dog and I've been ruling over you for 28 years of deceit. Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Then a background voice muttered "If you weren't going to get shot before, you are now".

The screen went blank and the subordinate switched it off.

"Hmm" mused the Executioner. "Not particularly good acting, but at least he's managed to achieve a consistency, I suppose. Who does the other voice belong to?"

"One of our cameramen named Parvark Laska, excellency".

The Executioner continued to rub his chin. He was at the vanguard of the expansionist wing of government, so he possessed no great love for The Guide to begin with. And this love hadn't exactly been touched by the debacle of the botched assassination attempt which was supposed to spark the invasion of the North. He'd lost a lot of credibility within the Party and the General still wasn't speaking to him. And the constant patronising and provocation from The Guide's secretary and his staff had really begun to irritate. They'd also ruined that plan to replace the ancient Siminite language with modern English according to Shakesbeard. So here was the opportunity for a perfect revenge which would certainly cause The Guide and his cronies embarrassment, maybe even a great deal of trouble. Hadn't his secretary eagerly claimed authorship of the pathetic piece of dirge? And if it all went wrong again, Humvat and Parvark could be blamed for everything.

He turned to the subordinate. "How easy would it be to tag this onto the end of the final program in the series?"

"Relatively easy, excellency".

"Organise a committee immediately then. And make sure the security classification is EXTREMELY SENSITIVE. I don't want a word of this getting out. I'd like it to be a surprise".

Two weeks later, in lurid bold lettering, the newspaper headline screamed out its latest thundering missive. "Last Episode Tonight, Thank Baqra!"

Humvat thumbed through the pages, briefly scanning them. The basic gist was that One Great Guide, One Great Nation was being waved away with the sort of smile normally reserved for a departing hated relative. The happiness even seemed to have oozed its way into the populace. You could almost feel the militant mood which had pervaded the city slowly subsiding, and thus far he was still in possession of all his limbs. Maybe he could even take a chance to leave his lodgings and venture out amongst the public for the first time in ages. He put on his cloak, pulled the hood over his head and sneaked out into the darkness of the night.

Parvark was sitting in his living room, watching television, when there was a knock on the door. He opened it and let Humvat in. They exchanged greetings.

"I just had to get out of the house." explained Humvat as he removed his cloak. "I was beginning to go mad, sitting on my own, staring at the same four walls all day and night".

Parvark looked upon him sympathetically and admitted "I just count myself fortunate nobody knows who I am".

He pointed towards the television set. "Your final performance is just about to start. It's about time you watched yourself. I'll get us both a drink".

Humvat grimaced. He had successfully managed to avoid viewing himself, but seeing as it was his last opportunity to clutch despair, he sat down and succumbed.

Carbet's theme music blasted into life, the introduction credits rolled for a few seconds and then there he was, in all his majesty. Humvat The Guide. It was the crowning ceremony in the main temple. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat while his two dimensional self ranted and raved a challenge to the congregation that any one of them was welcome to take his place on the throne if they were brave enough. He pretended to look down at the floor as his alter ego led his people off into battle in order to free them, yet again, from the tyrannical yoke of the Semonites of North Jefesta. He inspected his fingernails as he instructed his fictional son and daughter in the ways of the world. And finally, thank goodness, he and Kipdip – both heavily made up to look much older - came out of the palace to be greeted by a happy crowd and the two of them departed on the symbolic balloon ride in the symbolic balloon. Then the closing credits rolled past the screen as Carbet's musical score played for a final time.

"Oh well." he sighed. "At least the madness has come to an end. Now we can all hopefully get back to leading normal lives again".

"If you don't lose your head first." reminded Parvark.

Humvat pursed his lips and nodded agreement. "If I don't lose my head".

Suddenly there was a flash of light on the television screen, a garbled, crackling sound, and a picture appeared of Humvat dressed in uniform and sloppily seated at the state table.

He and Parvark glanced up at each other.

"Oh shit!" they sighed in unison.

His screen image boorishly burped and scowled "Right you lot. Great Guide here. Of course I don't actually need to introduce myself, because you all know me well, don't you? Or do you really know me at all?"

Humvat desperately lunged across, switched the television off and stood quaking before it.

"Switching it off doesn't change anything you idiot!" scowled Parvark. "There are millions of other televisions all over the country still switched on!"

"I just can't stand to look at it any more." mumbled Humvat. "Making this program has completely ruined my life". Then he looked up, the realisation draining the colour away from his face. "Or are we dead men now?"

"Speak for yourself." muttered Parvark. "You might be dead, but I'm very much alive!"

He defiantly turned the television back on, just as a voice off camera muttered "If you weren't going to get shot before, you are now".

He quickly turned the set back off and blankly nodded, the colour draining from his own face. "Yes, we're dead men now." he whispered.

Humvat started to panic. He knew he should be doing something, but he didn't know what. His instinct was to head straight for home. If he was going to die, he didn't want it to happen in a strange house. He wanted to die in his own bed. So he hurriedly put his cloak back on, pulled up the hood and disappeared back into the night.

He walked down the unlit streets and could feel the menace rising in the air. There was the odd distant roar of menacing crowds, the vague sound of glass being broken and a whiff of burning smoke tinged the air. Making sure to pick his way through the darkest, quietest shadows, he safely made it back home.

Once inside he poured himself three glasses of brandy, knocking each one back in a single gulp. Having consumed enough alcohol to ensure an easy route to slumber and protection from nightmares, he wound his way to his bed. He lay there for a moment, thoughts racing through his mind. He would definitely have to revisit the Guide in the morning. He'd use every weapon at his disposal to build up his friendship. He assured himself he was a good actor. Then he fell into a drowsy sleep.

He awoke. He didn't know what time it was, but it was pitch black. He stirred. There had been a noise but what was it? Then the same sound, the shattering of a window in the kitchen made him jump. He crept out of bed, picked up a shoe – of all things – for protection and warily made his way towards the closed kitchen door.

He slowly opened it, and squinting through the crack he noticed a flickering light in the corner. Then, as he opened it more fully he could make things out more clearly. It wasn't a light at all. It was flames. Somebody was trying to kill him! He dashed back into the bedroom and pulled on his clothes, but was unable to find one of his shoes. He cursed, then realised he'd left it by the kitchen door. He retrieved it, grabbed his cloak and ran out of the back door and into the courtyard. He clambered over the wall and dropped down into the alley which ran alongside. He hurriedly glanced around and seeing nobody, he pulled up his hood and crept away from the scene of the crime.

Adrenaline pumped thoughts raced through his mind as he strode, head carefully kept down, along a street. Small mobs formed. One was chanting "Death to the Guide!" Another mob shouted "Burn the traitor!"

He passed an angry group of young men who were burning an effigy of the Guide, a placard fixed around its neck pronouncing "Semonite Pig!"

He gulped, tightened his hood and stealthily moved onwards. He was on his way to seek sanctuary earlier than anticipated, and offered by a man he had thoughtlessly betrayed. He arrived at the palace and tapped quietly on the door, anxious not to draw attention to himself. There was no response, so he tried again, this time banging loudly. He heard something stirring within, and a guard pulled open a shutter and blearily stuck his head out. "I need to speak with the Guide." hissed Humvat. "Immediately".

The guard rubbed his eyes. "He's sleeping." he yawned. "Nobody disturbs the Guide when he's asleep. Not unless they want to die".

"But he'll see me. Tell him it's imperative I see him!" shouted Humvat, momentarily losing his cool and forgetting the need for silence. "I need to see him now".

The guard shook his head. "Go home and come back in the morning".

"I don't have a home to go to! Someone just burnt it down!"

"Then go to someone else's home." grunted the guard, closing the shutter with a thud.

Humvat pondered for a moment and headed in the direction of Parvark's house. The restless mobs out on the streets were now growing more numerous and more vicious. They were chanting hate, they were breathing venom and they were demanding retribution. He went to go past some particularly malevolent people when they blocked his path.

"Hey, you!" jeered one of them. "Why the hood?"

"Yeah, what's the secret?" growled another, poking him in the chest.

A third man leant across and casually pulled the hood back. The three of them looked at his face and momentarily froze in disbelief. Humvat wasn't about to hang around and wait for them to regain their composure. He ran for his life.

"It's him from the television program! The one who insulted the nation!" shouted one of the mob.

"Come on you lot!" another one exhorted those around him. "Let's string him up!"

And with that they gave chase.

Humvat fled down one street and turned up another. He could hear the baying mob not far behind him. He ran for what seemed like hours, the sound of the following crowd never ceasing. Panting heavily he ducked into a side street and then spotted a large bin. He hesitated. He was thinking about hiding in there, but it was possible they'd discover him. On the other hand he was so exhausted he couldn't run any further. So he hauled himself into it and covered himself with the stench of rotting meat, vegetables, fruit, fish and god knows what else. He heard voices, held his breath and sat motionless amongst his new possessions.

"Where.. Did.. he.. go?" gasped one of the men breathlessly.

"Dunno.. think we.. lost him..." gasped another.

"Check the bin." wheezed a third. "He.. might.. be.. in there".

He heard the men muttering their bad intentions towards him as they sat around regaining their breath. Then he heard footsteps approaching and a voice above his head. "Doesn't look like he's in there".

Another voice said. "He may be hiding underneath it. Put your hand in and find out".

"I'm not putting my hand in that shit! You put your hand in!"

There was a pause. "No. He won't be in there. He's given us the slip. Come on, let's go and find something to burn".

The voices trudged away into the dark distance, but Humvat remained quiet and still for a further thirty minutes before he dared emerge from his hiding place. He shook off most of his armoured suit of rubbish, but was forced to wear the wet stains and the sticky stuff he couldn't remove.

He looked around. He wasn't familiar with this part of the city, so he searched for a landmark as he wandered back and forth along the street. And then he found it. Kinbus' house. He knocked on the door and Kipdip opened it.

"Can I speak to Kinbus?" he groaned.

"He's not here".

She paused for a moment as she surveyed him, curiously. "He's gone away for a few days. It's something to do with the stage school."

"Can I come in then?" he pleaded.

She looked at him and sniffed the air. "Not smelling like that, you can't".

She brought him some of Kinbus' clothes to wear while she washed his own filthy clothing and he told her his tale of woe.

"I didn't even bother watching tonight's episode." she admitted. "I haven't watched our program for a while now."

Humvat sighed. "Funnily enough it was the first one I watched".

He grimaced.

"Me and Parvark are now marked men. I don't know what to do. I can't go home. I can't go outside during daylight. I can't even go onto the street during the night. This has all turned into a terrible mess".

Kipdip gently stroked his shoulder in the way women do to comfort each other and offer moral support, but which men more often than not misinterpret as a sexual invitation. "Don't worry." she soothed. "You can stay here tonight".

Then, just as Humvat's hopes were rising, she added. "You can sleep in father's bed".

The next morning Kipdip volunteered to visit the palace on Humvat's behalf. At first he was insistent she was putting herself in danger. After all, she'd played the part of the Guide's imaginary wife, the princess Medina. But she produced a wig and some glasses and convinced him she had already spent time walking the streets quite happily, unrecognised. He said if that were the case, could she collect Parvark and bring him back to the house with her? She gave him the sort of look which warned him not to take liberties, but one which also confirmed she would do as requested.

Several hours later she returned with Parvark in tow.

"Well?" demanded Humvat. "What happened? Did the Guide speak to you?"

Kipdip took off her coat. "I mentioned your name at the palace gates and he gave me an audience. He seems very fond of you".

She hung the coat up on a rail. "He said you and your friend Parvark will be marked men now".

"As if we didn't know that already!" snorted Parvark.

"He said the Execution of Travel can supply you with tickets to get away from South Jefesta, and the Execution of Finance can provide you with some money to help you when you get there".

"Tickets? Get where?"

"He said wherever you want. It's up to you to choose".

Humvat and Parvark looked at each other. "Wherever we want?"

"Yep".

They exchanged whispers.

"Okay then," said Humvat. "Go back and tell him we want tickets to Hollywood, in the United States of America".

Heather Surning sat down beneath an old and battered palm tree on the beach. It looked to be suffering from terminal disease, yet here and there remained green sprigs of life. She felt a comforting message of hope flow around her whenever she sat in the vicinity of this eternal tree. She opened her laptop and started typing rapidly. She'd done a lot of research for this piece and already knew what it was going to say. The words flowed.

"The proud flag of our American NeoEmpire is firmly planted in the bedrock of a land of corporations. These are both evangelist and explorer, spreading our message of capitalist hope to distant shores and returning home bearing untold riches. In the United States alone they employ more than 70,000,000 people, giving them their comfortable lifestyle much envied by the rest of humanity. And what's more, our corporations are owned by their shareholders, namely the American people. We are the golden generation who will realize the much vaunted American Dream, because corporations now make up more than half of the largest economies in the world. They are greater in size and richer than most countries, and the citizens of America are the owners of this NeoEmpire. Thanks to these mighty institutions we shall inherit the earth, but without them we'd be stuck halfway between hell and Mexico".

"That's the way corporations would like us to see them and many people do, but why should many others see them as purveyors of pure evil instead? Well, the dictionary definition for the word corporation is 'A body of people acting jointly, for administration or business purposes, and who are recognized by law as acting as an individual'. So, as far as the law is concerned, a corporation is not an organization - it is actually a person, a Corporation Person. Thus corporations have the same human rights as you and I, including the right to place their own interests before the public interest. They can give their money to whichever political party they choose in return for legislative favors. They can offer people vast quantities of cheap convenient food without concern that it might be unhealthy. Later they can charge the same people extortionate amounts of money for the drugs required to treat their obesity, heart or cholesterol problems. They can offer home mortgages to people, knowing they won't be able to keep up the repayments. They can then offload this financial poison onto unsuspecting international customers and cause a global financial crisis when the clock stops ticking and the bomb goes off. Finally they can plead the Fifth Amendment when charged with wanton neglect. For the sole obligation this Corporation Person has to society is to make money. They do not care about issues such as human rights, financial collapse or the environment because they don't have to. All they care about is generating profit, and this Corporation Person our legal system has created is starting to look like a sociopathic monster".

"The reality is that Corporations themselves aren't all bad and have become a necessary part of our future anyhow. The problem is that individuals within a corporation become part of a faceless collective and any sense of personal morality or responsibility gets covered by the all-consuming whitewash of the corporate raison d'être, which is that profit is the only thing that matters and it must be made at any expense. Corporate employees routinely deal with abuses of power which would horrify them if they had to perform the abuse themselves. But hey, it's not my fault, it's not your fault, it's nobody's fault. It's just the way the corporation works. It's the way it's always worked. Back in the 19th century politicians, railroad barons and land grabbers saw profit to be made in the American West and drove out any native inhabitants who got in the way of making that profit. In the process they did more than anyone else to create modern America, but at what cost? Meanwhile corporations are still doing more than anyone else to make America the global economic force it is today, but once again, at what cost? They are still robbing and raping the rest of the world and bleeding it dry, all in the name of supplying the American people with goods they don't need but, somehow thanks to the power of advertising, cannot do without. In the meantime we stagger around filling and emptying our pockets like money junkies".

"The most dangerous gift we have given our corporate monsters is total personal freedom by allowing them to buy political influence and get laws changed to deregulate previously regulated markets. We must help them change their ways by revoking this privilege. They should no longer be allowed to interfere in domestic politics, nor send out missions to foreign states. These are jobs for government alone. And, most importantly, a four letter word beginning with F should be entered into the statute books when it comes to making a profit, and that word is fair. Corporations are too important to us to allow them to be controlled by self-interested gamblers, and should be run instead by the people. We've tried deregulation and it failed spectacularly, so it's time for our representatives to act (corporate bosses are hardly likely to fire themselves!) to regulate markets and change the letter of the law. A corporation is not a person because it has no conscience".

She scanned through her words, nodded her head with satisfaction and closed the laptop lid shut. She was creating a solution.
Chapter Eight

Wild About Larry

A youthful and dishevelled Larry is dressed in tattered remnants. Strips of cloth hang around his lower half and his chest is almost bare. He is wandering across a rocky desert, a solitary figure in a vast expanse of void. He looks dirty and exhausted, starved of food, love and hope, and is aimlessly staggering around. He trips over his own feet and falls to the ground. He slowly and painfully picks himself up, and from out of nowhere an old man appears before him. Larry stares intently at the man for a few seconds in shocked silence, and eventually says "G'day mate."

"G'day sport." replies the stranger.

Larry then seems to fearfully flinch away from the old man before summoning the strength to look him in the eye. He appears to have a burning desire to ask a question that he'd rather not know the answer to. His eyes pop and his lips tremble.

He eventually asks "Are you a bloody mirage mate?"

The old man looks straight back into Larry's eyes and solemnly replies "Yes mate, I bloody am."

And then his lips continue to move in silence for three or four seconds.

"Thanks mate." replies Larry, tears welling up in his eyes, and he staggers on.

"No worries." says the old man and he vaporises away.

Larry mutters to himself as he scans the emptiness of the horizon. "You know, for a mirage, he was a bonzer bloke".
"What about Romeo and Juliet, Roxanne?"

"Cancelled, Ray".

"And what about Oliver Twist?"

"Cancelled".

"And Tom Sawyer?"

"Cancelled. They're all cancelled Ray".

A man and woman were seated at opposite ends of a desk in an office at television station KPBS-13, the Public Broadcasting Service for Santa Domingo, California. The woman was of uncertain age, smartly dressed in a matching grey skirt and jacket, with elegantly coiffured brunette hair. The man was naturally scruffy and sported tousled black hair, an unshaven face and an ill-fitting dark blue suit. Ray Parlour was growing evermore animated. The anger that had been festering in him for some time now was coming to the boil. Like an unattended pan of water on a stove, it had started by producing the odd bubble, then a rippling surface and finally clouds of hissing, spitting steam cascaded over the sides.

He recently joined the station as programme director. He wasn't overly interested in material wealth, having spent a lifetime earning more than enough from the television industry to placate his meagre needs. But as time passed he realised his creative soul had boarded the corporate boat, sailed on it down a river and fallen headlong over a waterfall. He yearned for the freedom to make quality television which might be judged purely on the critical value of the production. Maybe even win some awards. Instead he was ruled by interfering, incompetent, ego-driven executives who forced him to make cheap meaningless drivel, simply to fill in the short spaces between commercial breaks.

So when the opportunity presented itself, he took the plunge and a large pay cut to work at KPBS-13. In return he was promised creative and commercial independence, and an ethos that wasn't based purely on making money. To begin with he eagerly drank the dizzying freedom like a man wandering out of a monastery into a whorehouse. He was even given time to formulate production strategies instead of running around like a lunatic all day long, chasing up his own backside. The ease of the job and lack of restrictions led him to wear a suit and tie to work for the first time in his life.

But when he started to sift for the palpable benefits of his new freedom by getting his various projects up and running, he found that in reality things weren't quite so relaxed or easy. After several months of being forced to pick his way through clerical obstructions and over fiscal obstacles, he finally realised the truth. He'd been lied to. He pounded the office table with his fist.

"Jesus Christ Roxanne! But we're a TV station, goddammit! And you made me promises that aren't being kept. How are we supposed to function if we don't make any programs?"

If Ray was a rough diamond then Roxanne was the smooth operator. The one gift above any other the Good Lord bestowed upon her was a chilling ability to gaze into the minds of other people. She was able to untangle their subconscious threads of thought like an Apache scout scouring the prairie, interpreting the scuffed marks on the ground to conclude how many horses had passed by, when they passed, and how fast they were travelling. She'd made good use of this gift by manipulating those both above and below her on the ladder of power, and she wormed and weaselled her way from the bottom of the ladder to the top. She also lied, betrayed, threatened and flattered and even, on occasions when there was no alternative, delivered the goods. But even the best get tired, and turning the corner into her latter years she grew weary of playing psychological war games against inferior opponents. She decided to take early retirement but discovered there's only so much gardening, golf and shopping you can do before the stale feeling of ageing sets in. She craved the mind building exercises and the power of a daily adrenaline fix that a decent job provides.

So, in a compromise she used her well honed skills to network herself into a job nobody else appeared to want, running the local Public Broadcasting Service television station. It didn't seem to matter to anyone else whether she achieved success there or not, but she retained her pride and the oldest habits die hardest. Every Easter she still made her annual visit to mass at the local Roman Catholic church, in a guilt ridden pilgrimage. Here she murmured the words instilled into her by rote during childhood. "Lord, I am not worthy to receive thee under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed", while the rest of the congregation recited the modern response instead.

Her first task at KPBS-13 was to drum up some much needed revenue, so she performed her equivalent of handing out the begging bowl by calling in favours for cash. Then she required the services of a seasoned professional television executive to add a sheen of respectability to the thinly veneered surface of her venture. She became predator and Ray became her prey. If he'd bothered to canvas opinions of Roxanne from other PBS station heads in the region he would have discovered that her reputation had already sunk far and wide. He would have heard phrases like "Shabby dealings", "Shady dealings", "Not really one of us" or "She doesn't seem to have much interest in the arts", and he would have run as far and fast as his legs could carry him. But he didn't and was ensnared in a trap which was actually a gilded cage of his own making, built upon his own assumptions and imagined resources. Of course Roxanne did nothing to dampen these and indeed spent time and effort massaging and assuaging Ray's insecurities and inadequacies. But now she peered into his mind and concluded she had carried him in her arms for long enough, and she judged it was time to put away the carrot and bring out the stick.

"Yeah, but unfortunately we're a publicly funded TV station." she drawled. "Listen Ray, I've called you up here because the bottom line is we operate on the goodwill of the people, and there hasn't been much evidence of it lately. We're just going to have to sit tight until the corporate sponsors start showing again. In the meantime, as my dear old mom used to say, if you ain't got the dough you can't make the show. But I have every confidence you and your boys can come up with something for the 8pm weekday slot for next month".

Ray shook his head wearily, took a deep breath, smiled a despondent smile and started to make his way out of the office.

"Look real hard Ray, because if you can't come up with something I'm gonna have to start going over the headcounts again!" shouted Roxanne behind him as he trudged away.

Ray sloped into his office, slumped down at his desk and looked upon his empire of three young bespectacled, long haired subjects, huddled next to each other like newborn mice in a nest. He was surprised to see any faces there at all, considering how earlier that morning the three of them were gleefully discussing the merits of chucking a sickie this arvo, because the radio buoy reports predicted a sucky surf for today. Though he tried as hard as he could to feel a paternal love towards them, he always ended up losing his temper and hating them (and thus unwittingly also losing grace). When he first started in this business, he and his peers possessed a shining, driving enthusiasm and vision. They all yearned to create quality shows which might be capable of challenging people's views of the world they lived in, maybe even alter their perception of their own lives. And it took twenty long, arduous years to wear down this sharp vision. Even now on occasion he could, if the view was good enough and worth the effort of getting up out of his seat, still see the world through those rose tinted glasses he'd worn in his youth. But all these wealthy white boys seemed to want to do was ingest drugs and make believe they were part of some weird imaginary surfing subculture, and speak their strange language named Strine which used English words in an arbitrary fashion. What was it with kids these days? It was as though they arrived in the world pre-loaded with nihilism at birth. But wish as he might, he couldn't get rid of them because Roxanne had foisted them upon him.

"Roxanne", he said dismissively at the time. "I came here because you told me I'd get the chance to make some quality TV. Wet nursing the three stooges was never in the brochure".

Roxanne could be a snake tongued son of a bitch when she wanted to be. She judged his weakness and salivated his ego. "Ray, do you remember the movie, My Fair Lady?"

"Actually Roxanne, it was based on a George Bernard Shaw play called Pygmalion".

"Well, whatever. I see you in the role of Professor Higgins and each of these boys as an Eliza Doolittle. There is an opportunity to take this raw talent, teach it and nurture it and grow it into something beautiful. You're the only person in this station who is capable of meeting this challenge, Ray. I can just imagine you now, saying in your best English accent 'By George, I think he's got it!' Tell me I'm wrong".

And of course Ray succumbed to the notion that this might be a worthy experiment because he desperately wanted to find a noble cause to attach himself to in order to make himself feel worthy. Roxanne omitted to mention her real and sole interest in the experiment was that she was being paid to perform it.

The following three entries are in the current edition of the Marvin Hopkins Progressive College yearbook. The school encourages self expression and prides itself on permitting the students to compose and produce the book themselves under the auspices of a student publication committee. This year the committee decided their yearbook theme should be "Words Matter Most". So they banned student photographs and encouraged them to tell their own story. As a result the entries tell more about the true nature of its pupils than most cosmetically enhanced yearbooks.

Name: Kenny Savage.

Likes: Surfing, surfing and surfing.

Dislikes: My stepmother.

Ambition: Find a Surf Betty and catch the big one at Sunset Village.

We Say: Surf's up Kenny, but watch out for the folks!

Name: Neil Petit.

Likes: Surfin' and Snortin'

Dislikes: Being forced to run in the rat race.

Ambition: Respect.

We Say: We respect the snortin' man.

Name: Brian Lovett.

Likes: Malcolm X, Kurt Cobain and John Lennon.

Dislikes: The pollution of white oppression.

Ambition: None.

We Say: Hey Brian, when's the suicide?

And that says just about all we need to know about the three of them. Apart from the spiritual butterfly that had earlier fluttered its wings and started the storm where the marijuana farm got destroyed, along with the principal's car. Then there was the court appearance which, thanks to the efforts of their expensive defence lawyers, led to a sentence of three months community service. Donations from their parents of a new car for principal Givens, replenishment of the marijuana farm and a sealed envelope for Roxanne turned the sentence into a temporary exclusion from school and a sabbatical at station KPBS-13.

Unaware of any of this, Ray leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the desk and his arms around the back of his neck. It was time to assume the relaxed position of authority for which he strove. "Ok you guys. Heads up. I just been up to see Roxanne, and she tells me we gotta short term situation with consumer rationalization, leading to a shift in sponsorship revenue and deficit expectations. I'm sure you can all guess where this is leading to..."

The three boys looked at each another, then at Ray.

"No worries dude, she'll be apples." smiled Kenny.

"Yeah bro, and you can bet London to a brick on that." nodded Brian wisely.

"Absolutely. It's totally better than a poke in the eye with a hot stick." agreed Neil.

Ray frowned with confusion and disbelief at the evidence dancing on display before his own eyes and ears. His best guess was they were expressing a nonchalant response. His teaching, nurturing, growing-it-into-something-beautiful experiment was no nearer to bearing fruit than it had been at the very beginning. For how could it succeed, when the seeds he was sowing always fell on dumb ground?

"OK. How can I put this?" he continued, ignoring them. "We got no programming budget for the 8pm weekday slot next month. Roxanne says we've gotta get creative with the schedule, otherwise you're all out of a job. Any ideas as to how we can get hold of some free TV time?"

Kenny stuck up his hand like an enthusiastic fourth grader and shrilled "How about if we pull a Clayton's and just lay on some repeats?"

Ray neither knew nor cared what a Clayton's was, but he managed to mentally decipher the gist of the message and exhaled heavily through his teeth, creating a vague whistling sound.

"Well, we got really limited mileage there. We'd be repeating the repeats we already repeated and we don't want a repeat of the FCC on our case yet again. Any other ideas anyone?"

Neil spoke at a slow measured pace, as the thoughts which create and comprise an idea slowly assembled in his mind at the same time as he described them. "Well, Ray, bloke, dude, we could like, go to one of the major studios, do the tour and while we're in there, nick some of their show tapes and run them on KPBS-13".

"What does nick mean?" inquired Ray suspiciously.

"It's like rob or steal or something like that most probably." replied Neil vaguely.

Ray stared back at him, attempting to make eye contact so he could beam his contempt into that wasteland of a brain, but Neil's attention was fixed on his fingernail.

Ray snapped. "Even if we were ever dumb enough to contemplate this, what happens when we run the shows and the studio hears about it and sends their lawyers out for a visit, huh?"

Neil looked up, startled. "Fair suck of the sav, dude. We could say a bloke we'd never eyeballed before and never eyeballed since flogged them to us and we don't know his handle, or where he hangs out, and we just went in like Flynn. Couldn't we?"

Ray quickly decided this was a fight which wasn't worth pursuing. He knew that although Neil's argument sounded faintly exotic at face value, this was merely because the English was incomprehensible. Once it was parsed and translated into something which made sense it would turn into something pitiful, like a beautiful white swan turning into an ugly duckling.

He bellowed. "Well don't any of you geniuses have a single reasonable idea? Don't you have a single functioning brain cell between you?"

Neal squirmed in his seat and muttered "I need the bathroom, man" and staggered out of the room, clutching his groin.

As Brian's gaze followed Neal out of the room, his face started twitching and he fired a surly reply back towards Ray. "Hey sport, haven't you ever thought of trying the net?"

Ray looked back at him quizzically, and motioned him to continue.

"You just might find telly programs out there in the surf that we haven't skinned yet and could download." he shrugged. "I mean, the net means like the whole world, bush and all, and there must be something out there somewhere".

Ray mentally threw away most of Brian's words, examined what remained and realised that the essence of this particular conversation actually had some worth. He stepped up, walked across to Brian's desk and stood over him, peering at his computer monitor screen.

"OK then." he said. "Let's give this a shot. Go to a search engine".

"Now enter the search words Video +Download +Free".

Seconds later the query return results appeared on the screen. "Woohoo! We've hit the jackpot!" whooped Ray, raising a triumphant fist. "2,988,322 web pages found! We're really onto something here".

Then he bent down, started to inspect the screen and muttered "What's this? Debbie DoubleDee meets King Goliath... Alicia Amazon gets it on...Jeanette Juggs...Sylvie StackedUp...What the heck is going on here?!"

"Don't do your block, dude." sighed Brian, his facial twitches having faded away. "You forgot to filter out the porn sites. You need to add -fuck –sex –porn –hardcore –screw –tits to the search string and resubmit the query".

"Include the words TV and guide in the query." added Kenny, "There's an awful lot of garbage out there on the net and we only want shows that are in a tv guide".

"Add the word great as well." said Neal, returning to the room. "There's an awful lot of garbage out there on tv and we only want stuff that's got great reviews".

Brian made the amendments himself and pressed the button. The response flashed back in a microsecond.

"One single web page!" groaned Ray. "We're dead meat".

He tramped back to his desk, muttering "I'll leave it to you to explore the internet while I phone around to see if we can visit any of the major studios and steal something".

Brian stroked his chin as he mulled over the screen. The link description was written in some weird undecipherable foreign language. He clicked on www.gov.sj/execution_of_television. Within seconds he was redirected to the execution's web server and arrived at the website. The typeface was all squiggles and spirals and squirts, and he couldn't understand a damned word of it. However, he noticed some of the links were ftp URLs which meant they were downloadable files, so he just blindly started downloading them. Eventually he amassed around twenty files. He ran the first of them through the media player software and Humvat's image flickered on the computer screen. Brian stared in silence for a second or two and then shouted excitedly "Hey, you two blokes! Get over here and have a butcher's at this. It's some guy in whacky clobber, speaking Double Dutch and beating up an entire army with a wooden stick!"

Ray was once again in Roxanne's office. "We've gotten something from this country called, er, South Jefferstown, and we've been looking over it." he pronounced. "The good news is we've managed to download around 20 hours of footage which will keep the eight pm slot going for four weeks. The bad news is we don't have a clue what it's about because the soundtrack is in some geek language nobody around here can understand. But looking at the acting, my best guess is it's some form of comedy. Do you want me to contact the Jefferstown authorities to find out more details?"

Roxanne visibly shook in her chair. "Hell no, Ray! Right now we've got all this for free, and I'd like to keep it that way. They've done the expensive work by producing the footage and the music. You've simply got to come up with an English dialogue and dub it in. I've every confidence in you and your boys, Ray, every confidence. We'll run it daily, starting next Monday".

"But fer Chrissakes Roxanne!" he roared. "We haven't even done the first episode yet!"

Having taken out the big stick when it came to dealing with Ray, Roxanne now started to beat him about the head with it. "You'd better get those boys started on it right away then. You wouldn't want me to lose confidence in your ability to deliver, would you?"

Ray assembled the boys in order to address his empire and issue forth his imperial decree. "Heads up. Roxanne is sending me to Los Angeles to firm up some production details, so I'll be out of town until Friday. In the meantime she wants you three to create the dialogue for this foreign TV show you downloaded. She wants to be able to start transmitting it at 8pm on the following Monday, so this means the lines have to be completed and ready for laying down on Friday afternoon when I get back. We'll have to work all weekend to get the job completed, so don't make any plans".

His manner was brisk, efficient and to the point. Then he realised the enormity of what he'd just said and what he was about to do. Not only was he leaving those three sweet toothed fools in charge of the candy shop, but he was also leaving them in charge of the apartment above and the basement below.

"I can trust you to do this, can't I?" he asked weakly, in what started off as a statement of intent but ended up as a plea for clemency.

"No worries!" the three of them chorused. Kenny, Neil and Brian each understood the enormity alright. If the job didn't get finished in time then they were fired, and unlikely to find another number which was so cosy it allowed them to take lunchtime and surf time.

A few minutes later Ray departed and they each pored over their own computer screens, pen and notebook at the ready to try and decipher the footage being acted out before them. The aromatic scent of the farm's finest marijuana hung in the air. Neil thoughtfully looked at the scene where Humvat makes his grand entrance. "You know what, cobbers?" he announced. "I'm gonna call this dude Larry O".

"Which dunny seat did that idea come from mate?" enquired Kenny, pushing a finger into his own mouth and imitating a gagging motion. "Shouldn't we be calling him Bruce, Bloke or Digger or something?"

Neil shrugged and, for a second, his masonic mask slipped. "I dunno, he just sorta reminds me of one of those people like Sir Laurence Olivier and Jackie Onassis in the high society sections in old magazines".

Kenny and Brian stared back at him, vacantly unimpressed.

His eyes darted around the room searching for the presence of any prying ears, then he leaned towards them and whispered conspiratorially "If Laurence Olivier were still alive and he went to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, Larry O is the handle he'd be given. I know this from what my mom was telling one of her friends, but it can be our secret, our private joke".

"Hmm. Okay then, Larry O works for me." mused Brian, "And if the guy is called Larry O then how about we call the show Wild About Larry?"

The other two gazed blankly at him. "There was this ancient song called Wild About Harry. It's a play on words. Come on you blokes, don't drag the chain".

"Okay then. And his sheila can be Viv, after Vivien Leigh" added Neil. "Laurence Olivier's wife. She played the part of Scarlet O'Hara in Gone With The Wind".

The three of them nodded at each other sagely, because they all liked that particular movie.

Once the names of the leading characters were established there remained the slight problem of translating the dialogue. Having discussed their overall approach, the three of them sat before their computer screens, playing various downloaded files.

Kenny studied the opening scene on the first download file, showing the Great Guide's birth and the prophecy made at the time about his destiny. There is a tent in a desert. Inside the tent a baby is crying. An old man sitting nearby gibbers something incomprehensible. But what on earth was he saying? Kenny put pen to paper and transcribed the following:

MAN IN TENT: Stone the crows! It's noisier in here than outside a knocking shop at kicking out time! Will somebody shut that flaming ankle biter up?!

Mission accomplished, he then perused the footage of the Great Guide at school with the early display of his genius, where he instructs his teachers. There is a teenage boy at the front of the class. He is scrawling some undecipherable squiggles on the blackboard. A man who is sitting with the kids says something. Everyone laughs. Kenny instantly assumed this kid was Larry as a youngster, and he was being punished at school, probably being made an example of for being stupid. And all he knew so far about the young Larry was that he lived in a tent out in the middle of nowhere. Kenny thought for a while and wrote:

MAN IN CLASS: Okay then, young Larry. You've done your punishment of one hundred lines of 'In future I will inform my teachers before I go gallivanting through the outback to the back of Bourke and along the wallaby track to the Black Stump then past the billabong onto Bullamanka where the crows fly backwards!' Just remember the next time you feel like going walkabout without telling anyone, you'll get TWO hundred lines!

Neil looked at the scene where the Great Guide first displays outstanding warrior abilities. This Larry guy dismounts from his charger and runs over to a bunch of guys, waving some sort of wooden stick at them. He knocks a few of them down and the rest run away in disarray, yet as one, like a flock of swallows flying through the sky at dusk. The guy on the film is shouting something and waving something, but what the hell was going on? Neil paused for thought and scribbled on his notepad.

LARRY O: Go and dip your eyes in cocky shit, you bunch of two pot screamers!

Brian was reviewing the scene where the Great Guide rescues princess Medina from the burning palace and wins her heart. Humvat rides up to the palace and runs inside as everyone else is busy running out. He dashes up the burning stairway, kicks down a door and enters a room. He strides over to the window, picks up Kipdip in his arms and they have some sort of conversation. He smiles, she smiles, they embrace and he carries her out of the room as a burning beam comes crashing down onto the floor behind them. Brian slowly wrote the imagined dialogue of all this on his notepad:

LARRY: Strewth Viv! This place has really gone cactus! That's the last time I let you fire up the barbie - from now on it's strictly dunny duties for you!

Now Brian considered what the woman might say in reply. He had a problem with this, because his exposure to the fairer sex was rare. Well, actually it was non-existent. He decided to imagine what Vivian Leigh might have said in Gone With The Wind and pensively wrote:

VIV: Will you always be here to look after me Larry? Say you will, say you will.

Larry's words were already becoming easier and he promptly penned the response:

LARRY: Of course I'll always be here for you mate, just as sure as there's cold shit in a dead dingo.

However, imagining Viv's words was becoming as hard as the stilted conversation he would be having with her in reality. He decided to surmount the problem by writing what he would like her to say if she were speaking to him instead:

VIV: I love you Larry O and I want your children! I want you to make love to me right here, right now!

He finished with the following piece of repartee:

LARRY: Oh Viv, you're hotter than a piss in a sauna.

He showed this to the others and they quickly decided this was going to be the show's catchphrase, to be used to expedite the script whenever they lacked the inspiration to come up with an original creation.

Later, Kenny was watching the Great Guide and the princess getting married. Humvat and Kipdip emerged from some sort of a church and a line of soldiers outside formed a guard of honour with their swords held up high. The couple walked through the line with their heads stooped. They then paused and Humvat said something to Kipdip. He smiled, she smiled and they shared a passionate kiss. Then they shared an intimate conversation. Kenny wrote:

VIV: Oh Larry. I'm so happy right now. I reckon you and me fit together like a bum and a bucket!

LARRY: Well, sprinkle me with bulldust!

He showed this to the others, and they all agreed this would be used as a second catch-all catchphrase. Then Kenny added a final line with flourish.

LARRY: Oh Viv, you're hotter than a piss in a sauna!

It was now Friday afternoon and the four of them sat around Ray's desk. Kenny, Neil and Brian looked at each other with excitement and pride. Meanwhile Ray read through the various scraps of paper in growing disbelief. He shuffled them around, attempting to create some sense of order from the mess before him, some sense of hope, but it was futile. He put his head in his hands and quietly sobbed. "This is crap!" he wailed. "My life is total crap!"

The three boys looked at each other anxiously and then together at Ray. "Does this mean we've wasted our week, mate?" asked Kenny. "'Cos, I tell you dude, we missed out on some ripper surf to do this stuff".

"No Kenny. It means you've laid waste to what's left of my career".

He forlornly shook his head, rubbed his chin and brooded for a few seconds. Eventually he sighed "We've got to run with this. We don't have time to change anything. There's no choice. Let's just go down to the sound booth and get this thing over and done with".

Ray sat at the mixing desk in the recording room, playing the tapes the computer files had been transferred onto and adjusted the various track settings. The boys stood by a microphone, with a silent screen playing before them and the soundtrack music wafting through the earphones they were wearing. They were running through the script for the final time when a moment of discovery descended upon Brian. He took off his earphones and motioned to other two to do likewise. Then he hissed something to them with a look of embarrassment, and there was a hissing in return and a self conscious shrugging of shoulders. Then they played rock-paper-scissors, and checked amongst themselves to see the results. Neil and Brian laughed triumphantly and pointed at Kenny.

"What's going on?!" snapped Ray, impatiently.

"Kenny gets to do the voiceover for Viv." chuckled Neil as they put their earphones back on, Kenny scowling.

"Right then." commanded Ray. "I'll rewind the tape and we can get started".

On the screen, a camera rode across the desert, as though on horseback, and closed in on a single tent erected by the side of an oasis. The camera moved through the open door flaps and into the tent, where a newborn baby was being held up before its proud parents. The camera scanned around the tent and came to rest upon the face of an old man. As he opened his mouth Brian howled "Stone the crows! It's noisier in here than outside a knocking shop at kicking out time! Will somebody shut that flaming ankle biter up?!"

It was first thing Tuesday morning, and Roxanne sat wearing her executive suit, at her executive desk, in her executive office. Ray entered, his heart full of dread and his bowels threatening to empty his troubles away.

"Good morning Ray. Thank you for coming in early today. I conducted some audience research last night by phoning some folks around town after we showed the first episode of Wild About Larry, and I'd like to discuss the results with you. Please take a seat".

Ray swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew what a call for an early morning meeting with Roxanne meant. It meant the assassin's bullet could be delivered without any witnesses. He felt flecks of sweat building up in his armpits and soaking into his shirt. He could smell it too.

"Er, how did we do?" he asked. He didn't need to ask. The program stank even more than he did right now, for God's sake. His career was finished. Why, oh why, hadn't he fired those goons on their first day?

"Well, Ray. There wasn't much of an audience, but it would appear 92% of those who did tune in really liked what they saw. And 95% of the 92% indicated a willingness to advise their friends and family to tune in. The only negative reaction was from our town lawyer, Eli Levenson. He said that out of a million words in the English language, there are seven that the FCC deems unacceptable for transmission between the hours of 6am and 10pm, and we used three of them in the first episode".

She shuddered slightly and considered for a moment. "We don't want the FCC on our case yet again, so we'll have to transfer the show to the 10pm slot instead. Otherwise, it looks like we may have a hit comedy show on our hands. Congratulations".

There was a dull thud. Roxanne looked up from her notes. Ray had disappeared. She stood up and leant over her executive desk to discover he'd fainted and was lying on his back, prone on the floor.

Ray came round and blinked up at the ceiling. Roxanne's face stood over him, looking down on him, an empty glass in her hand. "Come on Ray. This is no time for goofing around. You and your boys have gotta start delivering the rest of those scripts".

She turned away and returned to her seat.

He struggled to his feet and gradually realised the moist sensation he was feeling was water dripping from his face. As he staggered towards the door Roxanne's voice followed him out of the room.

"If I'm right about this, you might yet be making Romeo and Juliet, Oliver Twist and Tom Sawyer. And it's not often I'm wrong".

Roxanne looked at her audience research notes once again and smiled to herself as she thought about her peers running the neighbouring PBS stations. Pretty soon all those corduroy pants and cashmere sweater wearing sons of bitches would be panting down the phone, begging her to let them have this show. She pictured herself asking each of them "So how much do you want it?", to which they would reply "Oh, Roxanne, you wouldn't believe how much we want it!" and she would smile and reply "Well, how much you got then?"

After so many dormant days and nights, it felt like life might be getting interesting again.

Back in South Jefesta, Doctor Wirliv had just finished translating Chapter 3 of the Book of Finding Contentment. It opens with the following passage:

"Last night I dreamt I was walking across a field of green when a man wearing a black cloak approached me. A hood covered his head 'Do you remember your stolen sheep?' he asked.

'Yes, I do' I replied. 'I was angry when it happened, because it meant me and my family went cold and hungry whilst somebody else was warm and feasting'.

He nodded. 'I was the one who stole your sheep' he said 'And I have come to beg your forgiveness'.

'Forgive you?!' I shouted. 'I will kill you!' and I went to draw my dagger.

'But I am truly sorry.' He stuttered. 'I will do whatever I have to in order to make peace with you'.

I shook my head and cried 'No! I shall have my revenge!'

I went to plunge my dagger into his chest, but suddenly noticed he was not trying to defend himself, nor did he attempt to flee, and something made me stop.

'I would have forgiven you' he said sadly, and pulled back his hood to reveal himself. It was the Inventor".

"The meaning of this dream is that if you can forgive those who truly beg your forgiveness, no matter what act of crime, shame, infamy, sleight, usury, malice, insult or hatred they have committed against you, then you will find contentment within yourself. If, on the other hand, you cannot forgive then both your heart and your mind will remain polluted with anger and aggrieved with injustice which will gnaw away and destroy all the good grace within you. In order to reach the state of contentment you must find forgiveness in your heart".
Chapter Nine

Hello Hollywood!

Larry is attending an official function, dressed in his military uniform of green suit, red tie and peaked cap. He is being presented to an old man who is dressed in regalia and looks like some form of dignitary. He pins a medal to Larry's chest and says "Well done young fella. But I gotta say you look like a pox doctor's clerk, dressed up in all that clobber".

Larry bows down respectfully and as he rises his lips move speechlessly for a split second, before he replies "And your face looks like a Packapoo ticket, mate".

He then moves into an adjoining room where a reception party is in progress, and for the first time he notices Viv. She is standing on the other side of the room, engaged in conversation with an older man who has also received an award. Larry's eyes light up as he examines her from a distance. She has fair hair neatly tied back in a bun and is wearing an evening dress which lightly cascades over her ample cleavage, follows the narrowing line through to her waist and then pushes gloriously outward, clinging to the expanse of her hips and finally hangs loosely about her long, lithe legs. She is gorgeous and the sight of her almost takes his breath away. He doesn't need to say or do anything, for the reaction in his eyes reveals his intentions. He must possess her.

Larry inspects himself in a wall mirror and adjusts his face, hair and clothing. Then he boldly saunters across to Viv and her accomplice, gatecrashing their conversation without waiting for an invitation to join in. He takes her hand in his and lifts it as if to place a kiss upon it, looks deeply into her eyes with the hint of a dashing reprobate and says "G'day sheila. The name's Larry O, but you can call me Larry".

With a slight growl she rebuffs his intrusion by moving back half a step, offering out the full length of her arm so the kiss remains at a formal distance and replies in her deep, almost male voice. "And I'm Viv, but you can call me Your Highness".

She then ignores him and turns away to return to her prior conversation with the older man, who has been patiently looking on. In response Larry gets angry and impetuously takes her by the upper arm and leads her away to the ballroom dance floor. Over his shoulder, he says to the older man "Listen grandad, you're pissing in the wind here. This sheila only parks behind the girls bike shed, if you catch my meaning".

Viv is outraged and attempts to escape from his grasp by pulling her arm away from his hand. "What do you think you're doing?" she screams in her husky voice. "Go and stick your head up a koala's bum!"

He realises his bravado has taken him too far and he tries to soothe her.

"Don't go berko!" he pleads. "I just thought maybe you and me could crack a tinnie or two, and then go back to mine and dance the chocolate cha-cha. I've only just met you and I'm madly in love with you already Viv!"

She glares at him and hisses "Don't you start pissing on my back and try to tell me it's raining, sport!"

She breaks free and storms out of the room.

The aeroplane landed with a gentle thud and a plume of burning tyre rubber rose up from the runway. As it screeched to a halt Humvat and Parvark strained from their seats and peered excitedly out of a window, feasting upon the glorious view of grass and tarmac. At long last the dream of the United States of America was an undeniable, touchable reality.

Getting there was certainly a voyage of endurance. Firstly they were forced to remain in hiding with Kinbus and Kipdip while the riots continued outside. The government put a reward on Humvat's head, which impressed Kipdip no end. She continually teased him by calling him "My sexy little rebel". Meanwhile Kinbus sat in his comfy chair, shaking his head and wondering how to get Kipdip away from this danger she hankered for, and instead weld her to Carbet's side.

In the meantime they waited for the Execution of Travel to supply their tickets for America. Hostile diplomatic relations between the two countries at every level of government didn't help this process. Eventually the problem was resolved by using illicit contacts in North Jefesta to obtain tickets departing from there. A fishing boat was arranged for the two of them to escape across the narrow strait separating the two islands, and now they were ready to go. Kipdip stepped out in her disguise to collect the tickets from the Guide.

Leaving South Jefesta was an easy decision for Humvat. After all, he had in truth very little to leave behind. His sole regret was that he and Kipdip seemed to have formed a relationship which went beyond friendship, yet didn't quite approach the giddy heights of romance.

For her part, the fact he was now an official revolutionary suddenly made him exotic and interesting. For his part, he didn't care why she should suddenly find an interest in him, just so long as she did. Given time and a chance, he calculated whatever boundaries there were between them could be surmounted. He was tempted to stay for this opportunity alone, but knew the longer he spent with her, the greater the chances were of the authorities finding them. He couldn't allow himself to put her in any more danger than he already had.

Parvark was guilty by association and he didn't really have any say in the matter. He was being dragged along by forces beyond his control.

Kipdip returned from her audience at the palace armed with two plane tickets, US dollars, North Jefestan currency and fake foreign passports, all supplied by the Guide along with his best wishes. He supplied them with new suits, though the sizes were only approximate, and even included a Siminite-English dictionary to help surmount the language barriers they were bound to encounter. The hour of departure had arrived.

They crept down to the pebble beach during darkness, found the boat and pushed it into the sea. At that moment both Humvat and Kipdip came to understand the enormity of the occasion. He was leaving and he could never come back. They might never meet again, and unspoken words and feelings would always remain unspoken. Belatedly they both jumped the hurdle separating them and finally embraced with the unresolved passion they carried for each other. Humvat kissed her neck and smelt the fragrance of the talc she'd dabbed over herself after washing earlier. He gently sniffed it, knowing that whenever he caught a scent resembling this one in the future, it would bring back memories of this moment with her.

"When I become a Hollywood star, I'll send for you." he sobbed.

Kipdip also started to shed tears.

Parvark shouted to him that he was in danger of missing the boat, so Humvat reluctantly broke away from her svelte lips, bounded through the waves and Parvark pulled him aboard.

"I'll wait for you Humvat!" she cried into the darkness.

They waved and shouted to each other until they completely vanished from each other's sight and sound.

Reaching North Jefesta proved to be an arduous task, never mind America. The craft they were given was a sailing boat, but the wind kept changing direction and neither of them had any idea of how to tack. Every time they thought they'd reached the other side of the strait they were blown back towards the coast of South Jefesta. Then the wind dropped again and they merely floated along with the currents.

When they eventually did make landfall they were so tired and hungry it took the best part of a week to recuperate. On arrival they discovered, somewhat to their surprise, that they blended in quite easily with the locals. The Semonite tongue was extremely similar to their own, and people assumed they simply spoke a remote dialect.

They decided they might as well use up all their North Jefestan currency before travelling on, excusing their lush behaviour with the argument they weren't going to be able to spend it anywhere else. Having exhausted most of it on food, wine and song, Parvark belatedly realised they were now in a country which was friendly with the west. This meant they could exchange the money for foreign currency, and they collected nearly one hundred dollars to add to those supplied by the Guide. Having no more local money to spend and no more reason to stay, they bid a fond farewell to North Jefesta. With air tickets in hand and determination in their hearts, they set off on the final leg of their trip, and now they were here.

The excitement of arriving at their destination temporarily banished away any tiredness they felt. Both of them disembarked with a warm handshake for the flight attendants and a sparkle in their step. Parvark yearned to fall to his knees and plant kisses all over the ground, but managed to limit himself to a cry of "Praise be America, land of free!" and by way of explanation, he idiotically grinned "I am loving this country!"

Humvat peered out at the throng of departing and arriving aeroplanes wandering across the airport, and looked up into the blue sky. Even the sun had come out to shine a welcoming smile upon them.

They then followed the other lost and confused travellers trudging aimlessly out of the bowels of the airport. They walked along corridors, up escalators and down steps for what seemed like mile after strength sapping mile. They were weary by the time they reached the immigration control hall, where a dam consisting of four manned kiosks funnelled the flood of arrivals into a long snaking river of a queue.

Humvat warily scanned each kiosk to try and assess the likely merits or potential problems that might lie beneath the uniforms of each of the officers manning them. If there was a single crucial point in the long list of separate steps forming their escape plan then this was it, because they were dependant upon an outcome which was entirely out of their hands. If their requests for entry into this country were rejected by any one of these solitary men, then the game would be over. He knew what to expect. They would be tortured and interrogated. Both their bodies and minds would be systematically broken apart, piece by piece, until they confessed that the passports were fakes and they were really from South Jefesta. Then they would be humiliated, deported back home and thence face certain death. He mentally limbered up to give the performance of his life.

The queue rhythmically started, stuttered and stopped, started, stuttered and stopped. He began to sweat profusely as he was gradually pushed towards the kiosk, and the shadowy figure inside whom he'd superstitiously decided would be best to avoid. He tried to clear his throat as he neared his moment of destiny, and then all of a sudden it was upon him as the queue jerked into life once again. He shakily handed the passport to his uniformed arbiter, and waited for the crushing weight of the discriminating hand of United States law to be placed upon his shoulder. To be accused, unmasked and led away to await that dreaded voyage back to execution.

Instead the strangest thing ever happened. The man returned the passport, smiled and said. "Welcome to the United States of America, Larry. I hope you enjoy your stay".

Parvark – who was immediately behind him in the queue – was equally bewildered when he witnessed this informal greeting. He handed over his own fake passport at the next kiosk. The immigration control officer here hardened his features as he scrutinised both the document and Parvark. "What's the purpose of your visit?" he barked.

"I visit with him." replied Parvark, gulping and pointing towards Humvat.

"On your way." ordered the officer, bidding him through with the wave of a hand, though he made it sound more like a warning than an invitation.

Parvark caught up with Humvat as they both hurried out of the immigration hall and hissed. "What was all that about?"

"I don't have a clue." hissed Humvat in reply. "He called me by the name of Larry for some reason. Let's get out of here before they realise they've made a mistake and drag us off to the cells".

They then followed a series of signs which led to a large hall where they were directed to retrieve their baggage from a grinding, grunting carousel which promised far more speed than it ever delivered. While they waited for their cases to appear, one of the airport workers waved at Humvat. "Hey, Larry!" he shouted. "How ya doin?!"

Humvat looked at the man quizzically and enquired "You talking at me?"

"Sure am, Larry." replied the man, cheerfully.

"You make mistake." lectured Humvat. "I no Larry".

"Whatever you say Larry." smiled the man as he walked off.

Humvat shook his head, perplexed by the irrationality of these American people who took it into their heads to insist he was some stranger whom he plainly wasn't.

Their cases eventually spewed out and they made their way through customs and emerged from the arrivals hall into the main concourse of the airport. They both jumped up and down and hugged each other. "We've made it!" shrieked Humvat through a manic grin.

"We have sanctuary in the land of the free!" cried Parvark.

"Hello Hollywood!" sang Humvat.

"Bye bye Larry!" waved one of the female passengers as she departed.

"Bye bye." replied Humvat absentmindedly.

"Right then." announced Parvark importantly. "Let's find a taxi to take us to the studios. My contact should be able to get us some work pretty quickly".

With tired glazed eyes they walked along, looking up at signs hanging from the ceiling until they came across a black outline diagram of a taxi. An upward arrow alongside it directed them to the next floor. Humvat was beginning to feel exhaustion seeping into him, so rather than walk any further he joined the queue filing onto the escalator and hopped aboard. He allowed the machine to take the weight of his baggage and yawned his tiredness away with a smile which could scarcely believe he had made it to this place.

He looked down at Parvark who stood a few places behind him. As the moving steps approached the top of their circuit, the young man standing on the one above him accidentally dropped his sunglasses on the steps. They got caught up in the grating, and tumbled around and around as he awkwardly tried to pick them up in vain. But the escalator did not stop for minor obstacles, and kept on turning. Like a line of dominoes set up to fall against each other, Humvat tumbled into him, and the man behind Humvat tumbled into him and Parvark in turn tumbled into him so the four of them landed in a disjointed collection on the floor.

The young man who caused all this with his abject fumbling for his glasses was contritely embarrassed. He offered sincere apologies to all three injured parties. Humvat and Parvark attempted to extricate themselves with a modicum of dignity and picked up their cases.

"Idiots! These Americans are idiots!" grumbled Humvat as the red faced young man and the other man walked at some speed around a corner and out of sight. It puzzled him that those two now seemed to be joined together, whereas previously they were separate strangers. It was almost like they were accomplices. Then he felt a sudden realisation that not everything about him was as it should be. Something somewhere was missing. He patted the various parts of his body where pockets were supposed to be until he reached his backside. "Holy Baqra!" he gasped in a panic. "I've lost my wallet!" Then he had a further realisation. "No! Those American idiots have stolen my wallet! All of our money is in it! Quick Parvark! Run after them!"

Both Humvat and Parvark immediately gave chase but their robbers were gone.

"They must know this airport inside out." puffed Parvark, breathing heavily. "They're probably miles away by now".

"Well, this is a fine welcome to America." heaved Humvat. "We've only been here two minutes and we've been robbed already. I'm not sure I love this country so much after all".

They returned to guard their cases, lest they be stolen as well and sat on them as they emptied their pockets to see how much loose change they could rustle up. They counted a grand total of ninety two dollars and fifteen cents between them.

"Your Hollywood contact had better be good." muttered Humvat with the unspoken hint of a threat.

They reached the taxi rank outside and joined another shuffling queue. The sky overhead started to grow overcast along with their mood. Eventually they reached the front of the queue.

The taxi window wound down. "Where to gents?" asked the driver.

"How much monies to Hollywood?" asked Humvat in reply.

"Hollywood? Hmm." He scratched his chin as he performed a mental calculation. "It'll be around 50 dollars".

Humvat nodded. "Okay. We have enough monies".

As the cabbie drove them out of the airport complex and into the freeway system, Parvark was struck by an idea and asked the driver. "We visit America for new time. Tell, does my friend look like famous person in your country?"

The cabbie glanced up at his rear view mirror. "Yeah, I guess he looks a bit like Larry O, the guy on TV".

"What you know of this Larry?" interrupted Humvat.

"Well, he's Australian and the program is about him saying all these whacky phrases like 'It's as scarce as rocking horse shit' and 'It's all between asshole and breakfast'". He sniggered as a particularly amusing memory of Larry sprang forth. "It's pretty funny. Lotsa folks are talking about it right now. It's real popular".

"Where we find it?" continued Parvark.

"Hmm, it plays on PBS, I believe".

The taxi drove along the freeway and they both excitedly pointed out the various billboards, signposts and skyscrapers. "Ah, isn't California such an inspiring landscape?" smiled Parvark. "With all these huge buildings, these monuments to the gods".

The taxi driver glanced in his rear view mirror, distracted by someone in the back speaking some weird foreign language.

Humvat noted that they seemed to be travelling a long journey, and after a while the taxi drove off of the freeway and into a suburban sprawl. "Whereabouts in Hollywood did you guys want to go?" asked the cabbie.

"Place where studios are." replied Parvark.

"What studios?"

"Universal, MGM, United Artists. Any is good".

"Excuse me sir, but whereabouts do you want?"

Humvat leaned forwards towards the driver's seat and smiled condescendingly. "They near big Hollywood sign on hill, not in these flat streets".

Then the penny dropped – at least for the cabbie – and he immediately stopped the car. He turned back in his seat to face them.

"Listen gents, I'm afraid you've made a big mistake here. You're looking for Hollywood, California but this is Hollywood, Florida. You guys have flown into Miami airport when you should've flown into Los Angeles".

They both looked at him blankly with a stupefied shock which spoke with a silence of its own. After a few seconds Parvark stuttered. "How far to other Hollywood?"

"I'd say about two and a half thousand miles. You want the West Coast but you're on the East Coast".

"Oh shit." muttered Parvark, holding his face and rocking back and forth in a trance-like state.

This couldn't be happening. There must be some explanation. Surely they hadn't taken all those chances and invested all their heroic effort into this journey of hope and glory, merely to be sent to the wrong place, thousands of miles in the wrong direction by an idiot clerk at the Execution of Travel.

After a few more moments Humvat broke the tension. "How much monies we owe?" he asked, fearful of the answer.

"Fifty dollars dead." said the cabbie. It was actually sixty three dollars and seventy cents, but he felt a token of pity towards these two foreign idiots. They gathered together the money, handed it over and wandered out of the cab in a shocked daze as the taxi driver unloaded their luggage from the car trunk.

They stood by the roadside with their cases lying on the sidewalk and watched the taxi drive away. Humvat turned on Parvark, waved his arms in the air like a distraught windmill and screamed. "This is just marvellous, this is! We're stuck in the middle of nowhere, thousands of miles away from where we should be and with forty dollars between us. What are we going to do now? Where are your famously helpful contacts now?"

Parvark spat back. "Don't start on me, you miserable lump of monkey shit! If you hadn't just lost all our money back there we could still get plane tickets to Los Angeles instead of dying of thirst and hunger in this godforsaken place!"

"Lost? I was robbed damn you! A traumatic event from which I'm still suffering, I might add".

Parvark sat on his case with his head in his hands and began to quietly sob.

"Listen," sighed Humvat. "Fighting each other isn't going to get us anywhere. We need to come up with a plan, and we need to come up with it fast".

He patted a comforting hand on Parvark's shoulder and then walked around in a small circle, scanning the horizon. "Maybe we can start by finding a barn to sleep in for the next couple of nights." he said hopefully, knowing full well in his own heart all he could see was a suburban vista of single story houses.

"Or maybe we can rob someone. Or maybe we should head back to the airport and seek asylum".

The grey clouds started to drip down a spitting rain as though a huge wet sponge was being slowly squeezed by an invisible giant hand high above them.

Humvat stood by the road, wistfully surveying the distance. A passing car unexpectedly squealed to a halt, reversed back towards them and the face of an overweight, middle aged woman popped out of the driver's window. "Oh my God!" she shrieked. "I don't believe it! Is it you? It is you! Oh my God! I'm such a fan of yours! What on earth are you doing out here?"

"Trying to get to airport." sighed Humvat, his deep troubled thoughts not having registered she also seemed to think he was this someone else person.

"I'm headed that way. I can give you a ride." she offered.

"Are you for sure?" replied Humvat, taken aback by this show of generosity.

She smiled kindly. "It would be an absolute honor. I won't take no for an answer".

They loaded their cases into the back of her car and set off on the freeway back towards Miami.

"Oh boy, I'm gonna dine out on this for the rest of my life." she beamed proudly as they made their way back past the billboards and skyscrapers they'd recently passed, but now travelling in the opposite direction. Parvark found them much less impressive, now he knew they didn't represent California after all.

"Just think of it." she gushed. "Me driving along with Larry O sitting in my car. This is so weird. You're gonna have to let me take some pictures".

"But I - " started Humvat.

"Larry thanks you for your favour." interrupted Parvark, realising this resemblance had just bought them a free ride they would not be receiving otherwise.

After a few minutes of idle banter she asked "Larry, I know this might sound strange, but can you do one of your lines for me? I think it's such a turn on, and when I get home my boyfriend won't know what's hit him".

Humvat nervously scratched his nose and glanced across at Parvark, who was wide eyed and nodding his head. "Okay, I try".

"Right." she giggled. "It's the line where you say 'Hey babe, you're hotter than a piss in a sauna'. I love that line".

Humvat nervously cleared his throat as he always did before a performance and spoke unsteadily as he always did. "Hey babe, you're hitter than a poss in a sauna".

"No, sorry, that is wrong." he flustered, and tried again. "Hey babe, you're shotter than a piss in a flauna. No, sorry, is wrong. Please give me moments for prepare".

She glanced across at him inquisitively then focussed back on the road ahead, the fixed grin on her face rapidly losing its permanence.

After a few more apprehensive minutes of driving in silence, and waiting for this magic composure to materialise, she said "Okay then Larry, how about you do the one about being in the middle of woop-woop?"

Humvat picked at the imaginary scratch on his nose, coughed loudly and gave up the pretence with a shrug of his shoulders.

"I no remember that one." he apologised as he stared uncomfortably out of the side window.

She glanced across at him again, this time retaining the glare. "You're not Larry, are you?" she blurted with an amalgam of fear, disappointment, anger and realisation in her eyes.

Humvat shook his head miserably in an admission of guilt.

She pulled off of the freeway at the next exit and demanded they and their baggage leave her car immediately.

"And to think I was going to have sex with you!" she retorted as the tyres screeched and the car lurched forward.

"My loss." Humvat mumbled to himself as they watched the second car of the day speed away.

Parvark quickly arrived at a decision and declared "You know what Humvat? You're really going to have to learn to speak English like this Larry person if you're going to succeed in this country".

And then he noticed the more industrialised surroundings of the warehouse and factory units now around them. "At least we're in a more promising part of the city. Maybe we can get a bus back to the airport from here".

He picked up his case and started to walk through the drizzle in what seemed like the most promising direction.

They wandered aimlessly for a while through the empty expanse of an area which seemed to be devoid of both people and traffic. Eventually they gave up and sat on the sidewalk in the drizzle with their cases on their heads, so they could ponder and review their situation. They concluded their immediate problem was that they possessed little money. Forty two dollars and fifteen cents, to be precise, stood between them and absolute poverty. But an application for political asylum would, on review, be too dangerous. Firstly they would become a visible part of the system rather than anonymous wandering minstrels, and possibly fall foul of the South Jefestan authorities. Secondly, they might get refused and deported back to South Jefesta anyhow. So the obvious solution was to find some paying work immediately. Parvark noticed a damp discarded newspaper on the ground, carefully picked it up and thumbed through it until he came to the Classifieds section. He checked through the situations vacant but, although there were lots of positions advertised, there was nothing in there which struck him as suitable. It was all accountants, clerical, computer programmers and health administrators and suchlike.

"I suppose we could get jobs working in a hamburger restaurant." pondered Humvat, his groaning stomach reminding him it had been a long time since his last meal. "Do you think we'd get to eat for free?"

"Probably." replied Parvark absently as he turned a page, browsing through the vacancies. And then the following advertisement hit him, square in the face, smack between the eyes.

Amazing Career Opportunity!

Do you enjoy travelling? Do you enjoy excitement? Do you enjoy making money?

If you can answer Yes to the three questions above then you may have what it takes to become a member of our sales team, travelling from Florida to California.

To book your seat on our adventure call Mr Tony Valento on 212 465 3322 between the hours of 11am and 5pm. Only people aged over 18 and free to travel should apply.

"This is perfect!" beamed Parvark as he pointed it out to Humvat. "What could be better? Not only do we get to travel to California for free, but we get paid at the same time!"

Humvat nodded approvingly. "This," he smiled, "Is destiny at work". As if to order, the drizzling rain ceased and a small patch of blue appeared in the sky.

They found a payphone, Parvark dialled the number and a female voice answered the phone with a gruff "Yeah?"

"Mister Tony Valento, if please?" he asked.

She didn't respond. He heard her voice in the background shouting "Tony! It's the goddamned phone again!"

There was the muffled sound of a male voice muttering in the background, and then a bright and breezy "Hello. Valento speaking".

"Hi, there is job in newspaper..." started Parvark.

"Okay. Are you over eighteen years of age?"

"Yes I am".

"Are you free to travel?"

"Yes I am".

"Then come up for an interview right now. Do you know the Portland Plaza Motel? It's downtown, on Lexington and San Simeon".

"No, but I find it".

"Good. See you soon then. What's your name by the way, son?"

"My name is Parvark. Can I bring friend? His name is Humvat".

"Is he over eighteen years of age and free to travel?"

"Yes".

"Sure. The more the merrier".

Parvark put the phone down and faced Humvat. "The good news is we have an interview for the job right now. The bad news is we've got to spend some more money on another taxi".

From out of the vacant wasteland a cab appeared and stopped when they hailed it. Maybe destiny was at work after all.

After a fifteen dollar taxi ride they walked around the junction of Lexington Avenue and San Simeon Boulevard, searching in vain for the grand plaza building where the interview was to take place. They were now in a neighbourhood teeming with cars and people and the noise which came with them. They walked over to a nearby tree lined street where there was a market. The first stall they came across was a hot dog vendor. They smelt the hot frankfurters and sizzling onions, felt their empty stomachs and decided to lavish some of their precious money on themselves. They walked along the street as they ate, first past a sweet sugared candy floss stand and then the orange, lemon and lime aroma of Cuban food. They stopped and looked down the line of stalls where people from Mexico, Brazil and the Caribbean were selling their native foods. At the end was a farmer's market selling meats, vegetables and dairy produce. Sandwiched in between these were stalls selling cheap Chinese imports – watches, sunglasses and suchlike. Nearby some musicians played a Latino beat on electric guitar and drums. Meanwhile a street performer wearing a blue painted cardboard box moved amongst the crowd of people, proclaiming himself to be "The Human Jukebox." If you put a coin in the cardboard slot and pushed a button he'd sing the tune selected.

Parvark finished his hotdog and wiped his mouth with a tissue.

"This is all very well and I could spend all day wandering around here," he said. "But we've got an interview to find".

A beautiful young woman with large blue eyes, olive skin and straight black hair sat on a wall nearby. "Hi" she smiled at him. "Would you like some company this afternoon?"

Parvark looked her up and down, peered into her eyes and slowly shook his head. "I like company," he sighed wistfully. "But I no got monies".

She smiled a condolence at him and shrugged her shoulders, as if to say that while she might be many things, she wasn't for free.

Humvat spotted an old woman slowly walking along the street ahead of them, balancing precariously on her high heels as she tottered along. They briskly strode up behind her.

"Excuse, madam," he shouted above the noise of beeping traffic, "Where is Portland Plaza Motel?"

She turned around and smiled coyly at them. They started to smile in return but as they beheld her, their eyes fought to conceal their horror. Her smile was missing two front teeth and her face wore several days worth of stubble beneath the liberally applied make up. Her tattered hair consisted of a worn and matted wig. In short, this woman was a middle-aged man wearing a torn skirt and sporting a band-aid on his hairy knee.

"Which building wath that?" she lisped as she eyed them up and licked her lips deliciously, as though she might be selecting her favourite flavour of ice-cream.

"Portland Plaza Motel." faltered Parvark.

She or he or it pointed with a dainty finger across the road towards an Art Deco style building which had withered with age. "I think you'll find thath the Portland Platha young man".

They warily stared across at the faded façade and mumbled thanks.

"Well, don't I get a kith then?" she asked, puckering up her lips.

They politely declined and politely ran for their lives across the road, desperately dodging the trucks, bikes and cars and hoping she wouldn't be able to chase after them.

"These Americans are lunatics!" shouted Humvat, over the noise.

They walked towards the Motel and passed a woman who was sitting upon a neatly folded blanket spread out on the sidewalk. She was studiously reading a paperback book. She looked youngish and well cared for. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. Her clothes, though showing signs of fading and aging, were obviously clean. She looked up at them, put the book down and held out a small tin. "Excuse me sirs," she smiled weakly. "Do you have any loose change you wouldn't mind losing?"

She pointed towards a small placard on the blanket which announced "Homeless, through no fault of my own. Please help".

Humvat stared down at her, motionless, in a state of shock.

"No, very sorry." mumbled Parvark, dragging him along by the arm.

"Sweet Baqra!" gasped Humvat, coming back to his senses and shaking his head. "I never imagined in my worst nightmares that there might be beggars in this nation".

Upon inspection the sign "P rtland Pla a otel" was hanging on a chain above a door, slowly swaying in the gentle breeze. They walked past the peeling white paint and in through the entrance. Humvat ushered Parvark into the gentlemen's toilet, both of them still clutching their cases.

Once inside he said brusquely "Right then. Our moment of destiny has arrived, at this time and this place and we must travel to meet it. If we pass this test then we get ourselves back on track to the Hollywood in California. If we fail then the future is too awful to even contemplate. We've only got the one opportunity to make a good impression so let's smarten up our presentations".

They opened the cases and rummaged around for their best clothes and changed into them. They reappeared in the lobby wearing their creased, ill-fitting suits and approached the reception desk, which was bathed in a dingy half light.

Parvark announced. "I am Parvark and he is Humvat. We see mister Tony Valento for appointment".

The receptionist pursed the faintest of forced smiles and pointed them towards a group of people in a corner of the lobby. All were diligently filling in forms.

"Can we leave here?" asked Humvat, pointing to the cases. The receptionist sniffily acquiesced with a curt nod.

A girl approached them and asked. "Are you two here for interviews?"

Fully aware of the seriousness of the moment, Parvark nervously nodded. Humvat, though, was dumbstruck by her attractiveness and regarded her with the possibilities of romantic interest. He did truly love Kipdip but she was, after all, a long distance away and perhaps snuggling up to Carbet at that very moment for all he knew. Unaware she was being romanced, the girl sullenly handed them each a clipboard with a pen attached to a length of string. She instructed them to sit down and fill out the forms on the clipboard as fully as possible

Humvat pored over his form. At the top, in bold print was the legend "Valine Inc. Employment Application." Then below this was the following statement. "All job applicants will be considered regardless of race, color, religion, sex, age, national origin or handicap". These words of respect for life, for the world at large, reassured him. Then followed a number of sections which required him to write details about himself. Remembering the attractive girl's advice to fully commit his details, he diligently filled them in and finished just after Parvark. The girl then collected the clipboards and told them to take the application forms and proceed to the interview room along the main corridor.

They found a door with a handwritten sign "Interview Room" stuck to it, knocked and waited. A few seconds later, a smiling boy emerged from the room. A cheery male voice from within followed him, saying "We'll see you at eight tonight".

Then they were beckoned into the room by the man with the voice. He stood up from behind a long table with a large old television perched at one end. "How do you do, boys?" he grinned. He offered each of them a firm handshake. "I'm Tony Valento. Pleased to make your acquaintance".

They introduced themselves and he bade them to sit down. "Okay." he began. "I guess you're asking yourselves what this is all about".

They weren't actually. As far as they were aware they already knew what it was all about. It was simple. Travel for free and get paid for it. "It's not all about travelling for free and getting paid for it." he continued. "There's work to be done along the way as well. We represent a product called Deterjeron, which is the premier cleaning solution in the marketplace. But we don't sell it through normal sales channels, such as chain stores, because we don't believe that gives the public the most cost effective benefits. Instead we market it directly ourselves through our mobile sales force, and we're planning on travelling across the country from the East Coast to the West Coast, stopping off at a number of places along the way".

"Which places?" interrupted Humvat impatiently. He wanted to make sure he was going to the right Hollywood this time.

"Well let me see now. There are 14 of them." Valento pondered as he tallied the names off. "Orlando, Tampa, Tallahassee, Mobile, Birmingham, New Orleans, Houston, San Antonio, Phoenix, Tucson, Las Vegas, Los Angeles and San Francisco. How many was that? Thirteen? There's one more.... Oh yeah – El Paso".

Humvat was impressed by this long list of place names. There would be much American culture for him to soak up and help further his acting career. He reasoned that maybe he wasn't in such a hurry to get to Hollywood after all. It would still be there in a few months time, wouldn't it?

Parvark on the other hand wasn't so happy. He had ambitious plans for a career in Hollywood which was already waiting for him, and all this travelling represented obstacles and delays. They both kept a guarded silence.

"Okay then," continued Valento. "Let's have a look through your résumés on the application forms".

They handed them over to him and he scanned the top of each one and pointed to them in turn. "So you're Humvat Virit and you're Parvark Laska. Is that correct?"

They nodded their heads.

"It says here your home addresses are in The Peoples Republic of South Jefesta".

They both nodded their heads.

"Is that because you don't have a home address in the United States?"

They both nodded.

"Humvat, you haven't filled in the educational section".

Humvat nodded. "I have no educate. I was goatherd from child. I educate myself".

"Hmm. And you've both ticked that you're over eighteen years of age but you filled in your dates of birth as being in the years 3586 and 3588".

"Yes." nodded Parvark. "I born in year 3586 AB".

"AB?"

"After Baqra".

"And I born in year 3588 AB." offered Humvat.

Valento seemed a little confused. "Let me get this straight Parvark. For the section where you have to fill in details of any Military Service you may have undertaken you've written that you completed twelve months in the Republican Guard...."

"Yes. In army of People's Republic of South Jefesta".

Valento looked even more confused. "Okay. And for the question 'Have you ever been accused or convicted of a criminal felony', you Parvark have replied no, no, absolutely not, whereas you Humvat have replied Yes, and that you were accused of being an enemy of the state. Can you please elaborate on this?"

Humvat shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. "Er, it was mistake. I also mean to say no, no, absolutely not".

Valento stared hard at the two of them, not sure what to make of it all. "Well, I tell you what." he laughed. "I hired two guys recently from South Jefesta and they produced record sales figures, so I'd never turn down anyone from South Jefesta, no sir".

Then he looked up from the application forms. "There's just this thing about your dates of birth. You are both aged over eighteen years and free to travel, aren't you?"

They both nodded furiously.

"Well, in that case welcome to the Deterjeron Sales Crew." he beamed, offering each of them yet another firm handshake and a form.

"How do you feel about coming down here tonight? Then you can start the job first thing in the morning. I just need you to sign these contracts of employment".

"That is most excelling." beamed Humvat, accepting and returning the handshake with vigour and signing his signature on the form. Parvark, however shook hands and signed with a reluctance born of the wariness of a keen sense of survival which only comes to one who has previously been betrayed. Even if this really was a case of destiny at work, it was all beginning to sound just a bit too good to be true.

There was a knock on the door. "That'll be the next interview. Sorry guys, but I'm going to have to wrap this one up now. See you later".

Humvat rose in a stunned elation, and as they opened the door and went to walk out of the room Valento shouted after them "See you at seven tonight then guys!" The next nervous candidate waiting outside in the corridor seemed duly impressed by this, as they closed the door behind them and headed back towards reception.

Inside the interview room, Valento picked up the phone on his desk and smiled as he spoke. "We've got two hot ones on their way back to reception. They're homeless mongrels and they've got nowhere else to go. Be good to them and they'll be ours".

He replaced the receiver and cheerily called out "Come on in!" and the next interviewee turned the door handle.

Back in South Jefesta, Doctor Wirliv was perusing his latest translated text from the Book of Finding Contentment. He read through the text, marvelling at the words.

"Last night I dreamt I was walking down a road when I came across a man walking ahead of me. He stopped, beckoned me over and said to me 'I am extremely wealthy. I live in a palace which is full of servants. I eat the best joints of meat and drink the finest wine every day. I have gold, jewels, silken clothes and the finest furniture. I have a beautiful wife who wants for nothing, yet I feel an emptiness inside of me. I cannot understand why this should be'.

We carried on walking and talking together, and we then came across a beggar. 'Oh please help me masters!' he wailed. 'I have no money, I have no possessions and I only eat rotten vegetables whenever I can scavenge them. My life is so miserable and I am so unhappy'.

I bade him to join us, and the three of us walked and talked. Then I had an idea, and said to the rich man 'Why don't you give half your fortune to this poor man. Then each of you can live in a middle degree of comfort rather than at the extremities'.

They regarded me, looked at each other and smiled".

"The meaning of this dream is that you will find no contentment in pursuing a life style of accruing possessions simply for the sake of convenience. Contentment is instead achieved by sharing your chattels with others who have need of them. You should strive to reach the position where you have enough money to live without discomfort, yet are not surrounded by material goods you don't require. If you care more about gaining grace through good acts than you do about money, then you will find you have reached a state of contentment".

Chapter Ten

Godliness Through Deterjeron

Larry is playing with a young boy and girl in a room in a house. It would appear Larry Junior and Viv Junior are progressing through life. Larry Junior is holding a wooden cudgel and waves it in the air.

"Flaming Hell son!" cries Larry. "Don't go off like a frog in a sock with that thing! If you're not careful you'll stir the possum and we'll all come a gutzer when your mother gets home".

"Sorry dad" mumbles Larry Junior. "I've got a cricket match next week and I was just trying to get some practise in".

Larry examines the cudgel and asks "What kind of a cricket bat do you call this then? It's as rough as an old man's donger!"

Larry Junior ponders for a while and replies "Well, it's the kind of bat you use for playing against the poms dad, so you can hit them over the head at the same time".

Larry laughs loudly (though he only appears to be smiling) and ruffles a hand through his son's hair. "Fair do's son. You're as cunning as a dunny rat and game as Ned Kelly".

Then he walks across towards Viv Junior and sits next to her. She is dressed in a miniature nurse's uniform and is playing with a doll. The doll has imitation blood marks on various parts of its clothing, and most of its limbs are bandaged. She is dabbing some sort of medicinal looking liquid on the blood stained parts of the doll's torso.

Larry prods a finger towards the doll. "What are you up to there then, my little two pot screamer?"

She looks up at him, proudly smiles and says "I'm rubbing some Vegemite on my dolly Matilda, dad".

"Well it'll certainly put hairs on her chest!" he chortles and gets up and walks away.

As he leaves the room he sighs "You're both as mad as a gum tree full of galahs", even though he doesn't appear to be sighing.
Humvat and Parvark returned to the motel beneath the cloak of falling darkness. The middle class beggar woman was still patiently sitting outside on her blanket, reading her book and holding out her collection tin to passers-by. Humvat refused to pass anywhere near her aura, lest he be inflicted with the same bad fortune which had befallen her. So instead they went around the back and crept across the car park clutching their suitcases, carrying the meagre reassurance of their worldly possessions close to their chests. In the background crickets were starting to chirp out their relentless lover's song and it washed across the warm, still air of the night. A black Cadillac purred up and stopped alongside them. The tinted driver's window quietly whined as it wound down electronically. Valento's face appeared from within the car. "Hi guys." he smiled. "Glad you could make it".

Suddenly there was a rustling and a blurred flickering of movement amongst the shadows. Valento instinctively sprang from the car and put his hand into the inner chest pocket of his jacket, before relaxing as he recognised the familiar face of the girl fumbling out of the darkness towards him. She was struggling with the weight of her own worldly suitcase.

"Hey Charlene, what's with the bag?" he asked.

"I'm.... really, really sorry Mr Valento." she stuttered, glancing towards the ground as her tired, sunken eyes shrank away from his. "But there's been a death in the family. I have to go home right away and I can't work for you any more".

She then merged back into the shadows and was gone. Valento's eyes followed her vanishing silhouette for a second or two, then he turned back to face Humvat and Parvark. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered through a grimaced grin. "It's up to her if she wants to forfeit her kitty. Life is full of losers and that one, my friends, is a particularly fine specimen of a loser".

He stood between them and draped an arm around each shoulder. "But I have a great feeling about you two guys. You got winner written all over you. You wanna know something? I think we're gonna be real good for each other". He beamed at each of them in turn.

Humvat returned a grin which contained a starry sense of anticipation, whereas Parvark could only summon a faint, weak, forced smile. He was getting a feeling alright, but it wasn't a good one.

They entered the dishevelled motel once again and sauntered into the dank, musty lobby and along corridors until Valento pointed towards a handwritten sign which hung over a doorway and displayed in large letters "Conference Room". In smaller letters beneath was added "Available for hire at competitive hourly rates".

Parvark recognised it as the interview room they had been in earlier. Valento postured towards the room.

"Why don't you two r

elax and watch some TV in there. The sales crews will be back pretty soon and I can introduce you to everyone".

They sat down at the long table and Valento returned to the lobby, closing the door behind him. Parvark glanced around the empty room, seeking any signs of surveillance.

"Let's get out of this place now!" he hissed. "Did you see the look of fear in the eyes of that girl? Bad things are happening here".

Rather than listening to Valento's words, Parvark was poring over the dark aura surrounding him, sniffing the scent of fear and peering into the alarming landscape of their new surroundings. He didn't like what he saw. Meanwhile Humvat was looking in different places. He sensed Valento's positive attitude beckoning him across the same landscape, but he was sniffing the scent of money which might be made. Right now he was summoning up the strength to step across the rickety bridge spanning the abyss, rather than allow the dizzying fear of falling to hold him back.

"We're in America now and they just do things differently here." he snapped back, with a newly discovered steel in his voice.

"She was just a feckless failure who ended up skulking out of the back door hiding amongst the shadows of the night, but we're going to be winners, mighty, proud and rich. Or are you just another failure, too scared or too lazy to summon up the extra effort it takes to succeed?"

In truth, Humvat wasn't blind to the reality surrounding him. But the overriding force driving him was a simple one. They'd been given a choice of either accepting the security of room, food and money with these people, or else a lonely exposure to the eroding elements of this wild and strange land. He'd made his choice and he was intent on dragging Parvark along with him, however much he might try to dig his heels in.

Parvark was taken aback by this sudden conversion. They'd hardly been in this country for a single day and Humvat had already turned into this contorting capitalist machine which was only interested in talking about making money and being a winner. In a sulky silence he scrutinised the walls, gazing at the cracks and peeling wallpaper. He then peered at the old television perched on the end of the table and wondered how to switch it on. He got up and pressed the buttons one by one until the screen bust into life. He then picked up a remote control and flicked through the channels, trying to locate PBS. He paused on each station to view some of the commercials which glorified this wonderful country and this evocative lifestyle in which himself and Humvat sought sanctuary. Meanwhile Humvat studiously read his Siminite-English dictionary.

"There don't appear to be any programs on these channels, just advertisements." Parvark grumbled as he stared hypnotically at a man named Crazy Freddie who was "giving away computers at crazzee prices", and a beautiful young bride enjoying a perfect wedding, all because her mother used the correct brand of soap powder. He eventually came across the local PBS station. Against the backdrop of some music which was vaguely recognisable, the voice of a presenter announced "And I'm afraid that was the last episode of the current series of Wild About Larry".

The music continued as the credits rolled past. Written by Kenny Savage, Neil Petit and Brian Lovett. Directed by Ray Parlour. Produced by Roxanne Lewinsky.

The voice of the presenter continued. "However, if the thought of having to live without a daily fix of Larry brings you out in a rash of withdrawal symptoms then help is at hand. Due to overwhelming public demand we'll be repeating all episodes at the beginning of next month. In the meantime stay tuned to PBS for the very best in the art of entertainment".

Parvark pointed the remote control towards the screen. "It's the television program with the Australian actor who looks like you. We've just missed it".

Humvat looked up from his book towards the screen. "What a shame. I'd like to have seen him". And then he smiled to himself. "He must be a handsome bastard".

His face took on a puzzled expression. "There's something familiar about this music...." he vaguely said as his voice drifted along with his mind. Then his eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers.

"I know where I've heard it before. It sounds a bit like the theme song for One Great Guide, One Great Nation. Huh! Carbet claimed he'd written it himself, but I should have realised the talentless waste of space would simply steal it from American television. And to think I'd actually been impressed by the charlatan".

Without thinking any deeper, he returned to perusing his dictionary.

But Parvark wasn't listening. There didn't appear to be any exotic commercials on PBS, so he'd changed back to the previous channel. He was soon hypnotically transfixed, as he gazed upon further tantalising dreams of what might lay ahead for him, at the end of the many golden paved paths which criss-crossed this promised land.

So what should have been an overwhelming moment of realisation and revelation was firstly tossed aside by Parvark's preoccupation with television advertisements, then fatally lost in the instant it took to drop it into the deep pool of Humvat's consuming hatred of Carbet. A window of opportunity had quietly opened and closed again, without them ever being aware of it.

After a short while the door opened, and a mob of boys and girls in their late teens and early twenties wandered into the conference room. The first sales crew were returning to base, and the noise of their conversation and laughter made for a party atmosphere. A slightly older man entered, switched off the television, marched across with an outstretched hand and introduced himself as Steve Sibowitz, the leader of crew number one. Then, amidst the hubbub of the social gathering, a huge African American man, around six and a half feet tall and weighing around two hundred and forty pounds, entered the room.

"This is Joe." explained Sibowitz. "He's the group bodyguard".

Sibowitz tapped him on the arm. "Hey Joe, say hi to the new boys. They're from a country called South Jefferstown".

From his lofty position, Joe's eyes blazed an aggressive stare down at them. "Is that any place near France?" he barked. "You know anyone in France?"

"No, I do not think." replied Humvat, shaking his head.

Joe continued to rant, almost spitting now. "'Cos I'm looking for the bitch of a French girlfriend of mine who walked out on me with ten grand of my money".

Humvat decided a spot of diplomatic humour might help to hose down this inflamed conversation. "So, Mr Joe bodyguard," he nervously smiled. "When you find her you don't be guarding her body, no?"

"Dead right!" rasped Joe. "When I get hold of her I'm gonna stick this sucker up her ass!"

In a blur he reached into his jacket like a magician about to pull out a bunch of flowers, except in this case what came out was something nearly two feet long, black and metallic. Humvat and Parvark instantly recognised it as a huge revolver, which Joe clasped in his hand with his finger on the trigger, and started to wave around in the air. They instinctively dived onto the floor and lay there with their hands over their heads. The noisy room fell into an instant silence as Sibowitz and the rest of the crew stopped talking and instead looked down, nonplussed, at Humvat and Parvark, both lying prone on the ground. After a few moments the gunfire they'd expected to hear hadn't happened, so they sheepishly got up and dusted themselves down. The people around them turned away and returned to their conversations, and the noise ratcheted up once more.

Joe placed the gun back into the holster inside his jacket, then closely examined Humvat with a stare and barked "Don't I know you from somewhere, boy?"

Humvat furiously shook his head, denying any knowledge of any sort of kinship, even though he was well aware in his fear exactly why he was being interrogated. Damn this Larry character. Parvark shot a despairing, soulful glance at him which pleaded for a moment of sense to prevail and a swift deliverance from this dangerous, satanic place. But Humvat was so fearful of the gun being produced again and being kidnapped, or worse, that he failed to notice.

The wild black man then departed, pointing a stabbing finger at them and scowling "You two better not let me catch you with drugs or any other shit anywhere near you. Hear?"

The door slammed shut.

"Just don't ever mention France again." muttered Parvark to Humvat.

"I didn't!" hissed Humvat. "I don't even know where France is!"

Being unable to understand Siminite, Sibowitz regarded them both curiously.

The second and third crews entered the room in an equally noisy, yet more sombre fashion. Those who could find one wearily slumped on a chair and the others sat cross legged on the floor. Valento came in and sat at the head of the table with Sibowitz and the two other crew leaders, one male and one female, by his side. They passed him wads of paper sheets, each one recording the sales orders taken that day by their crews. Waves of animated conversation still swept back and forth across the room.

"Let's have some order here, you people!" shouted Valento, tapping the table with the large ring on the index finger of his left hand. "Today's sales analysis meeting will now commence".

The noise of the mob subsided as he started to pick his way through the paper pile. He started tutting to himself. And then, as he flicked through them, he started to shake his head as well. Without bothering to complete the task he paused and stared around the room, his eyes as accuser, prosecutor, judge, jury and executioner briefly resting on each apprehensive face.

"These sales figures are bullshit!" he bellowed with aggression, outrage and indignation. "This is nowhere near good enough".

He delved back through the pile, pulled one out and stared at the guilty party, sitting on the floor.

"Mr Rees. What's this? Sales of only one hundred and twenty dollars today? What happened to the fifteen hundred dollar weeks? Don't you ever let me see you here again with sales like these!"

He scrunched the piece of paper into a ball, threw it into a nearby bin and randomly picked up another one. He sought a face around the room, found it and locked onto his target.

"Miss Phillips. Do you wish to remain in the employ of this company? Because if you do, you'd better not let me see figures like these again!" And once again he hurled it into the bin.

Then he pulled out a third slip of paper and stared around the room until his eyes came to rest upon an unfortunate looking boy.

"Well, well, well. Mr David Johnson. So your total sales today were zero dollars. Again".

With his right hand he drew back the shirt cuff on his left wrist and deliberately inspected his watch. Then after a further moment of silent tension he continued.

"As of 7:38 pm Eastern Time, on this Wednesday June the 13th in the year of our Lord 2012 your employment with us is terminated. Go and pack your bags. Get outta here, damn it! I don't want to ever have to see your goddamned sorry looking loser face again!"

David Johnson blinked back the tears of hurt and rage and scorched pride, solemnly rose from his seat amidst a subdued silence and left the room. He closed the door behind him with a gentle click rather than the slamming bang one might have expected from a person with any self respect. Parvark's sense of foreboding sank to new depths, passing his rising heartbeat on the way down.

"Okay now people," continued Valento, cheerily resuming as though nothing of any importance had just occurred. "I'd like you to meet our two latest recruits".

He beckoned Humvat and Parvark. "Stand up boys and tell us all who you are, and why you're here".

Humvat was comprehending and adapting to his latest role remarkably quickly, and understood he was being called upon to beat a rallying drum before the rest of the troops. He rose to his feet and beamed.

"Hello people. I am Humvat and I am here to earn a treasure chest full of monies!"

His fellow crew members broke out into spontaneous applause. Ah, what a feeling it was to have a loving audience. He almost felt like giving a performance there and then, but reluctantly forced himself to sit down.

Not having the benefit of drama schooling, Parvark was finding the role far more difficult to figure out, let alone master. Instead of standing up, he absentmindedly remained in his seat.

"I am Parvark," he mumbled "And..." he struggled through an embarrassing void to fill the growing emptiness threatening to swallow him up, "... I don't know why I am here".

To his surprise this generated a hearty laugh from his new compatriots. Valento chortled "Well, at least the boy's honest!", which raised more laughter, followed by "But we'll soon sort that out!", which provoked even heartier laughter. Parvark felt more comfortable at having passed his first test triumphantly. He'd even managed to get a better reaction than that old ham Humvat. Perhaps things weren't going to be so bad after all.

Valento composed himself and placed his stern face mask back on. "Any more business?" he barked.

The absence of response from the rest of the room suggested not.

"I hereby declare this evening's sales analysis meeting to be over. There is a WAL meeting at twenty one hundred hours for anybody who did less than one hundred dollars worth of sales today, and a thirty dollar fine for non-attendance".

Parvark noted this announcement produced a baleful sigh amongst the audience, which told him firstly it wasn't a pleasant experience, and secondly there were going to be a lot of people attending.

As he arose from the table, Valento looked across at Humvat with a puzzled expression and said "This has been bugging me all day, because you seem kinda familiar to me, but I can't place you..."

Pretty much the entire crew regarded Humvat and nodded their agreement and equal mystification. Although he knew exactly what the collective reminiscence was, Humvat stared back blankly and shrugged his shoulders. This Larry character was beginning to really irritate him. Valento left the room and a crescendo of sound erupted. Two boys were standing close to Humvat.

"Man, I hate these fuckin' WAL meetings." scowled one of them to the other, who nodded back with an equal scowl.

"They suck." he concurred.

Humvat was inquisitive, if nothing else. "Please tell what WAL meeting is?" he asked. The two boys initially looked at him shiftily and then the first one said "WAL stands for Weak Assed Loser, man. They hold them for all the kids who don't meet their sales targets and, like, they give them lessons in selling".

"And, for at least one unfortunate son of a bitch, it's torture by ritual humiliation." continued the second boy. "It's a fate worse than fuckin' death. You don't wanna go there if you don't have to be there, man".

Humvat nodded with a wise sympathy. "I must do good selling then, so I no go there".

The boys looked at each other and burst into laughter. "How much sales did you make today man?" asked the second one.

"I no selling today. I only arrive here tonight".

"Then your sales are a big fat zero!" pounced the first one. "I'm afraid you're up for your first WAL experience at twenty one hundred hours tonight, my man!"

Parvark walked over and grabbed Humvat by the arm. "Did you hear about this WAL business?"

"I'm just hearing about it now. Relax. We won't bother turning up".

"And get fined thirty dollars?!" hissed Parvark. "Which means we're in the position where, instead of making your 'treasure chest of money' we owe them money?! We have to attend".

There was a gap of an hour to kill before the WAL meeting was due to commence, so they wandered out of the conference room and down the dingy motel corridors until they came across a grubby looking diner. They sat down, inspected the menu, examined the contents of their pockets and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee between them. They sat in a stoic solitude, each of them mulling their own ideas of where this adventure might be taking them. Humvat was imagining himself returning to South Jefesta, dripping in riches and glory, with a magnificent diamond ring for Kipdip, a big kick up the backside for Kinbus and an even bigger one for Carbet. Parvark was imagining himself running up a dark alley, being pursued by Valento and a pack of dogs.

The contemplation was broken when a girl seemingly appeared from nowhere and slid across the bench and sat down beside Humvat.

"Janine Cutler." she announced, offering an introductory smile and handshake to each of them. "I'm from Urbana, Illinois and I'm a member of sales crew three".

Humvat instantly recognised her as the attractive girl who had been handing out the application forms earlier in the lobby and met her hand with his, gripped it tenderly and shook.

"I am Humvat, from South Jefesta and I am here to make a treasure chest of monies." he said, before releasing the grip slowly and carefully. Parvark simply nodded a greeting towards her, suspicious of why this stranger should want to indulge them.

"Hey!" she giggled. "You guys have got such cute accents. I can see you're gonna do real well here. Did anyone tell you yet how this company is really going places?"

They both shook their heads, so she continued.

"Year on year growth is the second fastest in the sector. Market penetration doubles every six months. Product recognition likewise. Profits to earnings ratio is gearing up to go as far as 30 to 1. Capital assets are low, which means overheads are also low, which in turn makes for a lean, mean, fast moving machine. You really should stick around and pick up stock options for when the company goes public in a couple of years".

She got up to leave and offered a departing smile and handshake. "Well, nice talking to you and I'm sure we'll see each other around. I do believe in the importance of networking with the right people".

They looked at her departing figure.

"What was that all about?" asked Humvat.

Parvark shrugged his shoulders and replied. "Maybe she's been to too many sales meetings and they have driven her insane".

"Well I think she's extremely attractive, for a Western girl." replied Humvat, his eyes following her posterior as she walked away down the corridor.

A waitress went to refill their coffees. Parvark placed his hand over the cup.

"No more." he declared firmly, belying his hunger and thirst and pitiful circumstances.

She sensed the privation which lay beneath his show of strength. "It's free, you know".

"Then I have two, please".

It was 9pm when they returned to the conference room. The long table had been turned into a hastily erected stage, with some temporary steps at the far end. Valento was already standing by these and he impatiently hurried them in with a wave of his hand and started to speak.

"Okay Weak Assed Losers, heads up!" he barked. "You are here tonight because you do not have sufficient mental strength to carry you beyond your negative thoughts. You have not found the MindTone which exists within each and every one of us. You have not trained it to work and perform for your own benefit. Instead, you have proven you cannot transform sales presentations into closed deals. You have proven you are Weak Assed Losers whose destiny is to achieve nothing in life and die young, surrounded by the poverty and paucity of unfulfilled dreams and ambitions".

He swaggered up and down the room, hands in pockets. "Now here's a confession. There was a time when I myself was a Weak Assed Loser, but that was before I created the MindTone technique which transformed my life. I have a number of favorite quotations I like to use from time to time, to remind me of how I turned myself from a miserable loser like you into the winner I am today".

He paused and turned around to face them. "The quote I'd like to remember tonight is 'Cleanliness is next to Godliness', which is particularly pertinent".

He looked around the room in general, not focussing on anyone in particular. He was injecting a moment's worth of temporary tranquillity into the proceedings in order to set an agenda of variable pace. Then he continued.

"Now let's just think about what that means for a moment".

Raising a single finger to his lips, he signalled for the audience to create its own group harmony of hushed deliberation. Humvat and Parvark looked at each other and the rest of the room with a suspicious uncertainty. The concepts of MindTone and cleanliness and Godliness were unfamiliar to them. After a few seconds Valento broke the stillness once again.

"Does anyone know where this saying comes from?"

He vaguely and quickly searched the room noting the sea of shaking heads, but he hadn't expected a reply anyhow so he moved on to answer it for himself to maintain the rhythm of his own patter.

"Well, I'll tell you. It comes from a time when diseases such as dysentery and cholera and even diarrhoea were major killers of mankind everywhere. They still are in developing countries. Now, it is a proven fact these killers are the direct result of unhygienic and unsanitary lifestyles. And while it is also a proven fact that Deterjeron is the crème de la crème of cleaning solutions, and the product should be able to sell itself, sadly some people still haven't heard the proven message. This is that any person who does not use Deterjeron is putting their life at risk. We need to spread the proven message to every person in this country. We must show them the path to Cleanliness. We must follow the words of the good Lord himself, and help those who cannot help themselves".

He stopped for a moment and smiled around the room before continuing. "Put these arguments together and you have it. Deterjeron equals Godliness through cleanliness. In short, we are selling a dream! We can change lives!"

Despite their tiredness and initial disinterest, the WAL audience suddenly discovered a euphoria within them and leapt to their feet, and started whooping and clapping. Humvat and Parvark sat in their seats, still uncertain of the meaning of the message being delivered. "Okay." Valento continued, gesturing with his arms askance for everyone to sit down. "That's enough of the theory for now. Let's have a practical demonstration of the power of MindTone in action".

He stepped up onto the stage and signalled to one of the females in the audience to come forward and up the temporary steps to join him. It was the girl they had been speaking to earlier in the diner.

"Okay now Janine, I'll be a prospect and I want you to sell me some Deterjeron. Imagine you're calling on me at my home and there's a front door here".

He marked the outline of a door in the air with a pointed finger.

"Knock on it and make the sale".

Janine peered at the imaginary door and took a guess at where the door knocker should be. She rapped her hands on the knocker and creatively introduced some sound effects by shouting out "Knock knock!"

Valento stood motionless on the other side of the imaginary door, inspecting his fingernails.

"Knock knock!" said the door once again, but with a slight hesitancy this time.

"Go away!" he scowled. "There's nobody here!"

Janine was momentarily taken aback, and for a second or two was unsure as to whether to carry on with her sales pitch here, or maybe find another imaginary door somewhere else to knock on. Wisely she decided to soldier on.

"Excuse me, sir." she shouted through the imaginary door. "But I have an incredible product here called Deterjeron which I think you'll be interested in seeing".

Valento theatrically dropped his jaw and breathed a heavy sigh.

"Okay, okay. You got ten seconds." he muttered, undid the imaginary locks and opened the imaginary door just enough to put his head around.

"What does it do?" he frowned.

Janine was trying not to get flustered. "Sir, this is the best cleaning solution available in the market today".

"Don't need any – I already got some." and he went to close the door.

"But sir, you won't have any of this product. It's not on sale in the supermarkets and is only available through direct sales channels".

"Yeah well, I already got something just like it and it does plenty good".

"But sir, Deterjeron has been voted the best sanitary product in its class for the last three years running by the readers of Modern Detergents Monthly magazine".

He opened the door slightly and poked his head around once again. The suspicion in his face turned into incredulity. "Hold on – did you say I can't buy this stuff in any of the stores?"

"That's correct sir. And because we don't allow any stores to retail our product we can bring it to you at far more competitive prices then would otherwise be achievable".

He harrumphed. "Well I don't care - if it's not good enough for the stores then it's not good enough for me!"

He slammed the imaginary door in her face, leaving Janine alone on the imaginary doorstep, with an all too real deflation hanging around her and an unsold bottle of Deterjeron in her hand. She stuttered as she realised the show was over and she had been deemed a failure.

Valento turned on her with the spiteful fury of a scorned lover exacting a very public revenge.

"You See?!" he shouted at her as he simultaneously addressed the room. "You have demonstrated beyond any measure of doubt to all of us why you are such a Weak Assed Loser! You couldn't get past my negativity because you don't have enough positive MindTone of your own! You just stood there and took it and ended up looking plain stupid. You didn't even have the wherewithal to demean yourself, telling me you'd do anything if only I'd make a purchase!"

He opened his arms in a circle around the room. "You have just lost the respect of each and every one of your peers in this room".

The fact the room was full of Weak Assed Losers, each and every one of whom was currently mumbling a little prayer of thanks they hadn't been selected to go up on the stage seemed to have passed him by for the moment.

Janine was attempting to retain some degree of dignity by remaining composed but the trembling hand, the biting of the lips and the welling in her eyes were conspiring to give her away.

"Get off the damned stage!" he snapped. "Go and sit back down, you worthless piece of shit".

Humvat looked on, enraged by this shabby treatment, but he did nothing for he lacked both the temperament and the stupidity to intervene. She skulked back to her chair. Valento stood alone on the stage and pondered for a short while. Then he pointed towards her and clicked his fingers.

"Janine. Get back up here dammit, and stand where you were before".

She wiped away a tear, hesitantly rose from her seat and stood back on the imaginary doorstep with her bottle of Deterjeron in her hand. It was obvious she would rather not be there, but the courage or the fortitude or the fury which would have provided her with the impetus to flee had deserted her. He strode over to her, took the bottle of Deterjeron away from her and beckoned her into the imaginary house.

"Now we're going to swap roles and I'll demonstrate to you how to use the power of MindTone thinking".

He knocked on the door. "Knock, knock".

Janine stood with her arms crossed, sulkily ignoring him. It was hard to tell if this was a case of role playing or not. He didn't knock a second time. Instead he opened an imaginary window and shouted through it. "Helloo! Is anybody home?"

"What do you want? Go away!" scowled Janine in reply. Having weighed up her options between career and revenge, she determined that right now revenge was the needier. She was getting ready to give him as hard a time as he'd given her.

"Hi ma'am." he smiled. "My name is Tony Valento and I'm pleased to make your acquaintance". He offered her a handshake.

She returned the handshake. "Janine Cutler." she replied with a sullen politeness. "What do you want?"

"Well Janine," he continued. "I'm here to offer you the opportunity to further enhance your sanitation and hygiene experience with the best product the market can offer".

She interrupted him. "I already got some". And she went to close the window.

"Not this one you haven't, Janine, because we've been keeping it a secret".

"Huh?"

"Listen, this product is so good it sells itself. You got any stains on the floor you haven't been able to get rid of with your regular cleaner?"

Janine eyed him suspiciously. "Sure." she said pointing half-heartedly towards an imaginary stain. "There's this one here".

"Okay, do you mind?" asked Valento, and without waiting he entered the imaginary room and sprayed the imaginary stain with some real Deterjeron. He pretended to wipe it away and looked at her.

"Well, what do you think of that? It's just one reason why as soon as we get into a neighbourhood, word spreads like wildfire and pretty soon we're all sold out".

"Hmm." she stalled, unsure of an acceptable response. "Not bad".

Valento continued with his unbroken smile. "Okay Janine, I can see you're still not entirely convinced, so I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Seeing as we don't have to worry about selling Deterjeron through retail outlets and the middleman putting his profit margin into the equation, my bosses have given me dispensation to offer the product to certain selected clients at a special rate. If you'd allow me, I'd like to make you one of my three Gold Star Discount accounts. The bosses are confident you'll pay us back a thousand fold with free advertising when you tell all your friends and family about how good Deterjeron is. And we'll also give you a money back guarantee if you're not satisfied with the product. How does that sound?"

"Wow, I'd have to be crazy to turn down an offer like this..."

"And I can tell you're not crazy!" he beamed. "And I can also give you further reductions on bulk purchases".

"Ok." she replied in a mesmerised manner, completely forgetting her initial hostility. "Where do I sign and how much is it?"

"Well, you sign here," he pointed to an imaginary form. "And I can let you have one gallon for twenty dollars or five gallons at eighty dollars".

"I'll take five gallons then". She signed the imaginary form, handed it over to him and shook hands on the deal. Then she froze momentarily as she realised something, "Hey, hold on. These prices aren't discounted. They're the normal prices we quote!"

He winked back. "A bargain at any price!"

With a suddenly graceful smile, he beckoned a bemused Janine back to her seat. There was a restrained applause of the respectful type given to accepted authorities, such as Nobel prize winners.

"You see?!" he bellowed in triumph. "You see how I unleashed my positive MindTone thinking to destroy all her negativity? I used it to control the conversation so it went where I wanted it to go. I demolished all of the negative objections before they'd been raised, so the prospect became more compliant. I used the psychology of making a personalised special offer and giving a reasonable and rational explanation for it, and turned a negative prospect into a closed deal".

He flashed a wide grin which ran all the way up into his eyes.

"And if you have to bend the truth a little to get the sale, then remember. God forgives".

He composed himself, clasped his hands together and said "And with that in mind, we'll end today's MindTone lesson. I'd like you all to join me in closing with a prayer to the Lord".

Everyone awkwardly stood up again.

"Dear Lord," he began. "Please help your people to realize they have a duty to both you and themselves to bring Deterjeron into their lives by employing it for their hygiene and sanitation needs. Please help them realize that cleanliness is next to Godliness, and Deterjeron is the best path towards cleanliness. Amen".

A response of "Amen" resounded around the room.

Humvat was impressed by this masterful performance. Kinbus would have been impressed as well. When Valento was up there on the makeshift stage he possessed the commanding presence of a truly great actor, combined with all of the guile and gestures employed by a master magician. Getting the girl back on the stage appeared to be a risky strategy, for her hurt and shame could have driven the demonstration in any direction, but Valento picked her up by the scruff of her confusion and shuffled her with ease through his routine until she became a complicit ally, rather than a liability to his purpose. What a masterstroke. "I could learn great things from this man." he thought, momentarily forgetting he was no longer at acting school.

Valento then ordered everyone to pair up and practise honing and implementing their MindTone techniques by repeating the exercise amongst themselves. The room soon vibrated to the resonance of the sound of "Knock knock!" followed by "I'm not home!"

Humvat and Parvark stood together like two unpopular classmates at the school disco, spurned by all the others for the last dance of the evening and disparagingly clinging onto one another through a sniffy grimace.

"Okay." sighed Humvat. "I'll be the customer and you be the salesman. Knock on the door".

"Knock knock." rapped Parvark.

"Go away! There's nobody here!"

"Okay then. I'll come back later when you're at home". Parvark turned around and made off back towards his seat.

"Hold on!" shouted Humvat. "I'm not sure you've grasped the point of this exercise".

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I have." muttered Parvark.

Valento and his lieutenants were pacing the floor, keeping a watchful eye on their young gladiators as they trained.

"Hey, you two!" snapped Sibowitz. "You gotta do all this in English. Ain't nobody gonna understand your Jefferstown rap, y'hear?"

They both apologised in their best English. Neither of them was aware they had slipped into the refuge of their mother tongue as they grasped with this foreign concept of selling by the means of the MindTone method.

After what seemed like an aeon Valento called the meeting to a close and proceeded to take a register of attendees so he would know who to fine for not turning up. The register was taken at the end of the session rather than the beginning ever since Valento became aware some of the WALs were slipping out during the meetings. Nowadays they were slipping in, and he preferred it that way. Having called the names and received either responses or silence, he closed the book and informed everybody the next sales meeting would be in the morning at seven thirty. Humvat and Parvark were puzzled he hadn't called their names out. They asked one of the crew members about this as they filed out of the room.

"I guess you're not on the register yet." he replied.

"So," asked Parvark "I could miss meeting and no being fined?"

The crew member thought for a moment. "I guess so".

Parvark felt like weeping.

Sibowitz stood in the dingy motel lobby. He searched through a list which was attached to a clipboard he was holding and approached them. "Hey, Humvat. You're sleeping in room 224. Parvark, you're in room 317. Get a good night's sleep boys because you've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow".

Humvat glanced at a clock on the wall. It was past eleven and he was exhausted. It was a nice gesture for Valento to have booked them a room each and he was already fantasising about lying spread out across the bed, lazily turning over to fill the empty spaces on the mattress. The two of them were trying to figure out how to get to their respective rooms when Janine appeared with another female.

"Hi guys! Meet my friend Melissa." she beamed, quite unlike someone who recently experienced the traumatic humiliation of a public mauling before the town inquisitor. "Listen," she continued, "I know it's late and it's your first day but we'd like to take you up to our room for a short while".

Humvat and Parvark's flagging eyes sparked into life along with their hopes, and they followed the girls down various corridors. Janine opened her room door to reveal four couples already inside, each canvassing one another with "Knock knocks!" and "Go aways!" She grabbed Humvat by the hand and led him into the middle of the room. "I'm absolutely determined to practise my technique with you." she smiled seductively. Humvat replied with the weakest of smiles, because he had a strong inkling what this technique involved.

It was nearly midnight by the time they managed to extricate themselves from the informal sales meeting, and they staggered out towards their rooms. Humvat eventually came across room 224 and opened the door. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, he was startled by the scene which emerged before him. The room consisted of two double beds, each with a male occupant. A male and female lay entangled under some hastily assembled blankets on a mattress on the floor, while a radio sang in the corner of the room. They all looked to be teenagers. The male in the bed closest to the door woke up and blearily propped himself on his elbow and started to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"I sorry," apologised Humvat. "The man tell me to come to room 224 but it must be mistake".

The male yawned, farted and rubbed his eyes again.

"No mistake man. There's four to a room, except we got Laura as well which makes five".

He pointed towards the couple lying on the floor. "You can either sleep with me or Mikey." and he then pointed to the other bed.

Humvat's weary heart sank deeper with the heaviness of the decision, but both his mind and body were screaming out for rest so he decided he would sleep with Mikey, based solely on the premise that Mikey wasn't farting. He went across to the radio and started to fumble with the control buttons.

"Don't turn it off man!" hissed the male. "Laura can only sleep with the radio on. She'll totally freak if you turn it off".

Humvat sighed to himself, undressed as far as his underwear and got into bed. Mikey turned over in his sleep, dragging the bedcovers with him, and Humvat dragged them back. Thus commenced a battle which lasted all night, tussling for a rightful portion of the bedcovers as the radio played in the background.

It was almost nine in the evening on the Californian coast and the large red sun slipped below the horizon, while the full moon shone down from high in the sky. On the Santa Domingo beach the air was still apart from the sound of waves gently lapping upon the shore. Heather Surning sat at her regular spot amidst the shadows of the ancient palm with the odd green sprig protruding from its bough. She was finishing up the next edition of her newspaper column, typing the contents into her laptop. She stopped, lit a joint and reviewed the words on the screen.

"We, the people of the American NeoEmpire" she read to herself, "Are the richest race the world has ever known. We take for granted material possessions other people can only dream of. Be it your spacious house with a bathroom attached to every bedroom, the kitchen with space age appliances, the televisions in each room, the swimming pool in your back yard, the hot tub next to it, the cars you drive, the cars your kids drive, the computers, the cell phones and so on. Let's face it. We've never had it so good".

"But wait a second. How many of these goods are actually made in America anymore? The answer is hardly any. So if that's the case then just who is producing them? Well, the answer is most of them are nowadays being made in Asia, and most of these are made in China, and this sets a kind of a conundrum. If the Chinese people are producing all these goods which are paid for by American dollars, how does the situation play out where billions of dollars are leaving the pockets of American workers and finding their way into the pockets of Chinese factory owners? The disturbing conclusion is it doesn't. What happens is the Chinese government lends our government the money to buy their goods. Then, when we've used our credit up, they lend us more money to cover the money they originally lent us, so we can buy more goods".

"The actions of the American government are the same as somebody who has a raft of credit cards and attempts to juggle them, using one card to pay the other off each month. And we all know what happens to people who follow this path; they end up bankrupt".

"And this is exactly what our government is doing to us. It is impossible to measure our national debt accurately because it is growing so fast, by a rate of around $1,000,000,000,000 per year. And that's just the annual interest on what we've borrowed, not the total amount we owe. This currently stands at more than $50,000 for each and every man, woman and child in the country, so the average family of two adults and two children is indebted to the tune of some $200,000. As a nation we are spending 5 times more than we earn, and in the meantime we are still being encouraged to spend more. Just like any struggling company that the bank calls time on, America faces financial collapse at any moment, at the behest of its creditors".

"You may ask why on earth is this situation being allowed to continue? Well, the answer is simple. American corporations have financial interests in China. They don't care where their income is generated so long as it gets generated. And the reason for that is also straight forward. A modern demand of capitalism and investors is that making an annual profit is no longer good enough. Companies must be seen to grow every year and senior management receive an annual bonus which is based upon meeting annual targets. So long as they hit this year's target they simply don't care about what happens next year, let alone what happens for the next generation of Americans. Because we have no sense of history, we have no sense of the future".

"Now think back to all those material possessions we take for granted. Do we really need such spacious houses with a bathroom off every bedroom? Kitchen appliances that rarely get used? TV sets which are switched on with nobody watching them? The swimming pool you cannot use for much of the year? Cars for him, her and the kids? Computers which are obsolete by the time you take them home and unpack them? Spare cell phones?"

"As recently as thirty years ago America was content to produce more than we needed and export the surplus, and back then we really were the greatest economic power in history. But the legacy, the inheritance of this grand achievement has now been all but frittered away and the American dream is in grave danger of becoming the American pipedream. Unless we are prepared to spend a great deal less money, certainly no more than we earn, and accept a lower lifestyle we will eventually go down in history as the first empire that literally spent its way into oblivion".

She smiled proudly to herself. Having made the initial decision to start creating solutions, and then deciding to save ordinary Americans from Corporations, she was now going to save America from itself. She really was creating solutions now. She gathered her belongings together and set off back down the beach, towards the car park and the track that led to the road. She was now so familiar with this journey she no longer needed daylight to guide her.

Chapter Eleven

Don't Toss A Dead Dingo, Mate

A middle-aged man lies prone on his back on a bed of straw in a sparse room where the undecorated brick walls are covered by a coating of moss. A small crowd of silently sombre people are huddled around his still body. A woman, presumably his wife or sister, bends over him and is tenderly holding his hand. An expectation of death hangs heavily in the air. Then a small boy pushes and shuffles his way through the mass of adults, emerges beside the bed and speaks to the disease-ridden patient.

"G'day mate." he says in that strange American-Australian accent, and it is instantly apparent we are witnessing a glimpse of Larry as a young child. "Feeling a bit crook today are we?"

He takes the man's hand from the woman and rubs it with his own fingers. The man's weary eyes slowly half open.

"I'm rooted, young Larry." he gently moans. "I tell yer, I'm more tired than a one-armed cabbie with the crabs".

The boy Larry takes a flannel, rinses it in a bowl of water and gently mops the man's brow. Then he leans forward and whispers into his ear "I reckon you overdid the grog last evo, mate. I heard you talking to God on the porcelain telephone and chundering pavement pizza".

The man remains motionless but his eyes widen as Larry soaks the cloth, starts to wipe his neck and continues to whisper. "Some folk would say it looks like you're just trying to chuck a sickie today..."

The man's moans move up an octave and now have a ring of a hollow surprise, and a reticence to acknowledge about them.

Larry quietly continues. "But I'd say if you don't come the raw prawn with me, then I'm not going to dob you in".

He removes the cloth and places it back in the bowl. Then the man blinks three times, opens his eyes fully, sits upright and snorts at the assembled spectators. "What are you lot looking at? I'll be drinking with the flies before you see me in the marble orchard!"

Then he unsteadily rises to his feet, smiles thankfully and raises his hands heavenwards. The surrounding crowd spontaneously produce an ecstatic round of applause, although it sounds suspiciously as though there are only three people celebrating.

The woman, who was mourning her partner's loss but a moment ago, grabs the young Larry, hugs him and sobs. "Good on yer Larry. I thought we'd never get the lazy bastard out of bed, but now, thanks to you, he's off like a bucket of prawns in the sun!"

The boy Larry smiles and saunters out of the room.

There was a loud rapping knock on the door of room 224 and it burst open. Steve Sibowitz's shadow stood blocking out the dim light coming through the doorway. He held a metal saucepan in one hand and a spoon in the other.

"Wake up everyone, it's a brand new day!" he shouted and created a loud rattling sound by bashing the spoon against the saucepan. Then he disappeared, off to surprise his next assignation.

The occupants lay sprawled across the room and drowsily muttered obscenities and protests, while the radio in the corner happily clattered away. Mikey's eyes blinked open and he lazily turned over, and in so doing dragged the bedclothes off Humvat once again. In the same half-awake zombie state he'd remained all night, Humvat dragged them back. Mikey blinked and, suddenly aware of another presence in his bed, turned himself over and prodded Humvat.

"Who the hell are you?" he enquired, as though he'd discovered a casual lover in his bed, someone acquired during an evening of drunken carousal.

Humvat kept his eyes closed. "My name is Humvat and I am here to make a treasure chest of monies." he sighed.

"What is time?" he continued.

Mikey yawned, farted and looked at his wristwatch. "It's seven am".

Humvat attempted to scream but his tiredness only allowed him the strength of a sigh. Mikey rose from the bed, taking the covers with him. Humvat reached out for them once again but found they weren't there. He opened his own eyes, yawned and also farted.

"Sweet Baqra," he thought to himself. "I'm turning into one of these people already".

Twenty minutes later Humvat made his way through the lobby. Parvark was already there and they immediately sought out each other like common victims of a traumatic experience, the only people in humanity who can sense and comprehend one another's suffering.

"I'm exhausted. I spent an entire night listening to the radio and fighting for blankets. I hardly slept at all." yawned Humvat.

"You're lucky." yawned Parvark . "I was forced to either share a bed with a fat boy, and take the risk of being crushed during the night, or sleep on the floor. I chose the floor but the television was on all night in my room and I didn't sleep a wink".

They stared at each other in the exasperated manner exhausted people do, waiting for the other one to succumb and say something that could be seized upon as an injury or insult, to be snapped up and thrown back.

"I think the people in my room were taking drugs. Let's leave this place now, while we still have a chance." continued Parvark, but before Humvat could respond Sibowitz's voice was booming through the lobby.

"Okay people, it's time for the morning sales training program!"

Everyone shuffled into the conference room in varying degrees of consciousness. Humvat noticed two familiar faces amongst the crowd. He smiled and tapped the first on the shoulder.

"Hi." beamed Janine in response. Then he pointed towards the second face and asked "Is David Johnson? I thought he sent away last night?"

She nodded. "David gets fired most nights and rehired next day. He'll probably be at tonight's WAL meeting. Tony's not really such a monster, you know".

Those who were most alert grabbed the limited number of chairs available while the rest made do with claiming a spot on the floor.

"Last night Tony was explaining the concepts of MindTone thinking and how you should harness its powers for your own benefit." bellowed Sibowitz like an instructor at a military camp.

"But the power of MindTone is not just about reacting to negative people and situations and turning them into positives. At root it is a feeling you have within yourself about yourself. It is much more than just a state of mind. It is a state of self awareness which exists within your very soul".

He looked around the room. "Anyone see Jimmy Rees here today?" There was a sea of shaking heads.

"Anyone ever see Jimmy Rees at one of these sales training exercises?" There was an equal sea of shaking heads. "Well, there's a good reason for that. Jimmy Rees has found positive MindTone and his inner self. He doesn't come to these sessions any more because there's nothing we can teach him. Each and every day Jimmy Rees is consistently our top sales performer".

He paused for a few seconds in the same way Valento had done the previous night, in order to establish an irregular rhythm.

"Jimmy has discovered one of the best ways to turn sales presentations into closed deals is to sell yourself, not just the product, to prospects. He is comfortable with himself. He has inner MindTone. His positive MindTone oozes out of him like an aura. He knocks on prospect's doors and almost instantly he becomes their friend. Within seconds they are saying to themselves 'Well, if Jimmy Rees is going to allow me to share in this opportunity then I'll take it, because even though I only just met Jimmy I trust him. He wouldn't dream of selling me a turkey', and he even has them insisting on purchasing greater quantities than he's trying to sell them".

Sibowitz paused again so the audience could ingest his words into their minds. He was aware the art of both speaking and being understood simultaneously was to not make too many points at any one time, but this was his secret for the moment and he didn't feel any need to share it. Nor was he about to share the logical leap that if this premise applied to selling Deterjeron, then it could equally apply to selling anything.

Given his similar background and training, Humvat would normally have quickly spotted these theatrics. But his tiredness meant that instead of examining the theories and picking over them like a scientist at a microscope, his fuzzy brain was barely hanging onto the coat tails of the rapidly disappearing words.

Sibowitz continued. "So the first lesson for this morning is if you want other people to believe in you then you must first believe in yourself. And the second lesson is if you want to be in the luxurious position whereby you don't have to attend these sales training exercises then be as successful in selling Deterjeron as Jimmy Rees is".

He then took the register, placing ticks against the names of attendees and crosses against those who skipped class. They would be fined thirty dollars for the privilege. Humvat and Parvark noted with concealed irritation that their names were once again not called out, and thus still not yet on the register. They could have lingered on in bed instead of being force fed this condensed education in the finer arts of selling. As they were leaving the room Sibowitz called them aside.

"Humvat, today you're gonna be with me on sales crew one and Parvark, you're with Debbie on sales crew two".

They each felt a gnawing trepidation in their stomach at the thought of being separated once again and turned loose amongst the absurd existence inhabited by their crewmates.

They trudged around the motel car park and located the respective vans which would transport them out into the tamed wilderness of American suburbia. Parvark discovered sales crew two loading boxes of Deterjeron onto a van. One of them introduced himself as Willard from Washington and they exchanged handshakes. Once the loading was completed, Willard opened a plastic sandwich bag, took out a small paper square and passed the bag around his compatriots who each did the same thing. They then stood in a ceremonial circle, shouted in unison a battle cry of "Into the MindTone zone!" and popped the paper squares into their mouths.

"What is happening?" asked Parvark.

"If you're still around after a week you'll find out." revealed Willard as he motioned him to board the van. "After you've gone through the initiation ceremony".

Parvark wondered for a moment what this might entail and then decided he didn't really wish to know after all.

Debbie, the sales crew leader, appeared with the van keys, sat in the driving seat and drove out of the motel car park and onto the road. Within minutes they were driving along a freeway with advertising billboards shooting past them and Parvark found himself in the uneasy state of being both exhausted and unable to sleep. As he drifted between a sleepy awakening and an alert unconsciousness he noticed his fellow crew members were laughing and giggling hysterically, though he himself couldn't detect the point of the game they were playing, which was simply waving their hands in front of each other's faces. What on earth was this all about? After half an hour or so the van stopped at a gas station to fill up. One of the girls in the crew announced she was going to take the opportunity to get out and stretch her legs. Parvark thought about how innocently attractive she was with her long blond hair and brightly coloured dungarees.

She unsteadily staggered out of the door and as she placed her feet on the ground outside she looked down upon herself with surprise and shrieked "Wow! Weird! I could have sworn these jeans were pink when I put them on this morning!"

Parvark raised his eyebrows. He could swear they were still pink, so one of them must be wrong and he didn't think it was him.

Meanwhile sales crew number one arrived at the destination Sibowitz had chosen and he drove the van up and down the deserted streets. Periodically he dropped off a crew member like a parachutist, clutching the comfort of a sample bottle of Deterjeron instead of a parachute. Eventually only Humvat and a boy named Grant remained. Sibowitz stopped the van and said over his shoulder "Okay Grant, this is Humvat's first day so I'm gonna team him up with you. I want you to show him the ropes and how to make some good sales".

Grant groaned. "Bullshit man! Why do I get to pull the rookie short straw again?"

"Because you're my most experienced crew member and the one I trust most." ordered Sibowitz. "Now get moving and teach this man how it's done".

Grant stomped out of the van, opened up the back door and started cursing as he rooted for the last sample bottle.

"Now listen Humvat," whispered Sibowitz. "Grant is good but he can be moody. Don't go upsetting him and giving him a negative attitude, okay?"

Humvat nodded that he understood and got out of the van.

Grant and Humvat stood on the sidewalk as the van disappeared around the corner.

"Oh man," moaned Grant. "I always get to teach the new recruits. This sucks".

Then he turned to Humvat. "No disrespect intended man, but it happens all the time".

He looked up and down the wide suburban street. The orderly lines of houses proudly stood where until recently a natural disorder had lain. This harnessing of nature was reinforced by each front yard. There were perfectly manicured lawns of soft green grass bordered by an assortment of palm trees, umbrella trees with their huge leaves and Cypress conifers, which were strangely out of place. Flower bed garlands of brown ferns, yellow trumpets, pink, red and orange orchids reiterated the overwhelming human victory over nature.

"Better get the show on the road, I suppose." Grant sighed. He traipsed up the nearest driveway and knocked on the door but there was no response. The same thing happened at the next three houses. He stood there scratching his neck as a lone purple wasp buzzed around, angrily foraging around a nearby dustbin. Its normally plentiful diet of aphids, midges and other small insects had become strangely scarce and it was reduced to pirating whatever meagre supplies it could find.

"This is fucking great!" cursed Grant, kicking a bluish flower into the road. "That motherfucker Sibowitz has dropped us smack in the middle of a commuter belt. This place is a fucking ghost town".

He then kicked at the bin and beat a hasty retreat as the wasp turned on him, sensing it was being deprived of what passed for a feast nowadays. As they ambled down the road Grant decided to save time and effort by seeking signs of activity in each house, and ignoring those he deemed temporarily devoid of life.

They came across one long road where it seemed like every single house had a placard planted in the front yard, announcing it to be for sale, with "Any reasonable offer considered".

Grant looked along them, up and down, and shuddered. "Ain't nobody wants to see that sort of shit going on." he muttered.

Then he quickly moved onto the next street, ushering Humvat to follow him.

"Here's a live one." he triumphantly declared, pointing at a car parked in the drive and a child's bicycle sprawled on the front lawn of a huge three storey house.

They rang the door bell and waited for a while, but there was no sign of life inside. As they turned away the door opened and before them stood a strikingly beautiful woman wrapped in a white silk dressing gown. She was elegantly tall and thin where the perfect woman was supposed to be thin, but curvy where she was supposed to be curvy, and long straight peroxide blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. Even without the cover of make-up her wide eyes, high cheekbones and thick lips were the essence of sensuality. Both males felt an awkwardness descend upon them and temporary lost the faculty of co-ordinated speech.

"Can I help you?" she gazed at them.

Grant recovered first. "Ma'am, may I ask you a question?"

She slowly, suspiciously, looked him up and down.

"You can ask." she replied.

"May we come in?" asked Grant. Humvat raised his eyebrows in exasperation. This wasn't sales training – it was a lesson in seduction technique, and a pretty poor one at that.

"Sure." she answered vapidly. She looked strangely at Humvat. "You look vaguely familiar. Have we met before?"

He silently shook his head as, without even realising it, he hypnotically stared into her eyes. She led them through a large wood panelled hallway with flights of stairs on either side, and then into a huge living room. It was expensively decorated with more panelled walls, deep carpet, two huge sofas and three huge chairs, and was dominated by a wall full of huge flat screen televisions hanging majestically, each playing a different television station as though it were a living work of art. A glass sliding door was opened to the large, lawned back yard. The shrill sound of children playing and splashing in a swimming pool carried through the air.

Humvat contemplated these surroundings and reflected that a wife like this and a house like this must be what people meant when they talked about the American Dream.

Grant continued his routine. "Nice house Ma'am. If you don't mind me asking, what does your husband do for a living?"

"He's..." she started, but then stared blankly, as if at a distant memory, and corrected herself "He was a mortgage salesman".

After a second or two she recovered her focus, took a deep breath and composed herself. "So Whatsh thish all about?" she slurred.

Grant and Humvat glanced at each other as they both realised at the same instant that although it was still only mid morning, she was intoxicated.

"Ma'am", purred Grant as he took his sample bottle out of his trouser pocket. "I have in my hand the crème de la crème of cleaning products, and I'm here to give you the opportunity to purchase some".

Her expression changed to a shade of boredom and she looked disappointed.

Sensing this, Grant added. "I can see you've got a beautiful house here, but are there any stains anywhere you've found impossible to shift?"

She smiled a hazy, teasing, seductive smile, indicating she realised a game was beginning. "I'm shure there are shome shomewhere. Maybe up in the bedroom".

"Well..." he flustered, caught between the calling of his wallet, which demanded he perform a sales demonstration, and that of his libido which demanded a journey upstairs.

After a moment's hesitation he continued. "Would you mind if I gave you a small demonstration?"

She giggled, hardly believing his finessed return of her lobbed enticement. "A demonstraishon?"

Grant had spotted the hint of a small stain on the carpet when they entered the room. He walked over to the doorway, bent down and sprayed the Deterjeron onto the stain. Then he wiped it with a cloth which had a lump of scourer concealed within it. The exercise had made a difference to the strength of the stain, albeit a minimal difference.

"See the difference!" he proudly declared, pointing at it.

She staggered over to the demonstration site, bent over to inspect it and in doing so lost her balance. Grant instinctively broke her fall by grabbing her waist. He accidentally caught hold of her flimsy dressing gown belt in the process, and as the belt loosened one of her breasts popped out. The pair of them stared at the breast, then at each other, and froze like statues for a few brief, yet infinite moments before he released her. She quickly covered herself up, adjusted her belt up and sobered up fast.

"Ok, great job." she said curtly. "How much ish it?"

Grant sensed she now wanted to get rid of him quickly, and this might mean a sales opportunity.

"Eighty dollars for five gallons." he quickly replied with a forearm smash.

"What?" she shrieked. "I don't need that much!" Somewhere, a linesman was calling a foul shot.

"I can do you twenty dollars for a gallon then." he backed down.

"Ok. That shoundsh better." she slurred. Umpire overrules linesman, point given.

"I just need you to confirm the order on this form, ma'am. Don't worry about filling it all in. I only really need the purchase quantity and price, and your signature".

She scribbled on the paper.

"Thanks ma'am." he continued, as she ushered both him and Humvat towards the front door and closed it behind them with a thud. Grant shouted through the door. "We'll deliver it later today". Game over.

They ambled back down the driveway. "Now that was my kind of a sale, man!" smirked Grant. "Did you see those tits?"

They knocked on a door several houses along and immediately beat a hasty retreat when they were answered by a barking, snarling dog. After they'd stopped running Grant dusted himself down and straightened his clothes.

"There's no fuckin' call for that kind of behavior." he moaned.

The next two sales pitches resulted in the door being slammed in Grant's face.

"I don't get it." he muttered. "I'm normally much better than this".

The buzzing sound of a green humming bird flitting between the few flowers still bestowing nectar was a reminder of the ancient courtship long conducted between nature and this land. The wildlife was struggling to live much as it always had done, despite the shift of equilibrium caused by the recent arrival of humans.

On the other side of another town, Debbie installed sales crew two, planting them at regular intervals. She assigned Parvark to the guardianship of Mikey. He explained some of the tricks of the trade.

"Okay." he advised, pulling a lump of scourer from his pocket and revealing it. "First chance you get, buy one of these. Come on, I'll show you why. Let me do all the talking and you just listen".

He led Parvark up a driveway and knocked on the door. There was a sound of shuffling feet and locks and chains and an old lady eventually opened it. She looked exhausted by the effort.

"Good morning ma'am." sang Mikey. "I'm in the neighborhood and was just passing your house. I noticed your doorknob is stained and wondered if you'd allow me the honor of cleaning it for you?"

She looked at him strangely and without saying anything motioned for him to continue with a nod of her head. He sprayed the doorknob from his sample bottle and then rubbed it clean with a wiping cloth, within which he deftly hid the scourer.

"See?" he grinned at her. "It removed all of the dirt without staining the brass. Pretty impressive, huh?"

The old woman nodded her vacant nod. "Yup, I'm impressed." she said slowly, and looked Mikey up and down before continuing. "You'd normally need a scourer to get it looking like that".

"But with a scourer you'd get scratches." explained Mikey.

She nodded her head again, vacantly.

"How much shall I put you down for then ma'am? Five gallons?"

"Okay." she shrugged.

Mikey proffered a sheet of paper at her. "If you'd just write your signature at the bottom of this order form we'll deliver later this afternoon. Good day ma'am"

Then Mikey sped them both away from the scene of the crime. Parvark felt disturbing feelings. Surely there were some troubling social principles at stake in what he had just witnessed.

"Did the old woman know how much she was buying?" he asked. "I do not think she will ever use it all".

"I can't say as I really much care." retorted Mikey. "All I know is I just sold eighty dollars worth of cleaning fluid and it means I earned fifteen dollars commission, and the fifteen dollars is now mine".

"Fifteen dollars? For two minutes of working?" whistled Parvark, feeling the talking money rapidly peeling his principles away from him. "Very interesting".

They ambled along the road. "What you need," continued Mikey "Is a perfect line. Something you can add to your demonstration or throw into the conversation that can help grab a sale for you. Take me for instance. My perfect line is the cleaning-like-a-scourer-without-leaving-scouring-marks one I just used. Some of the other kids say they're working their way through college, you know stuff like that. You need something similar. You could use my one I guess".

"Scouring like a scourer without making scratches?" mused Parvark, trying to mentally translate the words so they might make sense.

"You know man, your accent almost sounds English sometimes!" laughed Mikey. And then his eyes lit up.

"Goddamn! That's it! People go crazy for all the jolly old England, tea with the queen and I say dear chap bullshit. It'll be your perfect line!"

Parvark nervously stood alone on a doorstep and rang the doorbell. Mikey was standing at the end of the drive acting as both protector and lookout. A middle aged woman answered the door. Parvark cleared his throat.

"Good morning madam." he began, showing her the sample bottle. "I was so impressed with this product I've come all the way from jolly old England to bring it to your attention".

She glowed with a warm flush, gleamed with a gentle embarrassment and asked him to repeat the words.

Two minutes later Parvark handed over the order form to Mikey, who inspected it for correctness.

"Ten gallons?!" he exclaimed.

Parvark nodded his head and laughed. "Thirty dollars for me".

"Fuck, man. I ain't never heard of nobody selling ten gallons in one go before".

Meanwhile, Grant and Humvat had knocked on a host of non responsive doors as morning passed and afternoon arrived. They eventually came across an older woman who was dusting her porch.

"Good afternoon ma'am," began Grant.

"I'm not interested in buying any cleaning fluid." she interrupted him. "Just the same as I told the boy last week and the other one the week before".

Grant was visibly shaken by this response, but ever the old hand he quickly recovered. "But ma'am I'm working my way through college and I've got to sell another gallon today to make my target. Could you help me out here?"

She looked pensively, caught between the wicked desire to see off this travelling gypsy and her tugging conscience towards a struggling stranger in need.

"Okay." she eventually relented, "But I'll only take half a gallon".

He gave her the form to fill in and quickly returned to the sidewalk. "Shit!" he hissed as they trudged along, stalking their next sale. "That's all I need! It explains everything - this place is a saturated territory. There are probably people sitting inside all these houses. They just won't answer the door because they've had so many sons of bitches prowling on their doorstep".

"Just like you, you son of a bitch." thought Humvat, though he kept this to himself for fear of upsetting Grant and in turn upsetting Sibowitz.

They turned into a side street and stumbled upon a door to door salesman's paradise situation. There were two women standing outside their respective houses conducting a neighbourly conversation. Grant ambled up and approached them.

"Well good afternoon ladies." he smiled.

"Good afternoon son." replied one. "What can we do for you?"

Simply by responding with a question she was wresting control of the conversation, and thus the confrontation. She was good. In fact she was very good. Robbed of his sales gambit and losing interest in the chase, Grant went straight for his perfect line. "Well ma'am, I'm working my way through college and I need to sell another gallon of this stuff to make my daily target. I was wondering if you could help me out here?"

The women looked at each other sniffily. They were obviously not entirely convinced by the perfect line, yet neither were they entirely unconvinced. They looked at each other.

"Well, if she's willing to take half of it, I'll take a quart off you." said the second one. "If you'll do it for two dollars." added the first.

"What?" exclaimed Grant. "A pint each for a dollar each? You're fucking joking man!" As well as losing interest, he was now losing his temper as well.

The woman shrugged. "Ok asshole. Be like that. I was only trying to do you a favor".

Humvat decided it was time to intervene and prevent an ugly confrontation. He snatched the form book from Grant and handed it to the other woman. "Please sign quantity, price and names here. We deliver later".

The woman shook her head. "No. I don't think I want any anymore".

She handed him back the book and looked into his eyes. "Do I know you?" she asked.

"Stupid fat bitches!" screamed Grant as Humvat bustled him away.

Negativity descended all over Grant and he decided he'd had enough for one day. They walked up and down the newly built roads until they came across a supermarket. Humvat remembered he was under orders not to upset Grant, and he was in danger of catching the blame for his current moodiness. So he went inside and came back out with the supplicant of a six pack of beer which he could ill afford, when he would rather have food anyway. They then went around to the back lot of the supermarket, where they sat down in the sun and drank the beer.

"How long are you selling Deterjeron?" asked Humvat.

"Too fucking long man." came the reply. "About six months actually".

"Only six month and you are longest employee?"

"Yeah. This place has a pretty quick turnaround".

"But not you?"

"Nope. See, I'm from Queens in New York and I thought I got into a fight with a jealous Spic over a girl I was screwing, only it turned out she was his sister – how was I to know – and he had loadsa bloods. It all got pretty ugly, man. I had to get right out of that fucking town or I'd have ended up deader than dead. I saw a newspaper classified for a job involving travel to San Francisco and it looked like a real lucky break".

He chuckled to himself facetiously. "Some fucking break".

He sipped some beer. "You know most of the crews are virtual junkies and the rest are completely fucked up in the head? I still haven't figured out if that bodyguard Joe is protecting the crews from the public or if it's the other way round".

He pulled a pouch of marijuana out of his pocket and then some cigarette papers out of a pocket in the pouch. He started rolling a joint.

"What about Janine?" asked Humvat hopefully.

"You got the hots for Janine, huh?" teased Grant as he continued his task. "Well, you gotta make better sales than Jimmy Rees if you wanna piece of her ass. She only goes for the best salesman, man. The top dog".

He took another sip of beer. "You know, one week a couple of months ago I actually beat Jimmy and it was the weekend, and me and her were both totally wasted. She turns around to me and looks me in the eye, and says 'I wanna fuck the top dog' so who am I to turn her down? So we're going at it and I can feel we're both gonna come at the same time, and it's great when that happens, and I tell her and suddenly she yells at me she wants me to come on her face, so I sorta just about managed to get it out and do it in time. Afterwards I asked her why she did it, and was she into some kind of kinky stuff maybe. She turns around and says she has a boyfriend and she don't wanna be unfaithful. Can you believe that? She thinks so long as you don't come inside her then she's not cheating? I tell you man, she's one fucked up bitch".

Humvat remained silent, but deep within him the hastily constructed towers of his dreams were crashing and toppling like fragile wooden buildings in an earthquake. Grant lit the joint, took a long puff and offered it to Humvat who declined obliviously. "No. I not smoke".

Grant shrugged his shoulders, opened up another can of beer and continued. "Listen man, I'm sorry for being pissed off with you earlier, but Sibowitz always unloads the new recruits onto me. And if you hadn't been around I'd have had some foxy blond pussy from earlier today as well. She was up and ready for it. I could tell. Anyhow, when we get to California I'm outta here".

He paused briefly for thought. "That's if I'm still alive".

Then the intensifying effects of the Marijuana started to hit him. He inspected Humvat closely and a realisation of recognition swept into and then out of his eyes.

"Hey man! Now I know where I've seen you before. You're a dead ringer for the Australian guy Larry on that TV show".

"I know." sighed Humvat. "He is curse of my life. Everywhere I go people are point at me and poking me, all because of Larry bastard. He will be ruin of me".

"No, no, no," insisted Grant. "He's gonna become your meal ticket, man. This business is tough, it's dog eat dog, and if you got any advantage you gotta use it man. You gotta pretend to be Larry. I'm telling you, that is such a cool idea. Larry going around people's houses, knocking on their door and selling them Deterjeron! It's bitching! You'll make a fortune, man".

Humvat contemplated. "But I never seen the Larry. I do not know how he talks and what things he says. If I am play the part of Larry I need know these things".

"Ok, man. All you need to know is he's Australian. Can you do an Australian accent?"

Humvat shrugged. "I don't know what Australian sounds like".

Grant contorted his face and drawled "Well, it sounds a bit like this mate. They always call everyone mate. They say things like 'Sure as a dead dingo', 'Amber nectar' and 'Don't toss a tiger'. And they end most sentences like they're asking a question?"

Humvat remained unconvinced. "I need know much more. I try it yesterday with some mad woman and she throw us out of her car".

"Listen man, remember all the bullshit they give you in those sales meetings about MindTone thinking?"

Humvat nodded his agreement. "Yeah, is bullshit".

"Well, the way I see it, some of it is actually true. There's nothing special about Deterjeron. Tony goes on about it being this fucking fantastic secret product, but that's where all the bullshit is man. It's just soap and water for chrissake. This MindTone stuff seems to me like a good way to build up confidence, and that's what really counts in this game. Having the balls to get out there and then follow the script to stop you from thinking too much about it all. You just need to find a bit of confidence and write your own script. But with necessity being the mother of invention, you're gonna have to make it up as you go along".

"Well, I know how he speak and some of words, I suppose." pondered Humvat. Then he looked strangely at Grant. "Blood is coming out of your ear".

Grant pulled some tissue paper out of his pocket and used it to dab himself. "Like I said, man," he sighed. "If I'm still alive".

A few yards away was a tall Magnolia tree, overlooking a dirty stream. The leaves rustled in one of the higher branches and a pelican swooped down into the water. He then reappeared with a small silver snake wriggling in his beak. The bird quickly and firmly beat the snake's head against the ground until it was smashed open, and with a final spasm it died. The pelican greedily gobbled its prey then flew back up to its perch, looking down upon the world below, serving a reminder that nature is treacherous and always watching and waiting to strike in whatever way it has to.

A while later they decided to go back to selling. They approached a woman sweeping her front porch.

"Now remember," whispered Grant. "Start off with 'G'day mate. Larry O's the name. Pleased to meet you' and take it from there. I'll be waiting out here. Give me a yell if you need me".

"Oh, I will." grimaced Humvat

He approached the woman and said "G'day mate. Larry O's the name. Pleased to meet you".

She blinked at him, hardly able to believe her eyes. "Larry? Oh my god! Is it you? It is you! Well bless my soul, what on earth are you doing here?"

"I'm selling this, mate." he continued, holding up the sample bottle of cleaning fluid.

"Oh." she replied, somewhat crestfallen. Then she perked up. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you do some of your funny phrases for me?"

Humvat was having to think quickly on his feet. "Which one you want, mate?"

"How about the one about the dead dingo? It's so funny, it always cracks me up".

"Ok. Don't toss a dead dingo, mate".

She looked at him strangely. "What about the tiger one?"

Oh yes. He remembered Grant mentioning this one, and he was much happier to be in familiar territory. He could even improvise.

"Grr!" he growled holding up his hands and spreading his fingers, pretending to extend them like claws. "Don't tug a tiger, mate!"

"That's wonderful Larry." she sighed. "Thank you very much".

"Will you buy cleaning fluid now, mate?" he asked.

"Yes I will." she sighed. "Let me just go inside and see how much money there is in my purse".

She disappeared inside the house, closing the front door behind her. Several minutes passed, and she hadn't reappeared. She must have lost her purse somewhere. Several more uneventful minutes passed by. Humvat waited patiently; maybe she'd forgotten about him. Suddenly there was the wailing and screeching sound of a police siren and two police officers were upon him. The woman opened the door.

"Is this the one you made the call to 911 for ma'am?" barked one of the officers.

"Yes officer. I want him arrested for impersonating a TV star".

"I'm afraid there's no law for that ma'am, but I'll give him a ticket for jaywalking".

Humvat's eyes fearfully searched for some support from the waiting Grant but he was nowhere to be seen.

The police officer pulled a notebook out of the car. "Forename?" he asked.

Humvat said a quick prayer to himself and gulped. "Tony".

"Surname?"

"Valento".

"Address?"

The police car drove off and Humvat skulked away. Grant appeared from nowhere, like an illusionist's trick.

"What happened, man?" he asked, disingenuously.

"Police give me this!" shrieked Humvat, brandishing the ticket. "And I must take documents to police station!"

"Wow, bummer man." soothed Grant with a sharp intake of breath.

He inspected the ticket and shook his head. "And not a wise move using Tony's name".

"And where you were when I need you?!" scowled Humvat.

"Sorry man, but I'm wanted in New York State. I can't get involved with the cops and any of that shit".

They trudged along aimlessly. "You know" sighed Grant. "Things are normally better than this. Today has just been a really bad day. They're not usually this bad".

Grant's bad day was becoming Humvat's living nightmare. They found a spot which was isolated enough so nobody would report them to the police, yet obvious enough for Sibowitz to find them, and they sat down by the road.

"You just gotta learn to speak like Larry, man." decided Grant. "And then you can start making your fortune".

"The Larry will destroy me if he does not get me send to prison first!" fumed Humvat.

Sibowitz and the van approached down the road. They got to their feet but it drove straight past them. Humvat felt the hunger in his stomach.

Meanwhile, on the other side of a different town Debbie was picking up her sales crew. It was time to deliver the Deterjeron they'd sold and collect payments. She looked in disbelief at the order sheets Parvark submitted to her.

"Sweet Jesus, Parvark!" she muttered. "You've sold more stock than we're carrying in the van!"

She headed off to make the first drop-off of the five gallons Mikey had offloaded earlier. He knocked on the door and after what seemed like an eternity of shuffling, yanking chains and unbolting locks, the old woman breathlessly opened the door once again.

"Can I help you?" she asked him.

"Just dropping off your order ma'am." smiled Mikey.

"What order?"

"The Deterjeron you ordered earlier." he continued to smile benignly.

"There's some sort of mistake. I didn't order nothing. I've never seen you before".

Mikey started seething. "You ordered five gallons of cleaning fluid this morning".

He waved the order form in her face. "Look. This is your signature here".

She peered at the order form. "That ain't my signature." she pronounced. "What would I want with five gallons of cleaning fluid? Even if the Good Lord looks down on me kindly, I ain't gonna live long enough to use up that much cleaning fluid".

Mikey started to get angry. "Now listen here..."

He was interrupted by Debbie beeping the car horn. "Leave it Mikey!" she shouted. "We can use the five gallons to make up some of the shortfall on Parvark's sales".

Mikey flicked the birdie at the old woman as he turned to go back to the van, and snarled "Fuck you, you stupid old bitch! You just cost me fifteen dollars!"

"No, fuck you son." she curtly countered. "You think you're a regular hustler, scamming old women out of their money. But you're not. You're not even minor league. You think I'm a dozy old fucker and you're the young buck, the star of the show. Well let me tell you something, there's only one difference between you and me. I've been to all the places you've been to in life, but you haven't visited half the places where I've been. That's all".

In a rage, Mikey made for her, but was stopped by the van horn blaring again.

Humvat and Grant were at last in van number one and had dropped off their gallon and a half of sales. Sibowitz picked up the rest of the crew and dropped off their equally meagre orders. Despite their howling complaints, he decided they were going to try another part of town and he dropped them off once again, one by one.

Grant had informed him about Humvat receiving a ticket, so he decided not to chance putting him back out on the street, much to Humvat's weary delight. But the results of the second sales drive were just as disappointing, and after dropping off the half gallon Grant had managed to sell by literally begging some poor woman, Sibowitz reluctantly decided to head back to the motel. It was eight pm.

Having completely sold their stock, sales crew number two were already on their way home. Debbie stopped outside a liquor store.

"Go on, Parvark." she encouraged him. "You're the star player. Go get yourself some beer".

She handed him a ten dollar note.

Hesitantly he took the money and emerged from the liquor store with a six pack. He resumed his seat in the van and beamed at the rest of the crew. He opened a can and the froth spilled out in a hissing sound. He put the can to his mouth and tasted the cool beer. Finally he was beginning to feel a good warm feeling about Deterjeron. He was also starting to feel he'd been a bit of an over-reacting fool to have suspected anything might be amiss in the first place, picking up strands of coincidence to create a chain of certainty.

The rest of the crew looked longingly at the beers in an unpunctuated silence.

"Is anybody buy beer?" he asked nobody in particular.

"You have to have at least one hundred dollars in your daily sales kitty before you get any money for alcohol," sighed Mikey. "And you're the only one of us who made enough money today to qualify".

Parvark understood what was being implied, but remained tight lipped for as long as he could. Eventually he reluctantly asked "Is anybody want beer?" The other five cans instantly disappeared amidst a flurry of popping and hissing. He was beginning to wish he'd hidden some.

"Be pleased tell me," he continued. "What is kitty?"

"Well," slurped Mikey. "Any commission you make is held in safe keeping for you by Tony. He keeps a balance of account for you. Whenever you want any money, you get it from him".

Parvark's danger detector started to ring warning bells again in his mind. "I get all kitty from him tomorrow?"

"I guess so." shrugged Mikey. "Though I never heard of anyone asking for their entire kitty in one go".

"Hey Parvark." beamed Debbie. "Don't worry man. You've made three hundred and forty eight dollars on your first day. You're gonna make a fortune. You really kicked ass out there".

He sat back and allowed himself a speck of optimism. Yes, it was true after all. He was going to make a treasure chest of dollars.

They got back to the motel to find the third sales crew had already returned, while the first were still out on the road. There was a buzz in the lobby as news of his success filtered through. Janine came up to him.

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?" she asked. "I do believe it's so important to be mixing with the right people. People like you".

Parvark was flattered by the attention. "For sure," he nodded, "Let us celebrate with meal".

She took him by the hand and asked. "Do you have any plans for the weekend, top dog?"

It was almost eleven thirty when sales crew one eventually returned to the motel car park. Humvat looked out of the window and noticed the middle aged, middle class beggar woman was still out the front, on the sidewalk. She was like a ghost haunting him, because if this could happen to her it could certainly happen to him. She was his ghost of Christmas future.

"Anyone with sales of less than one hundred dollars head straight for the WAL meeting." barked Sibowitz. "And that means each and every one of you miserable losers. Non attendance will result in a thirty dollar fine".

Humvat slunk out of the van, his body, mind and spirit crushed. He headed for the conference room and peered through a pane of glass in the door. Holy Baqra! They were all practising their sales techniques on one another again. He could hear Valento's bellowing voice.

"A basic principle of making sales is to demonstrate matching benefits. Ergo you can always demonstrate that even the cleanest prospects inhabit unsafe, dirt ridden houses. Deterjeron will demonstrably clean these habitats, it will make them safer to inhabit. This is a matching benefit. And talking of matching benefits, my book entitled 'How To Transform Your Life Through MindTone' is now available for sale online. Make sure you order a copy".

These people were lunatics. They worshipped at the altar of money with the same dedication as orthodox Siminites worshipping at the prayer temple. He scanned the room but was unable to locate Parvark. He then made the instant decision that if Parvark could miss the infernal meeting so could he, and hang the consequences of a fine. He'd experienced enough hassle during the course of this single day to last him for a lifetime. Even his hunger had faded into the depths of his tiredness.

He wandered through the maze of corridors in the motel and, having got lost twice, he at last found room 224. He crept into the darkness, turned the radio off and slumped into the bed Mikey wasn't going to be sleeping in.

Meanwhile, in South Jefesta Doctor Wirliv surveyed the latest translated parchment from the Book of Finding Contentment, written by the prophet Baqra as dictated to him by the Inventor.

"Last night I dreamt I was walking through the academy. All the rooms and corridors were empty except for one small lecture theatre, where an old man sat huddled over a huge pile of documents. He was wailing loudly and beating upon them wildly with his hands.

'What's wrong?' I asked.

He stopped, looked up at me and replied 'I am supposed to be a philosopher but I cannot answer the simplest of questions'.

'What are these questions?' I asked. 'Perhaps I can help'.

He looked at me with contempt. 'What is the largest number there can be?' he asked, and before I could reply he added 'For you can always add one to the largest number you can think of and create a larger one.'

'How big is the largest known structure, the universe?' he continued. 'And what lies beyond it, if this is not also the universe?'

'The smallest known particle is the atom' he continued, getting into his stride. 'But what is an atom made of? How can that be?'

'What happened before the beginning of time and what will happen after time has ended?'

He shook his head forlornly. 'Trying to answer these questions is driving me into madness and an early grave!'

I shook my head in sympathy. 'I don't know the answers either' I admitted".

"The meaning of this dream is quite clear to me. When the Inventor created man he gave him the adjustment of intelligence, so man alone amongst all creatures can ask questions like these. However, He did not give man the adjustment required to be able to answer them. Only the Inventor himself knows the answers to these, and He will reveal them to you when you arrive in the kingdom of Light with a pure soul full of grace, ready to be seated by His side for eternity. It is a pointless task to ask questions which you cannot answer, and one of the keys to finding contentment is not to worry about those things you have no control over".
Chapter Twelve

Fitting Faces

A packed congregation sits hushed inside a large cathedral. Stained glass windows, set high in a dome in the middle, convert the transparent light passing through into all the colours of the rainbow. This spectrum shines down on a throne on the ground below in the centre of the cathedral, where Larry sits. He is holding a mace in one hand and a golden ball in the other. A religious dignitary stands solemnly before him and anoints him on the forehead, at the same time mumbling an ancient incantation. He then turns to an assistant who is holding a silken cushion, upon which sits a crown. He picks up the crown, turns back before Larry, continues to quietly chant and goes to place the crown on his head. Suddenly there is a rasping noise in the background. Enraged, Larry grabs the priest's hand and pushes the crown away. He leaps up from the throne, prowls around and he starts to address his audience. But although his lips start to move, he says nothing for a fraction of a second. Then he shouts.

"Okay then, which one of you lot just let mister fluffy off the chain?!"

The crowd remain silent.

"Come on!" he barks at them. "Who was it? Which one of you opened their lunchbox?! Because I can tell you, if you'd have given it some choke it might have started!"

There is still silence.

"Right then!" he yells. "Nobody leaves this place until somebody owns up. You can bet London to a brick on it!"

As he returns to his throne and sits back down he mutters to himself. "You know, these people are about as useful as tits on a bull!"

Then he looks at the priest and shouts "And you're so stupid you wouldn't know a tram was up your backside until the bell rang!"

A distant voice calls out "I reckon it was you what done it, Larry!"

Larry's angry expression instantly turns into a smile. He looks towards the distant voice in the congregation and says "Fair dos mate, but I had you all going for a minute there, didn't I?!"

The priest solemnly nods his agreement, bows his head and sighs to himself "What a way to make a quid".

He then carefully places the crown on Larry's head. Larry rises, slowly this time, and walks down the main aisle towards the cathedral entrance. When he gets there he turns back around and says "And you all thought I was just a tyre kicker. Huh!" Then he turns on his heels and marches purposefully out of the building.
Humvat found himself walking out of the stage school and into the narrow street, on his way to the prayer temple. Kipdip ran towards him with her arms outstretched.

"Oh Humvat, why have you deserted me?" she cried. "I've been desperate to tell you how I've realised it's you I love. I love you with a passion which stirs such yearning within me, a passion I never knew I was capable of feeling".

Then he heard another voice, a male voice.

"But Kipdip." interrupted Carbet, who had magically appeared from nowhere. "I thought it was me you loved?"

Kipdip squirmed and smiled shyly, as she realised the embarrassment of a momentary lapse.

"Oh yes, Carbet, the love of my life." she sighed. Then she shrugged her shoulders. "Sorry Humvat, I forgot".

Humvat blinked his eyes open, and for a disorientated moment he assumed he was lying in bed in his lodgings in South Jefesta. He then became aware something somewhere was not as it should be, and sleepily examined the unfamiliar surroundings. His lumpy mattress was now smoother, the soft pillow firmer, the brown woollen blanket was now a blue duvet and there was a metallic noise in the corner that swept away the mist of his dreams and replaced it with the growing lucidity of consciousness. Ah yes, he was in his new lodgings somewhere in South Florida instead.

He wearily yawned and tried to remember what he'd just been dreaming about. It was lying there somewhere on the edge of his mind but was rapidly fading away, back into the void of his subconscious. The ever growing distance forced him to give up and let the memory return to wherever it came from.

Then he became aware the room was deserted apart from himself and the company of the radio in the corner, hammering out a loud, thumping thrashing mess of a song. He leant across the bed, picked up Mikey's watch from the bedside dresser and cursed to himself. It was seven fifty-five. He'd missed the seven thirty sales training meeting, and this was why the room was empty. He retained no memory of any noise or commotion, so could only guess he'd peacefully slept through the early morning alarm call and Mikey's farting. But despite the sleep he remained exhausted and growing ever more depressed at the thought of a reprise of the previous day's experience. He decided to seek out Parvark and tell him he'd made his mind up. He arose from the bed and searched for his clothes amongst the debris strewn across the floor.

He arrived outside the conference room at the same moment as the attendees were filing out. He was so desperate in his pursuit of Parvark he barely noticed he seemed to be having an intimate conversation with Janine. Humvat brusquely interrupted them and pulled Parvark to one side.

"Good morning sleepyhead." greeted Parvark. "Guess what? We're on the register now, and you just got fined thirty dollars for non attendance".

"I don't care about that." snapped Humvat. "You were right all along. This is a terrible place. I've had enough of all of this sales training which is easy in theory but impossible in practise. I think we should leave. Now".

"Whoa now! Hold on!" exclaimed Parvark. "You must be doing something wrong, because I'm on my way to making a treasure chest full of money! I made three hundred and forty eight dollars yesterday. Nobody has ever done better on their first day".

Humvat continued, ignoring him. "I'm also fed up with trying to cheat and deceive the old, the stupid and the naive by glorifying a cleaning fluid which is really no better than soapy water. I haven't made a single sale because my conscience won't allow me to hawk this drivel. Please, let's go now".

He grabbed hold of Parvark's arm and attempted to pull him along with him.

"Sounds to me like the whining of a loser." snorted Parvark, pulling himself away and evading the grasp. "You can't hack it, so you start blaming everyone and everything other than yourself for your predicament. None of these so called old, stupid or naive people are poor. Nobody in America is really poor. Even the so called poorest are a darned sight richer than you and me. And do you know why? It's because they're milking money from the state. They're all on welfare handouts. I know this because Janine has told me. So to answer your concerns, I don't have a moral problem with exaggerating the cleansing power of Deterjeron if it makes the difference between me getting a commission or not getting one".

Humvat's lower jaw dropped down to his ankles. Holy Baqra. In the course of a single day Parvark had turned from a recalcitrant salesman with a strict moral code into a human cuckoo, happy to lay his eggs in any old nest and foist his own chicks upon the unwary. Humvat neglected to consider his own conversion in the opposite direction.

"Look." soothed Parvark. "I'm doing really well here. Why would I want to throw it all away just because you're having a crisis of confidence? Stay, at least for another few days and see if you can find the MindTone within yourself which will enable you to overcome your doubts and fears".

Humvat privately noted Parvark was even beginning to sound like a Deterjeron employee. He'd obviously been brainwashed.

"Okay." he mumbled dejectedly. "I'll give it a bit longer".

Janine waved at them. "Hey, Parvark honey. Are you ready to hit the road now?"

Parvark nodded and went out into the car park to find sales crew two. Humvat followed him, sought his own van and climbed in with aching limbs and a beaten heart.

After being transported in the van to another distant suburb, Humvat found himself being led by Grant like a dog on a leash, being walked through a different town but a familiar neighbourhood. All of these places were beginning to look the same.

"Well, my man. Today is the proud day you make your first sale. You been practising your Larry spiel?" demanded Grant.

"Some." lied Humvat. "But I have not had much of time".

Grant pointed at a house with a car parked in the drive and said. "Okay then. That one over there looks like a good prospect. Go get 'em tiger. And don't forget to use Larry's most famous catchphrase. What is it?"

Humvat wracked through the filing cabinets of his mind for the meaningless words, but he'd carelessly mislaid them and stared back vacantly, hopelessly grasping for the phrase.

Grant seethed. "It's 'You're hotter than a piss in a sauna', you dumb motherfucker".

Unabated by this savage treatment, Humvat nodded that he was prepared to deliver his lines and marched towards the house.

He stood on the doorstep and rang the bell. After a few moments a smartly dressed, middle aged woman with dyed blonde hair opened the door.

"Can I help you?" she enquired.

Humvat proudly beamed at her and exclaimed. "You're hotter than a piss in a sauna, you dumb motherfucker!"

The woman eyed him with a mixture of alarm and disbelief.

"Excuse me?"

Humvat continued to beam obliviously. "Larry O's the name, mate, and I'm selling this".

He produced his sample bottle of Deterjeron and held it in the air. "Wanna buy some?"

The woman shook her head. "No I don't, honey. But I might want to buy you".

She stared hard at Humvat and walked around him, closely inspecting his features.

"Visually you're a very impressive Larry lookalike, but your performance is dreadful." she pronounced. "You sound nothing like him".

Humvat, who was beginning to feel a vague discomfort at being pawed over like a caged tiger in a zoo, sighed.

"I know. I told this to him". He pointed towards Grant, who was smoking a joint and looking away from the house as he allegedly kept his duty watch.

The woman thoughtfully stroked her cheek. "You know something? An acquaintance of mine runs a lookalike talent agency. They'd definitely be interested in you. You should consider a change of career, honey".

He sighed mournfully again. "What does lookalike talent agency mean?"

"Well, basically they provide people who resemble famous stars and they impersonate them".

"What does impersonate mean?"

"It means they pretend to be the famous stars".

This suggestion turned his vague discomfort into a specific uneasiness. Humvat shook his head vigorously.

"No, no and thousand times no. The pretending to be Larry got me into a trouble two days ago, and I nearly arrested for doing yesterday".

The time had come to bring this dangerous conversation to a close so he bade farewell and turned to flee without the sale.

But before he could bolt the woman asked "That's a strange accent you got there, honey. Whereabouts are you from?"

"I from People's Republic of South Jefesta".

"Then I assume you've got a work permit?"

Humvat sniggered. "Work permit? For why do I need work permit? This is America, land of the free".

"Don't you know if you haven't got a work permit you'll end up getting picked up by the immigration department and deported back to South Jefesta?"

Humvat now started panicking at the thought of being deported. "In South Jefesta I need permit to work and permit not to work, but America is land of free. How I need work permit in land of free?"

The woman slipped him a business card, at the same time saying "Listen honey, if you decide to change your mind give me a call and I'll sort you out a job and a work permit. It pays well too. You're the only decent Larry lookalike I've ever seen, and I estimate you could earn a thousand dollars per appearance".

Humvat's eyes widened and his mind started ticking over with this information. He accepted the card and placed it into his trouser pocket.

He rejoined Grant, who snapped. "Well, did you make the sale, big guy?"

Humvat shook his head and Grant raised his eyes skywards. "Please tell me you at least screwed her!"

Humvat balefully shook his head.

"Well, son of a bitch! It looks like we've finally found a fucking replacement for David Johnson as the company whipping boy".

Humvat ignored him. He was too busy making mental calculations and weighing up options as they ambled along the sidewalk.

"Tell, Grant." he mused. "Are foreigners needing work permit in this country?"

"Oh yeah, man. If you ain't gotta work permit then you're illegal, and the Feds'll haul your sorry ass straight back to where it came from".

Humvat felt in his pocket to check he still possessed the business card and decided perhaps it was time to give destiny an opportunity to work in a different direction.

An hour later he gave Grant the slip for a short while and returned to the woman's house. The business card said her name was Janet Mobey and she was the CEO of Fitting Faces Talent Inc, whatever that meant in any language. He rang the bell once again, and she opened the door once again.

He stood on the doorstep and nervously stuttered "You can really get me job with lookalike talent agency friend?"

She smiled. "I know it honey".

"How you can know?"

"Because the friend who owns the agency is me honey. Sorry for not telling you earlier, but I didn't want to scare you off".

Omitting to mention how he came to be in America, Humvat explained his current situation to her. How his belongings were in the motel, and how he could only join her agency if his friend Parvark could come along too. She accepted these terms and arranged to pick them up from the motel car park at nine thirty in the evening, and spirit them away to the asylum of her house. Having agreed to sell the next chapter of his life to a higher bidder, he skulked away to walk invisibly through the daylight shadows of the suburbs, wandering the streets like a homeless nomad until he eventually ran into Grant.

It was dark once again when sales crew number one returned to the motel car park. And once again their combined sales performance was pitiful. In a fit of fury after yet another conversational disaster, Humvat refused to impersonate Larry any more. As a result of his outbreak of negative MindTone he had achieved zero sales, thus earning himself the accolade of the biggest Weak Assed Loser of them all. Even David Johnson managed to pull a quart sale from out of the hat.

A crestfallen Humvat sloped out of the van and into the motel. He blindly sought out Parvark, and eventually located him in the diner where he was eating and sitting in cosy conversation with Janine. He slumped onto the seat next to Parvark and gratefully accepted a free cup of black coffee from a waitress.

Janine eyed him with disdain.

"Did you finally manage to make any sales today then, Dumvat?" she ridiculed him.

He weakly shook his head, the insult failing to penetrate the wall of miserable fatigue and self pity enveloping him. Parvark motioned towards her. The expression in his eyes said she should leave them for a private moment. She took the hint and stood up, puckered up and bent down to deposit a kiss upon his forehead.

"I'll catch you later, top dog." she purred as she ran her fingers through his hair and sidled seductively out of the room.

Humvat's narrowed eyes and pursed lips silently followed her until she walked out of the room, and then he wailed.

"I can't take any more of this place. It's destroying me! I didn't go through the pain of leaving my family and home in South Jefesta and coming to this country for this life of ignominy".

Then he sniffed. "Did you know we're supposed to possess work visas if we are in employment in this country?"

"Don't be so ridiculous!" scoffed Parvark. "This is America, land of the free. You can do whatever you want in this mighty nation".

"That's what I thought." Humvat muttered. "But I have been informed by two separate sources today it is not the case".

He leant forward and whispered conspiratorially "I, that is, we, have been offered an escape route. I met a woman today who runs some form of theatrical agency where they pay people to pretend to be famous stars. She wants me to pretend to be this Larry person I seem to resemble, and she is willing to pay me a thousand dollars each time I do it. And she will obtain work visas for both of us".

Parvark chortled. "Well your money all depends on how many times you get asked to pretend to be this Larry. You could be earning something, but you might be earning nothing. I, on the other hand, earned six hundred and fifty eight dollars commission today. It's the highest amount anyone in this company has ever achieved. I'm going to make a treasure chest full of dollars, and I'm already the top dog. The so called immortal Jimmy Rees is now merely number two, and you want me to trade all this real money in for possibilities of nothing? You can go and pretend to be this Larry character if you like, but I'm staying put here".

"You've got to come with me." urged Humvat, pressing his case forward. "If you stay here without a work visa, eventually the authorities will discover you and you'll be deported back to South Jefesta. Do you really want to face execution because of your devotion to money and Deterjeron?"

Parvark gazed thoughtfully for a few moments, picked at his unfinished meal with a fork and eventually sighed.

"Can't we stay for a few more days? You wouldn't believe what Janine said she is going to do to me this weekend".

Humvat shook his head. Everything was arranged for escape at 21:30 hours that night, in thirty minutes time.

They each crept up to their rooms, packed their bags and furtively met back in the lobby. Parvark noticed Valento entering a room, pondered for a moment to gather his courage, then followed him in. His intention was to claim his kitty before he departed into the shadows of the night, just like the girl he'd been greeted by upon his arrival. He opened the door and was surprised to find Valento and Janine locked in an embrace. Valento was facing away from him, but Parvark could still discern he had one hand up the inside of her bra and the other swarming over the waist button of her jeans. For her part she had unzipped his trousers and entered her hand. She noticed Parvark out of the corner of her eye and quickly unlocked the embrace. Valento turned around towards him. He smiled an embarrassed yet superior smile, like a parent caught stealing apples by a child. "What can I do for you, top dog?"

"You can give me my one thousand and six dollars." replied Parvark with both deadpan face and voice.

Valento put his hand in his pocket. "I can give you some of it".

"No, I want all of it. I leave now".

Valento turned on Janine. "What's going on here?!" he roared at her. "Can't I trust you to do anything right?"

Humvat had seen Parvark wander into the room and also entered, carrying his case. "You!" spat Valento. "You can get the hell out of here! Right now!"

He tugged at his shirt cuff and glanced at his watch. "As of 9:17 pm Eastern Time, on this Friday June the 15th in the year of our Lord 2012 your employment with us is terminated. Get outta here, you goddamned sorry son of a bitch loser! Don't let me ever see your ugly weak ass again!"

Then he turned back to Parvark and shouted. "But you're going nowhere pal. Nobody leaves me unless I allow them to. You signed a contract and I'm holding you to it".

Alerted by the commotion, Joe the bodyguard hurried into the room with his gun drawn. Valento pointed at Humvat and shouted. "Joe! Throw this bum out", then pointing at Parvark, he muttered "And escort this bum back up to his room".

Joe put the gun back in its holster, and with his two vast hands gripped around each of their necks he marshalled Humvat and Parvark out of the room. "Okay boys, no need to make this any uglier than it has to be." he growled.

"But you no understand." pleaded Humvat. "Parvark does not have work permit. Some time, maybe week, maybe month, authorities will find him and send him back to South Jefesta. And he will be executed".

Joe glared at Parvark. "Is this true boy?"

Parvark nodded. "This is why I leave here. I do not want to die".

"What exactly did you do then, boy?"

"We upset government and had to flee country. This is reason we come to America. Otherwise we would be killed".

Joe released his grip and shook his head. "I can't force a dead man walking to stay here. Especially if he's innocent. I ain't got it in me." he confessed.

Valento, realising his grip on Parvark was loosening, turned on him in a fury. "Well you can forget about getting any of your kitty, you cheating son of a bitch! You signed a contract to stay with us until California and you want out after two days? Forget it, man. In fact, I'm gonna sue your ass for damages. You'll be hearing from my lawyers. Now get your sorry looking face outta here!"

Janine attempted to retain some form of dignified decorum by sitting down in the background, pouting silently as she adjusted her clothing. Parvark winked sarcastically at her and said "Now I know what you mean by being with right people. I was right people to make treasure chest of money for you and your boyfriend. You just think me as fool. Well I have been foolish, but I am not fool".

"You're walking out of here without any money!" spat Valento. "That seems pretty fucking stupid to me!"

As they headed out of the conference room Valento ordered Joe to stop them and made them empty their pockets, taking all of their loose change in lieu of payment for two nights stay at the motel. He told them they could consider themselves fortunate they weren't leaving with a bullet in each of their heads instead.

They then went out to the car park for the last time and found Janet Mobey waiting to transport them back to her den. She opened the car doors with the click of a button and they stooped down and clambered in.

"Welcome to Fitting Faces, honeys." she smiled, and started up the engine. As she drove away Humvat peered out towards the sidewalk in front of the motel and smiled to himself. The ghostly beggar woman who had been haunting him was no longer there. However, his smile abruptly vanished when he realised he had no idea where she had gone.

Two hours later they were all sitting in the comfort of Janet Mobey's opulent home, drinking glasses of fine wine and eating slices of fine pizza. After the third bottle she drunkenly presented Humvat with a contract, which she informed him he had to sign before she could process his application for a work permit. Given the contractual problems they'd experienced earlier with Valento, he giggled at the thought of this, yet signed anyhow.

"Where do I sign?" slurred Parvark.

She looked at him ominously and shook her head. "I'm sorry Parvark honey, but I can't get you a work permit. You don't look like anyone famous".

"Do not worry." slurred Humvat. "I will look after you, Parvark honey".

Parvark considered. On the one hand, instead of earning a treasure chest of money, he would have to rely on the generosity of Humvat. But on the other hand, thanks to Humvat's performance before the police the previous day, Tony Valento was now a wanted man in the state of Florida.

They eventually both stumbled upstairs to their own bedrooms and slept a deep sleep without the interruption of televisions, radios or farts.

The next day they were in Janet Mobey's office. Humvat was rehearsing for his new role, playing the part of Larry.

"No, no, no Humvat honey. Larry simply doesn't say it like that." she seethed patiently. "Can somebody please get me a DVD or a VCR tape or any sort of footage containing Larry, so we can show Humvat how to play him properly?"

Her two female assistants rummaged around in a box and clattered on a computer keyboard but reported that they couldn't find a single sample of Larry, not even on the internet. Janet Mobey tutted and checked the weekly television program listings from the Sunday edition of the Miami Herald. She tetchily threw the paper to the ground.

"It's always the same. When you want to watch a show you can never find it; just a deluge of crap you don't want to see. And when there is something decent on you miss it".

She composed herself and pointed to a corner of the room. "Humvat honey, will you walk over there for me, where my car keys are on the floor?"

Humvat obediently ambled across.

"And will you bend down and pick up?"

Humvat obediently picked them up.

"And will you bring them over to me?"

He obediently brought them over to her.

She shook her head. "You know something? You sure look the part, and you've mastered the movements and the gestures, but you just don't sound anything like Larry. I don't understand it at all".

Humvat could have told her why, if he could have been bothered. The reason why he didn't sound like Larry was simple. He wasn't Larry. But that wasn't going to stop him from jumping aboard a gravy train which paid him a thousand dollars per public appearance. He intended to hang on to his first class seat with grim determination until he'd amassed enough money for Parvark and he to launch themselves towards the gilded streets of Hollywood.

She clapped her hands together. "Right girls, I can't believe we can't get hold of any Larry material, but in the interim we're going to have to improvise. I want you to take a notebook and write down all of the Larry quotations you can think of. We're going to have to teach him by rote how to speak like Larry does. Parvark, honey, you can make the coffee".

Parvark sloped off to the kitchenette, mumbling mild Siminite swear words under his breath. He'd much preferred it when he'd been the star of the show and Humvat was relegated to the side benches. He was already bitterly regretting his decision to leave behind his kitty and the vocation he was born to perform.

While the assistants scrabbled around for some writing material, Mobey sat down at a desk and switched on a computer.

"In the meantime," she smiled at Humvat, with the promise of a fortune teller casting the sparkling dust of a secret spell in his direction, "I'm going to upload your details onto our website".

She picked up a digital camera, pointed it at him and trilled. "Say cheese!"

Humvat beamed an obedient smile at the camera.

He then spent some time with the girls in the office. They scrawled down all the Larry phrases they could remember and Humvat, in turn, set out on the journey of learning his routine.

Janet Mobey sat at her computer, typing away on the keyboard. The telephone rang and she indulged in a hushed conversation. She replaced the receiver with a flourish.

"Jackpot!" she screeched. "Humvat honey, your details have only been on the website for four hours, and you've already got your first engagement! Didn't I promise you riches honey?"

Humvat happily nodded his head.

"And aren't I delivering them?"

He happily nodded his head again. After all the false hopes and false starts he'd suffered, it looked like his dream was finally getting back onto that gravy lubricated track again.

The two girls whooped, jumped up and clapped at each other. Humvat nervously joined in. There was still an element of the unknown about this adventure, and deep inside him this still inspired a fear. Parvark looked into his eyes, and knew him well enough by now to spot the faint trace of sweat across his forehead and the uneasy shifting in his eyes. Although he himself was being shabbily treated, it was in his own interests for Humvat to succeed and earn enough money to get them both to their rightful place in Hollywood.

"Well done Humvat." he congratulated, shaking him by the hand and patting him on the shoulder. "With your acting skills, I'm sure you'll do just fine".

Humvat returned the handshake, not sure if Parvark was poking fun at him or not.

"What is first engagement?" he asked Janet Mobey.

"It's a wedding in Las Vegas, and it's tomorrow. They want you to be the best man. You'll have to fly out this afternoon, stay overnight in a hotel and fly back tomorrow night".

Humvat looked horrified by this lonely prospect.

"I want Parvark come with me." he gulped.

Later that afternoon Janet Mobey took them to the airport and they caught their flight to Las Vegas. They were booked into a hotel by the airport and it didn't take them long to locate it. They checked in, ate and then wandered down to the ground floor casino every hotel in Vegas has. They were at once both amazed and stupefied by the acre upon acre of gambling tables, surrounded by fortress walls of slot machines. Anxious to experiment, they each bought 10 dollars worth of chips. Humvat headed for the roulette tables. Each table seemed to cost a different amount to play, so he chose the cheapest, at one dollar. He vaguely knew the rules from some of the old films he'd seen, and placed a chip on the number 14.

"There's a two chip minimum on this table." rasped the impatient croupier. He spent every working day dealing with foreign tourists who didn't understand the house rules.

"But then I must bet two dollars, not one." argued Humvat. "Maybe I play the two dollar table instead?"

"That's a two chip minimum table as well." came the blasé reply. Most of them were cheapskates as well.

Humvat placed a second chip on the number 21, then changed his mind and placed it on 27 instead.

The wheel spun around, the small silver ball was dropped in and clattered around. As the spinning wheel came to rest, it nestled in the slot reserved for number 21.

Humvat cursed both his luck and his judgement, and immediately placed two more chips on the table. Within less than one minute he managed to turn his initial investment of ten dollars into the sweet smell of nothing.

Parvark tried the slot machines with a similar lack of success.

"I don't like gambling." muttered Humvat. "I feel like I've just been robbed again".

They decided to retire to their hotel room for the night. Parvark picked up a copy of the Las Vegas Review-Journal and hopefully checked the television listings. He was disappointed to find Wild About Larry wasn't playing on any station.

After a good night's rest they breakfasted the next morning and waited in the hotel lobby for their assignation. Humvat was attracting some studious glances, which he was hardly aware of. Dealing with the public gaze which came with being Larry was becoming second nature to him already.

A couple approached them. The man flashed a smile and offered Humvat a firm handshake. "Hi Larry. I'm Mike and this is my wife to be, Amanda".

Amanda proffered Humvat her hand and also, hidden from sight of her husband to be, appeared to offer him a seductive wink. Humvat was puzzled. Surely he'd been mistaken.

Parvark leant forward and offered his own hand to the happy couple. "I am Parvark, and I am security".

He was proud of himself for finally inventing his own role in the proceedings. He was just hoping he wouldn't actually be called upon to prevail over any interlopers.

"Now I know the bride and groom aren't supposed to see each other until the wedding ceremony," continued Mike. "But Amanda was so excited by the prospect of meeting my new best man she insisted on coming out to greet you".

"I certainly did. I'm a huge fan of Larry, and Mike laid this on as a last minute surprise for me." she smiled sweetly.

"It is honour to be best man on your special occasion." smiled Humvat in return. And then, there it was again. He was certain. She'd just fired another wink in his direction.

Mike continued. "I have to tell you, you weren't our original choice. Amanda's brother Pete was supposed to be performing the honors, but he's in the services and two days ago he got called up with 24 hours notice to leave for a tour of duty in Afghanistan. But he left his speech behind, so we thought it'd be kinda nice if you could read it out".

"Of course." smiled Humvat, inwardly breathing a deep sigh of relief because he wouldn't have to solely rely on plundering the notebook of Larry phrases and quotations which had been assembled for him before he travelled.

Amanda passed Humvat a few sheets of paper.

"I made a few amendments to it last night when I knew you were stepping into Pete's shoes," she smiled sweetly again. And there was that unsettling wink again! Humvat was trying to distance himself from the inevitable conclusion that this bride to be was flirting with him, but it was getting harder to ignore with each passing minute.

They made their way out of the hotel and drove Amanda back to her mother's house. Parvark marvelled at the perfectly manicured, deep green lawns which were so incongruously out of place in this city in the middle of a desert. They dropped her off and proceeded at pace along the freeway, through the scrubland encircled by the protective wall of mountains, to a shopping mall in the suburbs. They were on a mission to hire a wedding suit for Humvat.

They stepped out of the car and entered the vast expanse of the mall. Neither Parvark nor Humvat had ever visited such a place before. Janet Mobey never invited them to go shopping with her and they never thought to ask. They were instantly bemused by the coldness of the air inside compared to the intense heat outside. There was always a pleasantly warm gentle coastal breeze wafting through Janet Mobey's house in Florida. While Mike briskly marched through the throng towards their intended target, they each gazed in wonder at the vast amounts of goods for sale. It seemed like the shelves reached up into the sky, there was so much on offer. It also seemed equally bizarre anyone could ever want to, or indeed need to accumulate so much material. There were enough boxes of shoes straddled along a single aisle to last an entire nation a lifetime, let alone the mere month or so Mike told them he figured on passing before he gathered new footwear for himself.

Mike chivvied them along and both he and Humvat were quickly installed into their smart new matching uniforms for the day. Then they dashed back out into the blast of heat outside. Parvark privately wondered how on earth Mike was going to be able to find his car in the immensity of the car park, but he managed to do it effortlessly, almost magically.

They then drove towards the heart of the city; a mass of tall buildings, each one a work of art in its own right, adorned with accompanying flashing lights. They glittered and glistened like neon peacocks, each one seeking to impress and attract a potential mate. Even though it wasn't even lunchtime yet, let alone dark, they shone out loud anyway.

They passed an amazing surreal display of a giant pyramid, a tall empty tower of four columns of criss-crossed metal beams which joined to form a single column, a circus, a canal and a Roman palace to name but a few. Then they turned off of the strip and pulled up outside a tiny wooden church which looked like it had been transported from both another place and another time. It was now dwarfed by the buildings surrounding it when, once upon a time, it would have been a solitary sanctuary, standing alone in an open wilderness.

"This is it!" declared Mike proudly. "Sorry to rush you guys, but this has all happened very much at the last moment. Once we get inside the church we can start to slow down a bit".

Humvat got out of the car and noticed somebody with dark hair, dressed in a white cat suit and wearing sunglasses waving at him from the door of another, more modern church a few buildings down.

"Hi there, Larry!" he shouted.

Humvat inspected the figure and eventually recognised him.

"Hi Elvis!" he shouted and waved back.

They dashed inside the church before the approaching limousine, carrying both the bride and her father, arrived.

An hour later and the smiling wedding party emerged outside for photographs, with the slow background sound of an organ playing inside. Humvat was especially happy, for incredibly not a single thing had gone wrong. He prepared himself from his notebook and even cracked a few classic Larry lines during the ceremony. When the groom vowed to take this woman to be his wedded wife, Humvat added a quick refrain of "And he also promises not to let Mr Fluffy off the chain, and to earn a decent crust!" which earned him a roomful of adoring laughter. Parvark simply stood stiffly at the back of the church on his own, contemplating the gaudy sanctity on show.

Outside the church, cameras were swapped around and pictures taken. Everyone wanted to have a record of themselves with Larry. Then the bride and groom disappeared into the waiting limo and drove away, while the dozen or so people comprising the rest of the party made their own way back down the strip to the Flamingo Hilton hotel. They were given a large table of their own in the restaurant. Everyone sat themselves down and soon the familiar rippling waves of conversation, chinking of glasses raising toasts and tapping of cutlery on plates took over the corner of the room.

Humvat was conversing politely with Amanda's grandmother.

"Tell me young man," she asked. "Are you religious?"

Humvat looked thoughtfully. "I try to be good before the eyes of God," he replied. "But I do not like to worship".

"Now tell," he continued. "Are you religious?"

"Oh yes!" she replied, startled that anyone should doubt her integrity. "Most Americans are".

"Hmm." considered Humvat. "I think maybe Americans are more interested in making money than anything else. In my home country, the prophet Baqra said many times that rich men could never get into Heaven, because they are following money and the path to riches, instead of following grace and the path to God".

"Oh no." she smiled emphatically. "I'm quite sure if Jesus Christ was alive today, even he'd be driving a Chevrolet. I mean, he'd have to buy American, wouldn't he?"

She grabbed his arm.

"You know something?" she ambled. "I believe life is like a lottery where everybody wins".

Humvat decided it was time to speak to someone else and shuffled away.

The courses of food arrived and departed, and the wine continued to flow from daylight into darkness.

When the meal was over, Humvat decided he should perform the role of Master of Ceremonies so he stood up, just a little unsteadily, holding in his hands the pieces of paper he'd been given by Amanda.

"G'day mates" he began.

"G'day Larry!" they responded. Ah, such a heavenly audience.

"Well mates," he continued. "Today's the day me mate Mike here has finally done the honourable thing and made an honest woman of Amanda". He paused, smiled, and continued. "When everyone else said it couldn't be done!"

The table laughed, Amanda mockingly waved him away and he flew along confidently with his portrayal of Larry like an aircraft pilot flying on auto. He'd worked hard the previous morning to make sure he was well prepared for this role; he got the girls from the office to write his lines for him.

"I've got a wedding speech here which Amanda's brother wrote," he continued. "And I'd now like to read it to you".

There was a polite, restrained smattering of applause. Having your brother shipped off to fight in Afghanistan was no whooping matter.

"Mike and Amanda, ladies and gentlemen," he began. "I'd just like to start off by giving Amanda a big hug and a kiss".

Humvat smiled embarrassedly and shrugged his shoulders. "They must be very close family".

"Well if that's what it says, you'd better give me a kiss!" Amanda exclaimed with a beaming grin.

Humvat bent down and quickly pecked her on the cheek. Then he returned to his speech. "Me and Mike have been friends for many years and of course I've known Amanda all her life, so I'd like to give Amanda a big kiss".

Humvat was struggling with all this kissing. No family on earth was this close. But it was their wedding, and they were paying him to be the groom so he'd better do as the speech required. He bent down to peck Amanda on her cheek, but this time she anticipated him and instead he found his lips were up against her lips, and her tongue was wrapping itself around his tongue. He managed to maintain a minimal contact, yet at the same time not make it obvious he was attempting to escape from her clutches. That would have been most rude of him.

He returned to the speech.

"I can remember the very first time I saw Mike and Amanda together. They looked like such a perfect couple, like it was fated they should be together for the rest of their lives. Just thinking about it makes me want to, er, give Amanda a big kiss".

"Lemme see the goddamned speech!" interrupted Mike with a drunken slur. He grabbed the sheets of paper. "Dammit Amanda! These kissing lines are all in your handwriting! What gives here?!"

"Well you were the one who told me to do it!" she wailed. "You told me to put whatever I wanted to into the speech! Today is supposed to be my special day, you know, the day I'll remember for the rest of my life!"

Mike glared at his bride, guests and best man. "I'm gonna play some blackjack." he muttered and lurched away towards the gambling tables.

Humvat watched him disappear, and turned to Amanda. "I hope you have perfect day." he smiled benignly, brazenly ignoring what had just occurred.

"Oh, it was wonderful Larry." she gasped. "Could I just have one last kiss? Please? Just a little one?"

Humvat thought to himself. Why not? What harm could it do? "Okay," he said. "Just little one".

She grabbed hold of him, clutched the back of his head with a vice-like hand and buried her face in his face.

"Oh Larry!" she sobbed. "I should have married you instead!"

The wedding guests carried on smiling vacant smiles at each other, their eyes attempting to disbelieve what their ears were telling them.

"But I not Larry!" he protested, terrified that just-wed Mike might turn around and witness what was occurring between best man and bride. If he did it would be a short marriage.

"Then where is he? You're the only Larry I've ever seen." she countered through her tears, and pounced on him again.

He weakly flapped his arms until she came up for air. "Security! Security!" he feebly shrieked.

Parvark stood back. He wasn't getting involved in this one under any circumstances. No way was he pitting himself between this mad woman and her claimed prize.

Humvat managed to extricate himself, waved his goodbyes to the wedding party and fled into the bowels of the casino, closely followed by his security man. They found it impossible to locate an exit and resorted to asking the staff for directions. Then they wandered out into the night, only to discover it still appeared to be daytime outside. The neon lights shone brilliantly through the darkness.

The next afternoon, Humvat and Parvark returned to Janet Mobey's office. She was sitting at her desk, poring over her computer.

"Humvat honey," she said ashen faced, scarcely believing it herself. "I've got another seven bookings for you already. You've got to go straight back to the airport".

Seven days later, after a hectic week which seemed to have passed in an instant, Humvat was finally able to take a moment's relaxation. He sat on a bench in the sunshine outside the front of the Fitting Faces Inc office. The pace of his travels had been relentless, crossing the state one day, crossing the country the next, performing twice some days. He'd done a birthday party for a young boy who wanted him to simply say "I'm as happy as a dog in a hub cap factory!" all night long, whatever that meant. Then he did a hen party where all the women wanted to have sex with him. They even offered to pay him for the pleasure. It seemed making love was like a recreational activity to these people, rather than the private act of consummation between man and wife he'd been taught to observe all his life. He'd already forgotten where he'd been and what he'd done the next night. There were vague memories of opening a new shopping mall somewhere or other, and the previous evening was spent in Washington performing before a minor politician and his assorted friends and cronies.

Parvark came out and sat down next to him on the bench. He unfurled a newspaper and started reading it in silence.

"You know something?" Humvat idly wondered aloud. "I'm really settling into this Larry character now. I've been using the method acting to the extent I often feel like I'm not playing a part at all. I actually feel I am becoming Larry."

Parvark ignored him and carried on reading the newspaper.

"Do you remember the bride at the wedding in Las Vegas?" he continued.

Parvark acknowledged by nodding his remembrance.

"She said the strangest thing about never having seen the real Larry in public".

"Neither have we." agreed Parvark, breaking his silence.

"So where the hell is he then, when there are so many riches awaiting him? It would seem for all the world he doesn't actually exist in real life. I wonder would he mind if I were to announce I am him, and claim these prizes for myself?"

"This is America, remember," snapped Parvark testily. "He'd sue you for everything you have, and more. Maybe it would be better to start pretending to be Humvat once again".

He was getting sick of being pushed into the background, standing in the wings, watching Humvat ham it up and everyone loving him. He was sick of being treated like a glorified maid by Janet Mobey. In truth, he was really becoming uncontrollably envious. And, though he never imagined he would ever hear himself thinking it, he was getting a little homesick for shitty old South Jefesta.

"It's Geronimo time, Humvat honey!" screeched Janet Mobey from the office window. "I just got a block booking for a corporate convention in Los Angeles and they want all the talent I can muster! I might even come along to this one myself!"

She emerged from the office with her two assistants and summoned Humvat to join them. She announced they were all off to buy some new outfits for the next day, and Parvark could look after things in their absence.

He watched the car drive off down the road and wandered into the office. He idly sat at Janet's desk and inspected the computer. It had been left on, so he decided to play with it for a short while. Only half sure of what he was really doing, he selected the web browser and entered the URL www.fittingfaces.com. He then idly scanned through the screens full of miniature photographs of hopeful heroes. There were several Marilyn Monroes, more than a few Elvis Presleys, an Abraham Lincoln, a Charlie Chaplin and a clutch of others he didn't recognise. After a while spent searching he found what he was looking for; the entry for Larry O. He clicked on it and pored over the contents.

At the top of the screen was the photograph Mobey had taken, with Humvat beaming away moronically. Beneath this was some text extolling the virtues of this performer, who "not only bears the most remarkable physical likeness to Larry O, but has also sensationally managed to adopt his voice and physical mannerisms. Entertain your friends, family, customers or workmates to an evening of fun with Larry O. He will willingly pose for pictures!"

Looking further, he noticed Larry O was for hire via the online booking form. Maybe he should book him for a joke. He filled in the form, specifying he wished to hire Larry O for a party in New York, on a Saturday evening in three months time for five hours. A price flashed up on the screen. Six thousand dollars, plus travelling expenses.

Intrigued, he tried an evening in two weeks time in Dallas, and then a daytime in Chicago, and each time the same price came back. Six thousand dollars.

He then spent some time playing around with other look-alikes. One of the Elvis Presley doppelgangers was described as follows: "He not only bears the most remarkable physical likeness to Elvis, the king of rock and roll, but has also sensationally managed to adopt his voice and physical mannerisms. Entertain your friends, family, customers or workmates to an evening of song with the king, Elvis Presley. He will willingly pose for pictures!"

He made some dummy bookings for the king and found he was available for one thousand dollars.

Larry certainly seemed to have a premium on his head.

He heard the car returning, which surprised him, because he hadn't been aware he'd spent so long on the computer. He quickly closed down the web browser and moved away from the desk.

Humvat didn't so much walk into the office as slither in, dressed in a military uniform, all stripes and ribbons and clean-cut creases. "What do you think of my new clothes then?" he boasted.

"Very nice." replied Parvark tersely. "How much are you getting for each appearance you make as Larry?"

"One thousand dollars." smiled Humvat proudly.

"Well, your friend Janet Mobey is hiring you out for six times as much." divulged Parvark.

"What?!" spluttered Humvat.

Next morning they assembled in the office, prior to the trip to the airport and the flight to Los Angeles.

"How many appearances I have made as Larry?" enquired Humvat.

One of the assistants rifled through the records. "Ten".

"So I am having earn ten thousand dollars?"

"You sure have".

Humvat and Parvark exchanged meaningful glances which only they understood. It was getting close to departure time. They now possessed enough money to chase their Hollywood dreams and a trip to Los Angeles was just what the fates had ordered.

Meanwhile, back in South Jefesta, Doctor Wirliv was poring over his latest translated extract of the Book of Finding Contentment. It was a piece of text towards the end of the final chapter, but it didn't seem to make any sense. His face wore a worried frown as he read his translation yet again.

"I have had no words to write for more than a score of full moons. The Inventor has not visited my dreams in all this time. He has delivered nothing to me since the death of my beloved firstborn son. Of course I love and cherish all of my children, but he was the first. He was the one I carried for nine months when it was just myself and he. And he was the one who in turn taught me how to raise my other children. Now he is no more and I grieve sorely. I grieve every day from dawn until dusk and then I grieve all night. I even grieve in my sleep. I am infested with a wretched sadness which refuses to leave me. And in my sadness I find I question whether I have enough faith to sustain my spirit. Sometimes I wonder if the Inventor ever did truly place his thoughts inside me, or whether it was simply a false image I foolishly imagined".

Wirliv shook his head as he read the last sentence. This piece of despondency was so different to the other parts of the text he was tempted to declare it a forgery. But there it was, in the same ink made by the same hand and on the same paper as the rest of the Book of Finding Contentment. Its authenticity was indisputable.

Obviously the prophet Baqra had undergone a serious test of faith with the death of his son. But nowhere else was there any mention of a family, let alone a dead child. Everybody had always assumed Baqra devoted his life solely to the worship of the Inventor. Wirliv carefully checked his translation yet again to ensure accuracy. Then he reached the part where Baqra talked of having carried his son for nine months. That bit really didn't make any sense at all. And then he dropped his pen and collapsed back into his seat as the enormity of a true moment of enlightenment suddenly fell upon him. Holy Lord! The prophet Baqra was a woman. The truth was that for millennia upon millennia, both Siminites and Semonites had unwittingly followed the teachings of a female. He sat slumped in a stunned silence, his mind realising this discovery required some form of action from him, but he had no idea what to do with it. He was as terrified as a rabbit staring into the headlights of an approaching car; desperate to run away yet unable to move.
Chapter Thirteen

America, Land Of The Free

Larry is seated on a throne in a throne room. He is surrounded by guards and courtiers, all of whom are standing. A line of priest-like figures appear and form a queue. The first one approaches and kneels humbly before him.

Larry's mouth opens. "Welcome to bullshit palace, mate." and proffers his clenched fist towards him.

The priest bends down and kisses a ring on one of his fingers. Then he says "Nice place you got here mate. Listen, There's a brown dog barking at the back door, and I gotta hang a brown bear in the porcelain cave. Where's the dunny, mate?"

Larry points leftwards. "Well, it's a good stroll to the gravy bowl from here. Go down there, third on the right, first left, first right, second right and the shit house is second door on the left".

The priest disappears in the direction indicated. The next priest also kneels before Larry and, just as the previous one had, kisses the ring on his finger. Larry motions to one of the guards, who hands a sword over to him. He takes it and solemnly touches each of the priest's shoulders with the flat of the blade.

Then Larry looks up and laughs. "It gives a whole new meaning to bashing the bishop, doesn't it mates?!"

It was early evening in a hotel room in Los Angeles. Humvat lay back on his bed, his head propped up against a pillow. He held his scrawled list of Strine phrases up in the air in front of his face. "G'day mate," he idly said to himself as he practised the direction of his journey towards perfection. "Ain't it a beaut? G'day mate, ain't it a beaut? G'day mate, ain't it a beaut?"

Parvark sat cross-legged on the floor in a far corner of the room, testily flicking through the Los Angeles Times. He was trying to fill and occupy his mind with the pictures and words, anything to block out the dirge flowing from Humvat's side of the room. He turned a page and came across the television program listings. He vaguely inspected them to see if there was anything worth watching, but nothing caught his attention. Then his eyes stopped dead in their tracks. He retraced his steps, and read the words again. It couldn't be true.

"Holy Baqra! I don't believe it!" he exclaimed, his mind flitting along the confused, blurry line where stark truth actually meets improbable reality. He almost dropped the newspaper in his excitement. "Look! Look! Look at this!"

He prodded a shaking finger at a point somewhere amongst a page full of indecipherable words.

Humvat stared back at him, expectantly waiting for an explanation.

Parvark gasped "You'd better take a moment to compose yourself Humvat. I'm not sure how to tell you this".

"Stop messing around and just spit it out. I've got lines to learn, you know".

"Okay then." he gulped. "Wild About Larry is on the television tonight!"

Humvat's grip jerked loose in a nervous spasm and he dropped his notes onto the floor. He sat up with a start and a shockwave swept through him. He'd waited so long for this moment he'd pretty much given up on it ever happening. And while he'd never imagined how it might happen, he'd never imagined it would come at a moment like this, at a time like this in a place like this. He didn't know how he should react. The only thoughts which raced around him were flustered ones with nowhere to go. He felt himself tensing up.

"So we finally get to see if he's as handsome as me, then." was all he could muster.

Parvark frantically checked the newspaper page, cross-referencing the program details against the timetable grid plan.

"It's on channel 48 and it starts at 7 o' clock." he babbled. "Quick, what time is it now?"

Humvat glanced across at the digital clock which was set into the wall by the headboard of his bed.

"It's five to seven." he replied with a show of forced nonchalance. His mind however was overcome with a wash of feelings of apprehension and foreboding flooding over him. Having come this far without setting eyes upon Larry, he wasn't certain he wanted to inspect him anymore, to be forced to scrutinise himself against this magical figure who had been like a lucky charm. He was, in truth, fearful he might not measure up to the real thing and his spell of good fortune might be fractured and broken.

"Right then," snapped Parvark, marching across to the television and picking up the remote control. "Let's get a look at this Larry person and find out what the fuss is all about".

He pressed a button and the television sprang into life. It was showing his favourite commercial, the one where the girl has a perfect wedding and a perfect life, all because her mother used the correct soap powder to clean her dirty clothes. He sat down on his bed and gazed upon the serene scene, comforted by the knowledge there would be a happy ending, just like there always was.

Then he flicked through the channels until he came to number 48. In comparison, this offered a far more prosaic illusion. Instead of portraying the dream of a wonderful life lying in wait just around the corner, they were appealing for viewers to pledge funds to keep the station in business. It sounded all too similar to life as a beggar on the streets of South Jefesta or downtown America for his liking, but he continued to view. Humvat shuffled about uncomfortably, convinced he was about to be rudely awoken from his own dream of a wonderful life and robbed.

"Okay then folks," boomed a voice from within the television. "Let's swiftly move onto one of the reasons you should be pledging donations to our station tonight. It's time for another episode of the smash hit show, Wild About Larry!"

Both of them instinctively leaned towards the screen and craned their necks to gain a closer view. The familiar theme music they'd heard in Miami started to play.

Humvat nudged Parvark and muttered "You know that thieving bastard Carbet stole his music from this show, don't you?"

"Ssh!" hushed Parvark, waving him away with an irritated hand. "The action is just about to start".

They both sat statically, in intrigued silence as the opening credits disappeared. Humvat gazed intently, but became puzzled by the sudden view of a girl on a balcony. It was on fire and she was waving and screaming for help in some strange, stupid voice. But the face looked familiar enough. He could have sworn it belonged to Kipdip. There was something decidedly odd about what was happening here but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"There's something not right about this." murmured Parvark.

And then it happened. Humvat bent even closer to the screen, and slowly shook his head as a soldier on horseback came riding through a crowd of people.

"No, no." he muttered in disbelief. "It can't be. It can't be".

But then the camera homed in on the soldier as he dismounted, and there was the undeniable evidence, incontrovertible proof of the truth. It was his face; it was him. After everything he'd been through, it turned out Wild About Larry was, in fact One Great Guide, One Great Nation. He was Larry and Larry was he. The sword of Damocles, which had been hanging over Humvat's head ever since his arrival in the United States, finally and inevitably fell down upon him and he felt the searing, splitting pain cut through him.

In a fraction of an instant everything came crashing down, and suddenly all of it, all the madness, all the recognition, all the unexplainable acquaintances made total, overwhelming sense.

His left hand was clasped to his forehead, his head bowed, his jaw dropped slightly, his eyes glazed over and he temporarily lost the power of speech. He weakly turned to Parvark, who was in a similar state. Parvark cleared his throat and stammered.

"Merciful Baqra! It's you! You! You really are Larry. You were really Larry all the time!"

Humvat hardly needed to have it spelt out for him. He simply continued to shake his head and gulped, trying to take in the enormity of what he was witnessing on the screen. Apparently he'd just kissed Kipdip and told her she was hotter than a piss in a sauna. He'd seen enough so he got up, turned the TV off and sat down again on the bed. He was in a dumbstruck state of shock. He'd always assumed he was simply playing a role, when actually he'd been pretending to be himself all along. How ridiculously stupid was that? And what sort of idiot did it make him?

He'd been betrayed. How and why and by whom wasn't clear to him, but it was certainly clear enough that somebody somewhere had made a complete and utter fool of him. Closely following the waves of shock were stormy waves of anger. He'd been turned into a tramp, a whore, a laughing stock, when he should have been riding in victorious glory through a packed Coliseum, basking in the adulation of adoring crowds. Instead here he was, in a pokey, pukey hotel room with only the court jester Parvark for company. He quickly decided somebody was going to pay for this, and he was going to start by settling a score straight away.

"I'm owed a treasure chest full of dollars and I'm going to get it now." he snarled and stormed out into the corridor.

He dashed up to Janet Mobey's room and knocked so hard on the hollow plywood door he nearly put his fist through it.

"Alright, alright. There's no need to break the door down." he heard her voice from inside the room rising over the sound of a television. He impatiently rapped on the door again.

"Hold on a second. I'm coming, goddamnit!" She opened the door with one hand and clutched a glass of wine in the other hand.

"Oh Humvat honey," she sighed, theatrically rubbing her eye with her free hand to convey tiredness. "It's kinda late to be practising your lines right now. Howz about you come back in the morning and we'll do it then?" she smiled benignly. "I do admire your persistence though. Don't ever lose that".

She went to close the door.

"Don't be giving me Humvat honey!" he snapped, blocking her attempt and pushing past her into the room.

Ignoring her protests about his intrusion, he flicked the television onto channel 48. Larry and Viv, otherwise known as Humvat and Kipdip were being married. "It is me!" he shouted, pointing at the screen. "Is me!"

"You're...Larry?" she stuttered disbelievingly. She warily approached the television and closely inspected the screen to compare these two people. She scanned the moving picture for some sort of feature, looked across at Humvat, scanned again and looked back at Humvat again. Then she gasped abruptly, placing her hand over her mouth as she did a double take. "Oh my God! You've got the same wart as Larry on your ring finger!"

"Yes! Final! I am Larry." he spat out indignantly. "I am Hollywood star." he continued. "And I want Hollywood things. I want big house, I want cars, I want girls." he reeled off his list of demands. And then he thought of his Hollywood daydreams when he was on set back in South Jefesta, and he remembered Kipdip. "Well, I want big house and cars anyhow." he conceded.

"Hold on a second, Humvat honey." she replied, her head still spinning from the giddying news he'd just delivered and laid down in a heap before her. "You gotta make serious money before you can start talking like that".

"I already make you big monies!" he sneered. "I know you little secret. You sit at you desk in office all day, do nothing while I travel up and down country, and for one dollar you give me you keep five for you".

She shook her head, forced a wan smile and took his hand in hers. "No, honey it's simply not true. I'd never cheat on you. Besides, a few grand isn't serious money".

Her eyes lit up as she greedily realised the potential worth of her investment. Her dirty mongrel had suddenly blossomed into a cash cow.

"We've been dealing with peanuts, but now we're talking major league, honey. We'll get you on the Matt Black show, just for starters. Then there's Livermore and goodness knows who. We could even go for Ashanti. I promise you, the sky's the limit but you'll have to wait and be patient for a while before you can take delivery of the mansion and the cars".

He remained unimpressed. "I done with patience. If you don't treat me with good respect I want freedom." he insisted. "I find someone else who give it to me".

She laughed dismissively. "Oh come on now, Humvat honey. You can't leave me. You signed a contract and you've got to honor it, otherwise I'll have to sue your ass off. Besides, the work visa you've got is only class H2. It's tied specifically to your job here. If you leave the job then you lose the visa, and if you lose the visa then you can't work in this country".

Now it was Humvat's turn to start reeling beneath the blows of unexpected news raining down upon him.

"You mean I trapped here?" he sighed, utterly deflated.

"That's right honey." she cheerily smiled. "Now make sure you get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day".

He sloped out of the room and slowly returned to his own, pacing the events of the last few minutes over and over in his head.

"What happened?" asked Parvark. "Did you get your treasure chest of dollars?"

He slumped down on his bed. "No." he sighed. "All I got was a chest full of empty promises".

Then he sat up and asked. "Do you know who Matt Black is?"

"He's a famous TV chat show host. Why?"

"Because we're going to be contacting him tomorrow. I want to put my case to the American nation. They are an honourable tribe, and I'm sure they'll want to make restitution to me for all the cheating and suffering one of their people has visited upon me".

The next morning they both stood huddled by a public phone booth out on a quiet street. They decided to sneak out of the hotel so they could conduct their business in a more private setting, even if it was by the side of the road.

"Hello? CBN television?" enquired Humvat. "My name is Humvat Virit, and I star of TV show Wild About Larry. Have you hear of it? Good".

There was a jabbering from the other end of the line.

"Well," he replied. "I wanting to make an appear on Matt Black show tonight".

There was another sharp burst of jabber, followed by a click.

"Oh," he floundered. "That's odd. She said I was the twenty fifth caller this week claiming I am the star of my show. Why would anyone else claim to be me?"

"There are lots of pirates out there, and they are all eager to sail in your wake, Humvat." proclaimed Parvark. "You must present yourself to the studio, and prove you really are who you say you are".

"You're right." concurred Humvat. "Even I didn't know I am who I am until last night and we're talking about me here, not some stranger. Let's take a taxi to the studios now".

They walked around the corner to a busier road, hailed a passing cab and instructed the driver to transport them to the CBN studio.

Half an hour later the cab stopped on an avenue in Burbank, and they walked into the studio. As they made their way along the sidewalk, Parvark became aware that Humvat seemed to be attracting even more interest than usual. The flickering glances, the intense stares, the embarrassed smiles now spoke volumes, whereas even up until the previous day they had just been part of an unexplainable vista. They swept past the security guards stationed at the front entrance and presented themselves to a woman seated at reception, wearing her smart black CBN blazer.

"Are you Matt Black?" Humvat asked. Parvark winced.

She raised her eyebrows. "No, I'm not." she replied tersely. "Could you please state the purpose of your visit, sir?"

"Oh yes. I am Humvat Virit. I am actor of television Wild About Larry, and I want be on Matt Black show." he announced. "Woman on telephone said impostors pretend to be me, so I here to show I am real Larry".

She dubiously looked him up and down. She picked up her telephone, conducted a quick conversation and replaced the receiver.

"If you'd care to take a seat sir, someone will come out and see you shortly." she requested firmly but politely, just as she always did with these fruitcakes who regularly turned up out of the blue.

They sat down and waited for a short while. And then a short while longer, and a short while longer. Eventually a bespectacled young man appeared.

"Good morning Mr Virit." he greeted Humvat with a proffered hand.

"Good morning Mr Black," replied Humvat with a smile. "Is good to meeting you".

"No, no, no." stumbled the young man. "I'm not Matt Black. My name is Andre Duncan, and I'm a researcher on the Show Tonight with Matt Black".

"Oh, I apologising." gushed Humvat, fearing he might have caused offence and affected his chances of an invitation. "Many apologising".

"That's fine. Now I understand you claim to be the star of Wild About Larry".

"Yes, is true".

Duncan looked him over and up and down. He asked Humvat to stand up and walked around him, circling him with a critical eye, like an art expert authenticating a previously unknown old master. He thought to himself for a while as he considered the likely merits of this beaming loony actually being Larry. People had been turning up with dubious claims ever since Matt Black made an appeal for the unknown character who unleashed Larrymania across the nation to come forward a month or so ago.

"Say G'day mate." requested Duncan.

"G'day mate".

"Hmm. Now say It's a long way through the outback to the back of Bourke and along the wallaby track to the black stump, onto Bullamanka where the crows fly backwards".

"It's a long way through outback to back of Bourke, black stump, crows... erm... say again please?"

Duncan drew in a sharp intake of breath and shook his head.

"I'm sorry pal. You're a good lookalike, but you're not the real deal".

At this point Humvat discarded the fear of offending and picked up the drive of desperation. "What mean you, I not me? Who you are for to tell me who I am?"

Duncan waved him away. "Listen, until the real Larry turns up all I've got to go on is my own judgement, and in my opinion you just don't tick enough boxes".

"Show him your finger Humvat." interrupted Parvark, who had remained silent up until this point.

"Ha! Yes! Of course, my burden of proof!" exclaimed Humvat.

Andre looked on in bemusement at these two foreigners babbling away in some distant tongue.

Humvat waved his finger with the priceless wart at him "Check this on Larry and you see I am who I am".

Taken aback, the researcher closely examined the finger. He still didn't believe it was going to be of any significance, but he felt duty bound to check it out. He sulkily sloped off and reappeared a few minutes later, ashen faced and apologetic.

"I'm really, really sorry about any confusion which may have occurred earlier, Mr Virit." he grovelled. "I've just spoken to the show's producer and he'd like to invite you to appear on tonight's show, if this would be convenient for yourself".

Humvat and Parvark smiled victoriously at each other.

"If you'd just like to come through with me, there are a few things I need to go over with you".

"Where's that pain in the ass Humvat gotten to?" barked Janet Mobey. She was moodily pacing up and down the hotel lobby. Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe, Bruce Springsteen, Abraham Lincoln and others were milling around, but Larry was notable by his absence.

"We're supposed to be at the convention center in an hour." she snapped. "If he doesn't turn up soon we'll have to go without him, and then he's gonna find out what pain really means".

Nearby a television was playing to an audience of a single young boy who was sat on the floor. She wasn't really listening to it, but half heard a trailer for the Matt Black show and wandered across to inspect it. One day, one happy, glorious day in the not too distant future, it would be advertising the anticipation of an audience with her boy Humvat.

"Whatever your plans are for this evening, make sure they include the Show Tonight with Matt Black!" reeled off an announcer. "Because Matt has a truly special guest appearance by the star of the TV show which has entranced America, attracting millions of fans; it's the wacky, wacky world of Wild About Larry! So don't miss it tonight at eight, be sure to make it a date!"

For the second time in two days she was acutely befuddled as she attempted to sort out what she really saw and heard and sift it from the mirage she thought she'd seen and heard.

In dismay she whispered to the young boy. "Did he say the star of Wild About Larry is on the Matt Black show tonight?"

He nodded.

She shrugged her shoulders, shook her head and muttered with insouciance. "I'm getting too old for this game. Come on everyone, let's head downtown to the convention center. I'll sort out that damned pain Humvat later".

Meanwhile, Humvat was busily rehearsing down at the CBN studios.

"Okay." advised Andre Duncan. "A portion of the interview is going to simply be ad lib, but I just want to run through some of the questions we've prepared for Matt to ask you".

Humvat nodded. "What is ad lib?"

"It means it's unprepared; you make it up as you go along".

"Sounds like story of my life." sighed Humvat.

Duncan smiled. "Yeah, that's perfect, just perfect".

Humvat glanced across at Parvark and they raised their eyebrows at each other in mystification.

Then Duncan checked some sheets of paper on a clipboard. "The first question he'll probably ask will be for you to explain what, exactly, Wild About Larry is all about".

Humvat shrugged his shoulders and sighed again. "In South Jefesta it was called One Great Guide, One Great Nation. Was about our beloved leader, not Larry Wild".

Duncan smiled again. "You're very good. You know, you're an absolute natural at this. You should have a great career ahead of you".

Humvat and Parvark exchanged yet more uncomprehending glances.

"Another question he's going to ask you is where the idea for the Australian slang came from".

"Dunno mate." replied Humvat in his best Strine.

"You crack me up!" chuckled Duncan. "I can see you're going to be fine tonight".

He made a few notes and put his clipboard down.

"Well, I guess that just about wraps it up." declared Duncan. "I'll see you guys later".

At seven in the evening a queue of people was snaking around the CBN studio building, waiting for the doors to open for the recording of the Show Tonight with Matt Black. Janet Mobey approached the ticket office window.

"I'd like one ticket for the Matt Black show tonight." she casually requested.

"I'm sorry ma'am." crackled the electronic voice of the assistant from behind the protective glass. "But I don't think there are any left. There's been a run on them since they announced that Larry guy was going to be on the show tonight".

She'd been half expecting this. "Will fifty bucks help you find one?" she urged.

"It might, but a round hundred'll do the deal for sure".

She grimaced and handed over the money. She hated paying over the odds for anything, but she was stuck in a corner. Having learnt of Humvat's deceit, she decided to make an incognito visit to watch him at work. If he performed well she could introduce herself to Black's people, maybe get some good contacts. She'd packed the contract in her bag, just in case. But if he performed badly then she could ditch him in private and nobody would ever have to know she'd been involved with him. She walked over to join the end of the queue.

Inside, Humvat and Parvark sat pensively in a dressing room. A flat screen TV was attached to a wall. It was switched off. Humvat arose and made yet another nervous and unnecessary journey to the en-suite toilet. Having produced nothing, he sat back down and started tapping his fingers on the chair armrest.

The door opened without warning, and a male face appeared.

"Who you are?" Humvat grumbled suspiciously, irritated that his moment of contemplation had been interrupted.

The man entered the room. "I'm Matt Black." he beamed, extending a handshake.

Both Humvat and Parvark bolted up from their seats and stood to attention.

"Listen," continued Black. "I just wanted to pop by to tell you what a great privilege it is to have you on the show tonight. I'm a great fan of Larry myself".

"Oh no," spluttered Humvat. "Honour is for me. You give me opportunity of speak to American people".

"Well, it's an honor for both of us then." smiled Black, though behind the smile his mind was whirring, trying to calculate what Humvat might have meant by his words. "Did Andre go through the prepared questions with you?"

Humvat nodded.

"Good. I like to ad lib if I can, but if things start to dry up, it's always good to have a plan B to fall back on. I'll probably ask you a few of the things the fans out there would be interested in knowing about. Things like where the program originated from, what was it like to make and how you literally turned up on our doorstep from out of the blue. Nothing too taxing though".

Humvat nodded again, they shook hands again and Black left the room.

Then Andre Duncan appeared, and switched on the TV explaining that the recording of the show was about to start. He told them it was relayed throughout the whole building, and how they might like to view from the wings. They watched intently as Black went through his introduction routine, making topical jokes and explaining who tonight's guests were going to be. Humvat smiled to himself when mention of his name carried the loudest reception by far.

Then it was onto the show. The first guest was a comedian, the second a musical ensemble and the third was a minor star of the screen with a book to promote.

"Well, thanks very much Bill. It's always a pleasure to see you." said Black, waving his guest goodbye and leading the applause.

Then he looked into the camera and said "Okay folks, we're going to take a commercial break right now, but when we return I'll be speaking to Humvat Virit, better known as Larry O. He'll be telling us the story behind Wild About Larry, which has become such a huge and unlikely success in this country".

There was a tumultuous roar from the audience.

Then he winked at the camera. "So don't go away, and we'll be right back".

There was a knock on the dressing room door and Andre Duncan poked his head into the room.

"It's time for you to meet Mr Black on set, Humvat." he notified. "You have to follow me down to the back of the studio. When I give you the signal you then walk around the screen and onto the stage, where you'll be greeted by Mr Black".

Humvat flexed his fingers, gripped his wrists and arose. Parvark patted him on the shoulder and then that was it. He started out on his short, lonely journey of destiny into the near future.

Janet Mobey sat amongst the studio audience. She'd never been here before and was surprised at how relatively small and compact it was. The volume of the loud crowd helped serve to mask this however. The audience sounded far larger than it actually was.

Various warm-up acts were employed to maintain this air of celebration whenever there was a dip in the action. During the commercial break for instance, one of them had disguised himself as a member of the audience, put up his hand and volunteered to perform a song. It was his ambition he said, to sing in public. The only problem with this was he then proceeded to sing the song completely out of tune and out of key, and everyone shamelessly wept with laughter at the obvious pride in the poor sap's eyes.

The break was coming to an end. LCD boards flashed the words APPLAUSE! APPLAUSE! and a few of the studio crew orchestrated the audience into a frenzy of hand clapping.

Parvark gazed at the television on the wall, incredulous that the program he was watching was actually being made only a few feet away from where he was sitting.

"This is a rare moment for me," began Black, addressing both the audience before him and those hidden at home. "Because I get to meet somebody I'm a huge fan of for the very first time. He quite literally wandered into the building this morning asking if he could come on the show. Given he's the star of the hit TV show Wild About Larry, who were we to refuse him? Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Show Tonight welcome to Humvat Virit, better known as Larry O!"

Duncan waved Humvat through and he stepped from behind the screen where he could see nothing into the melting pot of the studio. He was almost knocked off his feet by the strength of the reception. The band erupted into an upbeat rendition of the Wild About Larry theme tune. The crowd were pounding their feet on the ground, making strange grunting noises and chanting "Lar-ry, Lar-ry, Lar-ry." He'd never known anything like it. To Parvark it looked and sounded like a massed celebration for a returning hero.

"Wow!" exclaimed Black, embracing him. "I thought I'd seen it all when we had the Huge Rant on all those years back, but this sure beats that one. How does it feel to be so popular?"

Humvat sat down, adjusted his trousers as the cheering subsided and smiled. "Feels good. If I know I would come here sooner".

Instantly there were cheers, howls and screams of applause. Although he continued to smile benignly to the outside world, inside himself, Humvat was stunned by the depth of this love he unexpectedly found himself swimming in. It was a warm, glowing, all encompassing feeling, much like a baby nestling in a womb.

Black started. "I understand the show was originally made in the People's Republic of South Jefesta".

Humvat nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but people there do not run republic. Not like America, land of the free!"

There was much mirth and laughter, and more wild applause.

"Tell me," asked Black. "What was it like, making this goofy program? It must have been fun".

"Was mad days." smiled Humvat, shaking his head. "We only have film to shoot scene one time, so whatever happen that is it and onto next. Mad, absolute mad".

The audience roared with laughter, but Black raised an expression, aimed towards himself, which suggested the answer wasn't quite the one he had been anticipating. Meanwhile, Janet Mobey looked down from her seat with interest. It seemed like the boy was going to be worthy of her talents after all.

Black continued. "So what brought you here to our doorstep in Burbank, Humvat?"

"Well, Matt," replied Humvat instantly changing demeanour from calmness to measured ferocity. "I here because I sad and I angry".

The audience responded with a sympathetic "Aaaahhh!"

"I am prisoner of woman Janet Mobey." he continued, starting to haunch his shoulders and breathe heavily in an effort to control himself.

Janet Mobey looked down on the stage, her eyes narrowing and her lips pursing. Black shuffled in his seat uncomfortably and attempted to butt in, but Humvat was having none of it.

"She say she own me!" he cried, now getting visibly upset.

The crowd roared their disapproval with boos, followed by an orchestrated cry of "Lar-ry! Lar-ry!"

Humvat was now moving out of his nervous stride and into his rampant march.

"She steal treasure chest of monies from me and I here to speak to wonderful American people, for you help. I love you, but is disgracing I am treated like this by one of you tribe".

Black attempted to pacify him with a reassuring pat on the arm, but Humvat shrugged it off.

"So I making biggest protest at Janet Mobey". He stood up, dipped his left hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a lighter. He then pulled an American flag out of his right pocket.

"America supposed be land of free, not land of slave!" he shouted, and he set the flag alight.

For a fraction of a second, the entire studio fell silent and nobody moved. The stunned audience looked on in horror. Black sat in his seat, his mouth gaping wide open, his eyes fixed in a shocked gaze.

This was followed by a rapid reaction, as the unbelievable reality kicked in. Black leapt out of his chair, ran around his desk and started trying to stamp the flames out of the burning flag.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe it! The dumb son of a bitch just set fire to the Stars and Stripes! Extinguisher! Somebody get me a goddamned fire extinguisher!"

Some of the audience grew restless and jeered and booed. Two burly security guards dashed onto the stage and tackled Humvat to the ground. A stagehand doused the fire with an extinguisher. Fighting and arguing broke out amongst the confused, baying crowd. It had quickly formed into two camps; those who wished to continue loving Humvat, and those who wanted to start hating him. One of the guards picked Humvat up by the scruff of his neck.

Black strode over and wagged a finger in Humvat's face. "You think you can come on here and burn my country's flag, our national symbol, on my show, on live TV you son of a bitch?! You'll never work again in this town! Never! Now get the bum outta here!"

And with that the two guards dragged a screaming Humvat off of the stage.

Fearing a riot was about to break out, Janet Mobey decided it was time to beat a wise retreat. She deftly left her seat, dodged her way out of the studio, navigated her way through the corridors and emerged from the building. Outside in the fading sunlight, there was a tramp lying on the sidewalk just by the front door. He was holding his nose and groaning. She automatically went to step over him, but she felt some vague recognition. She paused and looked down at him more closely.

"Well, if it isn't dumbass Humvat honey." she purred. "I understand you're not happy with our contract".

He moaned.

She continued. "I understand you want to terminate our contract. I understand you want to be free".

He clutched his nose and groaned.

She sat down on a nearby bench and had a brief conversation on her cell phone. Then she pulled a chequebook out of her bag and wrote on it. She tore the cheque out, returned to where he was lying and dropped it on the ground.

"I feed you, I clean you and I nurture you." she hissed. "I take you in and keep you clothed. I give you your shot at the big time, and you repay me by going and crying like a little baby in public. Well, you've got what you wanted Humvat honey. You can now consider our contract terminated. You've got your freedom".

As she continued, her face hardened. "You've got the freedom to make a complete botch of your life. Because, mark my words, that's what you'll do. That's the choice you'll make, that's the door you'll open every time".

She paused for a moment and smiled sweetly. "In fact, I do believe you already have".

He reached his hand across to pick the cheque up, allowed himself a painful victorious smile and regarded it. His smile quickly disappeared.

"Hey! This say three thousand dollar. You owe me ten thousand." he argued.

She looked down on him with disdain. "So sue me honey. It'll cost you more than seven thousand dollars to get it, I'll make sure of that. I wasn't going to give you anything, but I've just been advised it would only make it easier and cheaper for you to take me to court".

She turned away, walked away and left his life. At that moment Parvark came out of the studio building. He picked Humvat up off the ground and helped dust him down.

Back in South Jefesta, Doctor Wirliv paced up and down in his study. He was visibly shaken and the reason for this was the last section of the Book of Finding Contentment. The words had caused him to suffer great dilemma, so he gave a copy of the text to another expert in ancient Siminite and asked him to translate it. He didn't mention what it was or where it was from, because he wanted to keep that knowledge to himself. The translated piece was returned to him and when he read it he felt crushed. For it was almost exactly the same as his own translation.

"I arranged to meet a butcher and an embalmer at the temple." it read. "The embalmer was purifying a body for its journey towards the kingdom of Light. He cut through the stomach and pulled out the entrails. Then he pulled out the eyes, peeled off the nose and extracted the brain through the holes which were revealed.

Afterwards the butcher was puzzled. He judged that much of what he'd seen, the entrails in particular, reminded him of the innards of a pig. I explained that after the Inventor created the pig he decided it was imperfect, made adjustments to its design and created perfection in man. This is as I recently wrote in the first chapter of this Book, as directed by the Inventor. However, I felt strangely uneasy saying it. During sleep that night I dreamt for the first time in a long time. In my dream a pig had died and I watched it travel towards the stars, to claim its own gateway into the kingdom of Light. Of course, it was unable to find one and got hopelessly lost. I was laughing at this absurdity when the pig turned to me and said. 'If you find me amusing, you should consider this. You think man is special, but he is not. Your fate is the same as mine, so you can stop laughing at me now'. When I awoke I realised I had received an enlightened truth in this dream. This truth is man is no more special in the universe than a pig, and if there is no afterlife for pigs there is none for mankind either. And if there is no afterlife there is no Inventor.

I take no pleasure in receiving this knowledge. Still, it is the truth and I feel a duty to pass it onto the people, but I am wary of the harm it might cause. Why should they dedicate themselves to a life of good deeds making grace when there is no Inventor to sit beside for eternity? Without the promise of the kingdom of Light or the threat of the kingdom of Emptiness, why retain belief in the rule of law? What will stop the destruction of civilisation, which is the only thing which truly separates us from all other animals? Will people be satisfied with knowing that only oblivion awaits them after this life? Will they be satisfied in their hearts and minds if I tell them all that remains of their departed loved ones are memories?"

"I have spent much time considering what to do with this book of Finding Contentment. I have decided to bury it, in the hope it may be found one day by a tribe with the wisdom to read these words without suffering the catastrophe it will cause my own people. I have concluded they are happier in their ignorance, and sometimes the best truth is to say nothing".

"Despite all this reflection, or perhaps because of it, I have finally found my own path to contentment. I now realise I have been obsessed by the limitless future which lies before me, and my place in this future after my death. However, I neglected to pay any concern to the limitless past that has preceded me. I do not know where I was before my birth, and I do not know where I will be after my death. In the meantime I have these fleeting moments of my lifespan where I can touch, see and listen to the universe before I return to that whence I came from, and contentment is to be found by simply accepting this. Do not listen to those who tell you that you must buy magic potions, pills or plans. My final enlightenment is that life, like the passage of time, is but an illusion. The past and the future are one and the same. I have already existed for eternity in some shape or form, and eternity is where I will return. All I ask of whoever finds and reads these words is that you pay me the kindness of a passing thought. For my soul is but a collection of fading memories, and I believe that by keeping my memory alive, so you keep my soul alive".

Wirliv himself had, after much deliberation reached his own decision. He decided people still wouldn't want to read the words in this book. So he placed all of the assorted parchments back in the original jars in which they had been interred and sealed them up. Then he summoned the builders who had discovered them to his office.

"These ancient texts are indeed from the time of Baqra, but they are not the works of the blessed prophet." he explained. "They are merely accounting ledgers written by a minor merchant".

The two builders nodded in acceptance, somewhat crestfallen.

"It has been decided" he continued, "That they should be returned to the exact spot where they were found".

The builders looked at each other uncomfortably.

"But Doctor," said one of them. "They were in the foundation trench of a new building. It will be filled with concrete. They will never be seen again".

Wirliv nodded both his understanding and his resolve. "Make sure you wrap the jars in suitable cladding then. I don't want them to get damaged".

He motioned them to take the jars and take their leave.

As they went to depart he beckoned them back, having suddenly remembered something.

"One thing I do want you to do," he ordered, "Is to erect a wall plaque where the jars are buried. The words on the plaque should be 'Whomsoever walks past this spot should pay the soul of the blessed Baqra the kindness of a passing thought'. Here, I'll write it down for you. Send any bill for this work to me".

He scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it over to them.
Chapter Fourteen

Sprinkle Me With Bulldust

An aged Larry and Viv are standing in an ornate bathroom, wearing formal dress and getting ready to go out. He turns to her and says

"You look like a cat licking shit off a thistle today Viv".

She smiles back at him and replies "Oh Larry, I feel as flash as a rat with a gold tooth".

Then she looks him up and down and says admiringly in that husky voice of hers "You're no show pony yourself, mister".

They each take one last look at themselves in the mirror and leave the room. As he turns off the light and closes the door Larry sighs to himself "Ah well, it was a good crust while it lasted".

They then emerge from the front door of a building to find a thronging, cheering crowd of hundreds, perhaps thousands waiting for them. Larry looks around in bewilderment.

"Looks like the bush wire has been putting in some hard yakka." he mutters. "I was hoping to shoot through here like a Bondi tram, but I reckon I'm going to have to sink the slipper in to make any headway".

They walk through the crowd, gradually making their way as they wave regally, shake hands and make polite conversation. Viv briefly hugs a child and says "Thanks for coming to see us off. G'day and G'bye, you little beaut".

Someone from the crowd shouts "Good on you Larry mate, yer blood's worth bottling!"

As they inch their way through the mass of people they see the blue and yellow vertical stripes of a hot air balloon slowly rise up from the ground, billowing out. It has been filling up and is almost ready to take to the air. Larry junior and Viv junior appear from amongst the crowd. They have now grown up. Larry Junior says "I know you couldn't give a fat rat's clacker about leaving prezzies dad, but we had a whip round and got enough together for a bonzer balloon ride for you and mum".

Larry shakes him by the hand and Viv and Viv junior embrace.

"Well, son" says Larry. "I think this is the first time I've ever been given a DCBM. I'm not sure I'll know what to do with myself. I hope I don't end up flogging the log all day long".

Larry junior smiles. "Nah. You're as fit as a mallee bull, mate. No worries".

He and Viv junior beckon their parents to get into the basket, the balloon now being kept on the ground by a number of men holding ropes. And then, amongst a great cheer from the crowd (which sounds suspiciously like the product of merely three voices) the ropes are abandoned and the balloon gently rises into the sky.

Larry and Viv hug as they look down upon the earth below and Viv says "You know Larry, when I first met you I thought you were a roo short in the top paddock and if it was raining palaces you'd get hit by a dunny door. But you know what? After all these years you've made me as happy as a dog in a hub cap factory. You could sprinkle me with bulldust".

He kisses her tenderly and says. "I always thought you were Christmas on a stick Viv, and I still do."

The balloon has now risen high into the sky, and he looks down and around at the expanse of land below them.

"It's not a bad way to go out, is it?" He smiles with a hint of pain in his eyes.

She looks into the distance and sighs "Oh Larry, I'm feeling so horny. Have me now, in front of all these people! I don't care!"

He looks deeply into her eyes, gently holds her hand and his voice chuckles. "Babe, you're hotter than a piss in a sauna".

The telephone rang unanswered for a long time in the motel room until Humvat eventually gave in and picked it up half heartedly.

"Hello?" he sighed, expecting to be greeted by yet another blast of threats, abuse and insults. He had no idea how all these people were able to track him down to this cheap motel. Janet Mobey had ensured his swift departure from her own suite of hotel rooms.

"Humvat? Is that you?" asked a female voice.

"Yes." he replied, puzzled as to who this caller might be. They were addressing him in Siminite as Humvat instead of Larry in English. "Who is this?"

"It's me, it's Kipdip".

"Kipdip!" he exclaimed in delighted amazement and with a smile in his eyes. "It's wonderful to hear your voice once again. But how on earth did you manage to find me?"

"I've been trying for more than three weeks without making any progress. I thought I'd have one last attempt today. I asked an American telephone operator if they knew where you were and hey presto, I got through to you almost straight away".

He quietly frowned to himself. Even the telephone operators had joined the league against him.

"Anyhow," she continued. "You're quite a hero back home now. Following your outburst on television there was a popular uprising against the government. The Great Guide and all the priests and politicians have gone, completely disappeared from view. The common people are now in control of the country. It was incredible; the speed was such it was almost as if the whole thing was engineered. Of course, now we are rid of the pack of vermin the hard work of cleaning up the country has to start. But that's a task for tomorrow because today we celebrate. And you'll be pleased to know you have been officially credited as providing the inspirational spark which lit the wildfire. Who would have thought it?"

Humvat sat still and said nothing. He was suddenly overwhelmed and a single tear slowly rolled down his left cheek and onto his quivering lips. He tried to express the intensity of his joy at hearing the beauty of her voice, yet he struggled to carry her bewildering words into his mind as the weight of the world shifted across his shoulders.

She eventually filled the silent gap. "How are you?"

"I've had some, um, interesting adventures." he murmured vaguely, wiping his face with his hand. "I still don't understand how it ever happened, but the television series we made is very popular over here in America. It's all been a bit frantic and exhausting but I've managed to save some money. Me and Parvark have decided to find somewhere quiet on the coast for a few days to recover our spirits. He has just gone out to hire a car".

"Good," she continued, seeming oblivious to his news. "I just wanted to let you know it's safe for you to return home now, if you want to".

"But don't you see? I can't come back." he sniffed. "I'm on the verge of becoming a Hollywood star. Soon I'll have a fortune greater than that of the Great Guide himself. I'll be able to send money to you, so you can come and join me".

"Instead of sending for me, you could always return to me Humvat. I need you, the nation needs you. We all need you back here at home. There's still a strong mood that politicians of any hue are not to be trusted. The fact you were the only person who publicly came out and denounced the government and religious zealots when nobody else thought to has really raised your reputation. People are calling you a true revolutionary".

"But I also said the Guide was a Semonite".

"And everyone is most grateful to you".

"No, no, you don't understand." he fretted. "He's not, well he might be, I don't know".

"The Guide has gone." she placated him. "Please come back home Humvat. You can make a public apology for your misdemeanour, if that helps you".

He steadied his thoughts, quickly ran a debate through his mind and came to a conclusion, though in truth he hadn't needed to argue with himself too much. He knew what his response was going to be.

"If you need me then I'm coming back to South Jefesta, Kipdip." he said. "One of the many things I've discovered on my travels is that the pursuit of happiness through money is a pursuit which never makes anyone happy. Real wealth and real happiness comes about through achieving simple pursuits, like love and contentment".

"Then I'll be happily waiting for you, Humvat." she replied.

There was a pause before her voice softened to an uncharacteristic whisper. "I love you".

"I love you too." he whispered back. "I'll see you soon".

A sudden click followed by a piercing whining tone announced the line had disconnected. So it was decided then. Despite everything and despite himself, he was going to return home and lead a revolution.

As he replaced the receiver Parvark entered the room carrying sunglasses, a false beard and a hat. He handed them to Humvat saying. "You should put these on. I thought it would be better for you to travel in disguise. Everything is arranged".

Humvat applied the props, looked at himself in the mirror and nodded. "Hmm". He mused. "I hardly recognise myself".

He quickly scoured the room and gathered his meagre belongings together. As he went to leave the motel for the final time, he turned to Parvark.

"Guess what?" he smiled through his beard. "I've just discovered that not only am I a superstar after all, but somebody out there loves me as well".

Parvark felt the sweep of an instant anger rush through him, a contempt that despite all of his idiocy Humvat should still be acting out this manic grandeur. But it was tempered by pity, so he said nothing. It was obvious all the stress and strain had finally overpowered his poor friend. They picked up their belongings in silence. He allowed Humvat to pass out of the room, then followed him and closed the door.

Heather Surning sat in an aeroplane as the people around her jostled with seat belts and overhead lockers. She was reviewing the speech she was to give the next day in Washington, and once again read to herself the notes she had carefully assembled and transcribed.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Senate, Mr Speaker, thank you for giving me this opportunity to address you. I've been writing pieces about what I call the American NeoEmpire in my newspaper column, and I'd like you to consider another word in the lexicon of empire. This word is legacy".

"The British Empire ruled a quarter of the world's land and a quarter of its people for almost two centuries. As time went on, its leaders contemplated the mortality of their empire. They realized some day America would outshine them, and accordingly felt impelled to influence events. So they spent long years establishing relationships and dancing a diplomatic courtship with American administrations. And the purpose of this love match was that when the lights finally went out on the British Empire, custodianship of the democracy they fought long and hard to establish throughout the world would be entrusted to a safe pair of hands, namely America".

"Today our American NeoEmpire reaches out and touches the lives of billions of people across the world. We possess the richest economy, the mightiest military machine and the widest personal freedoms ever known to mankind. It is the strongest empire in recorded history but like the British one, it won't last forever".

"What happens afterwards, when some nation which is currently developing follows in our footsteps? Put simply, what will be the legacy of our NeoEmpire? Because at present I don't see one. Where we once responded to challenges set by the future with the vision of the Marshall Plan, we currently lack any sense of direction in our foreign policy and relationships with the developing world".

"We keep deluding ourselves we are merely an economic empire when we are plainly much more than this. We delude ourselves we have no interest in foreign conquests when we plainly do. And as a result we administer our empire beneath a cloak of subterfuge. We covertly install rulers whom we deem to be friendly to ourselves in countries where we perceive a threat, not caring whether the new regime is beneficial or not to the country itself. In other cases we send in our troops to install friendly regimes and pull the troops out again as soon as we can, without giving a thought to establishing lasting stability".

"Our foreign policy in the Middle East is driven by agenda while we neglect to consider what might be required to bring about peace. We allow Africans to slaughter each other indiscriminately because they are neither a source of fear, greed nor opportunity. And shuffling around in the background, always shuffling around in the background, are the corporate mongrels sniffing the air for an opportunity to make a profit out of either life or death. Is it any wonder then why the poorer, weaker regions of the world hate us? They are not blind, so they see. They are not stupid, so they understand".

"It is of grave concern to me that we do not portray any sense of legacy. We make no provision for our children or our children's children and instead simply chase today's easy dollar fluttering along the sidewalk. There is no grand plan for the future, nothing to leave behind".

"Yet all is not yet lost. The British got many things wrong and were certainly not without impunity, but one lesson we can learn from them is my next word from the lexicon of empire, and this word is investment".

"They invested in three main ways. Firstly they invested in democracy wherever they could. As a result, it may surprise you to learn the United States is not the largest democracy in the world. This accolade is afforded to India, a country with a population of more than one billion people".

"The second investment the British made was in organizing infrastructures and expanding the expectations of the people in those countries which came under their influence. In the nineteenth century the greatest invention man had yet created was the locomotive train. Wherever they went the British laid down tracks and countries benefited. These ancient railways are still being used around the world in such far-flung places as the Sudan, Sri Lanka and Hong Kong".

"Lastly they invested in a common cause. This was a notional loyalty towards the head of state in Britain and as a result the empire achieved a sense of community, of fraternity amongst its subjects rather than disharmony, strife or disenfranchisement. So much so that when Britain was in danger of collapse during the two world wars of the twentieth century, volunteers from all corners of the empire freely poured in to help defend what they regarded as their mother country".

"When this empire was subsequently and, in most cases freely dismantled, there was little or no ill feeling felt towards the past rulers. Most of the dominions and colonies elected to form the Commonwealth, which is akin to a true family of nations".

"The challenge for us now is to start building a legacy for our NeoEmpire. We can do this by taking on the responsibility of empire and changing our foreign policy, by investing both our ethos and wealth in poorer countries of the world where life is a daily trial. For too long the fate of these people has been in the hands of a cartel of anonymous but powerful corporate leaders who have undue influence over the ears, mouth and mind of the serving president".

"They act on the basis of greedy self-interest and cause any number of deeds to be performed across the globe in the name of the American people when the vast majority of the public have absolutely no idea of what is being done in their name. We must wrest the process of policy making away from the grasp of corporate greed and give it back to people who care".

"I am not advocating for us to attempt to create images of America throughout the globe. What I am asking for is that we invest a true belief in the power of democracy amongst the poor in the developing world, and give them a means to free themselves by investing within their infrastructure. I'm reminded of the adage which says that if you give a man a fish you feed him for a day. If you teach a man to fish then you feed him for a lifetime".

"We should also remember there is much in the world we can learn from. I recall one of my students telling me he found a beautiful truth in studying Australian English. The beauty he saw was that although it is a modern language, words such as kangaroo, billabong and coolabah, which are all used to describe the Australian landscape are Aboriginal, not English. What is essentially a stone-age language is still being used today. The moral is that the old can co-exist with the new. Thank you very much for your diligent attention".

She nodded her assent as she finished reading the words. Then she placed the notes in her bag and calmly looked up and down the aisle, scanning for indications of an impending take-off.

She had conducted much soul searching to resolve her irrational fear of flying, but to her frustration she found her psychological prowess was of little help. It was the difference between looking down dispassionately at somebody who is stuck in a maze, gently guiding them out, and being the person who is stuck in the maze, pounding the wall, trying to blindly find their own way out. In short, she found it's far easier to heal somebody else than it is to heal yourself. Yet she remained either too stubborn, too vain or both to seek the path to her own answers from another psychoanalyst.

Then late one evening, the surprisingly simple solution revealed itself to her when she was under the influence of some particularly strong marijuana from the farm. The voice inside her told her that it was actually the sense of determination within her that had driven her to this fear. For in reality she was suffering from a fear of dying, not flying. And the fear was that she would depart this life without leaving something behind to announce that she had once stood tall and walked proud upon the earth.

So after all the tears, panic attacks and memory loss, it turned out she was merely fretting about leaving her own legacy behind. Having belatedly recognised this she set about constructing one, and this speech before the joint senate committee was it.

The plane engines screamed and it jerked forward without warning. As it lumbered along the runway she tensed slightly, but was nonetheless more relaxed than she had ever previously been at the moment of take-off. After all, she consoled herself once again, everybody has to die someday and she herself would have to face her own appointment with death eventually. If her day of destiny was to turn out to be today then so be it, there was nothing she could do about it. Despite this newly discovered state of calm, she remained bolted to an aisle seat. She still wasn't ready to sit next to a window.

She also felt remarkably easy about continuing her climb back up the ladder of success while remaining based at Santa Domingo rather than New York or Washington. She still hadn't felt that touch on her shoulder, telling her it was time to depart. In fact, nowadays she wasn't convinced she ever would. She loved relaxing on that beach which was empty of the detritus of other people and their lives. She wasn't exactly in love with life, but she felt – what was the word? – yeah, content. That would do.

Meanwhile, back on Santa Domingo beach the strength sapping heat of the sun was softened by the warm breeze blowing in from the sea. As it passed through the leaves of surrounding trees it made wind instruments of them, and they played a flat whooshing tune. Kenny and Neil were kneeling on the sand, assembling a large, sturdy looking wind surfboard. It proudly sported a large white mainsail, which was flapping away and anxious to be let off the leash. Kenny was putting food and water into a large plastic box which was strapped onto the board. Meanwhile Neil was attempting to secure a rudder to the rear.

Brian ambled up. "Yo, you blokes." he greeted them.

"S'up mate?" replied Kenny, without looking up.

Brian shuffled lamely and put his hands in his pockets. "I just got off the phone to my parents. I decided to take up the offer from UC Berkeley to major in English. It turns out they're all big Larry fans over there, so I guess I owe you blokes a tinny or two for that. My mom said it may not be Ivy League, but at least it's got a solid reputation".

He paused as he knelt down and ran his fingers over the new surfboard, before continuing. "And you know what? My old man came on the phone and said he was proud of me. He's never done anything like that before. It totally weirded me out. I'm not sure whether I like it or not".

Kenny shrugged. "My dad still doesn't say anything nice to me. In fact he's threatened me with transfer to a military school. I think he called it a last chance salon".

"Me neither." agreed Neil. "I think my parents have finally given up on me now. They've even stopped sending me an allowance".

Brian sat on the cooler sand beneath the shade of a palm tree, leaned back against the trunk and started to roll a joint. "Where are you dudes gonna be gigging now summer's nearly over?" he asked.

"I've decided to stick around at the station for a while." said Neil. "Ray's a pretty cool dude to work with, and he's teaching me heaps of shit which might come in useful if I ever want to try for a career in the TV business. They're even paying me wages which, totally weirdly, come to exactly the same amount as my parents used to send me, so you know, it's a living".

Kenny meanwhile silently carried on filling the box on the surfboard, and was now carefully folding up a spare sail.

"What about you Kenny?" asked Brian as he carefully sprinkled the marijuana across the cigarette paper. "Why did you call us down here this arvo, mate?"

"Well," said Kenny, proudly. "I've decided now I can surf properly, it's about time for a change of direction for me. There's totally no way I'm going back to school, so it's time to find a new life. Last week I finally got around to finding out whereabouts Australia is in an atlas, and guess what? It turns out there's nothing but a big wide open ocean between here and there, so I'm gonna sail across on this baby to start a new life in Australia".

He patted the new surf board. "I've got enough food and drink in this box to keep me going for six weeks, spare parts in case I need them and some cash to see me through when I get there. I've even rigged up this sling I've tied to the mast so I can sleep standing up. And I invited you dudes down here so you can wave me off".

Brian smiled laconically as he finished making the joint. "Don't forget to send us a postcard when you get there, mate".

Kenny looked back up at him and shrugged his shoulders. "It may be that the wind blows me back ashore five miles down the coast, but the way I figure it there's probably a new life for me there as well".

Parvark drove the hire car along the quiet old coast road and Humvat sat in the passenger seat with his ridiculous disguise nestling in his lap. He alternated between admiring the scenery of the land on the right and turning across to gaze at the sea, a couple of miles away in the distance.

An unmarked left hand turning loomed up.

"Turn down there." he commanded.

"But it's only a beaten up old track. It doesn't go anywhere." protested Parvark.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it does." replied Humvat. "I think I'd like to go down and visit the sea".

Parvark turned down the bumpy track and a few minutes later they were driving in small circuits around Santa Domingo town centre.

"I don't understand it." sighed Humvat, mystified. "I could have sworn I saw a beach down here from back up the road".

Marcia Givens was walking along the sidewalk towards Marvin Hopkins Progressive College when a car sidled up to her and the passenger window wound down.

"For excuse me." said a brown haired young man. "Can you tell where beach is?"

Being from out of town, Marcia didn't carry the same bag of suspicions as the locals when it came to revealing their secret treasure. If somebody had made the effort to get this far, that was a good enough character reference for her.

"Sure." she replied, and pointing her finger back towards town she explained "You need to go down there and you'll see a path opposite that's just wide enough to drive down. Follow this for a mile or so and you'll get to a small parking lot. In the corner is a gate to the beach".

"Many of thanks." smiled the young man.

Heather now looked at his face, did a double take and asked quizzically "Excuse me, but you seem familiar to me. Have we met?"

The young man waved her away with a smile as he wound the window back up. "No, no. We never meet before. Only meet now".

As Parvark steered the car around to face the opposite direction he muttered "That was a close call. You'd better put the disguise back on. We don't want anyone recognising you and attacking you".

It was later and Neil and Brian had retired to the shade beneath a palm tree where they sat chatting and sharing a joint. Kenny was out in the late afternoon sunlight bent over his wind surfboard. He had finished packing and was locking up the box lid. At the same instant the three of them became aware of a foreign presence approaching. They looked across at the source of the long shadows which bobbed along the beach towards them. It was two men, both a bit older than themselves. One was unremarkable, but the other one wore a beard, sunglasses and a hat.

The two strangers approached them and the three boys stood up. The five of them warily eyed each other up for a few tense seconds. Then the two older ones broke the silence by speaking to each other, babbling away in a strange foreign language.

"My friend say what is this?" asked the nondescript one, nodding towards the wind surfboard. "Is it boat?"

"Nah, It's a surfboard mate." replied Kenny.

"What is for?" asked the strange bearded one with the sunglasses and hat.

"It's for riding the waves, mate".

"Ride waves to where?"

"He's riding the waves all the way to Australia." said Brian.

"It's the lucky country." added Neil.

"Hmm." replied the strangely dressed stranger, eying the board. "Australia no so lucky for me".

He bent down, inspected the surfboard, rubbed the delicate looking rudder and muttered something in that foreign tongue to his friend. They both chuckled.

"What did he say?" asked Kenny.

" He said good luck to you in your journey to lucky country." smiled the nondescript one. "He think you going to need it".

After a short while the two strangers smiled at the three boys, vaguely waved their hands at them and carried on walking down the beach. "Good luck in your journey." said the strange one over his shoulder.

"Thanks. G'day mate." replied Kenny.

The strange one suddenly swivelled back around, briefly gazed at Kenny with a puzzled look on his face, then shook his head to himself and continued.

The three of them looked at the two men slowly disappearing into the distance.

"You know something mates?" asked Brian. "I can't put my finger on it, but there's something weird about that bearded bloke kitted out with the hat and sunnies".

"Totally, dude." nodded Neil. "And there was something funny about that geek language they were speaking".

"Yeah, like totally." added Kenny, still gazing after them.

As they walked along, carrying their shoes and strolling along the edge of the sea with their feet splashing through the wet sand and water, Humvat turned towards Parvark and said. "Something really odd happened back there. That boy's voice sounded just like one of the characters in that bastard Larry television show".

Parvark smiled and snorted. "Half the kids in this country probably sound just like the characters in that bastard Larry television show".

Humvat inhaled a lungful of salty fresh beach air, looked out to sea and said "Yeah, I suppose you're right. You know what? I think we should spend some of our relaxation time at this place. What do you reckon?"

Back down the beach, the three boys carefully picked the surfboard up and carried it down to the water's edge. Kenny stood up on it and the other two waded in and steadied it while he harnessed himself into the sling. Then they pushed him out and whistled and cheered as the wind filled the sail with brimming life, and he skimmed over the waves and out towards the open ocean. He triumphantly waved back at them and the board dashed out to sea. Pretty soon the sail of Kenny's windsurfer was just a small white dot set amongst the immense deep blue emptiness of the Pacific Ocean. In this light it looked like a lonely comet slowly wandering through the silent universe.

Nobody was aware of it, but at that very moment, somewhere up in the heavens, the butterflies of fate which had soared upwards and joined together to form this train of events, now separated and gently floated back down to earth. Their work was done and their season was over.

In Windsor, England, it was a bleak midweek night and the moon beams briefly shone down through a break in the dark, rain laden clouds and rested upon the front door at 32, Shelbourne Road. The still shadow of the tall castle wall fell solemnly across the street full of terraced Victorian houses. A steady stream of elderly women filed quietly into the house and assembled noisily in the living room, comparing notes.

"My true love, Jack, passed away during the war." said one with an American accent. "I never did have the heart or the will to return home, let alone marry again".

Her conversational partner sniffed in sympathy. "My son David passed away after a car crash on the Marlow By-Pass over three years ago. But there are still days when I hear somebody or something outside the house, and I half expect to see him come through the door".

The first woman smiled benignly. "I know." she replied, gently patting the other woman's arm. "I do too".

Then her sympathetic smile turned into a friendly one, and she offered a handshake. "I know it's not very English to introduce yourself, but I'm Mollie Rush".

"Joan Phillips." replied the second woman, meeting and loosely gripping her hand with her own.

One of the other women who wore a garish outfit of black taffeta and white lace made a mental count of the number of guests assembled and, content that the full complement had arrived, clapped her hands together to gain everyone's attention.

"Good evening ladies." she raised her voice. "My name is Madame Clara and I am a spiritual medium. I'd like to take this moment to welcome you all to our weekly meeting, where we shall hopefully be making contact with some of our dearly beloved. Those who may have departed this life but are not yet forgotten. Before we commence proceedings we shall be serving refreshments and then we will move on into the dining room in order to conduct the session. So, in the meantime, please tuck in!"

Once they had partaken of the proffered cups of tea and plates of cucumber sandwiches, everyone shuffled into the dining room and sat on chairs set around a vast oval shaped table. In the middle of the table was a circle of cards, each bearing a letter of the alphabet and in the middle of the circle was a small water crystal glass, which was turned upside down. Two more cards, one marked "Yes" and one marked "No" lay either side of the glass

"Now then ladies." trilled Madame Clara. "I'd like you all to please form a circle of energy by holding hands, and fill your minds with an image of the person you would most like to contact in the next world. Then focus your image onto the glass in the middle of the table, for that glass is our gateway to the spirit world. In order to help our concentration we'll dim the lights a little and, if we're fortunate, those souls of the spirit world will talk to us through the glass and the cards. I'm now going to call upon my spiritual guide, who is a Cherokee Indian brave named Red Eagle. Let's see if he can summon up any other spirits who might be waiting to communicate with someone in this room".

She closed her eyes and began to chant "Oh mighty spirits of the heavens, we beseech thee to heed our plea. Oh Red Eagle, my noble guide, will you reveal yourself to me?"

She repeated the chant several times, each one growing louder and deeper. And then suddenly the glass shot across the table towards the card marked "Yes". There was an echo of "Oohs" and "Ahhs" and gasps around the table. Madame Clara opened her eyes and glowed with a satisfied smile. "He has heard and answered us".

Then she allowed a moment's silence and continued to chant. "Red Eagle, noble guide, do you have anyone with you who might wish to contact us?"

The glass sprang back into life and once again returned to the card marked "Yes". There was more oohing and ahhing and gasps and a couple of shrieks. Madame Clara moaned. "Speak to me, Red Eagle. Who is this spirit who wishes to converse with us?"

Everyone in the room looked expectantly at the glass but it failed to stir. After a few lengthening seconds, the lull caused Madame Clara to become mildly agitated.

"Who is this spirit who wishes to converse with us?" she repeated, almost demanding a response. The glass shot across the table towards the card bearing the letter T, then towards the E and then the L, before careering into the middle of the table and then back towards the L again, where it stopped for a short while.

"Tell." muttered one of the women sitting at the table. "Is it William Tell I wonder?"

Then the glass sprang into a life of its own and moved around the table at such a speed everyone found it difficult to follow the thread of the message. It finally came to rest and the same woman pronounced "I think it said 'Tell Wirliv I was wrong', but I'm not entirely certain".

"Yes," agreed another. "That was the message alright".

There was a low buzz of questioning and discussion around the table. While this was going on Madame Clara shot a glance at Mollie Rush and hissed "What the hell is going on?"

Mollie Rush hissed back "I don't know. It was supposed to be a message from David to Joan, but I didn't get enough time to set it up properly! You served the food too fast!"

Madame Clara composed herself, turned towards her audience and cleared her throat. "Does anyone here know somebody called Wirliv?" She asked hopefully.

The room was a sea of shaking heads and the glass remained defiantly on the letter G.

Back at Marvin Hopkins College, Marcia Givens relaxed in the late afternoon sun. She sat on a shaded swing seat by the porch of her house and gently rocked herself back and forth by using the balls and heels of her feet. She puffed away on a joint and pondered. All the boys had departed for the summer holidays, and this filled the place with the unnatural tranquillity of an abandoned ship. It was a running machine, but an empty machine. The next academic year would be starting soon enough though, and doubtlessly bring with it further trials and tribulations, success and reward, chaos and desperation. Well, it would if it was anything like the one which had just finished. Whichever way you looked at it, it had been a heck of a roller coaster ride. Perhaps she'd been overly hasty in accepting those three young, but rich miscreants in the first place. Even her school, the one which never gave up hope on anyone was partially defeated.

She thought about Heather Surning and decided she hoped Heather would see fit to remain at the school. She'd been a great help during demanding times, and in this modern world where nobody seemed to give a shit about anything or anyone any more, it was a refreshing change to come across somebody who cared about others, rather than simply chasing the all important and consuming selfishness of the vacuous me-me-me mantra. Anyhow, two of those three boys and their excessively ambitious parents were out of her hands now and waiting to become somebody else's challenge. As for the third boy, one happy and grateful set of wealthy parents out of three represented a partial success, and the school now possessed sufficient funds to stay in business for another year or two. She stubbed out the joint, yawned and lazily stretched out her arms. Then she nestled in the swing seat, rested her head on a pillow and closed her eyes. Life wasn't that great, but it wasn't that bad either.

THE END
Chapter Fifteen

The 100% Unofficial Strine Phrasebook

Herein contained is the official unofficial bootleg version of the first edition of our Strine phrasebook. This is the one that was produced before the oppressive fascist authorities of the institutional regime forced ethnic cleansing upon it.

Kenny Savage, Neil Petit and Brian Lovett rule, OK!

# A

Abbo/Aborigine. The original natives of Australia.

Adelaide. Capital city of the state of South Australia.

A good root and a fart would kill you. You're not very strong.

Amber Nectar. Beer.

Ankle biter. Small child.

Arvo. Afternoon.

Arse/Arsehole. Rectum, backside, ass if you must know.

Awning over the toy shop. A beer gut.

B

Back of Bourke. The middle of nowhere. Bourke is a town in New South Wales.

Banana Bender. Resident of Queensland.

Bangs like a dunny door in a storm. Someone who is sexually promiscuous.

Barbie. Barbecue. Australians are really into this.

Bash the bishop. Masturbate.

Beaut/Beauty. Excellent, real cool.

Bend the elbow. Drink alcohol.

Bet London to a brick on it. Something that's totally certain.

Big mobs. Humungous amount.

Big note yourself. Boast.

Billabong. A water hole in a dry riverbed.

Billy. A tin container for making coffee in over a camp fire.

Black Stump. A spot over the horizon, a long way away.

Blind Freddy could see it. It's totally obvious.

Bloke. A man.

Blowie. A blowfly.

Bludge. To be lazy and feckless.

Bondi. Famous surfing beach near Sydney.

Bondi cigar. A turd in the sea, raw sewage.

Bonzer . Cool, ripper.

Booze bus. Random breath testing police wagon.

Boozer. A pub or bar.

Brisbane. Capital city of the state of Queensland.

Broken packet of biscuits. Something that looks okay from the outside but is a mess inside.

Buckley's Chance. No chance.

Bullamanka. Imaginary remote spot beyond even The Back of

Bourke or Black Stump.

Bull bar. Protection bar on front of a car.

Bulldust. A polite version of bullshit.

Bullshit Palace. A Government House or State Capitol.

Bum. Rectum, ass. if you must know.

Bush. The (almost) uninhabited countryside (See "Outback").

Bush Tucker. Native foods, found in the outback.

Bush Week. Fictional time when bushwhackers visit town.

Bushwhacker. Stupid, slow person who lives in the bush.

Bush Wire. Social grapevine which spreads gossip.

Busy as a bricklayer in Baghdad. Very busy.

Busy as a cat burying shit. Very very Busy.

##

## C

Cactus. Broken, not functioning.

Calling for George. Vomiting down the toilet bowl.

Couldn't drive a greasy stick up a dog's arse. Is not a good car driver.

Chief cook and bottle washer. The person in charge.

Choko. A vegetable.

Chook. A chicken.

Christmas on a stick. Very good.

Chuck a sickie. Pretend to be sick and take a day off work.

Chunder. Vomit.

Clacker. Anus.

Clayton's. A bogus, fake.

Clobber. Clothes.

Cobber. Friend.

Come a gutzer. A plan goes wrong.

Compo. A competition.

Conk. Punch someone or something.

Cooee. A bush greeting.

Corroboree. Aboriginal festival.

Don't give a fat rats clacker. Don't care.

Cozzie. Swimming costume.

Crack a fat. Get an erection.

Cricket. A bat and ball game played by two teams of 11 players. The rules are deep and mysterious and nobody knows them all.

Crook. To be sick or something that is not well made.

Cunning as a dunny rat. Very cunning.

D

Daks. Trousers.

Dance The Chocolate Cha-Cha. Have anal intercourse.

Darwin. Capital city of the Northern Territories.

DCBM note. Don't Come Back Monday. (Get fired from a job).

Didgeridoo. Aborigine musical wind instrument.

Dingo. A wild dog, like a coyote.

Dingo's breakfast. A missed breakfast.

Dinkum, fair dinkum. Genuine or honest.

Dip your eye in cocky shit If you don't like it get a dog up you.

Dob In. To inform on someone.

Donger. Penis.

Don't come the raw prawn. Don't try to trick me.

Don't piss on my back and tell me it's raining. Really don't try to trick me.

Down the road. A distance away, anything from a few yards to hundreds of miles.

Do your block. Get angry.

Drag the chain. Move or think or work slowly.

Drain the dragon. Urinate.

Drain the main vein. Urinate.

Drink with the flies. Drink alone.

Drive the porcelain bus. Vomit.

Drongo. Worthless or stupid person.

Dry as a dingo's donger. Very dry.

Dry as a Pommie towel. Very dry - Poms rarely bathe.

Dry as a witch's tit. Very thirsty.

Dumber than a wagon load of rocks Very dumb.

Dunny. A lavatory, urinal or toilet. Originally an outdoor one.

Dunny budgies. Blow flies.

E

Earn a crust. Make a living.

Evo. Evening.

F

Fair dinkum. True, genuine.

Fair suck of the sav. Get a fair chance.

Few tinnies short of a slab. Dim witted.

Fire up the barbie. Prepare a barbecue for cooking food.

Fit as a buck rat. Very fit.

Fit as a mallee bull. Very, Very fit.

Fits like a bum in a bucket. Fits perfectly.

Flake. Shark meat, used in fish and chips.

Flaming Hell. A mild swearword.

Flash as a rat with a gold tooth. Well dressed or groomed.

Flog the log. Masturbate.

Fossick. To search for something.

From arsehole to breakfast. Totally disorganised.

Full as a goog. Eat or drink too much.

Furphy. A rumor or a false story.

Further behind than a python's arsehole. A long way away.

G

Galah. Idiot (a noisy bird which is a pest).

Game as Ned Kelly. Very brave.

G'day. Good Day. Traditional Ozzie greeting.

Get a dog up you. Go away and leave me alone.

Get pissed. Get drunk (NOT get angry!)

Give it a fair go. Try hard at something.

Give it a burl. Try something new.

Go berko. Get angry.

Go flat out like a lizard drinking. Work hard and fast.

Go like a rat up a drainpipe. Leave in a hurry.

Go off like a frog in a sock. Go crazy.

Go troppo. Act crazy, like people do in tropical heat.

Go Walkabout. Take a long walk that can last for days in the Outback.

Gone down the gurgler. Something has stopped working.

Gone walkabout. Somebody has wandered off somewhere or something is lost.

Good as shit on a stick. Not good.

Good on you. Well done.

Grog. General word for alcohol, usually beer.

Grog with no nectar. Alcohol free beer.

Gumtree. Eucalyptus tree.

Gurgler. Toilet, bathroom.

H

Handy as mudflaps on a speedboat. Not useful.

Hang a brown bear in the porcelain cave. Visit the dunny.

Happy as a dog in a hubcap factory. Very happy.

Has a face like a Diranbandi mail bag. Is ugly.

Have a go you mug. Expression shouted to urge someone on.

Have tickets on yourself. Have a high opinion of yourself.

Having a bludge. Being lazy. Not working.

Hooley. Wild party.

Hug the toilet bowl. Vomit.

I

If you'd given it more choke it would have started. Said if you fart loudly. (Sounds like trying to start a car).

If it was raining palaces you'd get hit by a dunny door. You are unlucky.

In like Flynn. Jump at an opportunity.

In more shit than a poofter's finger. In big trouble.

In your boot! An expression of disagreement.

J

Jackaroo or Jillaroo. Male or Female worker on a cattle station.

Japanese flying suit. A uniform of T-shirt and flip flops.

K

Kerbside quiche. Vomit.

Knocking shop. Brothel.

Kookaburra. A native bird.

L

Larrikin. A ruffian who is always in trouble.

Let Mr. Fluffy off the chain. To fart.

Liquid laugh. Vomit.

Look like a Pakapoo ticket. Look very messy.

Look like a pox doctor's clerk. Overly dressed up in poor taste.

Look like a cat licking shit off a thistle. Look very happy.

Loose as a cock in a sock. Very loose.

Lower than a snake's arsehole. Despicable.

M

Mad as a gumtree full of galahs. As mad as a hatter.

Make a quid. Earn a living.

Make shit gravy. Be really scared.

Marble orchard. A cemetery.

Mate. Common greeting. Comes from shipmate NOT lovemate!

Melbourne. Capital city of state of Victoria.

Melbourne or the bush. All or nothing.

More arse than class. Does not have much class.

More tired than a one-armed billsticker in a big wind. Very tired.

More tired than a one-armed cabbie with the crabs. Very, Very tired.

Murray. A river in South-East Australia.

N

Ned Kelly. A folk hero, a bit like Robin Hood. Died in a shootout.

Neil woz 'ere. Neil was here! I did all the hard yakka too.

Not enough brains to get a headache. Not clever. Pretty dumb, actually.

Not the full quid. Not very clever.

Not within Cooee. Not close by.

Not worth a brass razoo. Worthless.

No worries! No problem. A favorite Ozzie saying.

NSW. New South Wales state. The capital is Sydney.

O

Ocker. Uncivilised person.

Off like a bride's nightie. Something happens very quickly.

Off like a bucket of prawns in the sun. Leave quickly.

On the wallaby track. Being unemployed.

On you! Well done! (Sometimes said sarcastically).

Open your Lunchbox. To fart.

Outback. The empty interior of Australia (see also "Bush").

P

Pavement pizza. Vomit.

Perth. Capital city of the state of Western Australia.

Petrol. Gasoline.

Pig's arse! Expression of disagreement.

Piker. Someone who doesn't want to enjoy themselves.

Piss. Alcohol, usually beer.

Pissing in the wind. Wasting your time.

Podgy dodger. Cattle rustler.

Polly. Politician.

Pom or Pommie. English person.

Poofter. Homosexual.

Prawn. A shrimp.

Q

Quid. British pound, similar to US dollar.

R

Rack off. Get lost!

Rafferty's rules. When there are no rules.

Rainbow sneeze. Vomit.

Reffo. Refugee.

Rellie. Family relative.

Ridgy Didge. Fair Dinkum, but even more so.

Ripper. Really cool..

Rip snorter. Excellent, totally cool.

Roo. Kangaroo

Roo bar. Bar on front of vehicles to protect against hitting kangaroos.

Roo short in the top paddock Not very bright.

Root. Sexual intercourse. F*ck.

Rooted. Tired, whacked out. F*cked.

Rort. To cheat or defraud.

S

Sav. Saveloy (a type of sausage).

Scarce as rocking horse shit. Extremely rare.

Seppo. An American.. (Comes from rhyming slang where Septic Tank = Yank)

Shark biscuit. Someone new to surfing.

Sheila. A female.

She'll be right. Everything will turn out okay.

She'll be sweet. Everything will turn out okay.

Shit house. Lavatory.

Shonky. Something dubious, underhanded.

Shoot through like a Bondi tram. Leave in a hurry.

Shout. A round of drinks.

Show pony. Someone who dresses or behaves in a manner intended to impress others.

Sink the sausage. Have sex.

Sink the slipper. Kick someone or something.

Skinny grog. Low alcohol beer.

Skinny milk. Low fat milk.

Slab. A case of 24 bottles or cans of beer.

Slick as a greased snake. Smooth talker, or when something goes like lightning. .

Smooth as an old man's donger. Not very smooth.

Snag. Sausage.

Snag short of a Barbie. Not very clever.

So tight he wouldn't shout if a shark bit him. Mean person who will not buy a round of drinks.

Soul surfer. Someone who loves surfing.

Spit the dummy. Get upset.

Sport. Similar greeting to "Mate", but more formal.

Stir the possum. Liven things up.

Stone the crows! Exclamation of surprise or irritation.

Strewth! Exclamation, usually of surprise.

Strides. Trousers.

Stroll to the gravy bowl. Go to the toilet.

Surfies. Proper surfers.

Suss out. Figure out.

Siphon the python. Urinate.

T

Talk on the porcelain telephone. Vomit down a toilet.

Tas. Tasmania, an island state off the south-east coast.

Technicolour yawn. Vomit.

The Lucky Country. Australia, of course!

The most fun you can have with your strides on. Any more would be illegal.

There's a brown dog barking at the back door. Urgently need to use the restroom.

Thicker than two tons of dog shit. Very stupid.

Thongs. Flip-flops.

Tighter than a bull's arse at fly time. Very miserly.

Tinny. Can of beer.

To be within cooee. To be within calling distance.

Too slow to keep worms in a tin. Someone who is very slow.

Too useless to grow chokos in a backyard dunny. Someone who is really useless.

Toss a tiger. Get into a temper.

Tough as a Mallee Bull. Very tough.

True blue. Dinkum.

Tucker. Food.

Two pot screamer. Someone who can't hold his beer.

Tyre kicker. Someone who looks at something with no intention of buying.

U

Up at a sparrows fart. Get up very early in the morning.

Up the duff. Pregnant.

Useful as a handbrake on a Holden. Not useful (A Holden is a fast car).

Useful as an ashtray on a surfboard. Not useful.

Useful as lips on a chicken. Really not useful.

Useful as tits on a bull. Really really not useful.

V

Vegemite. Popular sandwich spread made from vegetable extract. An acquired taste.

Veranda over the toolshed. A beer gut.

Victoria. A state, capital city is Melbourne.

W

Welcome as a fart in a phone box. Not welcome.

Welcome as a pork chop in a synagogue. Not popular.

Wirreenun. An aborigine witch doctor.

Whacker. An irritating person.

Where the crows fly backwards. Remote place in the outback.

Whiffy under the Warwicks. Smelly armpits. (Rhyming slang. Warwick = Warwick Farm = Arm.)

Whiteant. Criticise something to deter others.

White pointers. Topless female sunbathers.

Who's rooting this croc? You're only holding the tail. I am in charge, not you.

Who's skinning this croc? I'm getting scratched Whoever is in charge isn't doing their job properly.

Woop Woop. Fictional town that means the middle of nowhere.

X

XXXX. A brand of beer.

Y

Yakka. Hard work.

Your blood's worth bottling. You are great.

You're pulling my chain. You are trying to fool me.

You're so stupid you wouldn't know a tram was up you until the bell rang. You are very stupid.

You've got two chances – Buckley's and none. You have no chance.

Z

Zonked. Tired.

340
