Newton’s Cradle – Sci fi fiction Adult audience readers, language, adult themes and drug reference warnings.
I think I have serious seasonal depression. Not in the ‘winter blues’ sun deprivation sense, but one linked purely to Christmas and all the accumulative misery each year brings. I should be used to this but I’m not. I am dealing with this inhouse and without prescribed medication such as Lithium, the crumpled script evidence of my last close shave with a Psych. It’s bad enough going to my GP for a genuine unrelated matter.
“You look very anxious Rebecca, are you taking your...?”
“Anxious?” I retort with an angry laugh. I have my newish boyfriend Steve in the room with me, fortunately he knows both first hand and long term of my mental health decline as he was a good plutonic friend of over twenty years prior to our union. He also knows I do not take medication by choice and resolve, having had access to but not taken my beloved Benzopaines for a good two months.
“Flip back a couple of pages Doc, you can read all about my anxiety. I had to come here daily in 2013, like a junkie to get my piss weak dose of Valium which by the way I’ll l take a script for 10mgs if your’e offering today.”
Scribbling fast notes with a biro he asks sardonically “So why do you think your’e pregnant Rebecca?”
“Err well let’s see. I haven’t bled in like three months, my boobs are sore and I throw up every morning.”
Doctors scrawl is epic.
“And Steve and I have sex every day, sometimes three times a day and we never use condoms and he ejaculates inside me every time, it’s leaking out constantly like a dripping tap”.
Nodding to a smiling chest pumping Steve approvingly, he continues speaking to me like a retard “Have you performed a home pregnancy test kit from the Chemist Rebecca?”
“No we can’t afford one that’s why I’m here. He has a broken neck and I am his Centrelink assigned carer, look it up. He has his own bedroom we only have sex in the main living areas or his car.”
“Do you wish to be pregnant? You are 46. There is Down Syndrome and....”
“My Grandmother had my Aunty unintentionally aged 44 and she (the Aunty) is amazing so I will be accepting the challenge if this is not a phantom.”
Passing the piss jar and an empty large clip seal bag he slowly suggests writing my name on the labels before the urine is deposited.”
Admittedly he has made a good point and I recount a time in the general waiting area trying to write on the warm damp canister, precariously slopping the bright iridescent yellow contents with eyes boring into me from all over the room. It was a healthy Omega and vitamin B phase in my life.
At least I know exactly where the toilets are and I boldly stride down the busy hallway taking care not to slam the door or leave it ajar. I don’t like leaving my new boyfriend with this GP but I have little choice.
Swinging my baggie confidently after a good deposit, I head back to his room but I can’t remember his name, so I knock and enter what I thought was his but it’s a Female doctor with a female patient both understandably outraged and shocked by my entrance.
“For fucks sakes” I mutter to myself turning beet red and keeping my eyes focused above all the seated heads. There are like another ten doors to try, I think I had better head to reception, piss in tow.
“Hey lady it’s that door there”, said a large smiling woman in a pew of four chairs with other smirking patients. How can I be sure this is not a ruse? Why would these people have noticed me in the first place, the surgery was packed to brimming. Oh well I have little choice but to trust them. There is no name tag on this door anyway or maybe there is they are all of Indian and African descent anyway. This is not a racist remark it is fact. I am really flustered and have the markers of a panic attack starting.
The GP and my boyfriend Steve are laughing and joking like old mates in a bar. The GP appears to roll his eyes when I explain my lengthy leave of absence. They have had way too long to bond, well over five minutes. Steve now knows way too much but of this I will never be sure, good sociopaths cover their tracks well.
My family hate me with such a passion, but they always have so I am not processing fully why this year rates so high in pre-emptive seasonal anxiety and pain. My Mother Barb said in a remarkably clear sober tone last week that I am not to contact her and” them” as all I do is live in and talk about the past. A few more prompts revealed the true source of her anger, my failed but ongoing attempts to take my Fathers vehicle as he recovers from prostate cancer. And Malcolm the world revolves around poor Malcolm. He is actually the reason I called Barb, it’s his Birthday November the 12th and I wanted him to know I still remember and care.
Admittedly I am and always was misread by or incredibly good at fooling Barb, I love sneaking around and pranking but those early years really cemented an unhealthy hatred in Barb’s books. Google self diagnosis has revealed I have every one of the 9 markers used for profiling child serial killers so Barb may actually have a point and not be lying about these exacts words from a Tasmanian GP at the time.
Barb is or was a daily closet drunk, sugar coated with enough Valium to knock out a truck driver. A beautiful young woman reminiscent of the youthful Elizabeth Taylor, she bears no likeness to her two younger sisters and her now deceased mother, Grandma Molly. (R.I.P.)
My brother Malcolm arrived four years into my own existence and Barb slipped into a weekday pattern of daily drinking, passing out but arising in time to serve dinner and fool my father, Hank, with her parental competence and domestic duties. I was fairly independent and able to get on the school bus for 10c despite her pleas from a darkened room not to leave her on several mornings and my gnawing guilt all day expecting to arrive home from school and find her dead. Despite all this the teachers didn’t and shouldn’t have noticed anything awry as I am very good at deception and acting fine during times of stress. Up until lately.
So it came to be that I was left in after school care with another girl from my year and it was a great time. I had a real zest for life and would often exclaim ‘yay we are alive, alive’ until it was conditioned out of me and hushed up. We got to play with plasticine, a material I was very fond of using at home. I was making something massive downstairs at home in my play zone or rumpus room, something to do with a space station slash treehouse, real potatoes were also being grown, I remember the roots sprouting. I know weird.
I love plasticine. My tiny little hands would pummel each ball until it was smooth and ready for the space station and the aroma and texture hits me now even as I type this out.
Whether the plan to steal the school plasticine came from a want or a need I can’t recall. I really want to write that it was due to them having a better brand or colour than the store bought Barb version but it would be another twist of the truth that I am attempting to self correct. In any event it was a victimless crime as the school storeroom cupboards were stocked to capacity with endless boxes of plasticine and simply replaced in the after school care classroom.
I foolishly took on an accomplice as the space station expanded to a table sized project. She cracked, as they all do. And I got busted. The whole school found out. No more after school care. No more potato roots. No more plasticine. No more space tree family, all squashed in the diabolical Barb rage that unfolded.
Talk about overkill. All the school kids for weeks asking why I did it. The ostracism, the sympathy directed to my accomplice. Get over it people I stole it because I could and it was there begging for it. Did I steal lunches from other kids boxes or money? No.
CHAPTER 3. So it came to pass that I was not in after school care anymore. I am pretty sure it coincided with me changing schools completely to Glenorchy Primary school and making my own way back home on the daunting new school bus at 5 years of age.
Barred from my own play room, forbidden to play with the local kids and not yet into my reading escapism, I was faced daily with a looming brown two storey mansion dark and gloomy and I had to sit for nearly three hours until Barb roused herself from her mid morning grog fest. Malcolm in his crib outside her closed bedroom was in sync with her pass out patterns. I knew better than to make noise such as watching television and was bored at my wits end very day.
I devised a way to wake Barb up without incurring her wrath that didn’t involve prank landline calling. Wake the baby and bolt for it back to the living room in time to be sitting innocently faced as she nursed away his bellows. My word that boy had some fine lungs. Getting access to the crib was no easy feat and required a chair. It didn’t have slots to stick my hand in to poke him so I would have to delicately lean over and pinch his toes, his instant bellows sometimes causing me to lose balance but I managed to nail it pretty well and the plan worked for a good month or so until the day Malcolm just wouldn’t wake up.
Now it should be noted that he had developed quite a resistance to my waking techniques and pinching had become the go to method. How and why it moved from his toes to that beautiful soft fuzzy baby head had more to do with the chair logistics than any desire to cause actual harm to my adored baby brother, I hope. In any event it was not the first head pinch but certainly the last that sealed my fate fuelling Barbs latest renewed mantra of me being a class A future serial killer, as directed to her from the GP treating Malcolm’s head wound, a perfect half moon crescent from toddler finger nails, evidently but not necessarily factually drawing blood. At least he woke up.
My new school sucked and I played alone often running up and down the steep concrete pillars at Glenorchy primary school. One day I gathered such momentum that I couldn’t stop myself and hurtled down the hill landing unceremoniously but unnoticed bar, from a few amused fellow students. I did not cry, I rarely did up until now.
As usual I kept the near death injury to myself, knowing that it was my fault and playing in this area was not encouraged possibly barred outright. I had terrible nightmares that night leading into the next morning and woke frozen to the spot unable to move my neck. Barb panicked and called an ambulance but by the time I was transferred to royal Hobart hospital mobility had been restored. I was then labelled quite openly by the doctor as a faker, having a sprained but not broken neck as feared. The teachers disputed my claims of any fall. The brace was worn religiously becoming grossly dirty with kid sweat in the Tasmanian summer that unfolded. This afforded me quite some time of school and on many a day it evolved that Barb, Malcolm and myself were at Molly’s house forced to play outside with a wary Grandpa Geoff spying from his cubbyhouse bar window.
Molly had a bird. Cockatoo or teil I don’t care to google, but of the white, yellow crested type that live to thirty odd and talk and scream obscenities. Polly didn’t swear so it got old fast.”Polly want a cracker”. This bird hated kids as my cousins and I considered it a national sport to rile him up until he hit hysteria mode screaming out for Molly, yes first name basis, and she came flying out, rollers in hair, cigarette dangling from her lips to consol Polly as we all hid watched and laughed at another win.
Sticks were used to drag along the man sized cage and poke at Polly himself until he danced. That was always the intention, dance Polly dance. It was foreplay to the gradual build up to his crescendo begging Molly to save his life. The psychotic angry bird that he became was an unexpected bonus. There had been a time where I had tried to befriend Polly, feeding him odd food scraps with Molly granting permission but he was just such a nasty fucker and had really shamed and hurt my finger one time whilst showing off in front of my cousins.
Polly had been taking my food offerings for weeks and even had been allowing me to scratch his bent white head. His narly old feet sometimes gripped my finger and I could balance him sticking my arm in the cage gaps easily. It didn’t draw blood on this day but my pointer finger throbbed for days and was bright red then blue. Mainly it scared and embarrassed me so I really took to stalking and riling him up under Molly’s equally beaked nose.
Malcolm must have been four by now, placing me at 7 or 8 and he loved his big brave sister. Running through spider webs and fearless tomboy challenges kept him in awe of me and he was in a peaceful phase of his childhood with me too busy defending myself with the adults to focus any boredom or meanness onto him. He loved the bird dancing game and I will give him credit for being my best ever accomplice and not giving me up even when Molly and Barb were quizzing him good cop bad cop style about my contraband sticks with bird shit and beak marks on them.
She had already hidden all her mop and broom handles and later the garden hose for this purpose, but I had fashioned our own prods out of actual tree branches and had a great hiding spot behind the chook shed for our weapons of choice. Grandpa Geoff wisely shut his mouth, he was worried about his gadgets I’m pretty sure. So it came to be that Malcolm and I had no armour and Polly, the feathered fuck refused to budge anymore, looking very smug and haughty for a bird, spitting corn kernel tusks at us as we passed his beady mean eyes.
One thing Molly and Barb always had as marathon chain smokers was matches but they were not stupid enough to leave them around, and the times I had tried to borrow a box I had been busted immediately by the tell tale rattle. But I had torn off the flint from a corner of the redheads box and stashed some matches in advance. Grandpa Geoff was as mentioned always locked in his Bar, protecting his goods.I missed that room and getting to knock the head of his beer like an icecream. Exactly how I snapped his Newton’s cradle was still clearly a disturbing memory for the alcoholic Engineer and he never dobbed me in despite witnessing the progression of Polly prods and spying bug eyed through his tiny curtained bar window. Grandpa Geoff has a lot to answer for really, he started it all with headless chooks running around the back yard. Animals were a source of entertainment simple.
Newspaper from the floor of Polly’s bar cage were then rolled into a tube similar in length to that of the seized sticks and for a while it worked wonders, until he clued on and started a tug of war he always won due to my lingering finger fears. He was winning until I struck a match that fateful day. It didn’t go quite to plan.
Yes Polly certainly danced for a few seconds and Malcolm’s eyes grew like saucers as the whole cage was caught ablaze, the newspaper floor and bird shit evidently an accelerant of sorts. We didn’t even leg it as usual to hide and watch the fracas this time truly frozen to the spot transfixed in entertaining horror. His face I am pleased to reflect showed signs of a how fucking cool his big Sister was, not the expected horrified response a charred and cooking Polly should have elicited.
The garden hose hidden due to my habits of prodding Polly with anything at hand, actually I may have drenched him, it’s highly likely, but in any event the garden hose could not be utilised in time. I think Grandpa Geoff tried a few long necks but the fire really kicked off. There was the Fire Brigade and possibly Police ending with the same serial killer diagnosing GP to treat and home sedate Molly in her understandable trauma. So I am now in really good stead ticking all the pre cursor childhood boxes for theft, Arson, infant and animal torture, pathological deception ie faking injury when all I sought was Barbs attention good or bad.
The urine tested negative for pregnancy but an ultrasound to rule out an ectoptic foetus was advised and the form with all service centres in the West was read out by Steve, my new eyes as my spectatcles were always misplaced with him around. “Yep there is one in Mandurah, I get paid on Thursday so we can swing by Old Boy’s first and kill two birds with one stone.” Old boy is our weed dealer and I am suddenly perked up.
“Have you had an ultrasound before Bec?” Steve asks. Oh yes and I rattle off to describe my experiences with ultrasounds. Steve was all ears.” So they don’t hurt?” he quizzed.
“ Oh no there is some mild discomfort but that’s only due to the full bladder not the actual machine or Doctor. No it’s pleasurable really after they apply the KY”
“ Yes Steve after they lube up the belly so the ultrasound can glide you hear all these great squishy sounds if the foetus is advanced enough the heart beat will be detected. You should know this you have three kid’s didn’t Anne ever take you in?”
The clinic is contacted an a 1pm slot booked in on Steve’s disability payment day guaranteeing we won’t forget as we usually do with important shit like appointments. We need our weed. I despise drinking water alone and I am pretty sure some Aldi wine was consumed in the pre ultrasound bladder fill. I had stopped drinking just in case, but an ectopic foetus was doomed anyway so drinking was irrelevant and the cannabis a given.
In any event is transpires that the request form outlining the purpose for the ultrasound has been left at home nearly an hour away. I had managed to find some glasses and read what had been ordered with key words such as fallopian tube blockages and ectopic foetus and we headed to our Mandurah GP clinic across the road for a last minute referral.
Dr G our guy, isn’t due in until 3pm, damn it. We are ridiculously high and I am more than a little busting for a pee. We head over to the Ultrasound clinic and I am relieved to find myself popping up on their data system, but they still need a referral letter. I feign shock that our own GP has not faxed or emailed the letter and make a phone call confirming in front of the matronly receptionist that we will hand collect the hard copy at 3pm and run it back to the Ultrasound place.
I fully expect the usual protests and policy spiel, but she says no problem please take a seat, It’s a tiny but immaculate clinic with about four waiting chairs a tiny table and home designer magazines for a demographic audience way out of context in Mandurah. Unless it’s mainly rich people who get ultrasounds what would I know? Steve is pressing on my bladder and being an amorous pest.
He has showered and dressed as if he were off to Court, it was actually his Court shirt and dress slacks. I didn’t have the heart to make him change, relieved he wasn’t wearing his trucker style “Fuck What People Think” cap and usual bum attire, and I too had dressed in smart casual for the booking in a floaty long sleeved mini dress and hi tops, so I didn’t have to fuck around taking sock and jeans off, it was winter let’s not forget. The receptionist doesn’t seem to notice or care but I keep slapping Steve’s hand away until switching mode and just sitting on his lap letting him knead away.
A well polished young Indian man dressed in a crisp designer shirt, blue with designer blue slacks, I am fairly sure he even had a tie on, Windsor knot if I am not mistaken. He is smiling and not at all perturbed by the lack of the referral letter and data request form. His main concern seem’s to be my bladder and scale of needing to pee out of 1- 10. I reply truthfully that it’s at a steady 8 approaching 9 and he rubs his hands together muttering excellent. He foolishly leaves Steve and I alone for me to robe up and undress in the semi darkened room. Luckily Steve isn’t scouring the room for things to steal, instead moving the spare chairs around for the best viewing position. He has two options now thanks to this shuffling and he now sits in the far right corner of the room, positioned behind me and grinning like a fool.
The Doctor who turns out to be a qualified technician not GP as I assumed knocks on the door and pokes his head in confirming that a) I am on the bed robed up and b) I have no pants on. He then seems really amped up as he explains this is a new machine and probe and he hasn’t got to use it properly.
He gloves up and is the epitome of professional medical integrity. There is avid but brief excitement from the medical technician as my inner tubes and membranes light up the screen and he knows that my bladder is indeed chocker block full. Women must lie all the time, he was expecting to be bullshitted. I am pretty lit up too watching the progress but hoping against hope a decaying foetus is not found.
Steve is seated behind me but I don’t sense any of his usual stoner twitching and he is spookily silent, I can’t turn around as the bed is angled up for the purpose. Steve later claims that the medical tech is high fiving him with eyeball connection, but his manner facing me is nothing but polished medical etiquette making sure I am comfortable with the increasing pressure he is manually exerting while manoeuvring the probe.
How does it feel Rebecca? It feels pretty damn good, I think he has hit a g spot connection nerve but of course I don’t bring this up. I am loving this 3D colour screen live view and quickly my tubes are given an all clear. Steve pipes up with an articulate and intelligent medical question and the screen is quickly rotated to his benefit and now I just sit there facing the wall as Steve and the tech run with the human biology lesson. It goes on for way longer than it needed to. Surely it’s clear Steve is being pervy, but he is well into this concerned partner role and he is a sociopath let us not forget.
I am asked if I would like to clear my bladder and flee down the hall for an Aldi wine layered torrent. The relief is orgasmic in itself and I stop rushing enjoying the sensation of hand washing and screening my own stoner eyes thankful for spectacles, the perfect decoy apparatus.
Expecting Steve to be waiting in the tiny foyer again I am surprised to be ushered back into the dark room and again addressed by the tech. He needs to do the digital exam now. What – the – fuck? There is no foetus this is weird in a totally kinky way and I rip off my underwear behind the curtain and get back up on the bed for what can only be best described as a good slow fist fuck.
We did actually get the referral forms and items list from Dr G at 3pm and we handed them over to the matronly receptionist as promised for once. Skeptical eyebrows were raised from Dr G.” But this is for your fallopian tubes Rebecca, not your vaginal cavity ulll-tra-sound.” he rolls in his thick Indian dialect when the hand exam was brought up. Steve just shrugged his shoulders and looked as puzzled as Dr G when I turned to him for confirmation.
Malcolm was diagnosed with Schizophrenia in his teens and for years I did actually blame myself. Not for the baby head pinching phase but the constant riling up and my pan faced innocence that had everyone thinking he was a nutter due solely to me.
During a relapse phase Malcolm once commented to me that active psychosis is an electrifying human state of consciousness. Energy levels are high, everything buzzes and life is so damn interesting putting all the paranoid pieces together in a warped human jigsaw puzzle. It’s liberating and humorous until it gets dark and ominous. I agree wholeheartedly as I have had two active bouts myself and was monitored and tested for a full year by the Government’s mental health system.
An Indian psychiatrist Dr Jaeger was assigned in 2012 I knew not to bluff him this was serious, and I was revoltingly honest as I wanted a solution, answers even a real diagnosis. If not a schitzoid myself, surely one of the bi-polars every single person close and featured in my life has expressed views on my craziness, until I got sober and bored the fuck out of them.
One of the most interesting things to learn is that hearing voices is fine, providing they come from an external cause and not from your own head. In my case I had overheard the Maori neighbours discussing me and how I continued to get away with all the shit I get away with. They were actually having a party at the time and my ex backed up the data and reported truthfully on my reaction to Dr Jaeger which was to flee the scene. So Dr Jaeger grilled me for weeks after I confessed, worse than a criminal Detective all angles, bluffs and sting attacks. Had there not been a party with actual neighbours talking and dinking I may well be tagged as Malcolm with Paranoid Schizophrenia and I am still voice in head free touch wood.
I presented a good case to continue on Xanax until the 2013 legislation fucked that up. I am a 1970’s Valium baby Dr Jaeger, this started in the womb, it’s a physical not mental dependence and my genetics have geared me to be one who will need this for the duration of my life. Finally he presented his summary after a year, also announcing his impending transfer to Canberra.
“Rebecca you do not have Schizophrenia, Bipolar one two or twenty five. It is our analysis that you are simply an anxious young lady suffering the after effects of an alcoholic and promiscuous lifestyle. You shun meditation and your group counselling sessions although good in attendance, reflect a dismissive and superior personality flaw. You have delusions of grandeur yet low self esteem. We are placing you on a withdrawal plan for the 2mg Valiums this will see you free of Benzodiazapines by the new year, but you must for the rest of your life stay on Zyprexa and Effexor. It is imperative that you do not stop these medications abruptly. You may even die.”
I began sourcing my Xanax from Bali the next year and discontinued the other meds weaning off and diluting over six months with a plastic syringe and then tear dropper.
Fast forward to 2017 and my latest Psychiatrist, a caucasion nazi. This one is linked to the Catholic’s, I am after all baptised in this faith and I have renewed reasoning and faith that there is a God and He wants me back. Ask Barb all about that one for child abuse as I protested crying aged fucking 11. It is only a one hour appointment and I want out as much as he, it’s pre Christmas and I am his last patient for the year. Poor guy.
Has he read my tweets about the Martyn Bryant microchip theory. Impossible. Blame hackers, blame hackers. Grandiosity, conspiracy delusions, definite Bi-polar markers. This is after a mere quarter of an hour in. I explain the Governments 2013 diagnosis after review and he doesn’t believe me but rather than admit so say’s it is very strange. I encourage him to make any necessary enquiries as I don’t want a false diagnosis. He starts talking mood stabilizers and Lithium is mentioned to my horrified ears. Strait jackets, horror movies, I have to quit Reddit.
“Would you prescribe this to me if I were your daughter?” I ask and watch him quite pleased as this prospect repels him and he shifts in his chair uncomfortably but he says “Absolutely without a doubt.”
I switch channels and recompose my face speaking more clearly but hopefully not another voice that’s all I fucking need multiple personality disorder or devil possession add ons. They still do exorcisms I warn myself. It’s not up there in a sexual bucket list, even with my elevated kink levels.
“About the only fact that I do know Doctor John is that I can’t continue operating at this high frequency.” And for once I ended a sentence with a full stop, without drifting off into the drivel these people thrive on. A tense silence follows and I sit on my hands squirming.
“Rebecca, I must say that is the most insightful and intelligent thing I have heard you say. I am very, very surprised.” He has removed his glasses and appears spent and I suppress a sexual thrill as he ushers me out of the empty building on a Saturday afternoon.
My best friend the Princess has been calling like a stalker. We have plans that include Champagne and a hot guy, she knew I was seeing a Psych and wanted every detail.
“Grandiosity disorder .I know it’s unbelievable right?. Clearly he doesn’t know of my descent from Royalty. Oh well Princess this Baroness will be back in ten let’s pop a cork .It’s a joke it started with my Sydney girlfriend a McQueen we call her the Queen and the other players follow suit. There is no King or Prince its a matriarchal enterprise.
“Bec your’e not taking the Lithium are you? I’ve got a really bad feeling.” The Princess is quite psychic this I do know.
“Not a fucking chance. That shit makes you fat. It’s a 60’s drug for fucks sakes. Wait..maybe he will do Quaaludes if I play the game. Anyway no babe it’s all good, I won’t fuck up Christmas”.
Christmas got fucked up.
And taking a cancer sufferers vehicle from my weak minded father? Hank doesn’t hold a drivers licence, evidently never has despite being a lifelong bar fly drink driver. And he was a champion motor mechanic and speedway driver in Hobart all without sitting a drivers competency test and continuing to refuse to do so now in his seventies. . Arrogance and arseholeness. Noone gives a fuck that you boast about never Voting you Dutch donkey but this is a Criminal offence and far from his first.
Where do you think I got the plasticine stealing trait from? Yes Hank in K-mart tearing off lables and making me steal with him as a kid. Screws and motorparts from Repco that he could easily afford. Even Barb doesn’t steal, never has to my knowledge but nor would she believe Hank being a tea-leaf and k-mart bandit with me his accomplice in the 70’s. No one believes me although I very rarely lie these day’s. It is beneath me to lie and being a blackout drunk it is near on impossible so I own and pump out the truth like a gym dick on steroids.
This doesn’t mean I don’t have many secrets but if asked a direct question about my own perceptions, actions or a sober conversation recall I back myself up with the truth. And a photographic memory and fine mimic skills has served me well. People stop asking questions when they fear the full indepth court transcript outline. I don’t do the short version but I am really trying to change this pattern.
The drivers licence debacle with Dad the dickhead would not be any of my business bar the fact he put the vehicle in my name in South Australia despite my living all the way across the country in Perth. Of course I allowed him too, I was already technically a criminal for fucks sakes and family is family. His partner of 17 years Pauline had booted him out and told him to register his own car. He was shocked. He had expected her to stay forever despite no mention of love, flowers or a gift or card. He is a cold loveless man. The words have never left his bearded mouth.
I had lived in Adelaide with Hank, Pauline and my baby step sisters at one stage before giving up on any Father Daughter bond so once he started to clear up my .256 old drink driving fine from 1994 at $5 per week he was good to go.
I did offer and insist on paying for this old fine in the interests of being responsible for my old sins but Hank insisted on paying it off. I bet he’s spouting that off in his latest tunes too. Idiot, I was super cashed up at the time. I had another vested interest in helping Hank too. His promise of 2-300 k superannuation to leave in his will to compensate Malcolm and I for the shit Father he was and is. If I don’t do something it will go to the Government Hank despaired.
Hank is a tight arsed Dutchman and frugal with money. He worked hard all his life and for many years paid double the required tax as an investment scheme of sorts. He hated being the Dutch dickhead he is and changed his name to Harry Miller rather than the more traceable Hank Van de Meir. Barb claimed he stole a new 4wd truck and had the AFP hounding her for years to find him.
Malcolm and I have both had get well cards returned by Australia Post and really thought he was dead. We both wanted that Super and started to reflect on proving he is our Father.” Get him to lick an envelope and post it to you, send him another Tasmanian scratchie that you know is a winner and put in a spare envelope pre addressed to you that should do it bro, just make sure it’s a lick not press and stick envelope.” If I had known this last year I would have bagged a toothbrush and hair samples in Adelaide for fucks sakes. Now he has clamped up and will not even tell me where he was born in Holland despite my sincere desire to obtain Dutch citizenship. What name is on his medicare card it has to be Harry Miller if Australia Post insist right?
“Why do you want dual Dutch citizenship for? You just wan’t to Party in Amsterdam. Nothing changes Rebecca you need to grow up.”
I really want my international drivers licence for back up and to fuck with the Police. It’s the next best thing to Diplomatic Immunity.
“Damn straight I’ll be partying in Amsterdam now tell me where you were born so I can get it rolling literally please. “
“I don’t fucking know Rebecca ask your Aunty. Which one and why I ponder getting really annoyed. I had planned a family documentary with a cheap film maker to make them a CD of their Holland history alongside a fuckload of drugs and my fiancé at the time partaking supervising. I wasn’t drinking then had been very sober for years but I still craved an extended high of old school Rave quality. My fiancé had an orgy planned with Russian hookers in the red light zone. I was in with bells on. It was game on.
“You were 8 Hank, remember the Boat for 6 weeks what was it called?”
“I was born in a fucking barn there are no records.”
“Jesus Christ now are you Hank?”
Now after ten years of assisting him to drive drunk and unlicenced he won’t even lend me a hundred bucks as I still smoke cigarettes. I am to get zilch from the superannuation fund, that has been confirmed by Hank but no explanation for the initial deception has been supplied. I think Malcolm got wiped too by the Dutch side, or a chunk has been allocated to the always fleecing Barb who started refusing my financial contributions for her and Malcolm after this initial serious cancer scare.
And recently in the last year Hank had a seizure, in his local Glenelg Woolworth’s supermarket with an off duty GP tending to him. Paramedics were called to the scene. He drove , the vehicle was left there for weeks. I know all this as I have recently logged into the Sapol database portal and created a Department of Transport (DOT) file. Hank boasted for years of how the DOT staff ladies remember him every year he pay’s my vehicle registration, telling him what a good Father is and asking how his Daughter yeah, that’d be Me is on her International studies and humanitarian work. The worst part is he actually believes them like he is a good father. And I only recently stopped being a Stripper.
My own sketchy driving record has been accounted for and paid for in every way.I really want a liquor immobilizer for my Dodge and even the Police seem surprised I don’t have one, despite steady sobriety I just can’t be trusted during a blackout. In any case I can’t sneeze in Western Australia without getting a ticket and my last time in court for a traffic violation in October the decorated Policeman said words that have been ringing in my ears ever since, with the young handsome Judge emphatically agreeing: “PEOPLE WHO TAKE TO OUR ROADS UNLICENCED CHANGE THE COURSE OF HISTORY.” The lack of insurance in the event of an accident has victims draining our medical system, burden on the State. Raddah raddah rah. Music to my ears, Hank you are officially back on my watchlist.
His weakness in the face of death was also pitiful and pathetic. He has no balls, thankfully I do. All my life he has been cynical and an authority on every subject especially the Bible. Only fools believe in Christ, who wants to live past 60 anyway? Yeah watch me smoke and drink until the day I die. He secretly gave up his B&H special filters before the Cancer. But he’s back on the booze.
But Hank closet prays now in recovery after ramming Atheism down my throat and barring me from Sunday school as a child. I know about the Cancer praying as Barb told me. They have rebounded after nearly 40 years of mutual hatred and sledging and have an interstate landline love. Sickening now but endearing at the time.
And even his recount of the lead up to Cancer. His eldest brother Bert had it but worked in a hospital as an accountant so it was addressed in time. Hank was warned and got arse fingered by his male GP regularly.” Hank there are Caucasian female GPs you have a car, drive to Adelaide and stop with the overshares about your GP’s knuckle size please. “
“Bert is Gay Dad that’s probably why he didn’t give you a heads up. Bert definitely being the Bitch and taking it. He dressed as a ballerina for fucks sakes why am I doing this you again Hank?”
A melanoma alert was passed on to Malcolm and myself by Uncle Bert and I am very appreciative but still tan up with reef oil every year. Bert the bitch sorted out and tied up Hanks promised super fund to cut me out. I do admit this is still speculative but Bert is the Family accountant after all.
Hank. if he is to be believed said he knew for months that something was wrong, pissing pain with lower back constant, urinating and still needing to go, classic shit I wish I had never started asking about. And his reasons for not going for his anal probe? He couldn’t get time off work someone had died at another station and he couldn’t do it to his boss. Yeah righto Hank.
So before being diagnosed with Cancer he just quits this amazing job as a sign writer maker, not artist, metal worker and heads straight to Centrelink and his Bank, I think it’s the Commonwealth. He doesn’t know how to check his Telstra landline voicemail and has no mobile or email so this confuses and disturbs him delaying all Government assistance as their voice messages are ignored.
Entering his local bank branch, and lets be real here Hank would never have used an ATM let alone EFT so it is definably a familiar local Bank with tellers knowing Hank by name. Not this odd day. Approaching the Financial Advisory section he is spooked to find not his usual Caucasian man, but I quote “At his desk was a Man of middle eastern descent. So I turned around and walked out.” How will he cope with Medicare I stressed? At least he has his younger sister Hetty to help locally.
Just waiting for God Hank blurted out last year on Christmas day after I asked how he was on the muffled phone connection. Head back to Holland where Euthanasia is legal and do it already Dad.
I should not have repeated it three times out loud to clarify, but the Burswood was packed and I could barely hear him. I laughed it off although very disturbed and shared it with the table when pressed to after the call ended.
It’s an old persons joke like blowing wind up yer arse, I am told. Every old person say’s it where have you been under a rock? In Mandurah it’s prolific I was assured. Waiting for God please from a closet born again spineless shit. I don’t know any oldies to cross reference with and nor would I. How distasteful.
Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I have tried hard enough in genuine non spiteful concern to get you off the road Hank. Go drive pissed on Christmas day as you do every fucking year it’s not on me anymore I’ve flicked off emails and contacted the Departments but nobody gives a fuck.
Freemasons address in duty, this Male biased criminal network it is no longer sustainable so cut out your tumours while you still can.
God hates Christmas too it’s a pointless pagan fest without the trademark orgies. So actually a blessing the no orgies considering it’s skinny green runts with pointy ears and Fat old men in red suits. The carols by candlelight should be sung in Easter but don’t get me started. I have sustained Easter phobia issues as well.
And I really hate tinsel and Christmas crackers with those lame jokes and paper crowns.
The pudding I will miss.
I almost forget to include Barb’s final dig causing Malcolm to also wipe me. My final sympathiser and long term ally, baby brother Malcolm. After confirming with Dr Jaeger that it was impossible to make someone schizophrenic even with my MK ultra type child skills that tormented him relentlessly, I finally forgave myself and Malcolm and I bonded well over the phone and yahoo.
Then he went off his meds lost a fuckload of weight and became calssic type A dick in shape of the born again preaching vegan. Barb became my best friend. She hates yoga too. And the Tamanian Police seemed to believe Malcolms claims of her being a drunk. I was loving the unfolding saga and attention from Barb. But Malcolm was losing it and in full denial.
I strangely at the time had a booming social media profile with over 5k followers on Twitter and you tube links were popping up everywhere with Malcolm in his psychotic glory, self filming his rants complete with this is Malcolm Van de Meir. He is a computer whizz and evidently he had some brilliant late 90’s hacking skills. He commented in a delusional and socially inept fashion on a Facebook post featuring a prominent Tasmanian boxer. Believing to this day that the term “looking gangster bro” is derogatory and insulting when it was clearly said in a complimentary fashion by an actual friend of the boxers. So he let off a tirade defending the shocked boxer who has no idea who Malcolm is. Thanks to his you tube clips they now do. This friend of the boxer’s understandably went ape shit as would I, and serious threats were made. The guy boasted of being a prison bitch turned top prick and just loving fresh virgin arse. He knew where Malcolm walked and lived due to street signs in his you tube clips. Malcolm felt he was being followed and cyber stalked. He most likely was. The guy belonged to the group known as Anonymous and even the Corporations CEOs jumped in from the States to mediate begging both guys to quit it. Malcolm is convinced that they took his side due to some codes he produced to prove his hacking prowess. But the threats and you tube slaughter continued on. Hank thought I was being a drama Queen, but Barb actually didn’t give a fuck for once. She just wanted a steak and to watch the Bold and Beautiful in peace without Malcolm preaching veganism and electronic pollution.
I ended up tweeting the Anonymous dude in Hobart from my Stripper moniker along with numerous selfie nudes in private messages to save Malcolms virgin arse. I should clarify here that Malcolm at the time was really a virgin despite being a former porn addict during his fat schitzo phase into his early thirties. Steve jumped all over my porn collection earlier this year, all pristine burnt discs with neat writing. I have Doctors handwriting style it’s illegible at the best of times, usually so he pressed for which ex had sacrificed their stash. Steve it’s my porn, Malcolm burnt them it’s his hand writing quit it please. I still have them, I am a hoarder.
So I explained to the Anonymous guy that Malcolm has a mental illness but it’s not an excuse and yes he is still a dickhead for those comments. I can’t see how Malcolm would have found this out unless he was actually hacking me. The Anonymous dude and I became pretty tight, he sent me dick pics in return and I checked for photoshopping evidence from him so I doubt he outed me to Malcolm. I was in a long term defacto relationship at the time and Keith was totally fine with this, just shaking his head at my sexting, checking out the odd dick pic for comparison, and saying “Youre fucking Brother, I can’t believe this.” Ten points for Keith, had he been sexting a chick to stop his own sister being raped I doubt I would have been so reasonable.
Who knows and who the fuck cares, if Malcolm saw or got sent my twitter private messages and sext nudes from this guy he should understand and wear his dumb arsed ignorant comments, apologise publically and correct Hank. Facebook were at the time very vigilant with stamping out bullying and trolling but I did answer a question on his Birthday that year saying he was taking a break from social media. Shoot me with a CIA heart attack gun for fucks sakes.
But according to Hank from his own tech retarded hairy mouth, I shamed Malcolm on Facebook completely causing his suicidal meltdown and psychosis. His mental health team in Hobart are backing this I am informed.. Malcolm has not been on social media ever since I orchestrated this malicious attack both Hank and Barb remind me on the rare occasions they actually take my calls. Fuck caller id.
It was around this time that Hank got a mobile phone and was so tech ignorant he couldn’t even hang up and I was forced to listen to him pee on speaker phone in Steve’s vicinity. He rarely left my side. Steve became convinced it was really a quick wank and a whole new level of perversion was created. He sent Hank some lurid images alongside generic images of the local beach and house and kept asking me to check with Hank. Hank just couldn’t open the images on his text messages despite my verbal instructions.
My spectacles were again missing and I could see Steve and I as the smiling couple and failed to note the lurid nature of most pictures. By the time I did and was driving Hank crazy with trying to get him to delete the whole text transcript. Remove me as a contact Dad, delete delete. Now I should just be a number right. What an ignoramus fool and he is getting pissed off even pretending to be cut off.
I ring the landline so better able to clearly get this disaster sorted. Ok are you listening, write all this down just in case, it will work and we need to do this those files are corrupted and may contain a virus, ask Malcolm he knows all about these jpg. File glitches. Im just going to get Hetty to do it tomorrow. Oh my fucking God this can’t be happening. Steve no more Daddy porn this is out of control.
It was a massive suprise to find Steve such a pervy sexually unhinged partner after twenty years of an almost family like connection. His sister the Princess had been my lover and best friend for the same amount of time, and I even lived with her and Steves mother Shaz for almost four years. He had never acted inappropriately or given a leery vibe and I thought he was the pinnacle of respectability and etiquette. And we always got trashed at his family functions rip roaring trashed. His sister hated it as much as she hates me now for what was to transpire with Steve and myself.
“ Bec is manipulative, calculating and devious Steve. She always has a well orchestrated plan. She is doing this purely to spite me you have been warned.” Ouch.
This is a her poor innocent baby brother, who bored and high in her local Vodaphone store packed on a weekend was pretending to test out all the smartphones on stretchy cables. Kid’s are around, everyone is busy and distracted and Steve can look like a loser at the best of times. Steve has his rugby shorts on and manages to dick pic his cock to every single device in the store unnoticed. He painstakingly adds the files to every Google Drive app for extra zing. It took him an hour. Then he watched and got a huge buzz as the store erupted, customers fled and the place was shut hours earlier than close. It is entirely possible that outside the store he was able to continue blue toothing the files. I totally underrated Steve and his IT prowess.
His Facebook header if you looked closely was Steve, same rugby shorts leaning up against a tree. They are not expandable or surely someone would have reported his doodle swinging free down the side of the hideous green and gold shorts.
His family hated Steve as much as mine do me. Shaz flew into a medical rage at the mere mention of his name last Christmas.. Shaz is a theatre nurse or IV supervisor responsible for many death’s according to Steve. And the last Christmas that I refer to at the Crown Burswood had all of Steve’s children, ex wife, everyone from 20 years just not Steve. The princess had angrily responded to my repeated line of questioning
“For fuck’s sakes Bec I keep telling you he broke his neck. He is on a disability pensions and never has to work again”
How did he break his neck
He fell out of a tree.
I surmise that it must have been during Steve’s active employment phase with the Mandurah Shire Council. The drug dealing street sweeper. I was exhilarated to hear of his council employment, every lazy man needs a council job, they can’t be sacked I relay to the ever cynical Shaz. “
If anyone can fuck it up Steve will mark my words Bec”. She prophetically states.The princess is furious her saucer blue eyes flicker with rage as she chain smokes, very agitated by Steve and his seemingly deliberate disability win. He must have got a huge compo payout and went on all time bender after the divorce. It is only money or man stealing that gets the princess so riled up in blind twitchy rage.
It comes out much later that Steve was destitute and homeless after losing out in the divorce settlement. He had been sacked by the Council for passing out in the street sweeper and leaving it parked outside his home for hours as he restocked his supply and began a synthetic weed downfall. Several times his job could have been saved but like most people during stress he couldn’t open mail or take calls. One day he looked out and the street sweeper was gone. Full of an array of drugs bagged up for sale with names and handwritten notes.
Thrown out in the street weeks later by his exwifes Father Ronnie Steve struggles to get on Centrelink unemployment as he has no fixed address. He swiftly thinks to use Centerlinks actual building address in Tuckey street Mandurah. Up there for thinking is Steve for a stoner.
I had lost touch with him a few years back when Shaz and the princess were quizzing me about interventions and I admittedly had been watching the doco series on foxtel . My attempts at sobriety with support groups were well known. I offered to attend but it was decided my own pathway was too valuable to them and the intervener didn’t want anyone in active addiction to fuck up the process.
“ Did you tell them I have over a year of sobriety up my sleeve?”
Yes Bec we are so proud of you, we love you. Focus on your own recovery, we will keep you posted. :
Where they found this guy is a mystery the show is Amercan but according to Steve it was exactly like the televised version. Security guards and all. He races in on a street sweeping drug pick up to find everyone he knows, bar me seated in dining room chairs in a circle. Everyone is crying and fake hugging him and Steve is coming down like rain, cold sweats and all. He immediately flips into a rage and takes over the show. Everyone in the room apart from his daughters Shaz and still current inlaws Ronnie and Sue are recreational drug users in an inactive phase. . Actually Sue is a pill popper so she has to be classed as a deceptive too.
Steve taking over, agrees with the intervener to stay and talk this through only if all those who have ever taken a recreational drug or abused prescription meds to fess up now. The Princess a closet coke fiend, her alcoholic toy boy husband Tim, also a meth head unbeknowns to all at the time, and Steves own current wife a prolific closet user who had LSD when over six months pregnant. It worked a treat that daughter has a better disconnect feature than I did. She floats in a beautific trance, but still this is an intervention people, speak only the truth.
No wonder the Princess had blindsided me as I’d be spilling my guts and death staring the others into confession. Steve told them all what a bunch of hypocrites they were and to fuck off out of his home. It was all filed and logged, the divorce and eviction from his home ready to be stamped and his share of the house sale whittled to under five grand.
Within weeks Steve fell out of the tree that he was sleeping in to avoid being molested by a local Aboriginal fiend. He knew something wasn’t right but wandered around in an increasing stupor for weeks until finally starting to lose his bowels and lower limb sensations. He is not lying and should be in a wheelchair. It is solely due to the bowel dysfunction on file that I am able to access the same payment as he as his full time domestic carer and we had plans to modify the home with the NDIS, Steve excitedly planning shower bars and toilet supports to fuel his kinky sex positioning options. The weird thing is that I never did catch Steve lying, and he not me. Sociopaths and serial killers have a cohesive bond evidently.
After his God given second chance and still in hospital on Christmas day 2015 Steve rings his family at his inlaws house. He isn’t surprised to find his sister the Princess there but is shocked to be rebuffed when relaying his hospital debacle and impending release from Perth Royal Hospital right next to the train station. He can be there within the hour. He doesn’t have any documents only his phone. They tell him it’s not a good idea to visit today, his sister as usual spinning lies about Tim’s parents and the need to go to Joondalup immediately. In fact they are late. Drinks are clinking in the background and Tim is whooping up in the background, the Princess wouldn’t let Tim near her car like this, he is reknowned for projectile spew missiles.
The next day Steve finds his bank accounts and passport are cancelled. Centrelink don’t know him again. It got him straight for two solid years. No grog even cannabis was wiped out until the Princess stepped in to lure him back down into addiction last year. I don’t know if is deliberate but it sure looks that way. I have to sympathise at the time as I am hearing only the one side. And I have Malcolm firing on all schizoid cylinders myself so we have common ground again. Just he got the Princess to fess up that it was her and Anne that cancelled his Passport and documents is still a tribute. It did take him years but he got there. The princess will cover that pert little arse of hers and swear on her toddler’s life in pathological lies. I know, I have witnessed it in full effect.
I need to confess to my unintentional role in Steve’s intervention saga. During an alcoholic relapse of spectacular proportions, I had been evicted on the spot by both Shaz and the Princess who was on an Easter break in Adelaide. The details are irrelevant but I was not smashing windows as Shaz had relayed to an inquisitive Steve. In any event I had only just crawled my way back into their fold. Tim liked me but he would in hindsight of what was to follow.
The princess was also my boss and I had resumed working bucks parties and events with my new sold sober sheen. I was self aware that I had an unhealthy fixation with seeing and hearing of others getting smashed. It annoyed me that I had not got to try Grey Goose vodka and other new delights to hit the booze shelves and my ears pricked up on a boat function with the best man and groom discussing a new tequila on the market with a hallucinogenic worm.
The worm was bullshit I knew this from experience. Evidently this brand was not and the stories that unfolded had me riveted with co dependant desire. Steve had a birthday approaching, he is a day before Malcolms but on different years so I always had this logged in my head files and I planned to buy him a bottle. It was going to be Johnnie Walker Blue but the last minute tequila worm update had me trawling bottleshops until I sourced one. It was around the same price as JW blue and the store was quite busy as I discussed the purchase and paid cash. Yes I have gnawed a few worms in my time I respond when prompted.
“ Go easy on this worm it is pure Mescalin.” Said the bottle shop manager gravely.
The gifting truth relayed to all ears as bullshit with concerned eyes on me as I left the store with a gaudy bright liqour bag in tow. When Steve just glanced in the birthday booze bag and didn’t react I was shattered. I crave approval and praise especially from Steve. Google it Steve I tried to encourage, stage whispering with Shaz and her radar ears and eyes boring into me.
CHAPTER 14...Tim and Steve later hit the tequila back at his Mandurah house later the very same day. They dried up and smoked the worm in a binge bong session. All of it. The princess gave in after a few hours of trying to force Tim back in the car and went to escape with Anne in the master bedroom with the kids. Steve and Tim lit a massive bonfire with jerry cans and lawnmower fuel on the front lawn. The firemen and truck hosed them both so forcefully they were airlifted off the ground. So they proceeded to strip off and run around naked in the street. Wapol tried to taser them but the electrodes just slid off as the boy’s wet skin as they whooped and hopped in glorious naked joy. Steve claimed they both got spontaneous erections and I tend to believe him as he described Tim’s cock in elaborate detail.
They were not arrested even after they climbed to the roof with the Fire brigade observing shaking their heads and laughing with Wapol before driving off silently. Steve claims they had a microphone and tactical response guys positioned everywhere with lasers but were all laughing by the end and gave up. The whole cuddlesac came out for the show, it was before midnight on a Sunday. This is how Shaz found out, via a neighbour and I was accountable naturally.
Strange that the Princess didn’t cut sick on me at the time as female Wapol officers with teddy bears were inside the house quizzing and counselling them all especially the royal toddler who’d have been loving the show. Steve only had synthetic cannabis in the house fortunately; they didn’t check the cubbyhouse roof. The boy’s were tripping too hard to think about other add ons thank God, they may well have died if so. It pleased me immensely to hear Steve’s recount and finally get the credit I deserved for the $400 gift.
“ We do not need you harming your brother again Rebecca. Leave him alone and do not try to contact him again in any shape or form or you will be reported via the Mental Health Act protection unit and new legislation passed in July this year”
Ok that got my full attention, Barb using big words and quoting facts like this never ends well. The last time was aged 11 when she attempted to have me made a ward of the State before a Nun intervened. I thought she was bluffing at the time, it was a damn close shave.
Note to self right now download Malcolm’s hours of You Tube clips before they get removed or filled with vegan diet adverts. Yes to have proof should any family member or mental health agents ever care for my truth, but also there are reflections of genius in them and any acquaintances I have shown have been well impressed with his intellect. Plus he is my baby brother and I will always love him regardless and want to hear his voice.
Malcolm’s final email and voice call was awful. I dropped him on his head repeatedly as a baby causing a permanent brain injury that can indeed lead to schizophrenia. What an amazing perversion of the truth from the liquored up lips of Barb and a believing Mental Health Advocate, surely that serial killer profiler is dead but what if it’s him? Hank has always insisted Barb was full of shit about me being profiled as a future serial killer but I actually do believe her, it explains a lot of her initial fears around me but does not warrant warping the facts into what has been a hellish and prolonged family sting into adulthood from every angle possible.
Ok so I just want to be loved. There I have said it finally.
Over the cold war years with Barb and Hank both on defence attack mode before forming the cancer allegiance, Hank, would scoff at her reports every time I quizzed him on the child killer profile. I can’t let shit go, the desire for truth and fears of trickery propel me like a bent cop.I get leads and then people clamp up, Hank even implied that she was trading sex with this Doctor for Valium and had from sixteen years of age. Go Barb.
But what would Hank know and where does the truth lie? He was probably worried about being busted as the local kmart thief thereby hauling my five year old arse away from the concerned Doctor writing up the profile.
I can’t even drink this year, I have a contract and I intend on honouring it.
Wait does that apply to interstate borders? No fuck drinking it’s a bandaid solution to a gaping wound. I want stiches or amputation Perhaps a train trip across the Nullarbor to retrieve the car. But it’s a 1994 Ford Telstar will I make it back to Perth in time for work reopening if at all? Lucky if it’s worth a few thousand for my grossly exaggerated drug habit that they are using to validate my taking the old beast of a car.
I have a 2014 Crysler Dodge and it’s registered to Me, holding a valid West Australian licence, So I must want the car to sell for my drug habit. I get screened now you fools, I work with Children in Scout activities and have the card to prove it and weaning slowly off cannabis is advised. At the rate I smoked after a major operation this year it will take three months for the all clear and I want a job in the Defence force serving food to the troops. Hopefully with a Gun but I don’t like my odds just yet.
CHAPTER 17:.....Regarding the Martyn Bryant microchip theory. This started as total bullshit with me having an audience of fools who were light weights on drugs and prone to conspiracy theories. Weird shit was happening I will give it credit and it appeared of a paranormal nature. Most of my visitors or friends during recovery from surgery became convinced that a ghost I named Frank was latching on and leaving with them as he was bored with me or not allowed to pick on me as I was crippled and had a reprieve. I really amped this up with nangs and people had no choice but to listen to my shit. Firstly I had really good smoke that I always shared for free and it was my apartment, my house rules. Listen or leave. So I started sprouting off a theory linked to the existing conspiracy theories about Martyn Bryant being programmed by the CIA to repeal International gun laws.
I said that I too had this very same microchip it was implanted in a group of us in Tasmania at the same age but mine became deactivated when I had a titanium implant after getting a tooth smashed out in a horrific domestic attack. I should have died I was classed a trauma patient in Emergency the pain was an entity of it’s very own but the tooth was only chipped in a tiny corner. Xrays revealed the fracture went up to my skull and my belief that I fell out a taxi hitting the curb whilst drunk was rebuffed with a “try the force falling from a ten storey building Rebecca.” Eventually I remembered and I wish I didn’t.
This part is all true and the whole tooth removed and a slow toothless process with the implant and titanium screw taking two years to afford and do with bone grafts and the like. Maxiofacial surgeons are truly amazing miracle workers. Within weeks of the titanium implant which deactivated the GPS of the fictional Martyn Bryant chip the Port Arthur massacre occurred and the CIA had accounted for all these chipped early 70’s Tasmanian programmable kids. All were dead bar me. Naturally exterminated by the CIA in numerous methods and the files were closed. Until I returned to haunt them in 2012 after my psychosis and Government monitoring. The CIA can’t kill me with their heart attack guns or deactivate the chip again as the Aliens under God’s direction linked it to Worldwide nuclear codes including Korea. I radiate like a beacon twenty four seven that’s why they implanted my foot with magnetic stainless steel during the botched surgery also ending my career as a Stripper as they can’t let me on a Plane now so must keep me broke and destitute. They also try to keep me calm now. Why do you think the Police nod and wave at me now I ask the stoners who had helped me walk to the bank? I didn’t let on about a then current uniformed lover from the AFP Terror unit. He didn’t stay long due to my post operative cannabis run and it’s something I take out on God every day. I really liked him, he was ex Military and in his own words “Not very nice.” Purely sexual but I rated him and still do though the Chapter is closed. It won’t be rebooted. Archived and filed.
It wasn’t planned for me to abuse recreational drugs post foot surgery, but I had signed off on Oxy after the first liquid batch. I knew I faced addiction again and nipped it real fast. The pain was a constant tide so I made new stoner friends with the Backpackers next door to my upmarket pad descending into post surgery drug enhanced psychosis round two. Ding ding. My stoner entourage started reporting on other suspect microchipped Tasmanians. I began deprogramming some. Then along came Steve.
The problem with all this paranormal and conspiracy bullshit mixed in with truth is I started believing my own shit and implanting new memories replacing the truth. Lines were blurred and nightmares were occurring. Be careful what you put out there. I did ride horses with Princess Mary in Tasmania was I switched at Birth and microchipped for security? Same Hobart Hospital same time. The Grandiosity disorder tag explained for a burnt out Stripper. Psychosis is highly contagious and accumulative but the ship has sailed again leaving this now empty vessel. The rat’s fled but the ship never sank and so I drift.
Steve was rattled, it was sometime in July this year. “If it’s the last thing I do I will uncover your purpose in this attack on my family. What is your fucking agenda? You are destroying me, you’ve ruined my fucking life don’t think I won’t kill you and do my 8 years happy to take every cock that rapes my arse as long as your’e dead.”
I enraged him even further with words to the effect of just how my helping a homeless disabled man with no identifcation and living in his car has ruined his pathetic life. And just who but yours truly was at the royal table with the princess, Shaz and Steves own kid's swanning around all Christmas 2017 in 6 Star luxury. They had booked adjoining suites at the new Crown.
The princess got me in at the last minute only by saying she had forgotten to add herself in the figures. Not you Steve, you were too busy trying to top yourself in a crackhouse were you not? I text him the polka dot dress glamour shot of the day for extra spice.
“How Steven?” I really wanted to know, the idea of being murdered became quite appealing. He was definitely capable of murder.
“As if I’d tell you you dumb mole.”
“Steve I really don’t think you’ve thought this through, would you like me to share with you what I have in store for you?”
I am glad you brought this up Steve. Remember that handwritten map of guy’s names you found, with arrows timelines, State references and crimes? It had been shown to the Princesses bikie boyfriend as one on the hit list, a member at the time was already dead. Time and place of death was recorded in scribble and a marker map of my backyard showed a cross. This was due to a prophetic dream of this former bikie love and exactly where my dream had shown him dying. He was shot point blank by a shotgun in Canberra so how Steve came to believe I had an unmarked grave on my property is beyond me. I had planted a memorial plant for heavens sakes.
Not everyone on my list had to die but all enemies and potential threats or stalkers had a mention. No women all men. Starting with a rapist in Queensland and ending back in Perth, once started this project would have seen me busy for years but I had to be prepared to die myself if need be and I wasn’t then. Steve just reminded me and offered himself as the sacrifice. Gold.
The bikies had started acting out and spreading rumours that I was an undercover cop, killing any hopes I had of staying high. The princess still hated me passionately I didn’t have a lot to live for, this plan was only to be used in full suicide mode and it had long been shelved. I am not a budding serial killer and I don’t collect trophies from all my ex lovers but I can see how it looks this way.
Keith was no soft touch and he had had a shitload of guns at one stage but a sociopath he is not. Look at his tolerance during my save Malcolm campaign with the Anonymous guy. Keith has narcissistic throwbacks but a murderer of this capacity had to have a history of poor mental health and psychosis. It is textbook Steve stalking and killing all those who harmed his one true love of 20 years. Steve had never met the dead ex bikie and the princess kept the shooting a secret, I think she had been fucking him on the sly. I do remember a long blond hair in his Harley helmet at the time her and I forged a bond in the hicksville town of Collie. Anyway rats arse, he was doing anyone with a vagina.
Keith and Steve would probably have come to a finale of sorts but Keith can fight he used to box professionally once. I’d manage to give him a tip off that it was impending. There were a few stalker clients from stripping day’s and quite a few thieves from the post surgery Martyn Bryant psychosis bout. As I smoke menthols it has been easy to separate cigarette butts. I took special care with the terrorist cop I was seeing to smoke on the other side of the balcony, his cigarette butts were thrown out with my own menthol stumps. I can’t say he has been so lucky with all his old sexts and cum shots on an old iphone 4 bu what can i say, I am a hoarder. Nothing get’s deleted until space is needed.
Anyways, I have a big ounce bag baggie three quarters full of thieves and liars butts. I latex gloved up during collection, my DNA is not on them as no one in this group was I friendly with exchanging fluids bar a few bongs and I doubt transfer will hold up with forensics. I know the butts can be date filed with serial numbers etc so they won’t actually be left with any skeletons just little throw off leads for the detectives and forensics to feast on. Some even have lipstick from a few girls I had over. Do I hate these girls? Of course not. Being suspects in murder cases they could not possibly be involved in is an act of honour. Nothing beats the buzz of the AFP monitoring you, it will turn them right on.
There are other items chewing gum left on my carpet, the usual disrespectful and in denial actions of the weak souls I held hope for. Pubic hair on an ensuite bench, someone hopeful hairy loser had used clippers I am sure you get the drift of where this is going. It is gross and disgusting. Steve had found the kit in the first week of living here and was fascinated. It is not to frame anyone in paticular or I would have separated and labelled each one. It as mentioned was just fodder for the forensics to graze on as I continued down the hit list methodically and unplanned.
Some thieves who were gumtree tradesmen had had beers on my balcony. I had managed to without googling transfer their finger prints to a good enough partial with plain sticky tape. I missed my calling.
No family members were included, not even Hank.
Finally my own murder would be staged and the serial killer would be tagged as none other than volunteer Steve. To stage my own murder I needed at least 2 litres of blood. I hate needles but have amazing veins every Doctor tells me. Steve is very handy with a syringe he had been on Heroin before his neck break. So I estimate with a horse sized syringe it would take about a month to get two litres safely. Freezing it is fine providing it is in vials and no condensation hits the blood.
And I would have to disappear and not contact anyone for the rest of my shitty life unless I get killed in the process of cause. Which is ok too remember this is a final and facing death anyway kind of a plan It had been shelved with the micro chip phase. Is it my fault Steve has tagged himself as my new recruit replacing poor Keith finally. I then visualise paying pirates to get me to Bali for a lukewarm ending to this miserable existence. Sorry God.
I doubt I could nail a good arterial spray effect, so how to get the blood seeping t the right pace out of a 50 kg sack of rice was still something I had to work on. It needed to crack and dry properly along with signs of an attack and struggle. Bloody finger prints we all know about unless I am hypothetically hog tied. In any case forensics have to class as dead any human blood of this amount it’s a given. Drag marks from the rice bag, hauled into Steves car with a mattress. The car then left in the bush possibly the Bibrulum track. And Steve guess what you get to live.
“Stop doing a Derryn on me you cunt.”
Steve stop it that is really very flattering I know you can’t mean it. Derryn is like God to Steve and I. He means Derryn Brown the illusionist and mind control genius of our day, not Derryn Hinch our Australian hero of“That’s life.”
In the weeks leading up to Malcolm being carted away by men in white coat’s and his apartment bio hazard treated and demolished according to Barb in her apartment upstairs in Glenorchy he got me in epic fashion.
Noone has ever bluffed me to this extent and when I furiously relayed this all to Hank he just replied “oh yeah he did that to me too. Mine involved Tony Abbott and the Catholic Clergy.”
“Why didn’t you warn me for fucks sakes hank.”
“Youre up with all this digital shit we thought youd be onto it.”
Coming from the man who thought he was talking to the current Australian Prime Minister and Cardinal George Pell alongside Malcolm. His break from social media opened a time gap and Malcolm had been mixing and burning cd’s but not for porn or music, just with totally random noises. Car’s backfiring, dog’s barking, sneezing coughing showers, kettles. He would start his usual verbal tirade until you nearly stopped listening then throw in a question to make sure you were still being audio raped.
I got a Friday night version involving Malcolm being turned away from the psych unit and chased by Police, who I should have twigged were repeating the same shit. But the thing is they do repeat orders, the tones are more varied though. “Put down your weapon Malcolm Miller.” Over and over this is the Tasmanian Police Department, we have you surrounded. Then taser sounds and a much louder Malcolm “Help me Sis, theyre going to kill me this time.”
I figured out where he was from a prior psych unit description and rang the Tasmanian Police directly from my landline still on the mobile to Malcolm.
“We don’t used Tasers in Tasmania Miss Van der Meir. Let me just take down your details and get you some help over there.”
It was a sting attack, full credit there. I rang Barb who went down and confirmed he was calmy watching TV with headphones. He has been really good lately Barb relays.
He must be letting her drink cask wine in coffee cups again I think to myself.
Steve found my well stashed and highlighted Book of Satan. I explained as an undercover Christian I needed both sides of the story and Lucifer made quite a few strong points.
“Fuck off you are an evil witch, you have green eyes.”
The Queen was my gateway into Twitter acceptance until she became a vegan. I refused to remove my anti posts and jokes about preaching vegans and her 20k followers waited for my rebuke or block.
I didn’t know Malcolm had a twitter page with less than 7 followers but he popped up on my feed one day and I was mortified to see the blue icon showing Me following Malcolm back.
Teal Swan, Malcolms latest guru and lucid dream lover featured alongside Michelle Briggs and other annoying links totally out of context with my own Twitter style.
I know I didn’t hit the follow button and blamed Keith, also an IT wizard.
I was labelled a hypocrite and nearly 500 followers dropped in the few hours Malcolm was linked to my feed. He riled up the Queen. The Queen was private messaging me telling me to haul my arse to rehab immediately. I couldn’t admit he was my crazy Brother. Thank God the boxer had long blocked him on Facebook.
On Facebook a lot of Malcoms unstable friends were piping up telling me what he really thought of me. Facebook was purely Bec Van der Meir, respectable and normal.
Malcolm spead lies of me being a junkie prostitute with a pimp bikie husband, Keith. Keith is not a bikie despite the guns, he runs a reticulation company and is a registered Plumber with tickets and a company van. I, although a Stripper had paid all my taxes with legitimacy and owned property.
I was grateful they came forward privately and I have never been able to or really wanted to access that Facebook profile again. An entire new google alias has been maintained and it’s working out despite the Princess and Steve re connecting and starting a solid smear campaign.
For some reason it pleased me immensely that the royal tollder made it into the Catholic school system. The princess and Tim got married in 2013 not far into my first psychosis. I think the princess was fighting with her number one bestie. Actually the princess, it should be noted always has back up besties. Her leading two of over ten years now are two younger girls Katie and Bree, but Bree is always referred to me as the ‘holy mother’ due to her ability to make me feel trailer trash dirty in her presence.
She was really fat but beautiful, and lost a truckload of weight when she started working for the princess. Kaitie also worked or works for the princess but is also in child care, getting pretty high up actually and literally in the DPP. I will hand it to Katie she is pretty good and I took to calling her Constable Kate, to her face, well over the phone at least. The holy mother I have not actually addressed her to her face this way, but I hope she knows of the title.
The princess has all her friends on the payroll and is all about loyalty and control. Being her friend is time consuming and demanding with at least two hours a day on standby and always ready to take or return her calls in a damn good time. I had to announce a ‘mute’ mode in order to get properly stoned and not have to listen to all her shit.
So Katie and the holy mother were mean’t to be bridesmaids but Katie fell out of honour and was not even invited to the wedding. I turned out as usual to be the fifth wheel and so it transpired that on the wedding day I was tripping around all day in a bridesmaids dress made for the tall svelte model like Katie. I didnt want to be her bridesmaid and I thought I had escaped the plight. I have still never been to a wedding unless in the fucking bridal party and I had gained a lot of weight with the anto psychotic meds, I felt like shit and was a barrel of nerves, Shaz and the princess made out like I was meant to be there all the time and they could.t believe I didn’t know this.
Their father died before I came along, so it was Steve given to task of walking the princess down the aisle and not fucking things up. He did pretty well.The same can’t really be said for Tim and his entourage who were knocking back champagne and as high as fuck. Tim has really wanky friends with supermodel wives, I am serious, Ralph FHM models and shit. Keith and Steve bonded over this mutual dislike for what Keith calls the “northern river’ wank syndrome. Quite bizarellly these friends of Tim were more mine and the princess age, why they hung around Tim is a mystery.
They are of the we are so cool we do coke we are so cool we do coke, apart from Tim who gets fall over smashed and makes a tool of himself, this groom party are smooth and slick. They always say the right funny things and make one feel like a low grade imbecile. They are not pervy. I can’t read them and I hated it.
It was like being with a set of gay male models and these guys were successful and loaded to the brink. Hey like I said they do coke they are elite. The supermodel friends of course did not approve of the princesses stripper friends and leading bridesmaids, especially since we were now partnered off in the bridal party with their playboy husbands.
And it was a long long day. Time contol freak, the princess had to early to the church refusing to do laps while Tim and his limo had pulled up down the road to rack up some lines. Really stressful . She made me wobble down the slippery aisle first and the church was fucking packed. I couldn’t hold my dress up as I had to carry the stupid boquet and how i managed not to stumble is solely a tribute to the stripper i once was. I wanted to wear stripper heels so was the length of that dress. “Who will see, I pleaded with the holy mother” youre not wearing stripper heels bec take them off.
The princess after the catholic ceremony had us trapped all day with her photographer traipsing us all over perth, me tripping like a drunk, behind the old train station, over to northbridge, down by the foreshore, and we had no drinks. I really wanted Keith here, here helps me keep it together and not fray at the seams. But he and Steve, how the fuck steve got away I don’t know, were busy getting high all day.
Keith is a closet party boy and he rarely drinks. Macca, my groom guy is surprisingly franks and tells me outright ‘bec youre boring’. I think he disagreed by the end of the night.
I have been meaning to ask Keith about this one, he would tell me the truth and I now really hope it’s true. By the time we finally made it to the swan valley venue, more photos were taken and my feet killed me in jimmy choos. I started swigging champagne and the princess and shaz looked on darkly. Steve and keith are glowing like beacons and I make that “I am watching you signal to keith from my elevated position on the bridal table next to the holy mother.
They are seated together, and I remember now that Steve is not in the bridal party he is just suited up to match. Steve, bless him manages to pass me a bag of speed, and I head to the ladies to rack up a snow storm. Steve and I were like that,we respected drugs and gave them the nudge and credit they deserved, I had no pockets or purse being a bridesmaid and managed to slip the baggie back to steve as I leaned over and loved up to Keith. I had to go hard I knew I wouldn’t get another chance, the princess would be monitoring toilet time. I didn’t know Keith was high and I didn’t know that all day these three had been plotting and planning quite the criminal enterprise.
Keith is amazing with computers and technology and considers himself an expert on most things criminal. Steve and the holys mothers guy, who had done time were all about counterfeit, plastic guns and synthetic weed chemical importation. Keith apparently scoffs at the plastic guns idea but looks into it and later the blue print is handed to Steve on a burnt disc.I thought it was tunes but in my defence a lot of these signs that I missed were during the medicated phase.
They got the gun making machine from alibaba and rented the warehouse, but in textbook Steve fashion they started beautifully like toy gun frames, and then alarms, melted plastic, toxic fumes. The boys running and again the fire brigade. It wasn’t long after that Keith and Steve both got raided by Australian customs. I know as I saw it all in my house.
But Keith hadn’t been at the gun factory and I was in the dark. He had just been scoffing and sneering at Steve for his digital printer to print counterfeit hair brained scheme.This was all over the Mandurah news these notes turning up everywhere. I didn’t tell the princess of course. Steve got raided by Customs and the AFP for the synthetic weed importation but due to the ingredients not formally listed as prohibited on a technicality slippery Steve landed on his feet once again.
Back at the wedding day ,the holy mother witnessed my affection with Keith all. "Oh my god bec, I always thought you were so cold. How long have you guys been together now?" Her own boyfriend had arrived, clealry moderately high, he and Steve go way back in Adelaide, and she was furious. He had worn the wrong tie.
As we made our royal entrance into the Swan Valley venue, I of course was first again and told to slow it up with that dumb bridal entry music. To get to the bridal table was to walk over the dance floor, slippery as fucking ice. The holy mother is wedged tightly behind me and I look behind at one time, as she was standing on my train, thats how long the dress was for me. to find her big blue eyes round with fear. She looks well into a panic attack, how bizarre I thought." come on babe, keep moving." I urge her nicely. She hasn’t ever been like this, even when she was a fat nude waitress.
Keith had managded to slip in behind her and was doing a full arse grope creeper style. The story also goes that Keith, witnessed by both Steve and the holy mothers guy announced that he would give every girl in the bridal party a go, starting with the princess, and even Tim’s mother was thrown in the mix. I don’t know about shaz.
But Steves young daughters were in the party one like about 12 at the time, so every time I heard this story, and trust me I heard it many a time as Steve also now thinks Keith is an undercover cop. My microchip brainwashing MK ultra wash failed to impress Steve."Yes Steve I think that's why Keith always had those sunnies glued to his forehead, to film us all." Then I would berate him." Why didn’t you knock him out then if he said he wanted to fuck your daughters. Come on Steve."
So all within 2013 we have lost touch with Steve, but the princess is reporting weekly, and I am ordered to keep Keiths own embarrassing Customs raid to myself. It goes against my grain, I have a big mouth and it was a boastworthy event especially relayed to the Princess who has a thing for criminals much like myself..
But I had outed Keith at the wedding with the "B" word story, Cracker's, Tim and all the wanky grooms kept getting me to replay it and laughing at Keith. I thought it was a totally cool story, and let's face it it was true and I mimicked the Quantas mans voice to perfection. I think this was making Tim feel better for his own recent close shave with the Police.
I was really popular with the Northern river guy's for sharing this, and I am an attention whore let's be honest, I constantly seek approval even from people I can't stand. Keith was mortified and really shamed out about it I later found out and I did feel bad. I didn't get the memo about Keith groping the holy mother until this year.
My 'B' word story was on pause and repeat all fucking day, poor Keith.
He had used the ‘B” word at the airport and got barred from all airports for 48 hours. I was already in Darwin waiting for him, crying on the phone to Quantas. Please he didn’t mean it. I had paid for the ticket, that was the problem, I didn't really need Keith in Darwin but I wanted him there. It was nearly $2K people. I was fine once I realised he could still fly out no extra fees or charges after the weekend. And he did.
"Mam" said the polished voice of the Quantas man. Keith was stuttering and not making sense. "he used the b word". Passing through the scanners Keith gets pulled aside for the explosives hand held body scanner test and bitches about the perceived discrimination.
On the escalators having passed the test he yells out in his fog horn voice and dumb laugh “ ha ha ha, what bullshit they must think I’ve got a bomb or something’.
Why and how the AFP didn’t grab him is beyond me, in any event Customs and the AFP or Wapol I am not entirely sure were charging in our front door only a few months later.
Great stuff, a riveting day, gold. Ive had porn fantasies’ for years over this. The door being rammed, me still in bed, Keith on the lounge. Really huge steroidy cops saying “Bec it’s ok weve got you. Bec can you look at me please ok youre going to be FINE ok Bec look at me again...you...will...be... FINE”.
Liars. I was still in my peter alexander pyjama set an hour later, laughing and joking with my porn set cops, until Keith the tosser, kept yelling out for them to let me go and change. Did he not die already I ask?
You see I had nothing to worry about bar a few cannabis pipes that I knew they would find, I was ok with that. Drugs had never been consumed in this house, despite the dogs detecting something in my spare room. I don't know I didn't get to ask the dog. Knock yourselves out. I had $30K in greenbacks in the safe, but I pay my taxes it was well accounted for.
The Customs guy ordering the cops around was also hot but in an intelectual mind fucking IT way. Even my bulky commander was under his rank. He thought I was trying to suicide when I took my anti psychs at 8am and cleared the room most dramatically to make some medical calls.
Noone even watched me get changed, I was most annoyed about that, the twin set pj's were a really good look. At least the Queen was impressed when I told her. She hates Keith.
Keith went to pieces and faked a seizure.I knew this as did my buff buddy crew of cops.But all the other uniformed Police and Customs oficers, and there were at least twenty in total could not believe my cold remote response to Keith's seizure. The paramedics arrived and Keith was fine just down $900. The raid wen't on.
All the female cops kept saying to Keith "Bec just didn't give a fuck Keith. What is wrong with her?"
They were right I did't give a fuck. I had watched disinterested and losing all desire and respect for this love of 7 years. "Bec, over here now, Bec quickly Bec. Do something Bec, has this happened before? Whats going on? Is this normal."
Then one my buff guys moved in. The porn set was four in total, the commander was right behind me as I had moved as ordered over to the search team as they frantically called thinking Keith was dying and that I would care or know where an epi-pen was or something. I could feel him breathing down my neck, we had both had to run as I was outside with my guy's, me allowed to have a cigarette in the backyard, The commander, a smart guy, clued on fast enough and got down to floor level to the convulsing Keith, having fake spasms on the carpet. This wasn't easy, the commander was built like the Hulk.
The commanders arm was bigger than Keiths thigh and Keith is a big boy, and he leaned into Keith's ear and said really quietly and slowly, pretending to help as the Ambulance sirens approached. I know he was presssing fingers of steel into Keith's neck but pretending to check his pulse. I love this shit, it is me all over.
"If you are faking this I will kill you, you fuck". It was a low gutteral tone, but my radar ears miss nothing ever. This was no audio hallucination either. Keith made a miraculous recovery and the paramedics left with the all clear minutes later. The raid continued.
Keith told his team of cop's and customs officers that I was suicidal and had threatened to shoot myself. This was true it was all in the first 2012 psychotic break.
A lot of uniforms kept interupting my porn script and asking where the key to the gun safe was. My buff Cop's didn't seem to care. I really didn't know. Keith said he hid it to stop me in 2012. Thank you Keith and I mean it. But his words to the Police and Customs that day. "Where is the key to the gun safe Keith?".
"I hid it for Bec".
"Bec where is the key?"
"I don't know." Stop interupting me I am on a win here.
I didn't get charged for my bongs. I'm telling you these guy's had my back that day.
The best part was outside smoking just before Keith's fake seizure. I had a head spin from my first smoke of the day, and I nearly fainted for real. Ok a tiny bit of role play ad lib it is hard to say. I hadn't had a coffee let's be real and my meds were kicking in, so a true head spin is not unreasonable. I was near my bong cabinet smiling to myself as my naked thigh closed the wine barrel door. I know they will find this, and I wan't them to know I know.
"Bec step away . Bec open your hand, slowly. Keep your arms where I can see them"
It was gold, but my hand betrayed me. I couldnt remember what I had in it. I looked as guilty as fuck I am sure and they all surrounded me.
I nervously and slowly uncurled my left hand to reveal a bic lighter.
Then we all ran to Keith.
Keith told them the cash was his before they found all the gun's. I was kept busy with my crew and was never asked about it. They looked and closed the safe again accordng to Keith.
Freedom of infomation documents about this day are filled with blank pages and the cash is long gone. Keith tell's everyone I blew it on meth.
It made the 5pm news this weapons raid, but he did not get arrested that day. Keith was later surprised and mega pissed off to find Wapol cancelled his shooters permit and kept his gun safe with the few legal ones from his grandpop that were in the arsenal. And he got fined, apparantly.
I think I need to cull this piece here. It was only meant to be a short story and its damn near twenty thousand words already. Are people even reading or interested in this shit I ask myself? Do I really need to crack the scab open and speak of the final days with Steve. In my usual binge fashion, writing this has been a work of obsession. I have not eaten, my eyes are red from strain and crying, but my word the sleep. The sleep has been so deep and coma like in these last few days of writing.
I might wait for reader feedback and response, and add a few chapters or a sequel if anyone expresses a fleck of interest. I am so accustomed to people telling me to shut the fuck up and hating my stories due to the ad nauseum details I insist on including that I feel the need to quit while ahead. Also is the sheer ugliness of those final black day’s, the story has had dark elements but this finale does enter the pitts of hell and I am not sure God wants me to do it. Yet if at all.
I have resisted any revenge rants or posting. I still have text pictures of Steve in his sisters bed wearing her lingerie and playing with all her work dildos. She was away and I was house sitting. I didn’t go in, I fucking knew better but I may as well have for all I was hit with. It was as funny as fuck, Steve is hilarious when high and at that stage we were only friends not the Bonnie and Clyde team we almost became.
The princess is such a germ phobe and knows every run in every silk stocking. Steve is pretty slim, but she is tiny. Any stretched lingerie was blamed on me naturally. Who would ever believe Steve had the balls to do this and get away with it. How could I ever out him either to the bikie brother in law to be or the Princess herself as the cross dresser he is from time to time.
Steve switches roles much like myself. A deep desire to be hurt and dominated and also the equally satisfying switch to whip the fuck and hurt someone else who enjoys it. Or doesn’t in Steve’s case.
After the witch comment I told him it was true. He loved golden showers and I told him that is how I had infiltrated his cells so fast. You begged for and absorbed my toxic waste Steve, every cell of yours is now mutating with my nucleus.
It’s a total crock. I have no powers or plans look at me now for proof. I hope Steve is stoned somewhere and doing ok. I hope he hasn’t hit his sister or smashed any property. Dr G would have filled out his forms for Steve’s own superannuation by now he is due about 60k. He had to see Dr Gfor 6 straight months, Dr G likes him and will do him well in his lifelong disability. “Steven is cooool yeah?” said Dr G last time I returned to Mandurah
“Yes Dr G. Steven is cool”.
Dr G hugs me and wishes me well. He thinks I am returning to Uni, halted this year to care for Steve but I don’t have it in me right now to return.
One thing is a given with Steve’s early super fund release.The princess will be waiting tiny manicured hand out to bleed him dry again. But it is none of my business. I didn’t want his super money, I wanted him forever in this dysfunctional psychosis and was fully planning to put him on my property title. The princess is deluded with her figures, $60k from Steve verses my title worth $400k. He is scared of her and I do not think she has seen him flip as an adult post disability. Noone is safe, not even the bikies. I now firmly archive my pretend Family of 20 plus years and the book is closing forever. Closure how that word sucks arse.
I debate on whether to continue sharing Steve’s story. After his release from Hospital after the neck break surgery OR when Steve fled the psych ward in a robe bare arsed tricking the Indian security guard to offer him a lighter. So he legged it and that little fucker can run all right.
Bikies were after him possibly due to him fucking up an investment but according to him other reasons. He had swam a canal and ended up in a rich persons backyard with cctv and spot lights. The guy was a dick and froze to the spot despite Steve telling him to just call the cops mate over and over. The Cops were facing him as the bikies all in a car and cruised passed glaring. He ran away with nothing and the local aboriginals helped him and he ended up straight in Ravensthorpe hooked up with a mother figure type who owns the cafe where Steve happily waitered for free and entered a transient peaceful phase.
But the mother figure got jealous and started accusing Steve of fucking the neighbour, Misty. So he did and Steve had all his clothes burned on the front lawn despite having called the cops for help. Misty is a user way more than Steve, but she has a job and is coming up for long service leave. Steve sees her losing it, seeing shadow people and shit so he visits the dealers to get them to cut her down for a bit so she can keep it together. She also has two young sons and Steve began coaching the junior footy teams and becoming tight with the local cops, also footy coaches. Steve played professional league in South Australia once. I saw the photos and trophies. Black and white. Port Adelaide I believe.
Just before 2018 Steve was identified as a suicide risk from the princess as his now ex Misty had dropped off all his bags. I only found out much later that she had put used syringes in right at the top. And the princess is as nosy as a ferret, she would have zipped all open in haste. And bikies hate junkies real bad. “Bec is looking good for this.” Introduce compulsory house sit and have Steve collect his bags then.
The princess would have noticed immediately that her bed wasn’t right and what’s worse Steve had fucked with the TV even rotating it. There was no hope of deceiving her even by the vacuum I had to do to justify all the moved shit in her walk in robe. The princess has a photographic memory and feel for this disruption. I didn’t want to think about the toys and pubes found, I know it wasn’t me.What could I do? He had another slick friend from hicskville that I was keeping an eye on in the living areas. You just don’t sleep in the princesses bed. She thinks I fucked someone in there. Of course not Steve as she knows he would never do that to her.
To picture Hank and Barb, imagine a bearded Bob Hawke and brunette Blanche in spendless clothes. They are not on Facebook and for this I am very grateful and lucky.
I just hop in and out of social media these day’s much as I do in the ocean, Fully submerging my face to cleanse aura, but out before a shark attacks. Tweet and retweet a fuckload of headers in both profiles, and same for Facebook and messenger. Hit and run don’t get hooked back in Bec, I tell myself daily.
I must step away from my laptop and stop editing the typo’s and grammar here in this work of ‘fiction’. It is a first draft after all, on an innocuous wannabe writer’s page, no one expects perfection just yet surely. Yep it is going up and I am copy and pasting before I change my mind and chicken out. My heart is pumping wildly and I struggle to hear the voice of God. I feel he has my back though. May God bless us all.
I don’t know what to do with this Christmas curse and I have never felt so orphaned and overwhelmingly alone. Tears fall daily without warning and a snowball of anxiety sits in my intestine like a Yorkshire pudding. The temptation to use my RAC membership, get to Adelaide by the 25th December,
stalk the Family function, calling the RAC with a lost my keys story and have Hank stumble out to no vehicle is not beyond my reach, it may actually happen. What would I leave in the cars empty space though. A Newton’s cradle perhaps?
I really think I need to hire a professional fake family and reset my brains hard drive. Implant new infant and adult family memories and brainwash myself into believing I’m not this bad a person. God direct me please, I am no good at waiting.