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The man Tytus calls Iwan shifts his eyes to a glass of beer before him, which he then grips tightly with his right hand and brings slow as a chairlift to his lips.
his legs are so big that the fat around his thighs spills over his kneecaps so the middle of his legs look like the faces of walruses without tusks.
Next to the cup is a silver wine cask bladder wrung to death like an old chamois.
a lonely and spent lick of yellow soap
‘A bee sting smarts like a bitch until someone clubs you with a cricket bat.
I reel the Alvey so fast that I could start a fire to barbecue the monster, then wrap him in tinfoil and bake him for Slim and me by the muddy mangrove banks on the Redcliffe side of the bridge, and follow him up with some toasted marshmallows dipped in Milo.
in some tiny and whimsical part of a mind I am only beginning to realise operates with as much order and predictability as the insides of our lounge room vinyl beanbag
I forgot this. I forgot he knew me before I knew him.
The middle finger on my right hand aches with the stress of working overtime in the absence of his forefinger co-worker.
I know more cartons of mid-strength beer in Bracken Ridge mean less Bracken Ridge mums presenting before Dr Benson in the Barrett Street Medical Centre with split eye sockets.
Dad can’t absorb the injustice so he calls the foreman ‘obtuse’ and the young foreman doesn’t know what that means so Dad tells him. ‘It means you’re a freckle-faced cunt,’
Maybe we’d all be much more effective communicators if we all shut up more.
If it did exist and I could reach out and strangle it in two hands, I would. I would grab time in my hands and bring it under my arms in a headlock where it couldn’t move and time would be frozen under my armpit for eight years and I could catch up in age with Caitlyn Spies and she might consider kissing the lips of a grown man her age.
Veronica Holt. The Sunday Mail’s chief crime reporter. She’s thirty years old and she only drinks Scotch whisky on ice and she freezes the ice cubes for her drinks by staring at them.
He looks into the pool. He taps the puddle of water with his bare right foot and the moon pool ripples into ten separate stories.
If you’re tired for tomorrow . . . the moon will crack like a gobstopper between your teeth and the colours inside the moon will blind humanity.
He’s got a menacing and hard face. Blond hair in a crew cut, bent and misshapen teeth like a row of old garage doors opening halfway.
‘Just a quickie,’ she says. ‘Can you give me an idea of the questions you plan on asking Mr Broz?’ ‘It’s not really policy for us to flag questions before interviews.’ ‘Just ballpark?’ she sighs. Well, I figure I’ll open with the gentle ice-breaker, ‘What did you do with Lyle, you twisted old cunt?’, then move seamlessly to, ‘Where’s my fucking finger, you animal?’ ‘Ballpark?’
Then, last night, I drop the file back to Tim Cotton and I’m buying him a meatball pizza down at Lucky’s in the Valley to thank him for his help and he pauses for a moment between trying to get in my pants and you know what he says?’ ‘What?’ She shakes her head. ‘He says, “You might want to let this one go to the keeper, Caitlyn.”’ She slaps the steering wheel hard. ‘I mean, he actually fucking voices that shit, a fucking police officer, Eli? An eight-year-old kid’s gone missing and he tells me to leave it alone! And uses a sports analogy. This is exactly why I fucking hate cricket!’
Maybe Hanna Broz is fifty now. Or forty and tired. Or sixty and grateful.
