War/Peace. Matthew Vandenberg

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СКАЧАТЬ trippin' it back and forth between Sydney and LA. On that note, little word of warning, don't hide in the small plane toilet cubicle with a balloon and then pop it when an old guy enters. So many things can go wrong, not to mention a sound like a gun being fired on a plane don't go down too well.'

      Some more laughs as I scratch my head.

      'Anyway, so I'm fleeing the old guys, not too hard since they can't really walk no more. Bet they wish they were runnin' about when they still could, rather than sitting in stupid offices. But I can't move too fast coz – you guessed it – 100's of them every which way I look. Heck – we're talkin' Central Station, peak hour. And I'm thinkin': “Why the hell no old people travelators like those they got at airports? They'll enjoy them coz it's like they're on miniature, open-air trains that move through the station, and they'll be moving a thousand times faster than if they were walkin'. Meanwhile, those of us who still have properly functioning legs can run across the normal floor. Heck, maybe paint some white lines on the ground and make it into a massive track, so we can all jog or sprint. Maybe then you'll be able to wait 'till a girl's 12 before telling her she's fat, ha ha. Everyone will be exercising a little more each and every day. So any fat girls here tonight?'

      'Yeah! Whoooo!'

      'Hey!' – I point to the girl – 'You know I love you, right? And look at the girls here tonight: it's so easy for you to change whatever part of your body it is you don't like, you know. Simply grab the girl with the right bit, place her bit in front of yours, and you're fine. Easy.' - I pause for laughter – 'This is why they call this place Sodom. Remarks like that. That's a biblical reference, meant to piss of the Christians, or the Moslems, what have you? It's a city which it is said was destroyed by God . . . yet it sounds just like the place the stupid terrorist pricks think they'll go after killing themselves. Ok – look. So say this is Sodom, right here right now. We're a happy bunch, living life in the fast lane but stickin' to the speed limit so that nobody gets hurt, and this God figure, he decides that genocide's a pretty cool idea. Um . . . so who exactly is the evil villain then? I reckon God was pissed coz he wasn't getting laid, so he decided he'd destroy a whole city, filled with people who were living a good, wholesome life, after calling them immoral and imperfect. People! Sex is the answer to everything, ok? We need to eat, we need to drink, to breathe, and to fuck. It's totally natural. I'm sick of hearing that it's a sin to fuck someone you ain't married to, or even that adultery is a sin. Now why the fuck aren't we all naked? Condoms are in the Holy Grail by the stage, people.

      'You know, I was at DJ's this morning. In the city. The large David Jones.' - I tap a finger against my chin – 'Yeah. Didn't know at first, though. I'm on the escalator, goin' up, and I see this chick in her underwear behind some glass. So naturally I yell “Slut!” and jump the escalator rail, and stumble towards her, twisting an ankle in the process. I slam straight into the glass and it's then that I realize – mouth agape, pressed firm against the pane – that she's a maniquin.' - I pause and shake my head – 'Yeah. So some people are looking at me. You can't really do this in a store and not expect people to look. So I'm on the ground, striking a pose not too dissimilar to hers and now people are staring at me as though I'm the mannequin. I've made myself into a spectacle, but in my defense she did honestly look just like a high class slut, hence the reason I ran straight to her. They say these people don't exist, like fairies, but I believe there are some out there. And this is totally where they buy their clothes: David fuckin' Jones. The place is – dead set – a store for sluts. Not that I'm against that, it's why I'm shopping there. You got little miniature stores on the ground floor: Prada, Dior, where the women go for stylish handbags, the little perfume stands where the women go to get their quick fix of scents, just before they head up to another floor to strip down and copy the plastic maniquins: role models and idols no doubt. Such is the life of a hooker.

      'Glad I'm here, to be honest. It's a break from the Cross. The job has its perks, don't get me wrong, but I gotta say that the requirement that you gotta be under the age of 25 to enter this joint is a damn good one. Thank goodness there are no frickin' benches here, like the ones at Gosford station. I ain't sittin' on a fuckin' bench, wearing the appropriate t-shirt, waiting for a client, shifting my gaze left then right, sighting someone – in tight, white fleece, body the size of a football field, ugly as a Tasmanian Devil: so I'm thinking, “How the fuck can I play on this court without falling into any holes?” Damn! She winks once, then twice, and then I know she's the one, even before she places her bag on the seat, taps the straps so that one strap falls to each side – spreading its legs so to speak -, and asks me to watch the small handbag for a second. I nod and then I wish I hadn't. I'm pretty sure I got the right to refuse sometimes, if the bitch is over 80. So I'm damn glad there are no benches here, just a damn fine stage.

      'Ok, ya'll! I got a mate here today. His name is Shaun Turner. You might have read his stuff on the FB. And now I wanna ask the DJ to spin a tune: Michael Paynter and The Veronicas, Love The Fall. Kill the verses coz my mates gonna try some rap, the guy has some lines he wants to spit. Let's give it up for Shaun Turner!'

      Applause rings through the crowd, along with cheers, and squeals.

      I hop down from the stage. My hands are shaking. So are my arms. I'm nervous. I'm so glad I still get nervous every time I give a speech, every time I perform. Nervous as though walking through a crowd of completely naked women, brushing my thighs against theirs, pressing my nose to one neck after another, breathing in their scents, watching as several girls drop to their knees, place their hands on the floor, spread their fingers as though they are flower petals unfolding, and then move towards me on all fours, four or more, their flexible bodies moving so freely, leaving full-body prints of perspiration in the form of fancy fractals on the naked floor, breathing heavily, each of them, and smiling also, some Greek, some Asian, each lot from a specific area of Sydney. This is the place where they all gather, just to have a good time. Commonly referred to as Club Y, located on level 5 and three quarters of the Westfield at Bondi Junction, is a place where some elite meet regularly. But entry into Sodom is only free if your body is, and you're under the age of 25. No alcohol is served on the premises because this is not an ordinary club where the owners wish to make a profit, not another branch of some major corporation. And furthermore, there is no need for alcohol when you are asked to hang your inhibition on a hook by the door, by the hooker or the whore: he who stands there to greet you before you step onto the dance floor. Greetings, my name is Jackson Curtis, suck on this beat bitch!

      'Yo, speed the tempo a little. That's good, great. K, try to keep up . . .

      'Two taps on the pavement/

      Got a beat:

      if you clap,

      it'll break your neck/

      Got a bitch:

      she's a tap/

      Now my flow is wet/

      Got a tick?/

      Take a ride

      coz we goin' there/

      Keep the beat

      on the heat

      'til she has to swear/

      Keep it weak:

      you're the bass/

      Hit! And she's the snare/

      Keep crawlin':

      muthafuckin' all in/

      This shit's a disease:

      it's our weed

      'til the mornin'/

      Take СКАЧАТЬ