In a previous life, I shot/ chopped and roto’d this vid for beer money (and a few other unmentionables).
That was twenty years back, on the dot.
(It played wide on Euro MTV).
RENTAL HELL /
Here’s the edited version of a piece I submitted to the West Australian’s “Best Aussie Yarn” (sic).
Turns out they’re not into downer yarns set in the here and now, nor have they been renters in the last, ah, quarter century or so.
Who’d have thunk.
Anyhoot – there’s a longer form version of this that I have plans for, but please accept this one as a taste of my recent lit-comp alienating stylings for the time being.
(Thanks especial to Steve MinOn for suggesting the edits that squeaked this one in under the word count, too).
THERE had been many disappointments in the DeRoche’s recent rear view, and this catastrophic pile, this hazardous sore, barely a shelter – the sole rental in their budget and within walking distance of a kindy – was the final kick in the guts, confirming the universe held them in considerable disdain.
Reggie, stoic: “Kudos to the Photoshop guy, they really earned their effing keep, eh babe?”
Tobey, succinct: “What an effing shit hole.”
Amity, nearly-five: “Does it have an effing kitty door for a meow?”
Reggie sucked air between her teeth, giving Tobes a look.
“Better apply, right, babe? Lucky thirty-seven?”
Tobes just nodded.
*
“Is that… human faeces?” Reggie gasped.
Property Manager Nickala Grezzdl made a note to get back to the bond cleaners.
*
Hi Regan and Tobey,
We trust you are anticipating moving into your new home at 96D Mewes Terrace, Yerooka QLD.
Find a Welcome Pack attached, including details on rental payments, maintenance requests and other information on becoming part of the Peeke and the Crowne Property Inc family.
I’ll be in touch to organise key collection.
Fare thee well,
JORDAN PYEWACKETT
Senior Property Manager
*
Tobes (SMS)
Sure, babe, I’ll sign the effing thing… first thing I’m doing is making a whole eff-load of maintenance requests once we’re unpacked. x
*
Hi Reggie,
Thank you for completing & returning the Condition Report.
A physical copy will be mailed to you.
Should you have any queries, please contact me.
Sincerely,
Nickala
*
Hi Nickala,
Hoping to clarify the maintenance access process.
The gardener and a handyman arrived without notice this week.
Reggie was home sick (asleep) when the workman entered, which is quite unsettling.
Please ensure contractors have my number for advance notice?
Thanks,
Tobey
*
Hi Tobey,
Thanks for your email
Sorry this has happened but i have looked and can see the handyman spoke with yourself or Reggie and was advised to collect keys.
I advised when the Gardener would be coming via email
Ensure to refer to this but will ensure you are given more notice next time.
Nickala
*
Hi Nickala,
I received email re: the gardener, but didn't get call.
Please check who was contacted? Neither of us were contacted.
Thanks,
Tobey
•
Hi Tobey,
Oyama Property Maintenance
Regards,
Nickala
*
Hi Nickala,
Oyama have confirmed they had previous tenants' details on file, meaning access to the property was given to a stranger while my sick partner was sleeping.
What is your organisation going to do to compensate us?
Tobey
*
Hi Tobey,
Sorry about this
Sincerely,
Maya Jarmara
Receptionist
*
Tobes (SMS)
Anything happen today while I was out? Ames acting weird
Reggie (SMS)
Hmmm… did some playground, made muffins… oh yeah, met neighhours.
Tobes (SMS)
yeah?
Reggie (SMS)
Ya, guys behind us, The Castavets. Ummmm, Dale and Courtney
Reggie (SMS)
No, DAVE and Courtney. Seemed nice. Lots of kids and pool. Handy right?
Tobes (SMS)
The boo’s acting freaked. Nothing else?
Reggie (SMS)
Well, it was *so* sweet. The had a little present… locket with fake ruby in it. It glows… probably hearing aid battery right?
Tobes (SMS)
Right…
Reggie (SMS)
Don’t want to cut you off but at the library prepping for interview. Better get back to it ay? xx
*
Tobes was hunched over her MacBook in the play room.
Blitzing with Nag Champa had failed to remove the stink of cooked meat that permeated this, and every other room.
The stench set Tobes, a vegan since she was eight, reeling further into despair.
Reggie was putting Ames down.
Well cut into her evening of neighbourhood research, Tobes opened a third bottle of red.
Outside, inside, in late winter black, were the alien sounds of a new pad, inexplicable scraping, groans and screeches, all angst-inducing.
Tobes had a dozen browser tabs open, all of them cause for her wife’s –
“Cold in her room,” Reggie said, making Tobes spasm.
“Eff, dude, you scared the bejesus out of me. Knock.”
Reggie regarded her, and the empties.
“Noone else here. If you were wondering, yes, I did put an extra blanket on, tucked her in. Had a few?”
Tobes was oblivious.
“There’s something wrong with this place, Reg.”
“Yeah, it’s not the greatest, babe. Then again, gratitude to the Goddess we’re not in a caravan like my folks. Not to mention I have an actual job interview.”
Tobes fixated on her monitor.
The meat miasma, the thud of warring possums on corrugated iron – it all had her on edge.
“Plus, the neighbours have kids for Ames to play –”
“Dave and Courtney?” Tobes spat, air quoting. “They scared Ames pretty good earlier. Babe.”
Tobes took a swig, considered another and then pivoted, knowing Reggie well.
“Look at this, Reg. The Agent. Tell me she doesn’t make you feel… Wrong?”
Reggie decided to humour her drunk wife.
She read:
Belinda Folger, Director PEEKE AND THE CROWNE PROPERTY INC (est 1878)
Belinda insists that you call her Bel!
Starting her career as a selling principal, Bel quickly found recognition for her unique capabilities and dedication to service, resulting in many referrals and a loyal cabal of Landlords.
Bel’s persistence, drive and keen competitive streak led to her being made Director of Peeke and the Crowne Property Inc. at just 27.
“Peeke and the Crowne are an agency where the Landlord is number one,” Bel says. “Satisfying The Landlord is our primary goal, and we’ll move heaven and earth to ensure our client is sated.”
Mr P.W. Char, a Brisbane based entrepreneur, is an advocate.
“Ms Felgor was able to tap into my needs quickly, with an intimate understanding of the intricacies of my dealings. I quickly became loyal to her.”
Outside the office, Bel maintains a family life with husband Barry and their dog, Mammon –
Tobes nixed the browser tab.
“Who the eff calls their dog Mammon?” she spat.
“Look at her, Tobes,” Reggie sighed. “She’s a former goth with an expensive bleach job, pumped full of Botox … that could have been you, babe, except… it sounds like she had goals.”
“Let’s take this to the deck,” Tobes grimaced, grabbing her wine, lighter and smokes.
“Babe –” Reggie offered, guts plummeting, anticipating a real command performance.
Still, she went, concerned that Ames would be woken.
Tobes forced the door open.
The deck was a claustrophobic tableau exposed to the shared drive.
It wasn’t late – 7.30, maybe – but this was Brisbane on a Tuesday night in the ‘burbs.
Desolate.
Marinated in tension, they perched on IKEA stools.
“It’s been a mother-effer of a year, Tobes. I know it’s hit you hard,” Reggie stage whispered.
Tobes swigged from the wine bottle, offering her wife none.
Reggie continued.
“Dude, you’d been talking about your effed-up dreams – eff knows I spend half the night listening to you scream… sleep-talking all sorts of shit. I gotta tell you, I’ve had a gutful of you and your effing cancerous world view, the constantly persecuted drama of it all.”
Tobes lit a smoke and stewed, so Reggie carried on.
“Sure, we are definitely not living in-the-style-to-which-we-are-accustomed, have in fact financially bled out entirely since –” she hesitated, wary of blowing this thing up.
Tobes’ demeanour steeled her.
“Since you had “the episode.” It was her turn to air quote here.
“Now it’s all this, what, internet-brained shit? Is this your way of hijacking this, the only stable thing we’ve had in eff knows how long? What is it – PTSD? Did you absolutely effing skillet your brains on the gear? Because this truly is next-effing-level, Tobes. I need you to get your shit together for the sake of this family, because I swear to eff that your behaviour is rubbing off on our little girl and that is simply unacc–”
Across the way, a shadow flickered in the Castavets’ dining area.
A blind was curtly pulled.
Smoke curled from Tobes’ nostrils, her face a death mask.
“This place is fucked, Reggie. Please believe me. We are not safe here.”
Reggie had not expected to laugh, but did.
“How effing drunk are you? What the eff is wrong with you?”
That hung in the air.
Tobes said nothing, so Reggie did.
“Good night. Enjoy your shitty wine, enjoy your Unabomber shit. Don’t wake Ames up, or me, for that matter, when you finally decide to pass out. Seriously, dude. What the hell.”
She left, so Tobes took another dram, sparked up and propped the laptop on her knees.
After four tries of her password, she was in.
Tobes shut a browser tab, revealing another:
Satanic influence charms, children
*
An hour later, Tobes wove her way into the bedroom, dropped onto her side and passed out.
Not long after, a pink-mouthed, terrified-mute Ames wormed up the middle of the bed, having been awoken by red eyes and a precipitous temperature drop in her room at precisely midnight.
They found the dozen rats Ames had slaughtered, guts strung from totem poles, in the kid’s tee-pee the next morning.
*
Hi Nickala,
We have discovered a nest of rats in the walls.
Please advise as to landlord's preferred course of action ASAP?
Thanks,
Tobey
*
Hi Tobey,
Thanks for your email
Please grab some photos of the rats that would be awesome so I can speak with the owner
We would usually deploy poison baits but this will be at their discretion. They are presently Overseas it may be some time before we hear back
Nickala
*
Nickala,
I have left several VMs – concerned that this issue is not being treated with the seriousness it demands.
Please advise whether acceptable to engage a private exterminator?
Photos of rat killed by our cat attached.
Tobey
*
Hi Tobey,
Thanks for letting me know we will book this in for after your move out whenever that may be
Nickala
*
Reggie (SMS)
Let this go. She’s not even 5. Probably had a nightmare, woke up and thought the A/C unit was a monster
Tobes (SMS)
Which was blowing hot air
Reggie (SMS)
What do you mean
Tobes (SMS)
You’ve said it yourself, her room is always freezing, even when that thing’s on blast
Reggie (SMS)
...
Tobes (SMS)
I’ve been reading about poltergeists manifesting around kids
Reggie (SMS)
Dude I don’t have the time for this. See you after kindy k? X
Tobes (SMS) you saw
*
Nickala,
We are not moving??
Is there any update on the rats?
Tobey
*
Hello,
I was waiting on your guys to send me some photos I sent an email requesting this.
Once i have this I can speak with the owner.
Thanks,
Nickala
*
Nickala,
Please see attached below for email from Tuesday with photos of rats
Tobey
*
Thanks for this!
Sorry i missed this email
I have arranged the pest control company who services this house to come
Thx,
Nickala
*
QLD POLICE TELEPHONE TRANSCRIPT
SUBJECT1: Uh, hi, um. Yeah. I got your number from Pete… he goes to your Church.
SUBJECT2: Peter. A good boy. Elevated. How can I be of assistance?
SUBJECT1: Um, this uh (unintelligible) weird, but
SUBJECT2: I assure you, little shocks me.
SUBJECT1: Well, I guess I wanted to, um… book an exorcism?
*
Reggie (SMS)
Tobes, you need to stop this Satanic shit. Noone is out to get us… it’s a figment –
Tobes (SMS)
LOOK AT THE NAMES, babe.
PLEASE
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_infernal_names
Reggie (SMS)
I can’t do this
*
Regan and Tobey,
Thanks for your time on the phone, Tobey.
As discussed the owner has decided to terminate your Agreement, owing to your refusal to abide by the terms set out in Section 9, Subclause 77b.
As you understand there are consequences.
Let me know soon what you would like to do
Farewell,
JORDAN
*
Reggie (SMS)
What the fuck did you do, Tobey?
*
Tobes (SMS)
They took her… why won’t you pick up?
Reggie (SMS)
Took who?
Tobes (SMS)
AMES IS GONE
Reggie (SMS)
She’s fine. With the Castavets.
Tobes (SMS)
how could you
Reggie (SMS)
We need to talk, in person. Not now. Ames is staying with them and I am going somewhere to sort my head out. Don’t hassle them, or -
Tobes (SMS)
You absolute c
Reggie (SMS)
- I have told them to call the cops. Get your head sorted for her sake. I’ll call you.
Tobes (SMS)
- unt
96D: WHAT HAPPENED?
IT has been exactly one year since the horrific arson attacks at a quiet cul-de-sac on Mewes Terrace, Yerooka. Speculation over the tragic sequence of events on that early September evening will no doubt persist as the years draw on.
We know for a fact that Regan DeRoche, 37, wife Tobey “Tobes” DeRoche and daughter, Amity, 4, moved into a split-level entertainer at 96D Mewes Terrace last August.
Regan, or “Reggie” as she preferred to be known, had lost her job to automation, and Tobey was a recovering addict and former celebrity chef. The couple had relocated to Brisbane for a fresh start after a range of setbacks.
“This is a sad tale of mental illness, financial stress and substance abuse with tragic consequences,” Premier Celeste Powder said at a press conference.
Many have speculated that the rental housing crisis was a key stressor in the breakdown of the DeRoche’ marriage and the sad events that followed.
“No, I don’t think you could join those particular dots,” claimed Opposition Leader Prique Jejune. “I’m of the firm belief that if you want a house, a house is there for you… maybe get over yourself and live in the one you can afford.”
Nickala Grezzdl, the DeRoche’ property manager, made a moving tribute to the lives lost on Instagram Live.
“OUR HEARTS ARE BROKEN 💔
MAY YOU ALL FIND PEACE🕊️
LOVE N’ HAPPINESS 🤣
IN THE NEXT LIFE 🙏🙏🙏”
Darker rumours swirled, including Tobey’s belief that Satanic forces were at play in the neighbourhood. Police records indicate that Tobey engaged the services of controversial evangelical pastor Caleb Sancrox Thrumster Sr to perform several exorcisms in the brief time the couple were resident at 96D.
Mr Thrumster Sr could not be contacted for comment.
Neighbour Dave Castavet, an insurance adjustor and father of seven, was grief-stricken.
“It’s a tragedy. That woman had been put through the ringer. I think we as a community, a society, should bear some blame. When a talented young woman is attributing her life’s woes to so-called agents of Satan… it’s very sad.”
“We’re just happy little Amity made it,” Mr Castavet’s wife, Courtney, said.
Sergeant Garry DeGutte was arresting officer on the night of the fires.
“Ms DeRoche was in a vegetative state at the scene. Material evidence indicated that she was in possession of accelerants and the means to ignite them. Sadly, Ms DeRoche later ended her own life.”
Evidence exonerated Regan DeRoche of culpability. Ms DeRoche as cut all ties with Amity and lives with her parents in regional NSW.
Owner of the destroyed properties, Brisbane extrepreneur Mr P.W. Char, has vowed to rebuild in tribute to those who perished.
The Castavets adopted Amity DeRoche.
They are presently home schooling her.
SHORT: The Issue of the Feral Pig Down at Coffin Creek /
(as related by the Last Bloke in Australia)
Protest poster in West End, Meanjin.
Day Two.
3.04am
IT was ol’ Mangled Jizzy that found those kids, the very first ones, y’know.
Young Donk Cowie’d parked his old man’s RAM – bloody ridiculous vehicle for a dentist – down by the flood marker off Crooked Stream Lane. Jizz told us it looked like the silly bugger’d been trying to get into young Shelsta Gabbatt’s knickers when they’d been taken.
By that I mean he found her knickers, soiled, and a half unrolled French Letter, if you catch my meaning.
The ‘paper, well, the ‘paper’s Facey page, The Coffin Creek Investigator, didn’t really get much into the details, barring that the cops were “treating the situation as suspicious”, “appealing to the public for information” that “parking in a flood zone is hazardous” and to “please welcome investigating officer Constable Ray Fistwell to The Creek”.
That sort of D-grader city journo bullshit.
Ol’ Jizzy may have been as mad as three cut snakes in a Whirlpool, but he’d also been a pretty handy snapper in the day.
He had The Eye, didn’t miss a bloody thing, much to our occasional chagrin.
That means it pissed us off, kid.
Anyway, we’d been shouting Jizz a round or ten when he’d spilled his guts on all the spilt guts.
“Looked like a feral pig what done it, lads. Pulled them kids out the cab before poor ole Donk had a poke, let alone a sniff of his fingers. Not right. Blood and shit and hair and all sorts everywhere. No bodies but. What squealer does that? Drags two kids off and… disappears? ”
Well, none of us had had a fucken clue, and the bastard 4G internet was out again, so we – we being town quack Doc Liversedge, me missus Narelle and Jimbo Paddock… yes, the Mayor (don’t get too excited, kid, that was 10% of Coffin Creek’s population there at the bar) – decided to leave the mystery to the no-doubt exemplary deductive abilities of the new town copper, Fistwell.
For now.
7.15am
Wasn’t long before them deductin’ skills were back in demand, neither.
You’re loca – you’ve heard of Snake Marks, right? Nope?
Bloody hell, seriously, you kids – Snake, actual Christian name lost to the vapours of Creek lore, was Mayor ‘round here well before Jimbo’s time (not to mention me and ‘Relle’s).
This was back in the eighties, when state government spooks were scuttling around the valley, rattling gates.
You know, natural gas and all that? It was a dodgy business then and it still is, kid.
Anyway, I read up on Snake before ‘Relle and I decided to shift out here from the Goldie – his steampunk reimagining of Che’s life sealed the deal, t’be honest.
Yep, Snake was a capital ‘c’ Communist, and that drove the East Coast establishment mental. He’d really put it up ‘em when he was elected to state parliament, but Snake was also a capital ‘p’ Pisshead that all ended real quick, with broken limbs and a few less than exemplary headlines to boot. Disgraced anywhere with a population over 500, Snake moved back out to the Creek, bought the pub and spent the next thirty-odd years cranking out revolutionary tracts.
It was a life lived like a deadset bloody legend, a real town luminary, until about a week back, when I found one’ve Comrade Snake’s size-13 cowboy boots on my morning run. The blood on it was black, the other one gone.
Snake’s hip flask was thirty yards up the track, en route to his camper, bone dry.
The 4G was barely 3G that morning, but I got a sketchy line through to Constable Fistwell, who took his sweet bloody time getting there.
Valé Snake and all that.
8.47am
Me? I hate the pigs, kid. Always have. I mean the two-legged variety, of course.
Subhumans, the lot.
And I have to tell ya, that bloke Fistwell had me on edge from the outset.
Queensland coppers usually do, and that fugger was cast directly from the original jack-booted spec: bull-shouldered, beer-gutted, slap-headed, with a brow handed directly down from Boris fucken Karloff, shady porcine eyes set to corrupt.
Had a distinctive, sinister scar and all.
I’ve been punching on with Fascist shitcunts like him since the ‘60s, kid.
Why’re ya looking at me like that?
Not all of us Boomers are hyper-superannuated fuckwits with a not-in-my-backyard sewage pole lodged up our busted clackers.
Some of us still believe in action.
That’s a story for another time, but just so’s you know, when ya hear what’s to come, I want ya to understand that I have some pedigree with the matters I’m bangin’ on about.
Constable Ray Fistwell rocked up to the crime scene looking like absolute dog shit, all yellow ‘n sweating balls ‘n shit.
Was this bloke really that put upon by some raged up porker?
Or was there somethin’ else goin’ on?
Mark this: that copper made me extremely bloody suss.
9.20am
It happened again, and this one was the worst.
The Harveys were a fam of harmless Nimbin ferals passing through the Creek, en route to some bush doof or other, a rainbow crystal festival or something of that nature.
Not my cuppa, but each to their own.
The poor bastards – dad, mum, big sis, little sis and the four-month-old bub – had parked their bashed up old Combi out near Hitter Lawrence’s back paddock, overnighting. Hitter’d been out at sparrow’s fart, checking the traps with Ginger, his tame dingo bitch.
As in girl-dog – don’t get ya knickers in a twist, kid.
Ginger’d caught the scent of somethin’ – Hitter told us he reckoned it mighta been a bastard feral meow-meow – and lost her bloody rag, jettin’ off into the scrub.
Ol’ Hitter’d been out on the land since well before Snake’d been a short squirt of piss, meanin’ he didn’t take no chances. He’d hauled his .308 off the rack, a real boom stick, did the necessaries and took off after Ginger as quick as his buggered hips let him.
Poor old Hitter found Ginger in the creek (dry as a nun’s nasty since well before Wuhan), ears down, tail between her legs, whining real bad.
Her muzzle was pink, he’d told us later, yellowy eyes waterin’ up.
There was no feral cat, no trap, no half-a-possum with its guts hangin’ out thanks to a goanna or whatever.
Ginger’d found a bloody, tangled mess of baby’s clothes at the end of a deep, thrashed out furrow. The scar in the sand wound further into the bush, snagged bits of cloth and fine blonde hair marking a path inland.
Hitter wasn’t up for tanglin’ with a feral porker at his age – he’d wear the kick of the .308 at a distance, but in the dense pre-dawn scrub he’d have fuck all chance with his blade – so he’d calmed poor old Ginge and legged it back to his shack.
First off, he’d called the MacGregor Brothers.
Second up, he’d called up Fistwell.
“Tell youse what, that cop was an absolute frothing mess. Real outta sorts. Sweatin’, pink, barely strung a sentence together… seemed real agitated around all that blood,” Hitter’d told us later. “He was either real hungover, which ain’t a good look for a blow-in, or he couldn’t handle the scene. And what good’s that?”
This copper was about as useless as tits on a bull, The Doc, Jimbo, ‘Relle and I agreed.
It was well past time we got on the internet and looked the fugger up.
9.45am
First things first, but. Hitter’d called up the MacGregors, being Clayton, Ronnie and Denzo. The brothers were the Valley’s wild piggin’ experts, coming from a long line of such.
The boys were the real deal – no red mist through a scope from five hundy yards for them – the MacGregors trucked in up-close-and-personal, bladed porker apocalypse, traditional like.
Which is to say, the lads were all about protectin’ the valley from the bastard ferals and ensurin’ every bit of a felled beast was put to proper use.
Beginnin’ with the removal and subsequent ingestion of the swine’s still pumpin’ heart.
Not for the limp of pecker, kid.
That’s all a roundabout ways of saying: when we learned what we did about Constable Fistwell and the issue of Coffin Creek’s feral pig situation, the MacGregor boys were rarin’ to go.
10.11am
Concerning Ray Fistwell.
We had The Doc and Jimbo around for a slab the night of Hitter’s revelations. We were quiet during the feed, antsy to get cracking on the investigation. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night, but, and that a full belly’d keep us going when the piss kicked in.
Now, ‘Relle and myself are members of various private forums – real covert stuff, well off the info superhighway as you may know it – concerned with our particular shade of activism, if you catch my red drift.
Fed, watered and having taken a quick detour via the back patio for a choof of The Doc’s bush bud – we perched on garden chairs ‘round the PC, with ‘Relle in the driver’s seat.
I’d sent a few queries out to various spook mates from around the traps vis-a-vis Constable Fistwell, but ‘Relle and I’s shared OzEmail was a wasteland of spam when we logged on.
Ray-bloody-Fistwell.
What was his fuggen deal?
Digging in, ‘Relle on keyboard duties, steadily sinking cans as the hours ground by, punctuated by nothing but disappointment and increasingly regular trips to the throne.
It was grinding, demoralising work.
This bloke Fistwell was a ghost.
Where was he from? Where’d he been? Why was he here in the Creek achieving sweet fuck and all?
It was just past midnight – we were down to the final sixer of the slab.
‘Relle had turned in (she had Muay Thai first thing), meaning Jimbo was bashing away at another dead-end rabbit hole when the email finally, mercifully dinged:
RE: YOUR PIG
Jimbo opened it up – it was a message from one of my sources at a particularly bolshie Aussie independent media site. This site, which specialised in reporting all the shit the MSM – bloody hell, kid, that means “Main Stream Media” – bury on behalf of their bastard mates in the s0-called establishment.
You can hear that too, can’t ya? Approaching? Like dogs on heat?
Might be time to cut a long story shorter.
Turns out my citizen journo mate had been prepping a piece on dodgy goings on with the Border Farce goose-steppers and animal quarantine procedures at Brissy airport. The lawyers had hit him with a cease and desist just as he was ablout to hit publish. The draft was copy/pasted under his email, and the jist was:
Corrupt Border Farce Officer Ray Fistwell had mates in very high places.
Fistwell had been implicated in an international truffle pig smuggling operation last December, busted in the act at the Brissy airport transfer facility.
Scored quite the nip from a squealer, too.
Now, instead of having his arse handed to him, Fistwell’s uncle, Chock, a higher-up in the Fash bureaucracy, quietly had his nephew’s charges purged and redeployed the filthy bastard out here, where they thought no-one would notice six-foot-five of packed ham on the lam.
What dirt did “Constable” Fistwell have on ol’ Unk Chock?
Ya gotta wonder, not that it matters much now.
They’re definitely getting closer, kid.
That was the job lot from our source, more than enough to confirm we weren’t paranoid hillbillies or anything.
The truth about the trotter situation became apparent the next morning, on the other side of a pretty decent set of hangovers.
We can’t sink ‘em like we did when we were your age, kid.
10.37am
Old Doc Liversedge had pulled a few strings with a boffin mate of his down at the CSIRO.
Unbeknownst to ‘Relle, Jimbo and I (and Fistwell, a’course) The Doc had sneaked a sample of the mess on Snake’s boot off to the lab the day Comrade Snake disappeared.
The Doc dropped a meeting request into our highly secure WhatsApp group around 9am, marshalling the troops for a greasy hangover feed.
The lab results were in.
Jimbo, Relle, The Doc and I took up our usual perches at the back of the caff, and The Doc got straight down to brass beeswax.
“Pigs are a mixing vessel,” he said.
“Pig-pigs or, um, the two-legged variety?” ‘Relle asked, reasonably..
“We’ll get to subhumans, let’s stick with the four-legs variety, as Mr Orwell would have had it,” The Doc advised.
“Pigs are a mixing vessel. This means they can be infected by both human and avian influenza. Based on the blood works from Snake’s boot, my friend over at the spook science bureau has made a few distressing discoveries. Dire ones, actually.”
Jimbo was inhaling a brick-sized cut of choc-caramel slice.
“Spare us the suspense, Doc – the people of Coffin Creek are bloody well disappearing!”
The Doc pressed on.
“Indeed. The first thing you need to know is that the DNA extracted from the, um, sample on Snake’s boot is a 97% match for our dear Constable Fistwell –”
I was up on me feet immediately, ready to cave some copper skull in.
The Doc urged me to park my arse.
“I’m not finished, yet. It’s much worse than you think.”
I sat, lacing my fingers between ‘Relle’s, knuckles white.
“The sample also contained swine DNA, and indications that the subject is in the acute neurologic stages of the mokola lyssavirus. The rabid phase, if you will.”
“So there’s an actual feral pig out there, and –” Jimbo spluttered.
“We’ll get to that, Jim,” The Doc said. “My friend rushed this report through as a favour, so I must warn you that some of what I am about to impart is educated speculation.”
He wet his whistle with a slug of iced tea, looking apprehensive.
“Go on then, Doc,” ‘Relle nudged. “As you know, the Constable was embroiled in a truffle pig smuggling operation. You may or may not know that a truffle is a kind of fungus. My friend initially supposed that the, um, unique condition we’ve uncovered may have been engineered in a laboratory, but, upon further consideration, it is far more likely that the DNA of the hog in question, already infected with the lyssavirus, somehow reacted with the reproductive spores –”
“Bloody hell, man, you may as well be speakin’ Farsi,” I’d groaned.
“Fair enough. What I’m saying is that somehow the molecular conditions were perfect, one in a billion: the interaction of the truffle spore’s reproductive properties, the rabid hog’s condition and Constable Fistwell’s specific DNA sequence has spawned some sort of networked rabies virus. We’re calling it The Truffle Hog Theory.”
“Good lord,” Jimbo gulped.
“My friend performed a few initial tests on lab rats to be sure. The results were conclusive enough for our purposes.”
“That pig is actually feral,” I’d muttered.
“Correct. And those missing people aren’t actually dead. Fistwell infected them. They will live out their natural life cycles, but I am afraid they would already have devolved to a feral state, mere biological engines designed to spread the spore and ravage the environment uncontested. Mother Nature’s in a very bad mood, and I’m afraid it may already be too late.”
“Let’s get those MacGregor boys on the blower,” ‘Relle said, teeth gritted.
“Reckon so,” said Jimbo.
So we did.
11.19am
The MaGregor boys were rarin’ to go.
I told you that already, right?
The piggin’ posse formed up in the town square later that arvo. It was quieter than usual for late night shopping, and I got to thinking the copper had been busier than we’d thought.
The MacGregors had backed their Hilux up to the ANZAC cenotaph; the gun locker in the tray was open, a pig annihilation’ arsenal on show. The MacGregors had been busy on the Makita – half a dozen sawed-off double-barrelled shotties were lined up like front rowers at the back of the tray.
Jimbo, The Doc, ‘Relle and I each grabbed one and slung on the bandoliers hung on the ute’s frame, each good for 56 shots.
Twenty eight if you double-triggered it.
The lads wore their hunting knives slung low.
“Reckon we know where the feral and his sounder,” Clayton drawled.
A sounder is a collective of pigs, kid.
Thought you’d be wonderin’.
“Reckon so, do yeh?” Jimbo drawled, suddenly gone country.
“Reckon,” muttered Ronnie.
“Follow us,” squinted Denzo from the ute’s cab.
We clambered into The Doc’s LandCruiser – Liversedge at the wheel, ‘Relle in shotgun, Jimbo and I in back – and got to tail-gatin’ the MacGregors out of town.
It was going dusk as we hit the outskirts towards the back track, one’ve them sunsets that looked like a someone’d set a match to the horizon.
“They’re takin’ us out to the creek,” Jimbo reckoned.
“Makes sense,” The Doc mused, swinging the ‘Cruiser off onto an unsealed road just past the cemetery’s outer limits. “Been plenty of wet lately. Good, remote spot to wallow during the day. Noone to bother ‘em since Snake fenced it off and declared it re-gen back in the day.”
The sun dropped pretty quick after that, a new moon black-as-a-dog’s-guts situation. The MacGregors’ rack of hunting spotties burned through the blue-black ahead of us, The Doc keeping a car length’s distance. The only sound out there was the rumble of the two bush-bashing 4WDs cutting a cautious path through thickening scrub.
“Almost there,” whispered Jimbo, and it’s safe to say he was bricking it like the rest of us. “Coffin Creek.”
The MacGregors’ spotties cut across a stand of eucalyptus and fuck me, there were eyes, so many bloody eyes refracting a sick yellow green out of nowhere.
“The fuck!” Jimbo wailed as The Doc braked hard, kissing the tail of the MacGregors’ ute, the ‘Cruiser fishtailing in silt. The Hilux was nudged forward, cutting detail into the nightmares we’d foolishly thought we’d cull.
There they were – Donk Cowie, Shelsta Gabbatt, Snake Marks, the Harveys my god those little girls, the baby and then that fugger Fistwell himself, all slick with mud and shit and blood and barking, frothing and guttural, a poisoned feral clot of wasted –
The MacGregors killed the spotties, plunging the clearing into pitch , leaving the ‘Cruiser’s headlights jagging south, dimly illuminating
“The pigs,” ‘Relle moaned.
The wet sounds of the MacGregors’ knife-work my god those little girls, the baby was drowned out by the squealing stampede of boars rounding us on our flank, a wall of tusk and cloven hoof in a rotted meat miasma.
Jimbo was out of the ‘Cruiser, on his arse with the kick of his first pull.
Something quick dragged him into the scrub, shrieking. Jimbo was unzipped with a sound like a sucked wound, and then just… stopped. Behind us, we heard Denzo yell “Ronnie! No!” as a heavy body hit the ground; then it was Clayton screaming for Denzo, and then the brothers were mute.
The Doc was desperately trying to bring the ‘Cruiser ‘round when the two Harvey girls, no more ‘n seven or eight, crawled out of the scrub, faces masked in Jimbo’s offal. They clicked and groaned and muttered spore-songs as they advanced, and then it was The Doc who was shrieking, because trailing them was mum and oh my god the baby brother, suckling on rabies.
‘Relle and I checked each other as they closed in, the cacophony of the porkers gettin’ unbearable, like a roofin’ nail to the eardrum:
“We gotta split up, love,” she directed. “Meet you at the Base Station.”
I knew she was right, but it was still a fucked proposition.
“Take Mad Monk’s Pass,” I reckoned. “I’ll head ‘round back through the Cold Str-”
The Doc’s shrieking went up a few octaves, all inhuman, harmonising with the ferals.
Jimbo was back – a hacking, mud-shrouded wraith. It hauled The Doc’s door open, then yanked him out of the cab, the pop of Liversedge’s arm dislocating like a cork. It-Jimbo pinned The Doc with its beer-gutted heft, beckoning mum and god those little girls, the baby with its spore-mind, offering The Doc up as an acolyte of the mutant lyssavirus.
‘Relle and I had our own shorthand goin’, otherwise known as forty years of married nirvana, leg-overs three nights a week like clockwork. We flicked each other a look, initiated the countdown, and, while the vanguard of ferals were occupied with Jimbo, flung the ‘Cruiser’s back doors wide and bolted, sawn-offs ablaze as we tracked our separate paths away
It’s all confusion from there, kid. Absolute bedlam.
Once I’d cleared the boars – mainly better luck than judgment – I ran into a scattered band of ferals en route to the rendezvous point. These were new ones, locals you’d see at the servo, down the Tin, or maybe having a shot of pool between rounds at Trivia Night down the Ourro.
I avoided them, mainly, but a couple, like dear old Mrs Ellis from the Salvos op shop, well, I had to do what was right, futile as it was in the scheme of things. That pig Fistwell had well and truly fucked us all.
noon.
Then I found you hidin’ here in the Base Station, right kid?
What, thirty-six hours ago?
From what The Doc reckoned, the bastard virus will have overrun the entire country by now, if not the world. Coffin Creek to Broken Axe to Utnadulla, where the airport is, in six hours, spreading like the 2023 Coot-Tha fires, no hazard burn. Did they shut it all down when they figured out what was going on?
Don’t make me laugh, kid.
We’ve got a week’s worth of food in here,
‘Relle and I’d been planning to do another lap next spring (yes I am very fucking certain she’s out there giving ‘em what for), so we’ve got diesel coming out’ve our proverbials.
We’ll just hold tight here for another day or two until the missus gets here.
Bloody funny to think it wasn’t “the AI” that got us, as hard as that bloke Epstos tried to shove his brain chips ‘n consumer priced robot guard dogs down our throats, eh?
None of that Kurzweil bullshit, no Arks to the infinite, no grand dystopian future shock for the human race, it turns out.
I’m going to hazard a guess that industrialised society’s pretty much done for, don’t you reckon?
The planet’s a barking cesspit of devolved genus fuckwittus tapped into the collective consciousness of a truffle pig, consuming to consume, razing the joint with the conscience of a toddler. They’ll starve ‘emselves out eventually, get down to eating one another, and then good old Gaia will reboot, no rush, planetary slate wiped clean.
Pretty dark sense of humour, the old girl, but it’s probably for the best.
So yeah, we’ll wait for ‘Relle to get here, then we’ll hatch a plan.
Hang on for as long as we can.
Maybe even write it all down, just in case.
What’s my name, kid?
Call me Rennie.
What’s yours?
The End.
BONUS: Home Brewed spec teleplay, episode 1 /
Here’s a spec teleplay I put together as part of the Queensland Writers Centre’s ‘Adaptable’ program. Currently working on some proposals around this, and I thought you guys might dig an insight into the opening chapters as they’d play out on screen.
Not read the book yet? Rectify that.
Let’s breach that paywall, true believers!
HOME BREWED REVIEW – DUVAY KNOX (THE PUSSY DETECTIVE) /
☆☆☆☆☆
“Gonzo meets Grunge=GRONZO is this new form dat GARTH JONES has laid out. Debauchery and Demonic Entities reminds me if STANLEY KUBRICK had flipped his moovie EYES WIDE SHUT on its head and wrote THIS joint. Loved the Aussie SLANG and how Garth SLUNG werds round on the page so u was constantly off guard wit wut SICKNESS was cumming next. This book in many ways is social commentary on the world of ENTERTAINMENT & HOLLYWOOD in general. In shawt: peeps are willing to do ANYTHANG for 15 minutes of FAME FUCKERY. Even if it means KONTROLLING and DEMOLISHING a whole crowd of folks. The book format is decidely non-linear (and dats a GOOD thang). Especially, if U R tired of reading da same old formatted shit. U kinda hafta 2 B TAPPED into da ZEITGEIST of pop kulture to undastand SUM thangs. Butt dats good. WAKE YA ASS UP and kno wuts going on round ya!! GARTH delivers. Im glad he wrote this. Cuz its a book U kan open up to any page and it POPS and FUCKS UP ya Sensibilities and Expectations. Git to kno Garth cuz I think HIS is da VOICE of a new kinda Writing.”
Read Duvay.
from the archives: A brief evolutionary insight into the (original) HBVB Logo (2014) /
Once upon a time, there was this anthology...
By way of introduction: I thought a bit of a look behind the tablet into the HBVB logo design process could be interesting to a sick, perverted few of you.
There’re years, nay decades of unwitting preparatory work that led to the project finally blinking into existence, and this occasional series will help pad out the calls to action and shameless reblogs and get us over the Festive hump intact.
The logo that adorns the book, our tees, prints and all the other synapse-snapping collateral you see here (and all over your Facebook and Twitter feeds, ahem) has been bubbling away in my subconscious since I first daubed a rickety looking Judas Priest logo on a pencil case somewhere around Year Eight.
Scratching meticulous, geometrically (and occasionally typographically) complex logos in biro, on vinyl what’s more, clearly locked the ol’ career path to ‘anal retentive self flagellation’ long before I discovered the totality of my options were Medicine, Law or Apprentice Boilermaker.
These tees then, some of which I may have owned in one lurid form or another, represent my nascent exposure to graphic design, and locked blackletter forms deep in a vault somewhere: eternally Evil and Bad Arse, a jigsaw of swooping, predatory forms begging to be solved.
(I would later discover, through thorough research, that a lot of beer labels and logos embrace the style, funnily enough.)
“Home Brewed Vampire Bullets, by John Hill”
Vaguely hungover, digging through a stack of second (fifth? Ninth?) hand magazines somewhere on Smith St., Collingwood, this masterpiece of saturated early seventies design smut punches through.
It’s out of a ’sporting’ shooting magazine, something about juicing up your ordnance through no doubt rock solid chemistry to exact maximum carnage on the veldt.
Sadly, I neglected to buy it, but did take a quick, blurry snap.
Just in case.
The article title stuck, rolled around the cranium for a bit.
Same for the imagery- that burnished, blast furnace sepia and ochre’s always lived in my palette, strangely enough.
I’ll spare you the early excursions and explorations of the disco meets stick flick via Rainbow look that initiated the process, but suffice it to say things took a turn for the inevitably Gothic.
I never rated that calligraphic, Biblically inspired (ironies lost for a while yet) logo Judas Priest used into the late ’70s. Too much like the stuff me mum painstakingly rendered via tracing paper onto Philharmonic posters, perhaps?
Those two albums, Sin After Sin and Rocka Rolla (the reissue, pictured, by Melvyn Grant, fantasy artist) did use blackletter in their title treatments, and I very much locked that shit away and unconsciously explored it down the years.
With overall concept starting to coalesce, and having the luxury of the internet, I set out to unearth a blackletter that wasn’t a Flyerfont or an LHF offering.
Even in these heady days of Top 50 Metal Fonts and semi-defunct Angelfire sites laden with poorly constructed knock offs of band logos, this proved more of a chore than initially expected.
A chore, that is, if you consider venturing further and further into the Type-Nerd Narnia a taxing endeavour.
Eventually Blaktur and Asgardian Wars (yes indeed) picked themselves out as our faces of choice: a combination of the two made most sense, as Asgardian Wars’ punctuation and numeral forms were less than suitable (practically non existent).
I’ll leave you to provide your own Norse mythology/ typography related pun right here.
Next up? Figuring out how to get the bastards to sing.
Cue the usual scattershot landscape of upper and lower case forms.
A jigsaw with no solution, just the knowledge that you’ll know when it feels ’right’ via some nonsense equation of negative shapes, X and Y heights and some blind luck.
By which I mean talent, of course.
Let’s pause here to acknowledge that every single time you see a yellow-red linear gradient in my work, it’s because of Barbarian.
With the overall look locked down, I, of course, succumbed to some extreme design overkill (I design DVDs by day, aright?)- bullet holes, blood, all the paper textures on the hard drive, all that good stuff.
A combination of factors, thankfully, intervened:
1. The eye bleeding busy-ness of any potential cover with that kitchen sink included logo was not an ideal outcome
2. We wanted to sell some promotional tees and the screen printers limited us to ten blessed, very reasonable colours
(Home brew vampire) bullet dodged (ho ho): I limited the palette, worked in my ‘signature’ gradient and had a punchy, None More Metal logo on my hands.
We’re in business: now to refine.
Here’s where a bit of that Judas Priest foreshadowing pays off.
The original cover to their debut album featured this John Pasche bottle cap design, which was apparently intended for a Stones album (Pasche designed their ‘tongue’ logo, for starters).
Initially knocked together as a tee shirt design (see aforementioned foreshadowing), as the piece developed it was clear the overall effort was mighty, iconic and encapsulated the HBVB ideal rather succinctly.
Sorted: the logo was applied to ZERO in its simplified form, retaining its distinctiveness and proving its worth in a variety of applications.
We’ll call that a lock, then.
All of the above took, varyingly, the better part of twenty years to parse and synthesise, and a month or so to finally nail down.
That’s it for now.
from the archives: into fashion (2004) /
Why are vampires such ponces?
This is what vexes Jack Crow.
Alpha bastard protagonist of the unremittingly awful John Carpenter’s Vampires, Jack is an disturbingly ardent commentator when it comes to the vampire rag trade.
Yep, when he’s not sucker punching the ladies or swapping smouldering homoerotic glares with the sweatiest Baldwin (Daniel), Jack, Vatican Vampire Slayer and Misogynist Extraordinaire, plays second rate (if there could feasibly be such a thing) Kyle Sandilands to a procession of disturbingly attired plasma quaffers.
Which is a hoot, really, considering Jack appears to be in possession of the second last pair of elastic waisted acid wash jeans in existence (more on that soon).
Not to mention his man-crush, greasy lard bucket Dan, who sports a saucy nehru vest/ prodigous chest carpet combo.
Long before Jack’s fanged nemesis Valek (see ‘V’, Vampire Central Casting Guide, 1998) scrambled from ‘neath some unconsecrated bog, naff, style challenged creatures of the night proliferated.
Cinematically speaking, first out of the cemetery gate was Nosferatu’s nattily attired rat-pire take on the Fu Manchu fingernails with topcoat look.
Sadly, Bela Lugosi, next cab off the Dracula rank, proved far more influential, being the progenitor of the the ludicrous tic (a quizzically arched eyebrow, nigh on seventy years before a certain Mr Dwayne Johnson), poncy cape flourish and excessive pomade abuse.
This ‘dapper exsanguinator’ look stuck, unfortunately.
For decades, the coiff was the only facet of the vamp look open to interpretation. Christopher Lee added a spot of distinguished grey temple action to the mix; and even Blacula managed only a mini-fro and handlebar variation.
Then, along skulks Anne bloody (see that?) Rice, who inflicts contemporary vampire with a penchant for bouncy Pantened bobs and flouncing about aristocratically in frilly shirts.
Madam Rice, Queen of Pain, engineered a disturbing trend- and not just the brooding, ‘woe is me’ introspection of those ‘damned to the eternal midnight’ bollocks. Guffawing archly in the face of hairdressers’ livelihoods the world over, Rice unveiled the flaxen-locked Ritchie Blackmore variation; hair weaves were now de rigeur for the more follicularly challenged amongst the nightcrawler set.
Thus was born a bold, cranky new era in vampire style.
Where once a slicked back barnet would suffice, the undead were now free to indulge in an entirely new universe of tacky hairstyling options: enter the spiky mullet, the classic goth sweepback, various permutations of the Jedi topknot, and that perennial favorite, the Lionel Ritchie jheri curl.
With this bold unfettering of hairstyling parameters came a similar quantam shift in our immortal chums’ attitude to general sartorial presentation. Tired old evening wear and camp artifice were given the heave-ho in favour of exploring the full gamut of ocular nerve-combusting contemporary fashion.
Of particular note is warbler Rick Springfield, feebly essaying the role of testicularly compromised LAPD detective Nick Knight, who daringly combined THE last pair of acid washed high pants (see? Foreshadowing pays off!)) in existence with a fetchingly tight gentlemen’s perm.
Joel Schumacher, staking (!) further claim on the mantle of cinematic anti-Christ, decks his Lost Boys out in oversize fluorescent happy pants, RATT bouffants and oily, bleached mullets. In a similar, ah, vein, Fran Rubel Kuzui’s crass cinematic abortion Buffy envisioned entirely unterrifying, web earred ex-90210 disasters, showcasing Rutger Hauer with a blonde, wispy kiddie fiddler’s mo. Let’s not even mention Paul Reubens…
Okay, then.
Of even greater social import than Joel Schumacher’s role in the continual reduction of cultural standards were the very real issues addressed by those poor blood guzzling homeless soulless. Nomak (Blade 2) while surprisingly not shit (considering his boy band pedigree), best exemplifies vampire ‘shabby chic’, while special mention must go to Preacher’s Cassidy, who possibly IS the embalmed, ambulatory corpse of Shane MacGowan- enshrouded in denim, whisky vapors and toxic levels of Irishness.
The few remaining vamps, those exhibiting a modicum of self respect and savoire faire, fall loosely into two camps.
First- those nasty, rebellious Sid Vicious types, best exemplified by the brutal trailer park bastards in Near Dark or Spike from out of Sir Joss Whedon’s Buffy telly series. These scrappy fashionistas of the enhanced canine set are generally on intimate terms with the proprietor of the local leather clearing house; proponents of the look include the squishy, easy beat biker vamps of From Dusk Till Dawn, whose ranks, puzzlingly, include classic cinematic hard men of the calibre of Harvey Keitel, Danny Trejo and Fred Williamson.
On the fringe of this movement are the full blown fetishists- leather licking badarses of the ilk of Morbius The Living Vampire, The Master, and Kate Beckinsale’s posterior in UnderWorld.
Then, and the numbers are thin to say the least, there are those brand savvy, metrosexual vamps who populate Sir Joss’ Angel. All tasteful Armani and matching earth tones, they’re preening, hair fiddling nancy boys in extremis, generally conveniently heretofore-unmentioned twinks sired by metro-gene originator Angel.
While Stephen Dorff’s Deacon Frost (Blade) slots firmly into the metro-vamp category, careful academic scrutiny has concluded that he is, in fact, just a big girl.
So: it would be safe to say that, given his druthers, Mr Crow would cheerfully cold cock, berate and rudely castigate his way through legion upon legion of immortal types, gruffly dispensing dubious advice on how best to maintain troublesome bleach-dried hair, remove those pesky blood stains from pirate shirts, or efficiently tuck that package when slipping into some pre-talced leather strides.
Queer Eye For The Undead Guy, anyone?
© Garth Jones, 2004
from the archives: music to set fires by (2005) /
Pepper Keenan, Mike Dean, Woody Weatherman and Reed Mullin, 1994.
Corrosion of Conformity (‘COC’ to terrified Marketing Departments everywhere) were a ragged agit-prop hardcore band who released albums with names like Animosity, Eye for an Eye and Technocracy in the mid to late ‘80s.
The band’s core members included shock haired guitarist/ vocalist Woody Weatherman (he showed up on Dave Grohl’s 2004 Probot project, metal junior schoolers), ‘quiet one’ bassist Mike Dean, and more credible than thou drummer Reed Mullin, who has one of the best stoner rock names ever conceived.
Around abouts 1991, with music’s tide turning irrevocably towards the navel gazing personal politics of the grunge era, the band drafted guitar belter Pepper Keenan, a New Orleans native, and Swedish throat shredder Karl Agell for vocals duties. Discarding the surging proto punk clatter of their previous releases, the band synthesised a serrated, groove driven thrash sound, primarily conceived by new kid Keenan, which repackaged and streamlined the band’s righteous, socially aware anthems for a new, wider audience.
The first part of an unofficial trilogy of classic albums confronting universal socio-political issues, 1991’s Blind would easily rank in any boffin’s ‘Top Five Metal Albums What Deal With Politics’, competing with the similarly choleric Master of Puppets, And Justice for All (Metallica) and Megadeth’s late ’80s output.
Prison for praise is not worth thinking
Sin is still in and our ballots are shrinking
So unleash the dogs — the only solution
Forgive and forget, fuck no
I’m talking about a revolution
Clamping down tight on the listener’s jugular, Blind stampedes through a blistering cavalcade of incendiary, apoplectic anthems targeting racism, the first Iraq war and the Police State. Blind finds its core in Keenan’s debut vocal performance, ‘Vote With A Bullet’, a grating polemic that opened a generation of parking lot kids’ eyes to the urgent world of politics.
With Keenan serving as the band’s default leader, Agell was ousted (he went on to form inconsequential party metal band Leadfoot wth ex-COC bassist Phil Swisher; sample lyric- ‘If you won’t go down on me- someone else WILL- GEETAR!!’), and the band rallied, re-recruiting bassist Mike Dean and recording 1994’s Deliverance.
Separate by class but keep the middle low
Instill the order with a border just for show
Give them weapons and let them have their piece of mind
Then tip them off so they can kill whats not their kind
Venturing into swinging, boogie infused territory borne of Keenan’s home state, Deliverance embraced social justice issues, raging against the class war and spitting in the eye of the ‘Pearls Before Swine’ ethic of the socially priveliged. Reaffirming the power of the disenfrachised with (the ironically) Skynyrd inspired anthems like ‘My Grain’ and ‘Shake Like You’, these were soundtracks to get some dissidence done to, backed by wailing, siren-like walls of harmonised, anguished guitar.
In a year that delivered the shiny pose of Green Day’s Dookie, the banal Dad rock of Hootie & the Blowfish, and Pearl Jam’s preposterous Vitalogy, Deliverance was a rude call to arms for disaffected generations past, present and future.
1996 brought with it the third album in the cycle, the rollicking Wiseblood, which turned out to be a deft summation of the Corrosion of Conformity Mission Statement.
Bolting out of the gates with a charge of feedback static, Wiseblood swaggers righteously into the murky waters of government propaganda, corporate malfeasance, theocracies and the suburban malaise.
There’s a man who watches over me
There’s a man where I used to be
Mr. Tambourine play one more song for me
’Cause I gotta leave, I lost what I believed…
Lucid and savage, Wiseblood is an album of distilled vitriole, exploring universal themes with a clarity of intent usually attributed to your Braggs and Dylans. Completely devoid of the theatrics of Megadeth’s holocaust fantasies, or the second hand gravitas of Metallica’s battleground pastiches, Wiseblood’s raw lyricism stabs at the dirty, rotten heart of global injustice.
Somewhere along the way, the rebellious, institution baiting spirit of rock and roll was coopted by the poseurs and the marketing execs; the underdog’s howl and the stiletto threat of society’s underbelly was diluted into pale cartoons: miserable, self indulgent music calculated to mollify, another arm of the marketing division.
These albums reaffirm the sneering politics at the heart of good rock music, embodying the wounded disaffection of the ‘ordinary guy’ shaking his fist at a machine he can never hope to overcome.
The power inherent in these albums, this music, is in their calls to arms: the individual and collective experience of music serving as a catalyst for education and political mobilisation.
They start fires in disaffected bellies and inspire us to maintain the rage.