Ken Oath had heard all about Jack Nines, and wasn’t having a fucking bar of it.
All sinew, mullet and leathery blue-inked muscle, Ken had seen a bit in his short life.
He was nudging fifteen, a Yorta Yorta lad who’d been running a fight club out back until recent.
Bastard rock spiders like Nines fazed him not.
Ken killed the engine of his busted old Falcon ute, discreet under the canopy of a gnarled river gum.
The needy drone of lap steel hung in the flat, baked midnight air.
Nines was home, wasted, as per, it seemed.
Ken peeled back the ute’s tarp, hauling out a jerry can and a long, slender object wrapped in a towel. Checking the knife in his boot, Ken sparked a dart and scanned all three sixty of the horizon.
No one came out here, ever.
Still, it paid to be cautious.
Dropping to his haunches, Ken loped across the creek to Nines’ shack.
There was a crack of dim orange light throbbing through the back window.
Jack Nines’ sick fuck career ended tonight, guaranteed.
Moving quickly, Ken dashed across the wreck-strewn yard and dropped down behind the rusted hulk of Nines’ roo shooting truck…
Read the full story Yarns from the Fuck-You-Ni-Verse.