Three Men Again, a matrix fanfic

Three Men

Martyn John Rainer

It All Starts Here Chapter One

Let's begin at the beginning. For us in the Western world. The beginning of adulthood. The last day of the schoolroom. School itself is never ending; for everyone.

High school wasn't easy for Clayton Moore; he got top grades academically, but even the teachers worried about him socially. He had made a core of trusty friends who had made up for his absent father and the influences of his mother, two sisters and grandmother. He loved them very much, both family and friends, however his family could not raise a son, and his friends were learning to be adults too in that difficult time of becoming young men.

Clay studied at home on weeknights and drank and smoked with his friends on the weekends. Every weekend.

So the years passed and the weekend slowly became more important. To the young man Clay, it seemed somehow to be more truthful. Exams were an obstacle to Friday nights rocket fuel. Sunday morning train rides home were spent nursing headaches. It dawned on Clay that this is what the workforce would be like. But he was going to university; everyone except for his father- told him that he should. He was a smart kid. His Dad suggested a trade, but was a lone dissenting voice. Maybe it would turn out that his father had the right idea all along. Clay even had a girl interested in him. He was interested too.

What, here, can be said about Carly? Clay had fallen in love with her and Carly had stars in her eyes. That, at the time, seemed to be enough.

And so the years passed. Exams and weekends passed until finally we come to the last day of school.

Chapter Two.

Hamlet's relationships with the women in his life,' he had said and although Clay studied Hamlet many times, under many different influences, he always found this to be perhaps the most profound statement about that troubled prince of Denmark.

Anyway, The last day of school activities. The graduating class would go to a job forum; presumably for kids to choose the way they would serve the economy. They would then join the rest of the school at a local amusement park later to celebrate another circle around the sun.

And so to careers day…

Chapter Three.

Instagram was not here yet and the tech world was just emerging; not inside this place. All the vendors were offering ways in which the young kids could sell themselves to the job market. A merciless place that let the serpentine dance continue down its snake hole. Clay didn't take much notice of any of it; he'd secured a university place and naively assumed this would deliver him enlightenment. He spied Carly at the television presenter's booth. He always kept track of where and what Carly was doing. He overheard the people behind the division saying that there were no jobs in this industry. That didn't seem to deter Carly.

It was still morning, but Clay and his friends were a hungry bunch at that young age and, not being too interested in the outside world just yet, they sat down at the cafeteria to get some food.

'This is all bullshit,' proclaimed Andy, 'I might just join the air force.'

'Saluting up someone's arsehole, yeah that's a good idea,' chimed in Mark.

'Is this really the last day we're allowed to look at girls in school dresses without being perverts,' added Will. He was always a bit tapped.

Clay and Simon gave each other a look and telepathically decided to have a last look around.

All the marketing bullshit artists were still there.

'Maybe Andy was right,' said Simon. Clay just nodded and continued looking around this shit show waste of time. From one end to another, side to side, he only saw con artists. That is until they saw one mad woman waving a flyer at a bunch of private school girls. 'Over here,' said Simon, gesturing for Clay to follow him.

They approached the mad lady waving flyers, as the private school girls pulled private girl faces and walked away in disgust. 'We're going to university,' Clay heard one of them say in disgust as their little gaggle moved on.

'TAFE boys,' the mad lady wove her flyers at Clay and Simon. TAFE- technical college. A place where you could learn a trade. Simon took a flyer.

'I'm off to university,' said Clay.

'Well don't forget about us,' the not so mad lady said. Clay took a flyer and moved on.

Like that persistent memory you can't escape from that resides in the back of your mind; Clay never forgot.

Chapter Four.

Escaping from one zoo into another, the young group of friends entered the amusement park. 'This park is filled with dangerous and exciting things,' the sign out front said. The two things teenagers worship the most. But it still wasn't about danger and excitement yet. It was the last day of school; it was about being seen. Old habits die hard. For some those old habits would never die.

Clay knew where Carly was. She'd headed straight to the bumper cars. He was going to follow but his mate Luke grabbed him by the shoulder and took him up the ski lift to the top of the mountain.

There was no snow, it was a warm day.

The view from the top of the mountain set everyone there speechless. It could not be described with the limited extensions of human communication. Luke pointed and told Clay, pointing to the bottom of the hill, 'We go down now.'

They hired a pair of skateboards with Tonka truck wheels designed for travelling over grass.

'Kamikaze it,' Luke yelled at Clay before pointing his skateboard straight down the green grassy hill. Clay felt obliged to follow. Luke was his mate and he wouldn't let him go down alone.

Straight down. The ride was an excursion in the paranoia of falling off and getting really hurt. Luke fell off and went tumbling. Clay, who was following, fell off at the same place and tumbled. Bruises, grazers and enduring scars were the prices that were paid.

At the bottom Luke was smiling; Clay was smiling. And, although she hadn't been up the mountain, smiling from the bottom of the ski lift, was Carly.

Chapter Five.

There was a pub at the university. Was that Clay's downfall? Probably not.

He'd borrowed twenty bucks off his mother in the car park while he was drinking one afternoon with Carly. She asked him to be her boyfriend. For some unknown reason Clay rejected her.

So what do you do with your life when you go to university and don't graduate?

Worlds at One

(an Australian story)

Chapter One.

It was quiet. That's something to be thankful for. Lucy; the morning star was out. Where it usually was. Visible from the small back balcony, just over the urban bushes and the treetops.

Jeremy had been romancing his computer for around nine months now and the window beside his front door had just split right down the middle. He was lucky it still kept the heat in.

But what was romancing a computer? A tablet helps; you can move it around the room. Maybe that's why the window next to the front door had an adverse reaction. Maybe it was just the wind.

Shit. The hum of the city traffic was waking up again and Jeremy had to hunt down, then burn through yet another cigarette whilst watching Lucy and the silver half-moon slowly but surely disappear once more. There are thousands of reasons not to smoke cigarettes but traffic and imminent daytime are not one of them.

Jeremy went back downstairs and romanced his computer some more, tapping- it seemed aimlessly at the keyboard and wishing mostly for sleep. It had been another long night.

It might have been a noise from the inevitable morning, or the rats in the walls; but perhaps it was an electron firing in the brain. An electron that had been in existence the whole of human history; and prehistory; and the formation of the planet and the solar system and the galaxy. Maybe since the very moment of the big bang. In short: an idea. A fully formed thought that emerges full and complete as if it had always been there.

Jeremy opened a new document and began to write:

SUBJECT: Creating a New Union.

Dear Comrades, both Leninists, Trotskyists and Compassionate Christians. Jews, Muslims and all of the Eastern Religions. Agnostic, Atheist, Pagans, Sophists, Nihilists; and especially all of the crazy people in the world.

I IMPLORE YOU ALL, IN THIS STILL FECUND WORLD TO MAKE SOME IRRESISTIBLE YET IMPOSSIBLE CHANGES. LET US SUPPORT THE MOST VULNERABLE IN OUR ADVANCED ECONOMIES IN ORDER TO FOMENT REVOLUTION IN UNDEVELOPED ECONOMIES.

Solidarity forever, in my mind, means solidarity for all. Let us have solidarity, or sympathy for the unemployed; and help that great mass of people have empathy with

each other. Let us develop a union for the unemployed, if for no other fact than to give the unemployed some idea of self-worth and self-identification.

In addition to this, as with any union, the ancillary benefits are self-evident: mass organisation for people who want decent work at a decent pay.

The self-worth and self-identification that would be the primary goal of this union leads to a determination that would eradicate the desire to sit at home and partake in narcotics all day (because I know that this is the first reaction many people will have to this idea).

Imagine grappling this enormous economic resource into a country's economic priority and you may even imagine the possibility of ending endless growth on what is, undeniably, a finite planet.

Can we all have some peace, love and mercy for those without reliable family connections.

These are facts to live with. Day to day.

Yours in brotherly and sisterly fraternity, sincerely

Jeremy Spook.

Jeremy emailed this to the Australian Council of Trade Unions, the ACTU. He was Australian after all; and despite ventures on the European continent, he had never set foot inside of America.

That was enough big words for a little while and so, mind reeling, he laid his head softly against the keyboard and found some sleep.

Chapter Two.

Now that may seem strange and fringe; even lunatic to a lot of people. Something impossible and beyond reasonable belief. Well now it really got strange.

Jeremy woke up. Or had he. Have you ever seen the full moon partly eclipsed by something science couldn't and was not equipped to explain? Never mind. I suppose some people will call it a leap of faith; psychiatrists will refer to it as a break with reality- an episode. But some… some will find some truth in the pages that follow.

Gavin, Jeremy's next-door neighbour politely suggested that there was no use in going any further… but fuck him and the horse he rode in on. He was a nice man but Jeremy was a stubborn bastard.

What happened next? New-agers call it enlightenment. Druggies call it the climb. Alcoholics call it a moment of clarity. Religious people curse the climb. Tech freaks call it the future. So much for romancing the computer; Jeremy was now inside of it.

He remembered being led down a steep, narrow set of winding stairs. There was a guy at the bottom of the stairs who had obviously lived a hard life. He simply said: "You've landed in the ghetto. Welcome to the basement.

Despite feeling as if he were handcuffed he, Jeremy, couldn't explain the feeling of finally feeling alive.

Chapter Three.

It was certainly strange; but somehow familiar.

The green smoke that was released periodically was calming. The guys in the middle of this dark space were outfitted with balaclavas and they were nothing if not interesting. The sign in front of their DJ's booth was a title in capital letters that said: This Is Serious Mum. TISM.

Jeremy saw a blackboard, filled in with chalk. Old school. It was a list of rules… maybe guidelines. First was: If You Kill Anyone down here, you go into the 88-minute Dance... be prepared! The rest were unintelligible to Jeremy's fresh eyes.

Jeremy's mind was reeling and having to follow rules he didn't understand did not help. Where did he fit in down here? Well; he found his way listening to the DJ's. It was amazing how many seemingly familiar faces were surrounding him. Even the pop stars eventually ended up down here; and TISM seemed to take the piss out of them all.

There were a couple of men up above everyone else. On a stage within the stage that was the drama unfolding all around him. Wanting to find out just what the hell the 88-minute dance was, and what the killing involved, Jeremy fought his way through the crowd and grabbed at a weapon attached to the base of the stage. It had one long steel curved side with a pair of handles opposite. He was later told it was a Batlith- a science fiction ceremonial weapon. Things were strange enough; why not add a bit of science fiction. Jeremy roared on stage and slashed down the two figures that stood out in the basement the most.

The last words he heard were "Welcome to the Dance."

It's important at this point to note that Jeremy had no idea what he was doing. He was fresh and arrogant and just a little bit brave. He soon learnt what bravery was.

Chapter Four.

Introductions were quick. Timothy Hamlet and Decland Rudd.

The walls began to groan.

"Quick", said Declan. "We don't have much time," said Timothy.

"We don't have time to explain; your name's Mark Ralx down here." Declan said frantically looking around. Timothy was calmer, but only just. "Long story; the DJ's told us," he said.

MARK RALX. Karl Marx…. GEORGE BUSH and PARIS HILTON.

Before Jeremy could say "What the Fuck?" Decland was dragging him towards a blue three-seater couch whilst Timothy desperately tried to get an old amplifier to play some music.

Decland threw Jeremy in the middle of the couch and sat on his left. Timothy let out a howl of pure bacchanalia as the amplifier burst into life. He quickly sat down on Jeremy's right.

"Only the hardest of music down here," said Timothy.

"You owe us one junior," added Decland

Jeremy just nodded. Timothy and Decland's nervous energy had fed his own and now he was feeling catatonic.

The walls stopped groaning and there was a sound outside their field of vision: a mother with her daughter on a bouncy castle, squealing with glee. It sounded like the incarnation of Satan himself when the sound began coming from above their heads..

They clung to each other and listened to the steady four by four of the rock and roll, the metal riffs, hip hop rhymes and the exquisite electronic beats that kept them sane. They hung on to it and it held them back; in a visceral way, they felt it. In their guts. And the symphony..

88 minutes it lasted. The dance.

They woke up back in the basement, sweating. Timothy and Decland were home and Jeremy felt like he was beginning to belong there too. But first he had to do something.

Jeremy screamed- primal and pure- arms above his head, head turned to the roof, "For the love of all peace, humanity and love, I'm going to have a better look around this place before I do that again."

Chapter Five.

Timothy and Declan resumed their place on stage and Jeremy set off to explore the basement. His eyes were now firmly open.

Timothy yelled to Jeremy from the stage," Kid, I hate the dentist- remember that the next time you see my teeth. Enjoy your mission down here."

He turned and whispered something in Decland's ear. Jeremy turned to face his mission.

The basement was a lot bigger than it had first seemed. It was still dark and dingy, but on second look it seemed to contain all the elements the world was created of. Developed and Undeveloped. The whole world in one smoke-filled, drug-infused basement. Jeremy saw both freedom and trouble. There was a beat to how the people moved, a crowded room seemed suddenly empty.

Jeremy swayed with the crowd and the music and wandered from place to place.

As he got used to the rhythm of movement, he looked back at the stage and saw the "travel agent". A ferryman, not across the Styx but a satanic type character who ferried people into the dance. In the basement, he was the closest thing to a cop. Taking people down to the 88- minute dance was his business. His business was too linked to his power. He would be doing this job for the rest of his life. His was the voice you heard before you went down to the dance. A booming megaphone. No one else wanted that job. Jeremy was pretty sure he had written the rules on the chalk-board.

He also stumbled on an acoustic section that a small wicker hut protected from being invaded by the DJ's constant barrage. A troubadour was playing romantic folk music. Jeremy was quickly swept away from the hut.

There was also a mass orgy section where the only motto was 'Anything goes'; but you needed a mask. Jeremy didn't have one.

In a grandstand people were dancing to the music, making freely primitive gestures. They all had sunglasses and glow-sticks. Jeremy had neither and; anyway, he suspected he didn't have the right drugs.

Next to the grandstand was a medically supervised shooting gallery called the bunker. I don't mean shot-guns and rifles. They were using clean needles and some of the staff were on the meds too. They were protected from the DJ's music as long as they stayed in the booth but there were hourly changes regarding who and how long any one of them could stay there. The bunker was made of unique architecture that Jeremy could only interpret from outside. It appeared as if this was the only place in the basement where you could get a glimpse of the clear night sky, with all its stars and galaxies.

"Jeremy!" someone yelled from behind him, making him turn fast.

It was his cousin, known since they were young teenagers as Mike Alphabet. Or simply Mike.

"I'm getting out of here Jeremy, out of the basement," Mike said with a smile from ear to ear. "I'm getting married."

"Hey man," said Jeremy, "where are you getting married?"

"In a church," said Mike, "where else?"

Clinging to a friendly face, Jeremy asked, "How long have you been down here?"

"Time means nothing down here," said Mike, "Good luck," he gave Jeremy a two-handed handshake, one hand over the other, "I mean it."

The crowd swept him away. Just like they had from the folk music's wicker hut.

There was more; a lot more. Clowns, fighting bear pits, whips with chains, hip-hop champagne and metal tequila shots.

Tired, he sat down on a park bench, feeling the trouble and freedom of a homeless man watching all of humanity slide past.

A neatly dressed man with a friendly face sat inconspicuously next to him but made firm and confident eye contact from behind a set of clear rimmed glasses. "Hi. I'm a Christian. Do you want to talk?"

Jeremy was tired and confused and still feeling the trouble. He let out a frustrated breath and simply pleaded, "Well I'm a Christian too!"

The neatly dressed man gave an understanding smile, stood up and softly said, "Well I'll leave you alone then." He smiled once more and walked away, searching for the next lonely person on a park bench.

Jeremy felt alone as an orphan's first memories. Someone offered him a drink; he politely accepted. The trouble began to fade, only to be replaced by pure freedom. But it was distant; he stood up and began to walk again.

Far away he heard a song being repeated; softer than what the DJ's were playing but with more repetition. It was a chant; an anthem. The YMCA. The Young Men's Christian Association. The Y. He headed towards it.

Chapter Six.

There was a pentagon and a pagan symbol connecting each corner of that particular section of the basement. Three corners of the section were in a Chorus, yelling "Fuck You" to the rest of the basement whilst acting out the dance of the Y.M.C.A. They sounded very happy, if you can be happy whilst yelling "Fuck You". Jeremy was impressed. They were rebels and Jeremy identified with that.

He walked past the YMCA crowd slowly.

But what about the other two corners of the pentagon?

There was a giant penguin riding an elephant, spanning a street from side to side, running in-between the last two corners. The crowd spilled onto the street. Who were these people?

Jeremy asked. They looked like they had a story to tell.

One woman with too much make-up on, said, "We are courtesans." A nice way of saying prostitute. Another woman, with no make-up on, said "We are gay." And she didn't sound very happy about it.

Jeremy crossed the road to the side of the street with the beautiful costumes. He wasn't sure if it was the colours or the music. Trance music played and it reminded him of a movie. The sunny side of the street. He walked into the head of the elephant. There was a wise receptionist reading an erotic novel; she pointed him in the right direction.

The costumes were only matched by the patron's exuberance. Skinny, fat, black, white, yellow, in-between; they were all there. Jeremy was no movie star but he quickly saw that no one else there was either. People were just celebrating their freedom. Their freedom and their lust.

And there she was. At a distance, she looked half-caste aboriginal; decorated in a blue skirt, yellow tiara and silver earrings. Jeremy didn't notice any of this at first. He noticed the grace and sway of her movement. She danced like he imagined Helen of Troy might have. She could have started wars. The curve of her neck, swaying gently, side to side, then backwards and forwards.

Before he could overthink it, Jeremy was placing one foot in front of the other, walking towards her. He was a novice so he simply asked, "What's your favourite colour in wonderland?"

She smiled, looked to the floor and replied, "Blue". The conversation had started. Jeremy paused. So, she said, "Hi my name's Shelly."

"Hi Shelly, I'm Jeremy. I wear blue shoes". She laughed; Jeremy smiled.

Shelly said, "This is my best friend Shazza," and she turned to her right to introduce Shazza but Shazza was busy smoking something and in deep conversation with someone else.

To move the conversation along Jeremy asked Shelly a question, smiling again he said, "Are there any women down here who aren't courtesans?"

"Not in this pentagon." She said, firm and self-assured, "A girl got to be married or be a whore."

It didn't register with Jeremy. He had proverbial stars in his eyes. He didn't care what she was.

What must have been her pimp appeared wearing a baseball cap. He asked Jeremy for a smoke. Jeremy gave him one. Shazza turned from being the graceful swan into something far more awkward and rigid.

"I need an ice cream," said Shazza, "Where's Wendy's?"

"Where is the closest Wendy's?"Jeremy replied out of instinct. Shazza laughed in spite of herself.

"Up and around the corner." The man in the baseball cap said instantaneously.

Shazza drove her finger into the ground and in a monotone voice, she tersely said, "I didn't get that joke!"

The man in the baseball cap looked down. Jeremy looked up. Neither laughed.

There was some sort of commotion. The lights shining on the elephant flickered. Decland Rudd and Timothy Hamlet appeared out of the YMCA crowd,

"It's Tuesday morning. You're going back to the dance", they said in unison. "You're not to blame, sort of; but you're about to find out why the hell we are all down here." They both had that vacant intense look that indicated lack of sleep. They both knew what they were saying and had spent hard thought upon it. "Back to the dance, sweetheart".

Chapter Seven.

Jeremy tried to struggle but Declan and Timothy were playing a different game; listening to a different beat.

"Wait", it was Shazza and both Timothy and Decland froze.

"He needs this". Shazza turned Jeremy around and opened his scared, clenched fist.

"You'll need this." She looked Jeremy right in the eyes and placed a shell in his open hand. Then she closed his fist again.

"Remember; Shelly"

She turned and ran away. Jeremy saw her wipe a tear from her eye.

"Thankyou", he whispered. He didn't understand the significance, but he knew genuine emotion when he saw it.

Short but sweet and already in-love with the idea.

As per the rules that were written on that chalkboard, Decland handed Timothy a shotgun and he blew Jeremy's brain out. Then Timothy shot Decland.

Back to the Dance.

Chapter Eight.

An air raid siren was blaring. Jeremy didn't know why he knew it was an air raid siren; he just did. The fire, smoke and dilapidated buildings may have been a clue. Osmosis. The spirit of the people seeking cover from the threat was infectious. They were obviously united against some kind of enemy.

"I've been here before," stated Timothy, "Follow me."

They went down another winding staircase.

"This is a tube station," said Jeremy "We're in London."

"Not a London you would recognize, kid", said Timothy.

"This is the second world war", said Decland.

They were underground and the shaking arches with the detonations sounding from above confirmed that the Luftwaffe were overhead. They found a spare spot in the mostly terrified crowd and sat down. It stank. Londoners at this time in their history didn't have time for washing. The government initially closed the tube as a means for bomb shelters; but the public took over. This was the result. People making tea, giving out snacks for the kids and terrified men and women fucking under the fear of bombardment. Just like soldiers in the trenches of the first world war; seeking comfort from brutality.

Jeremy took this all in at once while Decland and Timothy sipped tea that a nice, motherly lady had brought them.

"Settle in, kid, this is World War two." said Timothy, "It takes longer than eighty-eight minutes" "But I thought…" Jeremy vainly grasped.

"Don't think", said Decland, "Lets just see out the night. See out the raid."

The bombs continued to drop. No doubt people were dying above; on the streets. Jeremy knew that German cities- and Japanese cities for that matter- would get a lot worse as the war progressed. He rolled over and tried to sleep but just ended up listening to the pounding of the detonations above.

If this wasn't going to last 88 minutes, then what was the number? Jeremy wasn't going to like the answer. He was going to have to learn to deal with this hourly; hourly, daily.

Chapter Nine.

It was morning. The bombs had stopped and the people of London politely filed out of the tube station. Into their broken city. Smoke from the fires filled the street; it was a grey dawn.

"Won't they notice us as different?" Jeremy thought it was the obvious question to ask. He still wore the same stuff he'd had on when he first went down into the basement; a loose black

vest over a football jersey and torn jeans. Timothy was in his best rock star gear; white puffy shirt, black vest and leather pants. Decland wore shorts and a red fat wreck-chords t-shirt.

"They never notice," said Decland, "We just sort of blend in."

Jeremy felt excitement in his guts, "Can we change history?" Maybe that was why they were all down here living this ridiculous living. Who wouldn't want to stop the Nazi's?

There was a pause. It felt quiet even surrounded by thousands of Londoners. "No", Timothy eventually replied, "It's… it's all to do with perception. We're not exactly sure." "Why London? Why World War 2", Jeremy continued.

"Stop," said Decland gently. "Use our own brain for a while," said Timothy, "Let's find something to eat. Follow the uniforms."

There were uniforms of all the allied nations winding their way through a broken London. Many shopfronts, filled with broken glass and half destroyed entrances, had signs that said "Open for Business."

It was the morning after an all too familiar air-raid. Jeremy was once again surprised and mute. For millions of people this was a daily routine. Jeremy couldn't imagine how they did it.

Following the uniforms, they found an officer's mess with a conveniently located soup kitchen next-door. Both had suffered damage from the bombing. They had a meal of weak soup and bread.

"What now?" Jeremey found his voice again.

"We wait for dark," said Decland. "It'll be a big one," said Timothy.

Chapter Ten.

It was night again and they had once again filed methodically into a tube station. It was a habit for the hundreds of thousands of civilians. Tonight, would be different. Decland smiled, Timothy nodded his head and sighed. This night would be broadcast back above to the underground that was the basement. Sounds from the dance would be picked over and interpreted by the many splendid and not so splendid areas of the basement.

The bombs of the Luftwaffe began on que.

"It's story time," said Timothy. He opened a bottle of gin.

THE CONVERSATION

Timothy began: "My mother told me this story in a dream. She died in childbirth. I never knew her." He crossed his legs and began rocking slowly back and forth. "This is the tale of the little girl and the parrot.

"The little girl finds an abandoned baby parrot in her backyard. It is in a nest half-way up a regular sized tree. Wanting to care for this little parrot she climbs the tree, cupping the baby parrot in her small hands she carefully climbs down the tree and takes the baby parrot through the back door into the house and then through to the bathroom. Resting the parrot next to the basin, she climbs to the top of the adjacent shelf and retrieves her parents' hair-dryer. She climbs down and crosses the room to where the parrot lay, softly chirping a quiet call of distress. She points the hair-dryer at the baby parrot and flicks the switch to soft. The hair-dryer roars into life and the parrot's chirps become distressed. Unfortunately, her parent's hair-dryer has a problem- the switch is broken. The parrot's wings are burned.

"The little parrot can never feel the gentle breeze of flight again. The little girl stops searching for parrot's in her backyard.

"Now; two questions. Who are you? The parrot or the little girl; and who is to blame? The hair-dryer was on the top shelf."

Timothy stopped rocking, uncrossed his legs and laid down flat on the floor. Jeremy remained silent.

Decland stood up and took over the conversation: "An author once said, 'The sacred texts are like sacred places. Just as we should be clean when we enter sacred places, so should we be clean when we enter sacred texts.' Choose your own sacred texts. My story is called 'The Ancient Game of Skull and Bones: A story of the Garden of Stone, Rock or Pebble.' After hearing the little girl and the parrot this will make less sense. Perhaps I should have gone first.

their cocks, the other over the liver. At every gathering the dead were honoured by emptying a cup of wine. The Grecian Urn, or maybe the origins of the Holy Grail. Two teams, two cups. First person to empty the cup would freeze the people of the other team until morning. The freeze brings nightmares whilst the other side feasts; food, wine and women. This, of course becomes a deadly contest as to who can empty each other's cup and maintain supremacy of the night.

"To unfreeze or keep the other side frozen, each side has to devour the liver of a dead man. A lot of grave-digging is the result- not quite the resurrection the dead were hoping for.

"So, the story goes… the Skull and Bones- amongst others- play this game till this very day. The aim is to keep their lust. Without this they see nothing."

Decland sat down and looked at Jeremy, "Your turn Mark."

"Mark?" Jeremy had forgotten.

"That's your name down here, Mr. Ralx."

Jeremy paused, remained seated and begun:

"Seeing as we're in London in the middle of the blitz, I'd like to talk about what happened after this war. In particular the United Nations and the state of Israel. Article 21 and Agenda 21. Article 21- The Universal Declaration of Human Rights which happened after the war, and Agenda 21 which was created in the early 90's and sought to plan for sustainable development. They..."

Timothy suddenly sat bolt upright and apologised for interrupting. "Sorry… but do you know anything about Agenda 21. Your faith in the United Nations is a display of naivete."

Decland nodded silently.

Timothy continued, "Who gets to live and who gets to die? Who chooses?" Timothy shook his head from side to side, trying to decide how to make his point. He found the spark and once again began to talk in a softer voice, "Personally, I lost faith in the UN and all things associated with what they call globalisation, when I was in Arnhem land. I was visiting an Aboriginal community and an elder sat me down and told me a true story. A wealthy philanthropist visited their community and decided to invest in their social culture. He built three houses; they were all the same design. A central structure with bedrooms, toilet and kitchen and a veranda surrounding the home. They were so popular that virtually all the community moved into these three houses. They were better than the urban houses most people might consider as normal. Then, one day, a UN official rocks up to inspect these new homes. He ordered them to be bulldozed and made a grant available for more suburban homes.

"Walls were smashed, toilets destroyed and kitchens left in a mess. No veranda's. Progress, right."

Jeremy was well and truly silenced. It was a giant thing for him to let go of the United Nations… but he had too. Timothy's experience and opinion, and Decland's silent agreement, were held in too high a regard; with much love and respect.

Jeremy remained silent for a while; Timothy and Decland quietly waited.

Jeremy went back to his initial point with a twist, "Well, I'd like to discuss what this war is about, world war2. Democracy combining with Communism to defeat Fascism. Some people think there's no difference between Communism and Fascism. I disagree strongly; in fact, I couldn't disagree more."

Jeremy was sitting and he pounded the ground with his right fist as he made each of the following points: "Communism is about One world, One race and One life."

Decland moved to say something but Timothy spoke first, "I admire your spirit but it's not that simple."

Decland, undeterred, made his point, "That means war; put your guns away. Children die every day. All economies are rotten."

"Hold on Decland," Timothy chimed in again, "If you view communism as only an economic system, you're kind of missing the point."

"Dear Timothy," said Decland, "I understand that there's aspects of the economy that can't be measured with monetary value, but it's still fundamentalism against fundamentalism."

Jeremy found his voice, "Are you talking about restricting entrepreneurial spirit?" he sighed, thinking deeply, "I believe in a system that rewards imagination, both in business and art, with not more money but more respect and fame. That's what people should be famous for."

"An interesting idea," replied Decland; Timothy nodded.

The bombs dropping above them had faded into a mysterious silence. It was dawn. Timothy dispatched the rest on the gin. The people of London began shuffling politely into the outside world.

Chapter Eleven.

Timothy spoke, "Some unprecedented shit has just gone on. Back up in the basement things will be crazy; they will be vibrating. We have to go deeper."

"WHY?" Jeremy and Decland said together.

"For the sake of our home and one day possibly your fucking home too, one day; the basement."

Timothy swore some more and waited for Decland to speak.

"We have to go deeper," Decland finally agreed.

"We do," nodded Jeremy.

How was this going to be sorted.

Timothy found voice again, "Declan you're going to the 60's. Specifically, JFK. John Fitzgerald Kennedy."

"Shit, OK," Decland said in an undertone. Jeremy was lost.

"You're coming with me to Leningrad." Timothy told Jeremy.

"Jeremy felt like a kid, so he simply followed Decland, "Shit; OK."

Chapter Twelve.

"Have you ever been in the dance this long, that is, without returning to the Basement?" Jeremey asked Timothy.

Timothy turned to look at Jeremy, who was behind him, "No-one has," he said. "Welcome to Leningrad." A sign said.

It was freezing. Snow was everywhere. The city of the revolution was surrounded by Nazis; only lake Lagoda offered a vital supply line. Or was it Ladoga; Jeremy had forgotten.

"I guess we'll stay here. For a start," said Timothy, pointing to an old bombed out cellar. The cellar was fairly well intact. The building above it was frosty rubble.

"Is this real?" Jeremy naively asked.

"It's real enough for the eight odd million people who are starving here," Timothy counted.

The cellar of the bombed-out building was already occupied. "Well, we're going to have to fit in," Timothy told Jeremy. People were eating what passed for bread. Sawdust and mixed up soap. Timothy introduced the duo as 'Tim and Mark' then whispered to Jeremy, "I've been to this level before. There's nothing. People die; no reasons, that's it. But there is a part of me that makes them want to suffer; and not because they deserve it. They do. Don't forget in North Africa at the moment it's fundamentalism against fundamentalism; except for the odd soccer game truce."

"I still call it football," said Jeremy.

"Touché," was Timothy's reply.

So anyway... It was clear here. Nobody was going to help Timothy and Jeremy survive. So, they crossed the road to another snowed out wreck of a building. There were three rooms. One for the women and children just trying to survive. One for the men, who worked in the adjacent factory for the war effort; and the third room was a small vodka shop.

Jeremy settled down to work for the war effort. Timothy was quickly promoted to bartender in the vodka shop. Jeremy, or Marx as the locals called him, was happy doing menial labour for a living and Timothy was happy talking to customers in the vodka shop. Both were serving their purpose in the war effort; until one day the agents came around. Stalinists. They shot Timothy between the eyes for knowing too much. That was it, dead. Just like that.

Jeremy was alone.

Chapter Thirteen.

Dencland woke up and he was dressed in a suit and tie. No more shorts and t-shirt. He sensed Timothy was a goner; now it was his responsibility to carry on. As the assistant to

the advisor of the president he had a great responsibility. He had access to the white house; in a critical time. He had all the privileges of a white man in power. Long lunches and even more influence.

It wasn't easy for Decland; he still considered the basement his home and yet he saw great opportunity with his position.

The first thing a fellow aide said to him was: "Remember, Joseph Kennedy lobotomized his own daughter with the callow, vain ambition of putting one of his sons in the white house."

Censoring the truest of his own thoughts, Decland found it easy to fit in with the Kennedy administration. They were good people, privileged people; but they had the correct intentions.

It was just after the disaster that was the Bay of Pigs invasion. Kennedy refused to supply air support to something his military wanted but that he had inherited from the Pentagon. It was an early disaster in Kennedy's presidency. The mood was sober.

There was a lot of bureaucracy to contend with. Decland made the observation that that came with governments of all sorts. Some good, some infuriatingly excessive. But the biggest bureaucracy faced by the Kennedy's was the military. Decland was familiar with the basement; a place he still wanted to get back too. The fish bowl of presidential politics was easy to deal with. What good could he do there?

Decland knew the Cuban Missile Crisis was just around the corner. What little difference he could make he decided to smooth the path between the Hawkes in the military and the sensible centre of the politicians. He may well have saved humanity.

The Missile Crisis came and went. Decland prayed like everyone else. Sometimes there is nothing else to do. Then came Dallas. The assassination. The killing of an innocent who wanted to change things.

That was Decland's exit point. No one knew exactly what had happened; but there was something deeper than a lone gunman in a book depository. Decland resigned and hung up his suit and tie. He knew Timothy was a goner but he felt he had a responsibility to visit Jeremy again. He knew where he'd be. It was just a matter of time travel again.

Chapter Fourteen.

Jeremy found himself alone in the cold Soviet Union in the middle of the Second World War. Japanese nationalists were threatening Australia. He felt in his bones that he had to get back there. He wanted to go home.

Without Timothy he had no way of getting out of the dance and back into the basement. He bought a motor bike for two days' worth of rations. He rode that bike across the Urals, followed the trans-Siberian railroad and found himself on the east coast of Russia.

The great secret of the Second World War is Japan's mission to break the Chinese spirit and become their very own regional superpower. Jeremy avoided China by getting on a fishing boat in Vladivostok and earning his passage to the United States. Land of the free.

He arrived on the West Coast; San Francisco. The immigration guards didn't know what to do with Jeremy, so they sent him to an internment camp. It was full of Japanese-Americans who were there because of their heritage. He befriended an old man who told him his story.

While he and his wife were behind barbed wire, their son was fighting for the USA in the Marine Core.

So: How to get out of a Japanese internment camp? Well, Jeremy played along. To everyone in camp he was known as Mark Ralx.

The old man Jeremy had met went as Toshiba. It was a nickname. The same as in Leningrad they worked together for the war effort; eventually they earned the respect of the very young American guards. At first, they earnt little privileges- extra food for the most part. Gradually they earnt the freedom to roam around the camp; talking and conspiring with other prisoners.

It was only the Japs the Americans had directed their wrath against. If they chose to lock up all the Germans and Italians they would have to have depopulated half of New York City. Pearl Harbour wasn't only enough to bring the US into the war; it had damaged their pride. It was a convenient enemy.

The fact that Jeremy didn't look Japanese was the deciding factor in how he eventually escaped detention. We would all like to live in a world where appearances didn't matter; but for the moment they do. Such is life. And so are the genetic hang-ups of the inexperienced and uneducated.

Jeremy was eventually released into unindentured war work; with the trust of the guards and the camp detainees. He took his opportunity.

There was what was called a bridal train from the west coast of Australia across that vast continent to the east coast where all the brides of American servicemen joined up with all the brides from the other American servicemen to be shipped across the Pacific to their new home and their new husbands. Jeremy caught the boat going the other way.

Jeremy arrived in Sydney. His home town. And when the band played Waltzing Matilda, he was not ashamed to admit he shed a tear. But he couldn't stay there long; things were happening to the north. The Japanese army, with their intimidating war flag, were still on the march.

The place where it would stop was a previously insignificant place in New Guinea: Kokoda.

The Japanese navy might have been stopped at Midway by the Americans, but the army was stopped by Australians defending their homeland; at Kokoda.

Chapter Fifteen.

A lot has been written about Kokoda. In Australia at least.

The famous Kokoda trail, where the affectionately termed fuzzy wazzy's- the locals- carried wounded across a torturous trek; keeping the wounded safe and keeping the supply lines open. Jeremy didn't fight; he acted as a stretcher bearer, helping the locals. It was on one of these treks that he met Decland. Decland had known where to go, and Jeremy didn't disappoint.

They recognised each other at the same time.

Jeremy was carrying a stretcher, which he politely asked his mate to set down gently. The two men who had first met in that drug-infused land of the basement embraced. They paused, looked each other in the eyes and then embraced again. The words took some time to flow.

Eventually Jeremy stated, "Timothy's dead."

"I know," replied Decland. They were both covered in mud. "I'm going somewhere you can't follow," Decland added.

"Back to the basement?" Jeremy asked even though he knew the answer.

For lack of anything else to do, Decland spread his hands and said the obvious, "You're stuck here. There's nothing else I can say but I'm sorry." He looked away.

Jeremy grabbed him by the arm, drawing eye contact again. "If that's the way it has to be, then that's just that. This cause is way bigger than both of us. Way bigger than Timothy even."

Decland was surprised by Jeremy's candour; he had obviously learnt some very hard lessons. "Goodbye Jeremey," said Decland; and all he could do was walk away.

Jeremy signalled to his mate and together they raised the stretcher from the ground and carried on.

Chapter Sixteen.

Fast forward generations. Jeremy was still alive. Like the Jap soldiers that didn't surrender well into the '70's; Jeremy's war continued. There is a place in PNG for lost souls: Manus Island. The enemy was now apparently displaced persons. Mostly men. They left their women behind looking forward to the day where both their suffering would end in a new world.

The detention centre on Manus was closed by the Australian government. All the refugees had to go home to war zones or fit in with the local population. With their women on their mind, most tried to fit in with the local population, still hoping for a better future. Jeremy had nowhere to go so he joined them trying to fit in.

He found himself on the beach. Not the worst place to be; with shelter. The problem was: in the first place his shelter was haphazard. People began approaching him for items from his walls and ceiling. Like a bum asking for a cigarette, and then another one for later. Jeremy didn't have the vocabulary to refuse. His shelter was slowly destroyed. By the grace of god someone offered him a swag. A small tent to live in.

Chapter Seventeen.

Jeremy reached into his pocket looking for his pack of cigarettes; he found a shell… Shelly. His mind wandered backwards and he dreamed about the basement…

Chapter Eighteen.

Jeremy awoke. There was nothing else to do. He started carving little wood figurines with a pocket knife his sister had given him. He had dreams of making a chess set. Jeremy was shit at chess.

He still, after all this, liked to consider himself a Socialist. But as he held a drink in one hand and a self-rolled cigarette in the other; he had to ask why? Maybe; but throwing good money after bad at a broken system seemed insane. A system infested with capitalist greed where people insisted that more money for themselves was good for the world. It was insane. The problem was deeper. Darker.

Maybe it was something against a shared hatred. Something that more resembled a shared loved for a shared humanity

The people in Africa; the people in the Middle-East; the people in poverty and without help and hope everywhere. The answers are elusive. What the hell was Jeremy to do about it; stuck on Manus Island. Utter helplessness set in and Jeremy wondered about his own privileged life and those more privileged still. A lot of misguided innocence on both sides...

Even though he was a long-lapsed Catholic; he had left that to his youth. Jeremy felt the lord's prayer tremble on the murmurs of his restless lips:

"Our Father…" and so on and so on.

Chapter Nineteen.

Jeremy- for want of anything else to do- leafed through his favourite book. A book he had inherited from his Grandmother. The complete works of Willian Shakespeare.

To be; or not to be,

Continued.

Home

Chapter One.

Jack Khan was in handcuffs. As they entered the hospital the nice policeman took the handcuffs off.

"You don't need these," he said, and just shook his head. Jack never did learn his name. The policeman's partner just nodded and smiled. At least Jack thought it was a smile. Maybe it was a grimace. I guess it was a success; Jack didn't recognise it as one at the time.

Jack had broken a window. The police had no choice but to either arrest him or take him to hospital.

Picture white light and white walls. Hospital. The reception. Jack asked for some Valium and it was delivered after some time. Two five milligram tablets. Jack wasn't happy. They took his blood pressure twice and some nurse colleagues said goodbye to the nurse who was in charge of looking after Jack. The nurse wasn't happy; he was just doing his job.

Jack Khan was assessed and promptly put into the west wing. He had a small glance at the east wing… god only knows what was going down in there.

But why was Jack being committed? Let's go back in time.

Chapter Two.

Jack Kahn lived in a small flat underneath his grandmother. It was her place and he paid a rent that was negligent. He was a drunk and a fool. Comparatively. There were three bottle shops close by; he used them all.

He smashed a window. The cops were called.

There was a cacophony of VB cans lying in a corner. Victorian Bitter. Jack had a reputation to protect.

"Take your guns out and shoot me," Jack said. The police took it seriously and the next thing he knew he was in the back of a paddy wagon. In handcuffs.

There was a debate upstairs. Would they take him to the police station or the looney bin? The looney bin won. Thanks Uncle. He was in the debate. Thanks Aunty. She was in the debate too.

After what seemed like a long trip in the back of the paddy wagon; they arrived at the hospital. As Jack was escorted in, the nice policeman took off his handcuffs.

"You don't need these," he said, shaking his head at the floor.

Chapter Three.

Jack stood with legs crossed leaning on what he later found out was the meal counter. Nobody was visibly impressed; in fact, the fellow patients did a good job of ignoring him. Except for one guy. Jack thought initially that this was a possible friend. He should have known better. Friendship isn't earned with a look or a glance; it's too important to be that easy.

The politics of the west wing were lost on Jack. He would soon learn politics is everywhere.

The hospital facilities were new. It had that going for it. The people inside didn't act like they were. Jack was soon shown to his room. Number eighty-three. It was new.

Back in the common area Jack Khan learnt the name of his friend, slash nemesis. Mohammed. Mo.

Chapter Four.

Mo seemed like a lovely guy; if a bit over eager. He introduced himself to Jack; something no one ever did in the west wing, let alone the east wing. Jack had to learn everyone else's name by looking at the sheet of paper blue-tacked to the office window. Jack also got to know Matty and Gwyneth. Although he never saw them again outside the hospital, they would prove to be true friends. Mo would become a curse.

The rules of the west wing were simple: do what the doctors tell you. The unwritten rules were even simpler: respect the nurses and try not to piss anyone off. Mo obeyed these rules. He tried not to piss anyone off. He tried but he failed.

Chapter Five.

Gwyneth smoked rolled cigarettes. Jack was in love the moment he saw her tin of tobacco. It had a red and white unicorn on the lid.

In a different way, he also fell in love with Matty. Matty carried around a beaten-up copy of the bible and the latest form guide from the daily toilet paper. It was the only thing worth reading. Jack would pick winners out of thin air; Matty made constant phone calls to his Dad who would lovingly place the bets. They never won all that much. Maybe they should have been betting on places.

Matty also put his tag, Matzuk, on every pamphlet, every sheet of paper placed on the walls that he could find. They were all bullshit anyway. Why the administrators of the ward chose to put them out there at all was unknown. At least Matty did something about it

Jack, Gwyneth and Matty would talk about everything and nothing. What a fuckin cliché… but still true! From bible verses to the price of cigarettes, it was all important. Too often Mo was lurking in the background. There was only so much room in the west wing; if they could have found privacy they would have.

Gwyneth had a way of explaining it: "There's a monkey on everyone's back in here. We're all trying to get rid of it." Jack Khan's monkey laughed so hard he decided to stay.

Chapter Six.

In defence of Mo:

The rules in the west wing were strict. Not as strict as the east wing but still draconian. Everyone in those communities had their secrets. Everyone. Including nurses, doctors and even the lunch lady who would only give you a cappuccino if you put your words in the right order.

All were frightened and brave at the same time. All were stifled and free. Exhilarating and terrifying.

Mo was part of the family in there. The doctors weren't. Everyone in there had issues; maybe Mo's just cut a bit deeper. He kept playing 'Two Little Boys' on the communal radio player. It's a powerful song but Mo just had too much investment in it. You cling to whatever's familiar in there because so much isn't.

Jack would catch Mo staring into pace; aimlessly. Pressure got to everyone in there; everyone showed it in different ways. Mo was a gentle soul just a little bit unequipped to deal with the pressure. The heat.

At the end of the day, everyone was just trying to see another sunrise. Maybe it was just harder for Mo. So it goes.

Chapter Seven.

Mo was doing his catch and release thing in the doorway that led out to the garden. It annoyed the shit out of Jack. Just another day in the loony bin. At times like these, Jack wished Mo was in a padded cell. He knew that would be unfair but he couldn't help his thoughts and emotions.

Much later Jack would meet people who had spent time in prison. The ward and prison had that in common; everybody did their best not to be pissed or be pissed off by other people. Things ran more smoothly that way. It was a struggle. For some more than others.

That was the day Jack got a three-hour pass; outside of the ward. He could roam around the city as long as he was back before dinner. That meant real coffee and a resupply of cigarettes. Most importantly it meant a taste of what freedom felt like.

Not everyone got a pass and after two-weeks inside Jack wondered how you could cope without it. Cope they did though. The truth was some didn't want the taste of freedom. Unpleasant memories. For Jack, being free and on the streets amongst the bustle were the only memories worth holding close.

That first day, that first taste of freedom after what seemed like an age, was particularly special. He thought about procuring a schooner from one of the local pubs but thought the

break from booze was actually a positive. Jack settled for coffee and cigarettes in the park whilst reading the first proper newspaper, the first little bit of the journalism that suited his mind in weeks. There was a busker playing jazz on a beat up old saxophone. Jack sat, slowly breathing out smoke and let the notes drift him to a better place. Too soon it was time to return. He lied and said he had already had dinner and instead of jockeying for place in the dining room, sat next to the large stain-[glassed window near the exit to the west wing. Jack didn't even mind the religious undertones of that glorious window.

It was during those moments that Jack Khan decided he wanted out of that place. He finally realised to get out he would have to play their game. Such is the way psyche wards are run.

Chapter Eight.

Participation was the key. Jack had been rejecting this concept since he was brought in wearing hand-cuffs. He was getting nowhere fighting the system from the inside and to get out he realised he would have to prove to be an otherwise caring and respectable member of society. The thought of tightrope walks sprung into Jack's mind.

The main problem Jack had to confront was the core belief his experiences, albeit wild ones, had led him too. The death of the white race.

The death of the white race but not white culture. It was hard for the prison guards, err, that is, psychiatrists to understand. But play the game he must.

Jack's opportunity came when a friendly activity organiser asked him to join a discussion group. It wasn't like AA where you had to admit to a higher power; everyone sat in a circle and participated if they wanted to. The topic was anger. Most of the talkers talked about their experiences with anger and how they had been detrimental. They were right; but Jack had something to say. He spoke when there was a gap in the rather stilted conversation.

'I believe anger can be turned into a positive emotion, when channelled correctly.' He used both arms to depict what he thought channelling anger was like. Pushing outwards from his body as if he were trying to remove a truck from a handicapped parking spot. It's funny what experiences will teach you.

Louise spoke up, nodding her head in passionate agreement. 'Yes, yes… now you're getting it.' Louise had thus far ignored Jeremy and Gwyn and everyone else Jack had had a conversation with.

The friendly activity organiser was happy. She nodded, smiled and said 'Good, good. Good.' And that was the catalyst. After almost three weeks Jack was talking to a social worker.

Chapter Nine.

The social worker was… well, a social worker. She didn't show much emotional investment in the conversation. She had a job and just wanted it done.

'Too easy,' she said.

'Too easy,' Jack repeated in panic.

'Too easy,' she said, emphasising both words. Jack relaxed.

He was now on the streets. His fathers place wasn't set up for him and he'd been arguing with his mama.

So, it goes…

Edward Eager Lodge. 348 Bourke street. Surry Hills.

Chapter Ten.

His mamma and her partner were kind enough to drive him from the psych ward in Liverpool all the way to the city. Onto Burke St.

348… Surry Hills. True story. He even got a red and black bag out of it. Lucky, because he'd lost his European backpack.

When he knew he was getting out of the hospital he'd taken some leave- which the authorities allowed him to do- and gone to a pub. Ground Zero in Liverpool. They've since changed the name; I guess it reminded them of the twin towers.

Anyway… as a result he needed the bathroom. This resulted in Jack pissing on the side of a busy motorway. God it felt good to defy the voices in his mind that were telling him to hold it. He just couldn't have made it that far. The fellow motorists on the motorway didn't even blink.

So it was into the lodge. Jack was stoic; he'd learnt to hold that demeanour.

The receptionist- if you could call him that, let's just call him the man behind the desk. Anyway, he went through a list of all the rules. He was gesticulating like an Italian police man conducting traffic. Jack followed but only understood about half, but was very clear when he told Jack that the second level (they were on the ground floor) was only for the

ladies. Use the elevator; the stairs are fire alarmed and the second level is painted bright pink in case there are any misunderstandings. The elevator might take a while; it's slow.

Jack politely said thanks and walked over to the elevator and pressed the button. Jack waited. It was late at night by that time and not too many people were around. It could have been people on the upper levels or it could have been the voices in Jack's head but he grew suddenly impatient. He headed for the stairs.

Opening the door greeted him with the fire alarm. Embarrassment was not a new emotion at this point and when Jack walked back out and saw the man behind the desk turn off the fire alarm he just nodded. Jack gave him a lopsided grin and a nod of appreciation; the man behind the desk waved his head, smiling. It was not the first time that someone had set off that alarm. Jack returned to the elevator and waited.

Room 7/11. It was a bare room. A plastic mattress, a nightstand and a fire-detector on the ceiling which Jack wasn't sure was in working order. Jack wanted to smoke inside so he immediately disabled the smoke detector and used the shell of its case as an ashtray. He sat on the mattress and lit a smoke and had the time to think for five minutes. It wasn't of any use; the new digs were going to have some time getting used too. There was a window. He stood on the mattress and looked out. He saw the SCG. The Sydney Cricket Ground. Jack remembered looking out of his shared bedroom in London and seeing the twin towers of the old Wembley stadium. Was that home? Is this home? The lights of the SCG were on; some sort of sporting contest- with the accompanying crowd- was in progress. The cigarette was over and Jack placed his cap over the shell of the fire alarm, laid down on the plastic mattress and after a day of particular chaos found some sleep.

Chapter Eleven.

There was a violent knock at the door. It was morning. Jack jumped straight up onto both feet like the surfer he never could be in his youth. The key jangled and the door was flung open. This would happen every morning. The custodians making sure there was no funny business going on. So it goes.

So it goes; to the ground floor for breakfast. Which table to sit at?

There was a different set up every day, but on this particular day Jack; being the young punk he was, chose to sit in the lower right corner. He was still having dreams about vegetarianism so he chose the compound meat surprise. 'Bacon', said the volunteer behind the counter where you went to collect your meal, 'no I'll have the rissole' said Jack. The guys in the lower right corner all had bacon. These guys knew what was going on and

without leaving Jack out of their conversation, they spoke in a way that left Jack wondering why the hell they weren't billionaires… maybe it was their choice. It was clear to Jack that he didn't belong at the billionaires table.

So, what to do with the rest of the days… penniless on the streets of Sydney.

Chapter Twelve.

It was nine A.M.

Jack had with him a department store plastic bag filled with a Proust book and a bottle of water. He wondered to himself how many semi-homeless people in Sydney had read Proust. Then immediately he assumed more than just a few. Didn't Proust lock himself in a cork lined apartment in Paris.

Ohhoooo the noise… well now Jack was in the middle of a world city and he had no defence except for the rats in Hyde park dissenting against the church bells invading the relative silence of a Sunday afternoon. Not the right place to concentrate on Proust. 'Fuck it' said Jack out loud. Woolloomooloo called.

Somehow on the way Jack found himself in the back streets of Darlinghurst. There were a bunch of men in a public space laying around like whales beached on a piece of city sand. He would later see them in the park at night lit up by Woodstock bourbon. They were alive; that's just how they passed their days.

Jack did get to Woolloomooloo, but his plastic bag and his Snoop Dogg hat made him a blister in a sore place. He quietly returned to Surry Hills, bought a six pack of Woodstock and drank it in the park before returning to his bed. Inside; he was lucky, plenty of people were sleeping rough.

And so the days passed… until he had to see the government about money. Chapter Thirteen.

Centrelink. It used to be called the DSS- Department of social security. Even homeless people need some money. So you still have to play the game, something Jack was never good at. Thank god we live in a western country. In India and other some places, you just have to fend for yourself. Considerations of others who can't play the game leave those poor bastards dying on the streets with a blanket and a permanent weathered expression.

The toothbrush. Is she fucken kidding? It was sitting right there on the top left side of her desk. Never mind the half hour Jack spent waiting to get there, this is what he was greeted with.

'There's a toothbrush there' he said, pointing.

'Oh, is there', with fake sincerity.

'Ok', Jack replied. It seemed a bit strange but the DSS chick didn't care. I guess a lot like nursing, the job can understandably turn you into a cold arsehole after working hard all day dealing with people's problems.

I guess that's the thing about the city. Everyone is a bit too cynical. Especially when you've been granted a bit of power.

'Your forms are out of order; I guess you did the wrong thing. Fill out these forms.'

Jack took the forms and just left. He hadn't been out there long enough to realise that these were the people you had to talk to survive or you would end up like a poor Indian prostitute dying of aids and all you've got is a cardboard box for shelter on the side of a cold concrete road.

Leaving in disgust at having to supposedly fill out more forms, Jack set a course for down the road to see a court appointed psychiatrist. Centrelink wasn't working out well so he at least wanted to stay on the right side of the law.

There was a young man in full gothic gear minus the make-up in the waiting room. Jack admired his boots but to tell the truth didn't care; so he kept to himself and unlike centrelink he didn't have to wait long.

The psychiatrist was a nice fellow; he just liked talking about himself. Jack tried talking about himself but was just shut down. The medication that helped Jack was changed

to some sort of other drug companies antipsychotic. Just like centrelink, Jack just left not protesting, wondering with an outer world perspective about what this would mean for him. The change in medication seemed a bit arbitrary. The medication he was given at the hospital, which for someone like Jack was golden. What the hell would this new stuff do... did anyone out there really care?

Walking through the waiting room on the way out, Jack noticed the young gothic devotee was still there talking to a middle-aged man who was obviously in an anxious state of flux. This middle aged man looked like a Scandinavian model- except for his teeth. Dentists were obviously not on his high list of priorities in the game of survival. He saw Jack, broke off his conversation with the goth adherent and approached.

'Are you Greek?' he asked quite pointedly. 'You have to be something, it's just not fair otherwise.'

Jack did something he always would regret. He just wanted to get out of there so he flippantly fired back, 'Nah mate; I'm Macedonian.'

The middle aged man just looked exasperated and let Jack leave without any further interaction. That was exactly what Jack wanted at the time and besides it was getting dark.

So, onto nights… and sleepless nights at that.

Chapter Fourteen.

So what did Jack do at nights? Was this still a viable home? Was he smart enough to make it one?

At eight there was a busker performing Simon and Garfunkel songs down in the Quay. Love- between middle-aged couples holding hands- was in the air. Jack wasn't sure this is what love was and kept his distance. The intimate act of holding hands for this group of couples seemed to Jack as more like the mourning of youth than true love. However; holding hands and being physically closed was- for this group of couples- all that was important. He didn't relate and so he walked on further up towards the international cruise ship terminal and met a different kind of couple.

There were two young itinerant friends down there. These two guys sat on opposite park benches gesticulating calmly and just had the kind of conversation that Jack had only experienced in the psych ward. Everything and nothing. Still a fucken cliché. Jack felt both jealousy and lonely; but respectful also. He moved on quietly not wanting to disturb a conversation he would have loved to have kept listening too; even if he couldn't participate.

Jack made tracks back to Taylor square, just off Oxford street, avoiding the park where the big men would be well into their case of bourbon and cola by now. One of them slept on a park bench in a body bag. Home or not; Jack didn't want to sleep in a body bag.

Taylor square was still busy but Jack was heading for Bourke street and the lodge. Three slightly swaying aboriginal ladies ever so gently swayed in Jack's direction.

'You've never really tried it, you know,' said the most attractive of the three.

Jack knew exactly what she was talking about but couldn't think of a way to bring up tantric sex at that particular moment. He made a beeline for the lodge to watch the end of the footy.

The man behind the desk questioned Jack as he walked in and Jack- feeling astonished and a little indignant just said 'seventy-eleven,' and pulled out the key to his room that was held suspended by a piece of cord tied around his neck. It was so he wouldn't forget where he put his key. Necessary or not.

But he didn't go up the slow elevator to his room; Jack was going to try watching the football in the common room with his fellow lodgers.

He sat and watched. He'd been watching footy all his life but didn't feel comfortable. Rather he felt uncomfortable that the other people watching didn't feel comfortable watching with him. He moved silently to the slow elevator, pressed seven and made his way back to his room.

Jack's next door neighbour smoked pot. He could smell that sweet smell through the walls. Jack was smoking another cigarette when there was a knock at the door. No wait; it was next door. He heard his neighbour get up and open the door.

'Sorry Mike', it was the custodian, 'they don't want you here anymore.'

'Awww.. what? Really?' was all Mike said, obviously still a little stoned from his last bong hit.

'Sorry Mike, it wasn't my decision. Sorry'

So was this a home?

As Jack's neighbour, Mike, was now facing sleeping rough, Jack was also forced to face some facts about his own life.

Chapter Fifteen.

Home. Home? What was this wonderful- and for sum- elusive concept?

Family? What was family? For sum it was blood. Jack preferred to think of it as a carful of friends who all loved each other and all wanted to play music in the same band together.

Communities? A small town? A big city? A fucking golf club?

Jack's essential problem- and it had always been as such- was that he didn't know where he belonged. Was it a TV show or a radio station? An art gallery or a coffee shop?

Jack went to the public library and continued to read. It was quiet and warm.

Three Men Martyn John Rainer

It All Starts Here

Chapter One.

Let's begin at the beginning. For us in the Western world. The beginning of adulthood. The last day of the schoolroom. School itself is never ending; for everyone.

Clay studied at home on weeknights and drank and smoked with his friends on the weekends. Every weekend.

What, here, can be said about Carly? Clay had fallen in love with her and Carly had stars in her eyes. That, at the time, seemed to be enough.

And so the years passed. Exams and weekends passed until finally we come to the last day of school.

Chapter Two.

On the second to last day of school, Clay still remembers the two vice principals standing in front of the school announcing the final day activities. One vice principal was a stern middle-aged childless disciplinary woman (it was a Catholic school); the other was Clay's favourite teacher. An eccentric, intelligent man who taught English. Clay would never forget this particular vice principal guiding him as he read Hamlet for the first time. 'It's all about Hamlet's relationships with the women in his life,' he had said and although Clay studied Hamlet many times, under many different influences, he always found this to be perhaps the most profound statement about that troubled prince of Denmark.

Anyway. The last day of school activities. The graduating class would go to a job forum; presumably for kids to choose the way they would serve the economy. They would then join the rest of the school at a local amusement park later to celebrate another circle around the sun.

And so to careers day…

Chapter Three.

It was one of those giant open expo centres. All the leaving students of all the local high schools were there. So were the potential employers who had nothing to offer. You no longer walked into a secure well-paying job, like their parents had, anymore. Anymore. Instagram was not here yet and the tech world was just emerging; not inside this place. All the vendors were offering ways in which the young kids could sell themselves to the job market. A merciless place that let the serpentine dance continue down its snake hole. Clay didn't take much notice of any of it; he'd secured a university place and naively assumed this would deliver him enlightenment. He spied Carly at the television presenter's booth. He always kept track of where and what Carly was doing. He overheard the people behind the division saying that there were no jobs in this industry. That didn't seem to deter Carly.

It was still morning, but Clay and his friends were a hungry bunch at that young age and, not being too interested in the outside world just yet, they sat down at the cafeteria to get some food.

'This is all bullshit,' proclaimed Andy, 'I might just join the air force.'

'Saluting up someone's arsehole, yeah that's a good idea,' chimed in Mark.

'Is this really the last day we're allowed to look at girls in school dresses without being perverts,' added Will. He was always a bit tapped.

Clay and Simon gave each other a look and telepathically decided to have a last look around.

All the marketing bullshit artists were still there.

'TAFE boys,' the mad lady wove her flyers at Clay and Simon. TAFE- technical college. A place where you could learn a trade. Simon took a flyer.

'I'm off to university,' said Clay.

'Well don't forget about us,' the not so mad lady said. Clay took a flyer and moved on.

Like that persistent memory you can't escape from that resides in the back of your mind; Clay never forgot.

Chapter Four.

Clay knew where Carly was. She'd headed straight to the bumper cars. He was going to follow but his mate Luke grabbed him by the shoulder and took him up the ski lift to the top of the mountain.

There was no snow, it was a warm day.

They hired a pair of skateboards with Tonka truck wheels designed for travelling over grass.

'Kamikaze it,' Luke yelled at Clay before pointing his skateboard straight down the green grassy hill. Clay felt obliged to follow. Luke was his mate and he wouldn't let him go down alone.

At the bottom Luke was smiling; Clay was smiling. And, although she hadn't been up the mountain, smiling from the bottom of the ski lift, was Carly.

Chapter Five.

There was a pub at the university. Was that Clay's downfall? Probably not.

He'd borrowed twenty bucks off his mother in the car park while he was drinking one afternoon with Carly. She asked him to be her boyfriend. For some unknown reason Clay rejected her.

So what do you do with your life when you go to university and don't graduate?

Worlds at One

(an Australian story)

Chapter One.

It was quiet. That's something to be thankful for. Lucy; the morning star was out. Where it usually was. Visible from the small back balcony, just over the urban bushes and the treetops.

Jeremy had been romancing his computer for around nine months now and the window beside his front door had just split right down the middle. He was lucky it still kept the heat in.

But what was romancing a computer? A tablet helps; you can move it around the room. Maybe that's why the window next to the front door had an adverse reaction. Maybe it was just the wind.

Jeremy went back downstairs and romanced his computer some more, tapping- it seemed aimlessly at the keyboard and wishing mostly for sleep. It had been another long night.

Jeremy opened a new document and began to write:

SUBJECT: Creating a New Union.

Solidarity forever, in my mind, means solidarity for all. Let us have solidarity, or sympathy for the unemployed; and help that great mass of people have empathy with each other. Let us develop a union for the unemployed, if for no other fact than to give the unemployed some idea of self-worth and self-identification.

In addition to this, as with any union, the ancillary benefits are self-evident: mass organisation for people who want decent work at a decent pay.

Imagine grappling this enormous economic resource into a country's economic priority and you may even imagine the possibility of ending endless growth on what is, undeniably, a finite planet.

Can we all have some peace, love and mercy for those without reliable family connections.

These are facts to live with. Day to day.

Yours in brotherly and sisterly fraternity, sincerely

Jeremy Spook.

Jeremy emailed this to the Australian Council of Trade Unions, the ACTU. He was Australian after all; and despite ventures on the European continent, he had never set foot inside of America.

That was enough big words for a little while and so, mind reeling, he laid his head softly against the keyboard and found some sleep.

Chapter Two.

Now that may seem strange and fringe; even lunatic to a lot of people. Something impossible and beyond reasonable belief. Well now it really got strange.

Gavin, Jeremy's next-door neighbour politely suggested that there was no use in going any further… but fuck him and the horse he rode in on. He was a nice man but Jeremy was a stubborn bastard.

Despite feeling as if he were handcuffed he, Jeremy couldn't explain the feeling of finally feeling alive.

Chapter Three.

It was certainly strange; but somehow familiar.

grabbed at a weapon attached to the base of the stage. It had one long steel curved side with a pair of handles opposite. He was later told it was a Batlith- a science fiction ceremonial weapon. Things were strange enough; why not add a bit of science fiction. Jeremy roared on stage and slashed down the two figures that stood out in the basement the most.