The Girlfriend Experience (2009)

4/01/2020

Dear Diary, 

This is a new year. Which means a new diary for me. I’m still in the same job, and I admit the thrill of it has been getting a little stale for me. As you know, I signed up mid last year and has been at it ever since. 

I don’t think I’ve ever really had a job like this before, where the highs are always … kind of sad. And the lows are always constant. I mean, I worked in a call centre before this job, and that was always depressing. The stories I heard then, are kind of similar to the ones I hear now, except these guys actually have money. 

But that job was always consistent in how depressing it was. 

This one?

It really goes up and down a lot. One day I might be in total control, and then the next day, I’m lying down face first and completely at the mercy of another. 

I also don’t think I was ready for the therapy either. So many guys spill everything to me. They tell me some of the craziest stuff I’ve ever heard, and then there are the normal stuff about how much they love me, and how I’m different to all the other girls they’ve met. 

I guess being naked and vulnerable in front of a stranger really opens you up. 

At first, I was also scared. But after my first client, I slowly started to embrace it. I’m not the prettiest girl, or the skinniest, but people always say I got that “girl next door” look, and that my body is “comfortable, and soft”. 

I guess you could say I’m like the softest pillow that moans when squeezed.

I’m complaining a lot aren’t I, diary? A lot of people would love to earn 90 thousand a year, and I know heaps of my girlfriends are working a lot harder than me, to earn a lot less. 

Sometimes though, I get jealous. They can say what their job is so easily. I’m always dodging the question, and lying, pretending I work at retail and that my boss is a real dick, when really she doesn’t have one and is always looking out for me and the other girls. 

I created 3 personas since I stated working, diary. Three! I got one where I’m a struggling retail worker at Sportsgirl, during hours I know my friends can’t see me at work. 

Then there’s Eve. She’s the sweetest girl you’ll ever find in a brothel, and will make you feel like you’re making love to the softest cloud, and feel nostalgic for some crush you had in the past. 

Finally, there’s me, here, in this diary, raw and unfiltered. I don’t hold anything back to you diary, because if I did, I’m scared I might lose myself. 

I’m tired though, of lying to my friends. Of lying to potential boyfriends. I’m so scared everyone will judge me, really harshly for the job I have. 

And yet … whenever I think about quitting, I look at my payslip, my apartment, all the things I’ve managed to get, all the stuff I wanted for so long, but now have … and I don’t really want to quit either. 

I’m living a really good life with all the money I’m making. Plus I’ve met all the other girls now, girls just like me, who got attracted to the job because the money was good, and they heard from someone already working. 

I just wished I didn’t feel so much shame. 

What do you think diary? Do you think this shame will fade away? Do I just need to tough it out a bit longer? 

Maybe one day, I’ll be able to tell my friends and family the truth. I don’t have my normal girlfriends over, because who would believe me, that I can have all this luxury, on a retail worker wage? What if they look into my wardrobe? There’s just too much lingerie and silk robes to explain away.

Unless of course I made up another story. But God, I am tired of making up more. 

Do you want to hear a funny irony, diary? 

I tried going on a date the other day. Just before new years, because it’s been more than 6 months since I tried dating. I tried out Tinder, and managed to get several likes. One them dm’ed me and I agreed to go out. 

I put on my favourite dress, and he took me out for Spanish tapas. 

I promised myself I would be honest if he asked me what I did for a living. I mean, he was a stranger, and I had nothing to lose. What was he going to do? I was tired about lying about myself. I had to stand up for myself somehow. Plus it wouldn’t be right for the guy if I lied from the beginning. 

I was dead wrong of course. He walked out on me and I was forced to pick up the bill. He said he wanted a real girl to marry, not some, and I quote, “skank that opened up for dollars.” 

That hurt me so much, because even though it was true, I mean … I am one, right, diary? I thought myself as something more than that. I thought back then, I was just providing a service, that the job wouldn’t really affect my personal life. That I can separate the two. 

The funny irony, is that despite having more sex, more fun, and more guys than any of my girlfriends ever had, I’m still lonelier than they are. 

Weird isn’t it, diary? 

I would be really sad about this, if it weren’t for my other girlfriends. They’re the new ones that I invite to my house a lot. We’re all sisters. We’re the ones who have to fight against the stigma other women hold against us and the sexism that men harbour for us.

I won’t lie, diary, when I’m around them, I’m not as sour as I am here. I’m more fun. I laugh a little easier, because I’m around people the same as me. 

I’m not really alone, as long as I got these girls. but I just wished I didn’t have to cut off all ties with my old life. I’m still so attached to my high school mates, the friends I made in uni and at my book club.

So many of my new friends, they were forced to abandon their old friends. They always tell me, that their old friends weren’t really friends because they couldn’t accept and love the new version of them. That being a prostitute, a sex worker is an empowering thing, and that anyone who can’t handle that, isn’t really their friend or ally. 

I’m not sure I can really do that diary. I love my friends too much to just say that they’re assholes who won’t support my new career. 

But yet I still feel like shit whenever I lie to them.  

I guess, at the end of the day, I got to make a choice don’t I, diary? 

Embrace the new me and try and reconcile the old me with it, or abandon all of this. 

All of this reminds me, diary, of one client. He was the tenderest lover, all about trying to make me feel good and soft strokes down my back and waist. He was really slow, and unbelievably gentle and I swear we must have made slow love for half an hour.

He was so radically different to everyone I had before, who loved to smack my ass, and ram me furiously and be done in 5 minutes before rolling off me and I had to really reassure them that it was OK, that their performance was really amazing, baby.

This gentle guy had me booked for a full 2 hours and he made slow love to me twice, and I admit, it felt amazing, one of the only times where I actually came on the job. 

But what struck me, was the conversation we had those two sessions. He told me that I reminded him on his first girlfriend who had died of cancer, and that while he was dating another girl, he had to come here and book me, after seeing me on a website that his friends had been sharing around in their discord chat. 

He wanted me, because he felt it was the only way making peace with the ghosts in his past. He knew it wrong, because he was dating another girl, a girl he was really fond of, but he couldn’t shake me and his ex out of his mind. He said he was in love with his current girlfriend, but just could not resist. 

He cried into my chest, and I cried with him. I didn’t know what else to say. What could I do in that situation, diary? When I saw him out, I knew he was going to tell his girlfriend about what happened between us. I could read his mind. He had that guilty but resolute expression that some men wear when they walk out of our brothel. 

It was the face of men who had their cake, but knew they couldn’t eat it too and were now ready to atone for their mistakes. We rarely ever see those men come back. Out of all the clients type we have, those are the ones I feel most sorry for. 

That gentle client chose to abandon the new life he had built, for one more taste of the past, through a surrogate that was me. 

I wonder whether I’ll have the courage to make such a choice. 

I guess that’s enough heaviness for tonight, diary. I better go have a shower and get ready for another night of work.  

Write to you soon, diary. 

~Eve 

 Author’s Note:

I’ve always had a long obsession with working girls, even back when I was in high school, burning through crime novels. Something about how beautiful, yet sad and tragic these workers can be, always appealed to my empathy and sympathy.

They are one of the oldest and most stigmatised professions in the world, yet there is a unique strength and character to a lot of these women who work day in and out, trying to earn a living. 

A lot of inspiration for this, came from The Girlfriend Experience, a film that I think is only enhanced by Soderbergh’s unique cinematography and direction, that always suited ground-level intimacy issues like prostitution. I love the unique lighting, the close ups and the fascinating ways he filmed the story. It’s not the best movie, but it’s definitely interesting, considering the main star’s fame as a porn actress and the subsequent TV series based off the film. 

However, I also drew heavily on a fascinating series published by Lot’s Wife, The Secret Diary of a Melbourne Call Girl, as well as my own personal experience with brothels and sex workers, which included a tour of one of Melbourne’s brothels and many conversations I used to have over Tumblr, with a Melbourne sex worker who detailed her experiences and struggles. 

I also wanted to practice writing as a female protagonist, as I feel a lot of my writing is very logical and too male driven. I tried to use softer language and get attuned to the emotions of what Eve was feeling. 

I think I still got a long way to go. 

Until the next one

~Damocles 

End of Watch (2012)

The boredom started, because some ass-wipe thought it would be funny to take his .22 Long Rifle and have a few pot shots at people walking along the street. 

They gave me all the details. 10 shot. 4 dead. 3 gravely wounded and the other half going to need therapy and a lot of alcohol to deal with what just happened.

It was a perfect day, no wind, sunny, temperatures reaching a warm 80, just your regular beautiful Tuesday in Austin.

Ideal conditions for a wannabe punk sniper too. 6 minutes was all it took.

He was a lot of things. Tall, dark, handsome, an out of towner, and armed with 2 things … a Remington rimfire rifle, and a 1911 pistol.

What an All-American I remembered thinking during the briefing. No one asked why he did it. All that mattered was he was another name on the list for us to catch.

We followed SOP* …

Put an immediate BOLO** out. Had uniforms searching every street. SWAT teams were smashing down doors of suspected hide-outs. Witnesses, informants … anyone and everyone were interviewed, some … more aggressively than others. 

I was one of those aggressors. One of the victims who had been shot, was my niece. She was on her way home from basketball practice, and now she was in hospital, fighting to breathe, after a .22 collapsed a lung. 

The punk was good. Despite using the shittiest, smallest and weakest bullets ever designed, he had shot his victims multiple times. The ones who died, went through agony, as the tiny rounds tore them apart, many times over.

It was sadistic.

The only reason why the others, my niece among them, had survived because they had scrambled for cover despite their wounds and the incoming sirens made him run away. He didn’t even bother to hide the fact that he had a rifle slung over his shoulder. 

The moment the briefing was over, I went straight to my squad car. I was one of the few uniforms who didn’t need a partner. I had survived enough, shot enough and been shot at enough to warrant my solo status.

I went to every single informant I had and beat them with a nightstick until they gave me everything, truths … lies … names … times … all of it, until I was tired of swinging. I would storm back into my car, head ablaze with information, none of it useful to the current man-hunt. 

Then, I would replay back tapes that the FBI had released to us, about the claims from eyewitnesses. 70% of them were horseshit. People loved to bullshit the police. They saw it as their moment of fame or a chance to humiliate us and confuse us. Others had shit memories and no eye for detail. Things we already knew were repeated constantly. 

He was a lot of things. Tall, dark, handsome, an out of towner, and armed with 2 things … a Remington rimfire rifle, and a 1911 pistol.

An All-American.

But the 30% of useful information helped us create a towering mountain of evidence. 

People reported hearing shots from an abandoned building that was directly perpendicular to the street where the shooting took place. It was old, rickety, soon to be demolished. Any windows had already been smashed, every wall covered in graffiti, and the entire place reeked of decay, cigarettes and weed.

But shell casings were also found, as well as a small groove that the punk had carved out to rest his rifle. Ballistics matched the shell casing and trajectories of the bullets perfectly. 

The 30% also gave us a precise description of what happened in those fateful 6 minutes, and enough details to create a computer generated impression of the man for our BOLO.

Everything needed to give him a death sentence was dotted, signed and stamped. 

Now all we needed was the punk himself. 

Depending on your world view, I had been waiting for a half hour or half a lifetime. 

To me it felt like half a lifetime.

I love being productive. Beating up people felt like it was constructive. Driving hard to catch joy-riders was equally dynamic. As was even doing mountains of paperwork. Because you knew every action mattered to keeping people behind bars.

But the waiting was the worse. There are only so many times you can check, recheck and reload your Glock 17. You can’t fiddle with your taser, or tweak your radio’s position on your belt for 2 hours. All you can do is wait and stare.

Usually, you and your partner would talk. Discuss life. Politics. Wives. Plans for weekends. The one time you fell down a flight of stairs and cut open your arm, hence the wicked forearm scar. Or when you snuck out as a teenager to see a porn flick in cinemas.

I didn’t have that luxury. I wanted to run solo. The incredible boredom during any wait is penance for that reward.

It had taken me over 2 days to come to this spot. An informant’s squeal had corroborated with an eyewitness report in the area, that an All American had been seen in the vicinity and no one reported him leaving.

This was my district, an area I knew as well as where I lived and grew up. There could only be 5 potential spots where he could hide.

Uniforms were already posted outside the other 4. I was at the one that I figured was the most likely.

It was picturesque. The perfect place for an All American to hide. White picket fences marched down the streets. Perfectly maintained and manicured red maples stood guard in front, on beautifully mowed lawns. The two story houses were all perfect contrasts of brick, metal, glass and tiled roofs.

Everything screamed Americana. It was the last place anyone would look.

But I knew better. When things looked too good, smelled too nice and acted too kind, there was a strange feeling of decay.

Decay because behind the wide smiles, the perfect blue eyes, the flowing summer dresses and the perfectly pressed polo shirts, everyone was grimacing and straining hard against their true nature.

In all my years on service, places like these gave me the creep, because there was a group mentality behind crimes. People could turn on each other in a heartbeat and hide  behind those psycho smiles. Everything looked and behaved like Hollywood.

Fake and perfect.

I despised places like these. Everyone was always acting like you were the alien that ruined their paradise. But even in this fake paradise, there was a blight.

And that was House 194 on this perfect street.

Outwardly, there was nothing wrong with it.

It looked like every other perfect house along this street. A beautifully wide house, with two storeys, square windows and a perfectly triangular roof. It was a mixture of black accents, white walls, brown roof and cedar door. The windows were slightly stained in that neo-gothic style, and the overall impression was handsome, solid and quaint.

But as everyone knew, there was a family murder within the walls, the wife, and 2 new born twins dead, slaughtered by an axe and a stiff drink.

It had been on the market ever since. It was still beautifully maintained. Cleaners went in every month, to air it out, dust it out and mow the lawn, as per the rules of this Americana suburb.

But they had been skipping corners ever so often. No one liked the idea of scrubbing walls that were once stained with blood.

So the windows were slightly opaque from the dust. The door squeaked on its hinges. The vines grew up the walls and tendrils reached into the roof.

Even the For Sale sign out front looked worn down from all its years of trying to sell.

I knew the All American had to be in here. It was clever. A guy like him, acted, behaved and moved cleverly, but he was also arrogant. What kind of sonvuabitch walked around with a rifle on his back in broad daylight?

I also had a feeling that he was looking through one of those windows, with his eye on the scope, staring out on the road.

But I didn’t have proof. I couldn’t just break down the door and storm in. I needed evidence. Some sign of life in there.

So I had to settle in for that half a lifetime wait.

The suburb was shaped like a window. It was a perfect square, with a plus in the middle.

House 194 was near the centre, on the west side of the intersection. I was waiting on the south end, in my not so subtle squad car, No. 86, a deer in headlights with its black and white paint job.

I had my binocs out, staring through them, waiting for a curtain to move, a door to open, a window to creak … any sign of movement.

But I couldn’t stare for hours. No one could. So sometimes I relaxed my neck, I would stretch it. I would give my eyes a rest, away from the tunnel vision and look around. I would fiddle with the duty belt, making minute adjustments on the magazines, the taser, the baton, the pistol and my sunglasses.

I would undo the top button of my dark uniform, letting my skin breathe a little in the heat, and complain to myself about the weight and restriction of my body armour.

All that bitching on 4 hours of stake out duty … nearly made me miss it.

A curtain moving on the top floor. And a barrel coming out and looking directly at my squad car.

I saw it wink.

Then glass shattered …

and held. The squad car saving my life with its anti-ballistic properties.

I immediately reached for my radio as I ducked down, the car shuddering as it took more hits.

Shots fired. Shots fired. Officer 86 in contact. 10-72. I require immediate assistance at my location, corner of Robinhood and Stevenson. 10-78 at Robinhood and Stevenson.

A calm female operator immediately responded.

Copy that Officer 86, 4 10-76 on route. I repeat 4 squads on route to your location now. Hold where you are.

10-4. I breathed heavily, as I reached behind my seat and grabbed the Remington 870 shotgun off the rack. Loading 8 rounds into the shogun’s magazine, I stayed low, stuffing shells in my pocket and the shotgun, waiting for a lull in the shots.

Hearing nothing and feeling nothing in the car, for a good thirty seconds, I kicked open the door and sprinted around to the back of the car.

Rounds hummed past me and I felt my adrenaline kick in. Fear also. Then cold professionalism. I have been under fire before. I knew I had to stay calm and make my shots count.

Crouching behind the car, I peered through the cracked windshield at House 194, and noted that there were trees for cover all the way to the front of the house, and that it was a solid 10 metre run to the front door.

Too far to make it without backup.

But moving forwards to the trees was enough.

Slamming the pump forward, I stayed crouched and leaned to the right of the car and in rapid succession, pumped off 4 shots that blew off the window of the house.

Each round slammed heavily into my shoulder, but the immediate satisfaction of the window shattering, and glass cascading down in clear rainbows of light onto the lawn, caused me to ignore the recoil.

I immediately stood up and dashed to the nearest tree, 5 metres away, my breathing heavy and laboured, as air struggled to get into my lungs, the weight of all my equipment slowing me down as my boots pounded the road.

Then to my shock, I saw a flash from one of the lower windows, of which there were 4, 2 on the right and ditto for the left, and I just managed to dive for the tree, avoiding the round and crawl furiously the last half metre to prop myself against the sturdy tree.

Immediately, bark and splinters started to fly, cutting my exposed forearms, as I held the shotgun up towards my face, trying to minimise my profile. Round after round slammed into the tree, chunks flying away, before I decided to end the stalemate by crouching lower and ducking around the narrow tree and pump the last 4 rounds into the far left window.

The incoming fire slackened, and picking myself up again, I pushed forward to another tree, this one thicker and more stout than the previous one.

Taking a breather, swallowing deep gulps of air, I reached into my pocket and felt my hand shake.

Withdrawing it, I made a fist, ending the shakes and began to thumb another 8 rounds into the magazine, the cold steel of the shotgun, beginning to warm under my hands and the rapid fire.

Looking back at my squad car, I heard all types of voices assault my ear, as radio calls came in thick and heavy. I just kept repeating myself, my voice sounding monotone and robotic, as my mind and body tried to keep the fight or flight response under control.

10-72, Officer 86. 10-72. Requesting 10-78 on my position. 10-72. 10-72. Approach from the east and south. Suspect is barricaded in House 194 of Stevenson Avenue, north side. 

I also remembered where I was, and that while I hated this area, civilians were everywhere. Fortunately, there was no sign of life anywhere. This was a late Sunday afternoon. Most people were either retiring early, or drowsy and unwilling to be out on a stroll.

I could also hear sirens approaching. No doubt the other squad cars that I sent to the other locations rushing to my position.

Risking another peek around the tree, I didn’t see any movement in the house, but I could assess the damage. I had blown out 2 windows, and curtain were now moving stiffly in the wind out the front. I briefly entertained the thought whether the murdered family would haunt me for the damage I did to their house.

Then the flashes started again, this time from the top floor.

Snapping my head back, the rounds slammed into the grass beneath me and turn the area black with heat.

Racking my shotgun again, I feinted to the left side of the tree, only to snap around the right and this time I let all the windows of the top floor have it.

The booms of the shotgun reverberated through the neighbourhood and my eardrums, nearly rendering me deaf.

The incoming fire slackened as I pummeled the top right and I took the lull to rush forward to the closest tree to the house. By now, I had fired 16 rounds, and I was down to my last 8.

But back-up was here.

While I was driven by anger, revenge and badly wanted to be the one to blow this sonvuabitch’s head off, I was all too aware of how much trouble I was in.

A bullet was still a bullet. I was only flesh and blood. Being reckless would only put more of my brothers and sisters lives in danger.

So I was glad they were here.

The 4 squad cars saw my position and pulled perfect braking manoeuvres, nose to nose. The driver would brake hard, while the passenger’s door was already open, ready to dive out and scramble around for cover clutching their heavy gun, an M4A1 assault rifle or a 870 shotgun like mine.

Immediately as they pulled up outside the house, the cars began to get pinged by fire, bullets smashing into doors, sirens, windows and tyres.

Even though he was using a bolt action rifle, the bastard could really shoot. He was pulling back the bolt and slamming his finger on the trigger within a second of each shot. It wasn’t easy.

But his fire superiority only lasted for 30 seconds, because then all 8 cops instantly returned fire.

Glocks barked. The M4s chattered. And the 870s roared.

The entire house front was lit up with holes and any damage I did, looked puny and insignificant in comparison to this Fourth of July gun show.

The officers kept up the fire, and I yelled at 2 of them to follow me to the front of the door.

Nodding and keeping their heads down, Officers Taylor and Zavala rushed to my tree, whilst firing their pistols at the house.

OK boys. I got the door. I sweep forward, Taylor you got right, Zavala, you got left. OK?

You got it.

OK.

OK. Let’s do it. 

The three of us charged forwards, as the cops behind us continued their barrage. Aiming my shotgun at the big door, I blew the hinges and lock off the door with 3 rounds and put my foot through the door, causing it to crash heavily on the inside of the floor.

The three of us charged in, guns sweeping left and right and centre. No sign yet.

Outside, the other cops stopped firing and began moving up to us, as the three of us held the door, like an Charlie’s Angel pose. 4 of them pushed left and right of the house to the backyard of the house, eager to cut off any escape. One stayed with the squad cars, ready to brief the inevitable arrival of the SWAT teams while the last one joined us inside.

As soon as we got confirming hands on our shoulders, we pushed onward. I chose the upstairs, the last place he might have been.

The house was large. It was split into your typical left wing meant dining table, that lead onto the kitchen, the right wing equating to a large living area that turned into laundry, bathroom and study room at the rear.  A central staircase bisected both wings, with the upper floor mirroring the bottom, with bedrooms and bathrooms.

As I slowly, cautiously, and almost painfully climbed the stairs, I tried my best to control my breathing. It sounded obnoxiously loud. All I could picture the All American, waiting for me, his 1911 extended, firing constantly, as he ended my life, all because I breathed too loud.

Weirdly too, I saw him sat in a chair, like some lame villain in a movie.

But that fear dissipated as I remembered my niece in hospital. Fighting. Crying. Struggling.

Anger pushed blood through my body and I could sense my breathing even out.

The tiny bead sight of the Remington struggled to pierce through the gloom of the house, furthering my caution.

I waited at the corner of the staircase landing, scanning like a paranoid man, both left and right, unsure which way to proceed.

I spun a coin in my head and chose left.

Waiting at the apex of the corner, I watched my footing, as I slowly swiveled around the corner, the shotgun leading forward and my eyes wide open, my ears straining to hear any noise.

The empty hallway ahead of me sneered at my caution.

2 large bedrooms, one left, one right and a bathroom directly in front of me. I pirouetted suddenly and checked my rear.

Another sneer from the house. But the layout was the same.

Below I could hear my fellow officers kicking open doors and yelling “POLICE!” and then seconds later yelling “ROOM CLEAR!”

But right now, it was just me.

Stacked up on the left door, I kicked it open, and swept my shotgun left and right.

Nothing. Just stained, ugly carpet. No furniture. Nothing of interest. Nowhere for the man to hide.

Moving out, I checked the hallway again.

Empty.

I move to the room on the right and again, swept left and right. There was nothing in the room either. No furniture. No sign of blood stained walls. Just empty carpet and empty wardrobes.

I start to get more nervous. Which room is this bastard in?

As I prepare to enter the final room at the end of the left hallway, as my leg is raised to kick the door …

A hole appears in the door, near my head.

Then two bullets slam into my back, causing me to crash into the door, and tumble through, onto the hard marble floor.

My shoulders took the brunt of the impact as I let go of the Remington and scrabbled desperately for cover, finding it in the shower stall and unleashing my Glock, I fired blindly through the door.

I struggled to breathe. Huge pain flared across my back as the pressure and heat of the bullets that had slammed into my body armour registered in my mind, cutting through the protective mental layer of adrenaline.

I heard the men below, began yelling my name and throw threats at the man who had fired at me.

Then I heard screaming, as the men ducked for cover and scramble away, as the gunfire increased in intensity at them.

Gritting my teeth, I rounded the corner and aimed the Glock and saw the All American, firing his 1911 down, a manic expression on his face.

I lined up the back sight.

The front sight looked squarely at his chest.

He sensed me.

He spun around.

His silver 1911 catching the light as it aimed at me.

My finger slammed the trigger to the rear, and I didn’t stop.

The first shot tore through his sternum. The second went high and into his throat. The third opened up his cheek. The fourth blew off an ear. The fifth missed.

His body slumped and went lifeless and I walked up and fired three more times.

Kicking the 1911 away, I didn’t bother checking for a pulse. No one could survive that many shots. Nothing could escape that level of punishment.

Blood had been spilled again in this house. Fresh crimson and pink-grey matter speckled the walls.

Clear! I heard myself yell automatically.

Suspect down.

Feeling empty, I walked back and picked up my Remington. A justified shooting on the job, is still considered a homicide. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt great after a murder. Even when a sonvuabitch like him deserves it. Blood doesn’t ever seems to come off your hands.

I saw Zavala and Taylor and the third guy, Ramirez, look at me, their faces echoing a grim nihilism that all policemen and women feel after a shooting like this.

We radioed it in.

Followed standard SOP.

Fetched the dead man’s .22 long rifle, and found that it matched the crime of attempted murder of a police officer.

Secured the 1911 that had nearly ended my life.

Slapped my body vest and plucked out the bullets that were embedded in the Kevlar.

Placed a bag over the disfigured face that had nearly taken more lives.

Counted the number of shots we had taken in an effort to stop this man. It bordered on the obscene.

Called the real estate owner, who was currently safeguarding this property.

He was less than thrilled. Promised to send us the bill. We politely deferred.

Filed back to our squad cars, as the forensic team, SWAT team, and a dozen more uniforms turned up to see what had happened and answer their questions.

It was only when I looked at my squad car, I realised just how lucky I was.

The shots that peppered and cracked my windshield showed over 20 rounds had been fired at me. One had even managed to go through, and hit the chair. A dozen more could be counted in the front bonnet.

Ramirez and Taylor came over and stared at my car.

Jesus Sarge.

I nodded. That about summed it up.

Mind if I get a ride back to the precinct?

The two men nod and we made our way back, the three of us silent as we processed what just happened.

When you are in combat, you don’t think about things. You react. You hope your training kicks in to take over, so that you don’t have to think too hard. But the moment the shooting stops, suddenly guilt enters your mind, as does the constant questions about mortality.

I was so close today. Had the man been aiming a bit better, my brains would be all over the bathroom floor of House 194.

As I stared out at the city of Austin, I noted the twilight atmosphere slowly crawl across the sky, and ask for a quick course change.

Taylor nodded and spins the wheel in the direction I need and even lights up the sirens for me.

As I walk through the corridors, I do my best to ignore the stares.

Knocking gently, I enter the quiet room and look inside.

The nurse looks at me and back at my niece.

She’s stable at the moment. Just sleeping through it now.

I nod silently, pull up a chair and sit next to her.

Thank you nurse.

She nods and walks out, leaving the two of us alone.

I gently squeeze my niece’s hand and whisper

I got him for you darling. I got him.

Before I feel tears start to well, and run down my cheeks. Then … my head is in my hands as I let everything go, all the fear, stress, and relief.

~

Author’s Note:

Probably the longest and admittedly one of the messier stories I’ve written so far. As an Australian … I should have researched more Americanism that I could have put in the story.

House 194 obviously doesn’t exist, nor does my description of the area. But the actual street names are real and it is a window style road layout. It looks very nice via Google maps and  no disrespect is meant for that neighbourhood.

I’ve always admired cops and their jobs and this was originally written, because of my intense boredom at work, and me wondering whether cops got equally bored on stake-out duty.

I, of course, ended up getting way too invested in the context and background of that stakeout feeling and hence this story was born and written. 

The film, End of Watch (2012) served as a inspiration for a lot of the equipment described in this story.

~Damocles.

 

 

The man started by wiping down the table.

Using long, sweeping motions, the micro fibre towel, created a glossy sheen on the dark kitchen bench.

With a sharp flick of the wrist, the towel was dampened under the running water, and hung on a small hook, neat, loose and ready for use again.

Satisfied, the man began opening drawers and cupboards.

Bowls, boards, and knives were neatly arranged on the table, as per his usual layout, Knives on the right, straight up, boards in front of him, with the smallest bowl on the left and getting larger to the right in a neat semi circle around the board.

Pirouetting around, he began firing up the gas stove, its dark glossy ceramic finish sparkling under the blue flame.

Placing his phone a bit further away from his cooking station, the man made a minute adjustment, via the device, to the lighting of the kitchen, casting everything in a warm, functional amber light.

Taking a pair of pink-red salmon fillets out of the large sliding door fridge, he let them rest in a metal bowl, and set up a pair of pans on the stove.

Letting them warm up sufficiently, he lightly glossed one with a smattering of olive oil, while the other he poured half a cup of olive oil.

Reaching down, he took out a large pot and poured instant boiling water into it, while reaching into a glass jar and with circular motions, began to salt the water.

Placing it on the stove, he grabbed a bundle of dry linguine, and placed it gently in the water, stirring it gently with a spoon, every so often.

Taking a half head of garlic, he sliced them thinly, the knife moving in quick, precise cuts, always nearly grazing his knuckles.

Running the knife under the water, he slid open the fridge, and took out flat-leaf parsley, and ran them both under the stream.

The sizzle of both pans caused him to spin around and deftly place the salmon and the sliced garlic in both, the salmon receiving an instant sear as the pink skin kissed the simmering oil and heat.

The garlic, hissed slightly as the pool of oil made contact and began to brown the edges.

Taking out three dark, light and wood mills, respectively pepper, salt and red pepper flakes, the man added flavouring touches to the salmon with the salt and pepper, the garlic with the dark red peppers.

Cutting through the parsley, with the same precision and speed he performed on the garlic, he lifted the board and slid the chopped pieces into a bowl, the green colour shining through the clear glass.

Taking a large wooden handle carving fork, he flipped the salmon onto its skin and added a couple more touches of pepper and salt. Pleased with its consistency, he took out a couple of large ceramic grey plates and placed the salmon atop with the skin facing upwards, crisp and orange-pink.

Turning his attention to his pasta, he deftly tossed the linguine into a sieve, the slight hardness indicating their ever-so-slightly under-cooked nature and gave a couple of tosses of the pan to mix the garlic, oil and red pepper better.

The linguine splashed into the oil, along with a quarter cup of the pasta oil, and began to sizzle immediately, filling the kitchen with an intoxicating smell of garlic, extra virgin olive oil and a hint of spice.

Mixing vigorously, the man held the bowl of chopped parsley high, and waited for a second, before throwing the contents atop and watching the parsley shrivel slightly from the heat.

Walking back to the fridge, he extracted a single lemon, deftly sliced it in half, flicked out the seeds and drizzled the an entire half atop the pasta.

Pleased with the colour, he held up a single strand and taste tested it, before adding a tiny crack of salt and then using the carving fork, he twirled the pasta around it and made a neat circular pile atop the ceramic plate, next to the crispy salmon.

Leaving a plate behind for himself,  he speared both with elegant bone handle forks, and carried the second plate, the smell and vapor lingering in its wake, to his apartment door.

Opening it, he entered a lift and travelled to a floor halfway to the bottom, but not quite.

Looking for the right combination of letters and numbers, he knocked once firmly, before leaving it on a small tray next to the apartment door and swiftly moved back to the lift and into the sanctuary of his penthouse.

Where he ate alone, staring out at the city-scape, lit up by 20 million people, imagining what it would be like to cook for the woman in the apartment below him, with her watching …

~

The woman opened the door and smiled when she saw the bowl of pasta and salmon. The ritual had been going for months now. Every Friday, a stranger would knock precisely between the times of 7.30pm to 7.45pm and deliver a delicious meal.

Sometimes it was a meticulous nigiri platter, the colours deeply romantic, with hues of dark crimson tuna, bright orange salmon, pearl like scallops and rich brown-black eel.

Other nights, it was a delicious fatty smashed burger, impossibly tender beef patties with cheese oozing out the side, and french fries cooked to a golden, yellow, salty crispness that belittled other fast food competitors.

The menu always changed and she was always shocked at the quality of ingredients and skill in preparation and cooking.

She would try to look through the keyhole, but he always avoided it and would vary the timing of the delivery so that she could never catch him, despite her running swiftly to the door to catch him when she heard the knock.

She even knew the type of knock he would give now. It was the kind that was firm, and precise, unlock the knocks she heard from her neighbours who complained about her playing music at 4am, or the online delivery man who leered at her whenever he arrived with her package.

Out of gratefulness, she bought a small coffee tray and had it match the type of cutlery and plating he always used. It was too expensive, but the meals she was getting, every Friday, despite her meager salary was something she didn’t want to miss.

She also had to find a way to return the plates and beautiful forks. And without fail, by Saturday morning, they had disappeared from the dark tray outside.

She had no idea why this was happening to her. She had wondered whether this was something that happened to people regularly in this apartment building, as she had only moved in recently, but no one had ever received such delicious food gifts.

She asked everyone she could meet about the limited details she knew about the man, but no one had any reports of anything strange happening.

She only even knew it was a man, because a neighbour told her while that he was locking the door, he had seen a man in a white dress shirt, and suit pants that definitely didn’t live on their level, enter the lift, smelling of the delicious food in front of her door.

What else did she know about him? Precious little.

She only knew that she was desperate to meet him, to thank him, to talk to him, to find out more about him. She had so many questions.

But at least one of them was answered …

What meal would she get on Friday?

Pasta aglio e olio with a pan fried salmon fillet, lightly salted.

~

Author’s Note:

I wrote this whilst simultaneously bored out of my mind at Miniso, and insanely hungry after working 6 hours straight from 9am. 

Needless to say, looking up how to make this dish didn’t help the mental hunger either. 

And … my lunch was decidedly less delicious and decadent sounding than what I wrote here … a boring chicken wrap with chips. 

First time I’ve ever wrote a cooking segment though. Was fun adapting the recipe to make it sound a bit more sensual and interesting than:

“Heavily salt a large pot of water, and bring to a boil. Cook pasta until slightly underdone while completing the steps below.”

Does everything need to sound so dry? 

This was also a tiny bit inspired by a visit to a luxurious kitchenware store in Chadstone.

~Damocles

A remnant of a time long gone, the Ute served as the entry to the Feral Children’s lair.

Part 2 of a mini-series

The Bushranger looked down at the caricature of a woman. Even with her exaggerated features, hastily drawn with pencil, and from a loving father’s memory, she was striking. 

Almond eyes that curved beautifully when she smiled, a full row of maintained teeth on display, her hair falling over one side, there was no doubt that Grace, was adopted.

Deputy Jonathan, did not have Asiatic features, like Grace, but his strength of emotion when pleading for the Bushranger to save her, indicated that she was no less his daughter.

Greed, née survivalism was what drove the Bushranger to take the job, despite the lack of information regarding his prey. Bullets didn’t pay for themselves, nor did maintenance of his equipment.

Dingoes, crocodiles and feisty kangaroos were all small fry compared to the Feral Children. He had only ever encountered them far away from the 7 GAFA settlements, but they were legion, and they were rabid.

This job wasn’t going to be easy.

Especially when the deputy demanded that his daughter be returned alive.

The Bushranger decided not to mention the slim odds, that were only getting more anoxeric with each passing day.

It had been a long week, of slow tracking and careful judgement. He would soldier on, through the night, and rest in the shade during the hottest hours. Meals were rationed, and the tracking was often delayed, because he needed a water supply. Such was the life of a hunter in the midst of a slow decaying apocalypse.

When the whole world had gone mad, the simplicity of his lifestyle kept him sane.

Even so, he questioned his sanity when he finally managed to track the Feral Children to their lair underground, the Ute.

The husk of a once fiery red Holden Commodore disturbed the Bushranger, and he swiftly moved the camel to a safe distance of over a kilometer.

Like so many myths, legends and facts, that blur with the passing of time, the Commodore was in actuality a sedan, but so many years had passed, that folklore had simply renamed it the Ute.

A memory was dredged up, of a younger man hooning around town in the exact same car, only his was a metallic green. He recalled the thrill of speed, engine revs and the squeal of brakes.

The soft kiss of a woman in his passenger seat, the wax he applied to the paintwork, and the sound of triumph, when he crossed the line first.

The soft rustle from the camel, bought the Bushranger out of memory lane.

Looking through his newly acquired telescopic scope, he scanned to the left and right of the Ute, trying to discern any tracks.

The Ute was situated in a large clearing, with 4 suspiciously man-made mounds around the entrance, at each compass point. They were the type where Feral Children could pop out and defend their home with ease and disappear into the tunnel system below.

Sparse greenery grew all around the Ute, obscuring vision and preventing clean line-of-sight, and surreptitiously, there was a lack of animal noises. A rifle shot would reverberate across the entire area.

The Bushranger deliberated on what he needed to do. Jumping down, he made the camel kneel, and take a drink from her canteen, whilst he searched his saddlebags.

Laying out the contents, he noted the still full boxes of ammunition he had left. One each for his pistol, and rifle. 200 rounds altogether. A paltry sum.

Looking down at his belt, he noted the 5 magazines of 17 rounds of 9x19mm for his pistol and the smattering of 7.62mm 5 rounds stripper clips for his long rifle.

His ever-faithful Leatherman MUT E.O.D was secured on his belt, accompanied by a brace of throwing knives and a large CRKT M16 tactical knife.

Burrowing his brow in consternation, he flipped open the CRKT, and made a detailed sketch of the lay of the land in the dirt, consulting his telescopic sight every so often to confirm details. Scowling in concentration, the Bushranger mapped out his approach and waited for nightfall.

Like all good soldiers, the Bushranger knew that the best time to strike was just before sun-up. Dawn was when the sentries were the sleepiest, and the attacking force had a bit of light to work with, whilst remaining in the dark. Then when the sun finally came up, if the attack failed, the sun was in the defending force’s eyes.

And so, just before nightfall, the Bushranger played a cruel trick.

He aimed his long rifle at the four mounds, and fired a round into each, in quick succession.

Just to get them out, and sleep deprived by sun-up.

The successive cracks of the rifle disturbed the entire area. Birds found themselves flying away in fright, kangaroos leapt blindly through the bush land and the Feral Children came out in force.

Like their cinematic namesake, the Feral Children were vicious, animalistic and almost Hobbit-like in stature.

Malnutrition, and poor exposure to sunlight, meant that skin was stretched across their bones, and their overwhelming paleness meant that they rarely ventured out during the day, for fear of being burnt.

Their eyes were also blood-shot and unaccustomed to bright lights, and many had severe disfiguration from constant in-fighting and ritualistic barbs, fangs and teeth being pushed through skin as part of their twisted religious fanaticism towards the Saltwater Crocodile.

For all their insanity and aversion to sunlight, the Feral Children were well armed with traditional weaponry; spears, primitive bows, boomerangs and blow-darts laced with red-back venom.

They fought with tenacity and a ferociousness that belied their small size, and often used numbers to overwhelm their opponents.

27 of the Feral Children came out, their weapons held cautiously out, as they hopped and aped around, their gangly bodies, hunched after years of living underground.

The Bushranger, zoomed in on one individual, whose barbs were more prominent on his face and shoulders. It was a extraordinarily ugly individual, whose pale features only served to enhance his bald head, and large nose with a pair of crocodile teeth punched through like a ring.

His shoulders bristled with piercings, some turning septic, other fresher and weeping blood, that he smeared across his back and chest like war paint. The Bushranger named him in his head, the “Big Fucka”, an apt description, for he towered over the others by a full head.

As the telescopic reticle centered on the Big Fucka’s head, the Bushranger checked his rifle and decided against it. They would only spot the muzzle flash, and thus ruin his plan.

Settling back, he slung the rifle over his shoulder, slowly moved away from his sniping position, placed his scarf over his mouth and nose and begun the long crawl.

700 metres later, and what felt like thousand of rocks and a powder box of dust hitting his chest, the Bushranger came across the first sentry.

Lying as still as possible, and keeping his breathing shallow and light, the Bushranger took one of his throwing knives out, and gripped the CRKT in his other hand.

Rising from the small shrub and red dirt like a djinn of Middle Eastern folklore, the Bushranger advanced on his prey and when he was only a few metres away, threw the knife right into the sentry’s throat.

The head snapped back and upwards, and the Bushranger leapt forward and thrust the blade of the CRKT into the sentry’s heart, whilst using the stuck knife to further lacerate the throat wound.

The Feral Child died without a sound.

And the Bushranger moved on.

6 more died the same way, without a whimper echoing across the ground.

Satisfied with the perimeter being cleared, the Bushranger looked at the four mounds and rehearsed how he was going to deal with them, when he came running out of the hood of the Ute.

Taking a deep breath, adjusting his mask and squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he could, to improve his night vision, he tightened the long rifle over his shoulder and stepped over the rusted red bumper of the Ute and ducking his head, entered the lair of the Feral Children.

Darkness swallowed him whole within a few metres.

Personal Analysis:

I have always struggled to make action engaging. I think its hard for me to make the set-up engaging and then keep the crescendo effect going. Its easy to visualise an action set piece in your mind, but a lot harder to make it engaging reading.

The next part should allow me to really stretch my descriptive skills and hopefully make an homage to Episode 3 of The Mandalorian action. A lone gunslinger shooting and fighting his way out of a desperate situation whilst protecting someone.

I also drew inspiration for the Ute‘s entrance in the film Red (2010) in which John Malkovich’s character; Marvin Boggs invites Frank Moses (Bruce Willis) and Sarah Ross (Mary-Louise Parker) into his house: a rust bucket Chevrolet, to avoid the decoy house.

Trying to incorporate Australian slang into this though, was tough. How do I do it seamlessly? I guess you will be the judge of that!

Until the next chapter

~Damocles

Set in a none too distant future …. where a world has gone mad.

Part 1 of a mini-series.

The sun shone mercilessly across the great desert plains. Heat hazes rose from the ground, causing shimmering mirages.

The earth was scorched red, through centuries of exposure to unyielding sunlight and what greenery there was, was sparse, coarse and rough. The sky was endlessly blue, with little cloud cover and mountains, hills and mounds ebbed and flowed endlessly across the horizon.

In this inhospitable environment, nothing moved if it didn’t have to. The native fauna, sought cover and water and stayed close when it could find it.

However, out of the shimmer, rode the Bushranger.

Swaying atop a camel, his long gun slung over his broad shoulders, and his gloved hands lightly holding the reins, the Bushranger cut an intimidating figure.

An Akubra Cattleman shielded his face, casting his piercing emerald eyes, and tanned, rugged features in perpetual shadow. He wore a loose scarf, that could double as a mask, a wheat coloured Brompton jacket that hid a dark green vest, and matching straw-coloured jodhpurs that ended in calf length reddish brown boots.

The camel, a trusted creature, was adorned in a rich tapestry that echoed the colours of the outback, and had two saddlebags on either side, that carried all the supplies the Bushranger could need.

He had been travelling for close to two weeks in the wild. In spite of the hardships, and that close encounter with a pack of dingos, he was still physically fit, mentally alert and in full control of his faculties.

Scanning the horizon, the Bushranger took out his pocket monocle from a pouch on his belt, and saw signs of civilisation almost 3 kilometres away. Pulling out his map, he checked the direction he was headed with his compass, and urged the camel from a slow gait to a faster medium trot.

Coober Pedy was a town that boasted a population of less than two hundred people … and it liked it that way. Formerly known for its opals, and dugouts, Coober Pedy was one of those places that had remained largely untouched by the Great Fire event due to its remote location and self-sustaining nature. The fact that it was so far from any coastline, had a lot to do with its survivability, and it served its purpose as of the 7 GAFA (Great Australia F**k All) towns left on the continent.

Governance was feudal at best, and savage at its worst. Families fought one another regularly but they were bonded together by their hatred of outsiders. The Crazy Coobers was a real phenomenon that described any situation where a coastal stranger entered their town, and found themselves driven out by sheer tribalism attitudes. Yet, they still had to answer to the Spring Law, and so, when the Bushranger entered, with a corpse in tow, they didn’t react as per their reputation.

Instead, they merely trained their guns on him.

To their silent relief, he kept moving, through the main thoroughfare, and when he did stop, it was in front of the Sheriff’s office.

Looking around at the litany of guns trained at him, from rooftops, to basements, the Bushranger ignored them all, and focused his attention on the corpse that was used to smell but had since been thoroughly dried up by the desert conditions.

The face was handsome once. As were the lively eyes. Both had been shot out, leaving only congealed jelly behind in empty sockets. But the bounty was still recognisable. The clothes were ripped from endless rocks, grass and dirt. Even the flies had left the corpse alone.

Dragging it to the entrance, the Bushranger gave a polite knock, before bowing his head to enter.

Sheriff Taylor was an overweight bureaucrat, who preferred creature comforts to anything resembling police work. He was elected by the populace, on accounts that he let everyone do whatever the hell they wanted, and got paid accordingly in the only currency that mattered … water and food.

Looking with distaste, at the Bushranger, he set down the pen he was using and peered beyond the tall figure.

“Ah Christ …. Jono, would you look after this for me mate?”

Deputy Jonathan stood up from his desk and motioned towards the back.

The Bushranger nodded and stepped back out, to take the corpse to the rear of the office.

“Good work on this guy. Did he give you any trouble?”

Hearing no reply, the deputy shrugged.

“Well, you didn’t seem to come off any worse for wear. Here …”. The deputy tossed something towards the Bushranger.

Catching the pouch, he pinched it open and nodded with satisfaction.

As he turned away, the deputy whispered something.

Making no sign that he had heard, the Bushranger kept moving, and walked across the thoroughfare, and into the gun shop.

Hendricks, was just like the drink. Dark, stout and rare. He was one of 3 gunsmiths left in the entirety of the GAFA, and the long rifle that the Bushranger had slung over his shoulder, was a personal gift from smith to saviour.

The Bushranger, slid across the pouch and added two more from his belt.

Hendricks slit them open, and examining them closely, grunted affirmatively.

Walking to the rear, he came back with 2 boxes of ammunition and a small telescope.

Loosening the rifle from his shoulder, the Bushranger placed it gently atop the wooden bench-top, and watched as Hendricks installed magnets atop the rail of the gun. Hearing a satisfying click, as the telescopic sight mounted itself atop the gun, and with little effort, pull apart again, Hendricks placed the sight into a clip-on pouch and handed it over to the Bushranger.

Affixing the pouch to his belt, the Bushranger nodded in gratitude, and walked back to his camel, where he leapt atop, and with a quick flick of his wrist, untethered the beast.

Riding out of town, he urged the camel on for a quick trot.

Nearly an hour later, the Bushranger saw the twin landmarks of the Breakaways, a mass that was once covered by sea, now native fauna. White, gold, red, brown mixed seamlessly in a picturesque and untouched manner that only millions of years of landscaping could design on land.

Finding a shady outcrop of rock, and bushland, the Bushranger grabbed the bundled up mattress from the camel, and placed it on the floor. Driving a stake through the ground, and undoing the bit from the camel’s mouth, he allowed the girl to wander, and find water, whilst he searched for firewood.

It was only an hour later, when the sunset was beginning to turn into darkness, when the Bushranger finished his sparse meal of salted kangaroo jerky, and lightly cooked witchetty grubs, that the deputy came out of the bloom on his horse.

With one hand by his pistol, the Bushranger motioned the deputy to stop at 10 paces away.

“Easy” said Deputy Jonathan, his hands high in the air. “I just wanna talk, mate.”

The Bushranger predictably said nothing to this useless statement.

“Look, I got another job for you. Its about my daughter, Grace.”

Pausing for dramatic effect, but greeted with an anticlimactic response, Jonathan continued weakly

“She was kidnapped a week ago by the Feral Children. You have to help me, she’s all I’ve got left.”

The Bushranger tilted his head slightly at the news.Then he made a rubbing motion with his fingers.

“We’ll give you at least triple the amount you saw in the pouch for that last bounty.”

The Bushranger opened his mouth, and allowed his jaw muscles to unclench. His voice, gruff, rough and gravelly from a lack of use, sent chills down the Deputy’s spine.

“Where.”

“They took her … to the Ute.”

To be continued ….

Personal Analysis:

I think I really like the world I’ve created here. Its meant to echo current fears about climate change, in which I made a bold natural disaster known as the Great Fire wipe out all coastal towns in Australia, thus only leaving those tiny places in the outback as the final frontiers/settlement left.

Spring Law, is of course my play on Alice Spring, which acts as the major form of governance in a ruined Australia, that echos a little bit of Mad Max and my inspiration for this post, The Mandalorian.

You can probably see the clear references to the titular character, in the Bushranger.

I still got a lot of work to do though, with pacing and how much world-building is needed, whether I can trim down details or just overall improve the mood of the story.

As always, if you got feedback, message them to me!

However, stay tuned for part 2, next week.

~Damocles