The day is hot. Bludgy’s wearing an Hawaiian shirt and tending his empty bar. The place was a dive and Bludgy called it home. Right on time Doctor Jeffery Proudfoot enters through the back entrance with a smile and bounce to his step.

“Good morning my boy.” His upper middle class cultered English accent was a joy to Bludgys ears.

“Morning Doc Proud.”

“Barkeep, give me the usual please.” He takes a seat at the end of the bar. As Bludgy prepares his drink, Proudfoot holds up his hand and watches it shake. “What odds do you give?" Bludgy watches the shaking intently, gauging its degree.

‘I think your days are done on that one old man.”

“If I can down it without losing a drop, you’ll shout me the entire day free. How do you like them odds.”

“What odds, what the hell do I get?”

“Well if I lose you’ll get my money for your service.”

“But I’ll get it anyway. And how do I know you didn’t have a shot of methylated spirits from your hip flask just before you came through that door?” Bludgy pulls a face, mimicking Doc Proud as a twisted old drunk with a shaky hand.

“Well that just wouldn’t be cricket old chum." Proud gauges Bludgy’s face for empathy. There’s none to be seen. Bludgy’s staring back at Proud with a look of disgust. There was no surprise from either party. "I was a well respected man not long ago. People would willingly bend to my will. They looked at me different. I was someone and everyone knew it. Now I’m a drunk with whiskers in rags, guzzling this molecule you sell to my insatiable addiction." Bludgy smirks. "This is the high light of my remaining existence. Coming here to see you every morning. My liquid drug pusher, to begin my brain numbing infusion, in the shittiest crap hole, of the entire western world."

"Well Doc, I’m not what you’d call educated and I definitely aint cultured. But I’ve learnt a few things over the years working in this here shit hole. Most especially, I’ve learnt that a drunk is a drunk and I know your kind." He leans in closer to Proud. "In about six months I’ll be opening up that door and you’ll be laying there on the ground, fucked out of your mind, your brain will be mush, and you’ll have shit in your pants. Your kind follows an exponential increase of acceleration to the bottom. If I could be bothered working it out, I could probably give you a date of the day you’ll die."

"Oh I’ve already worked it out myself. Give or take a month either way for error, I have a eighty percent chance of dying in the month of_____."

"Yeah about my guess too. So I’ll tell you what, if you can down it without losing a single drop by lifting the glass to your lips, and not your lips down to the glass, I’ll let you loose for sixty seconds sculling what ever you want.” Doc Proud’s eye’s light up. He slaps the bar with his right palm.

“You’re on young man.” Bludgy fills a shot glass to the rim with scotch. It’s placed on the bar. Proud practices moving his arm and hand in a smooth fluid motion and up to the mouth. He does a little jig on the spot and cracks his neck. "Alright," he said as he readies his feet into position. His right palm and forearm are flat on the bar, with his thumb and first finger either side of the glass . Then goes for it, lifting the glass from the bar to his lips. Twenty centimeters to go and it gets a little wobbly. The entire contents of the glass lands on his crotch.

Bludgy laughs. He slaps the bar with his palm mimicking Proud. “What a hoot to start the day.” The glass falls out of Proud’s shaking hand. It smashes on the floor. Doc Proud stares at his feet and starts to cry. His tears drip to the floor, invisibly merging into the pool of lost liquor and shards of glass. Bludgy rolls his eyes. "Oh my god are you crying?”

With his eyes still down Doctor Proudfoot feels compelled to declare his dreadful situation. “After severing ties with my former life, I came to this town to drink myself to death. I was a name at Lloyds of London. They were going to pay me more than I needed to get the job done, but they had a bit of bad luck in the insurance game and I was the name on the ticket. They took everything I had. I can’t even pay the tab I owe you. So if I can’t afford this, then,.." Proud finds it hard saying the words aloud. "...the addiction takes me to loaves of bread sieving bottles of methylated spirits. I have to admit it lad, you weren’t far wrong in your assessment.”

Bludgy pours another drink and puts it on the bar. “I’ll tell you what Doc, take a seat and lets make a deal." Bludgy puts a straw in the glass so Proud won’t spill it. The fast ageing soak looks up from the floor at Bludgy. "Come on now, don’t be scared." Doc Proud sits himself on the barstool and sucks from the straw. “Now I want to tell you a secret. I’m writing a book.”

Doc Proud smiles. “Surely lad you’re jest.”

“No, I’m serious."

“What’s it called?”

“Last of the Good. It’s an end of the world thingy with good verse bad theme"

"Amazing and what’s the cover going to be?"

"Just the title filling the entire cover, but it’s made out of thousands of bones laid perfectly into a raised roman font that’s embossed in the paper. The bones represents all the good that have died, all except the very last one, and as the reader holds the book, with every word they read, they’re touching those bones, with their fingertips and nails thinking that could be me. Bla bla bla. So anyway I’m about to write a very creative scene and I need the mind of a skilled surgeon to get it just right.”

Proud finishes the drink with a pensive look as he stares at the empty glass. “I chose to drink myself to death, in the hope that by the time I do die, I’ll remember next to nothing of my previous existence. I don’t want that box opened ever again. It’s way too painful”.

"But you don’t know the terms of the deal. You help me with every medical detail related to this one scene and you can have free drinks in this bar, all day every day until the final day that your sorry ass dies.”

“You’re making fun of an old drunk again are you not?” Bludgy takes a printed contract out from under the bar and lays it in front of Doc Proud.

“I thought you would say that, so I had this pre prepared. Doc Proud studies the contract as Bludgy makes them both a fresh drink. “So what do you say partner, do we have a deal?”

“Well I have to say I think you’re obviously crazy, but if this is what you want then sure, we’ve got a deal lad.” They shake hands and clink glasses.

“I’m about to leave for a couple of days but before I do, in a few minutes we’ll go down the road together and get it notarized.” Bludgy hears someone walk through the front entrance. “In the meantime, the bar is yours.” Bludgy turns to serve Milo who’s takes a seat at the other end. “Hey Americana I thought you were in Christchurch today.” Said Bludgy as he draws Milo a draught beer.

“No that was yesterday.”

“So how did it go?” Milo looks dejected. Bludgy turns when hears something clink in the bar. It was Doc Proud making himself a jug of margaritas. “Make sure you clean up that glass you broke cause if you fall off that stool and cut your ass or back of something and you can’t stitch it up, I ain’t taking you to the hospital. Not a good look for the bar.”

“Got it. No art house tragedy on display.”

Bludgy winks at him. “Good man.” Then turns back to this dejected friend.

“I’m screwed,” said Milo.

“Why what’s wrong?” Asked Bludgy as he starts doing bar jobs.

“I’ve got just over a week left to submit my visa application, and the lawyer said that the only possible chance I have of staying here, is if I have money and plans to create a new concept, mind blowing multi million dollar industry that employs NZ citizens and doesn’t compete with existing local business.”

“Ouch. So what are ya gonna do?” Said Bludgy with a tone of indifference.

“If I don’t submit one by next weekend, I’m an instant overstayer. So, I’m going to get absolutely stoned and drunk, then when wake up the next day it’s going to be all there, written by my hand on sheets of paper all laid out all in front of me like a gift from the Gods. Something on par with with creation of blockchain should do.”

With lips pursed and eyes focused at nothing, Bludgy was visibly musing. “Or we could go see my mate Abdul Tong in Wellington.”

“Who?”

“The guy’s a venture capitalist. He expands his business like a franchise. Spawns companies all over the place. I’m in tight with the fucker.” He speed dials his phone and puts it to his ear. “I was talking to him just this morning, he asked me up there for the weekend. I said no but I’m guessing the invite’s still open. We just need a way to get there.” Bludgy turns away from Milo when his call is answered. “Hey fuckhead how’s your day going? Aha.., yeah well I don’t really care I was only calling to see if I could borrow a chopper... Yes and someone to fly it… Wellington, and its none of your fucking business... Cheers bruv.” Bludgy ends the call. “It’s sorted.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Milo with delightful amazement.

“Well it’s happening.” Milo looks somewhat stunned.

“Yeah, okay good.” He grins broadly.

“Right then. Go home get changed into something like a casual suit or something. Not a business suit but something with a bit of sophistication. But don’t over do it. The guy takes notice of shit like that. The way a person presents themselves. Just don’t look like a bum. You know. I mean don’t embarrass me.”

“Right, noted.” Milo gets off his seat to leave. “Thanks Bludgy. You’ve given me a last chance. I’m really grateful.”

“Get moving bud, seize the day.”

Soon after Milo and Bludgy were driving into Bludgy’s twin brother’s impressive homestead, located a few kilometers south of Westport at the mouth of the mighty Buller Gorge. Milo parks his car in a small parking lot next to the helipad. Bludgeon’s head pilot Logan Gans was giving his Hughes ME 500 helicopter a preflight safety check. He waves to Bludgy and Milo as they walk as they walk towards him with their carry bags.

“Hello gentlemen. I understand we’re going to Wellington.” Said Logan.

“That would be correct,” replies Bludgy.

Logan stops what he’s doing, meets them halfway and shakes Bludgy’s hand.

“Good to see you again Bludgy.” Said Logan.

“Likewise," replied Bludgy with a grin. Logan turns to Milo and shakes his hand in turn.

“Now if I’m correct, your name is Milo. Is that right?”

“Have we met before?”

“Not that I recall but I had been told a few months ago that you’ve been doing some impressive flying of in Hughes 500 simulator.”

“No shit, who told you that?”

“Oh a little birdy. Now the thing is you’ve guys have both caught me on hop. I’d not long had the day’s only scheduled flight. It was a recertification test with a CAA instructor, and that’s why there’s twin controls in the machine right now. I haven’t had a chance to take them out yet, but I thought, why not give Milo a crack."

Bludgy’s looking ambivalent. "So I’m assuming you failed the test with the instructor and that’s why you want this idiot to fly us right?

"Well it just so happened that this recertification included an upgrade to my license. Which I can tell you Bludgy, I passed with flying colours. So I can now legally teach people to fly as an instructor. So What do you think Milo? Do you think you can pull it off first go like a seasoned pilot?”

Milo grins. “You know I think I can.”

“Oh my God.” Said Bludgy feigning terror. “We’re all going to die.”

“No we’re not,” said Milo distantly with wide eyes, staring at the machine in awe.

“I know him,” said Bludgy. “He’ll zone out thinking he’s playing Grand Theft Auto and plow us into a mountain.” With a smile on his face Logan turns to Milo. “So how much detail would you say that you know, in relation to real world flight?”

“Shall we start with a pre flight check?”

“Lead the way,” said Logan with a gesture to the machine. Milo felt like a man child with a new toy. With his painted on grin he flowed around the airframe checking off every item on Logan’s checklist. “I’m impressed so far Milo, that was spot on.”

“Then it’s all downhill from here then.” Said Bludgy in all seriousness. Then he continues to wine about which back seat to pick. He contemplated sitting in the left rear seat so he could watch Milo kill them all, but then after seeing Logan’s look of frustration, decided that he’ll be happier sitting in the right seat to watch Logan’s heroic attempt of regaining control.

Once they were all strapped in with headphones connected Logan went over the rules with Milo. “They’re straight forward. When I say I have control, you immediately release the controls until I say once again, you have control.”

“Got it,” said Milo.

“Alright then,” said Logan. “Now I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you know how to start her up all by yourself, but I’m not going to risk you getting a hot start and melting my engine into the pad so I’ll fire it up, then get her in the air before handing her over to you.” Milo nods in happy agreement. Logan flicks the initial battery and startup switches then presses the start button. There’s a loud tick tick tick sound at the machine winds up. The inside of the turbine ignites with flame and the main rotor starts to turn. Milo lets out a whoo-hoo and Bludgy rolls his eyes. “We have full power and everything’s looking good.” Said Logan. The machine leaves the ground. "You have control.” Milo lifts the helicopter into the clear blue sky in a climbing left bank over the Buller river bringing him square with a forested ridgeline leading all the way to the top of Mount Rochford. To his right the Buller River snakes itself through the Buller Ranges covered in a blanket of native beech. To his left the thin coastal strip of flat mainly pasture farms was dwarfed in proportion to the evergreen hills backed up by the great Southern Alps extending North and South for as far as the eye could see. As he approached the mountain top Milo drifted slightly left of the ridge to avoid the tall communications tower which he arcs around in a tight banking turn, over the ridge to a sudden drop of hundreds of metres to an ancient lost valley of cascading waterfalls and towering timber.

“Good skills that man,” said Logan.

“Lucky first go more like.” Interjected Bludgy.

“It feels just like the simulator,” said Milo, “except with G forces and amazing resolution.”

“Are you having fun?” Asks Logan.

“Hell yeah.”

“Great. So take a heading of ______ degrees and climb to an altitude of _____ thousand feet, on this stunning sunny day.”

With more altitude the helicopter disappeared into the blue above the green. Bludgy amused himself with his phone and Milo and Logan talked of nothing but flight. After _____ minutes they could see the small city of Nelson nestled amongst its hills. Before them at the Northern end of the South Island were the Marlborough Sounds. To Milo they looked like the boney fingers of a giant skeleton hand disappearing into the watery depths of the notorious Cook Strait. Soon they were descending through a virtual flight corridor to Wellington. A bowel like city of native forest with a blue water bay in the middle. Their destination was a heliport at the edge of the waterfront. Logan made an aplomb landing. Milo and Bludgy made their appreciation known and left Logan to refuel. At the helipads exit to the building, a man was indicating for Milo and Bludgy to follow him inside. They walked down a passageway to a small meeting room. Inside were four large stern looking men dressed in black suits leaning against the walls. In the middle of the room waiting to greet them was a little old frail man who was exquisitely dressed and manicured, as if he had just stepped out of a nineteen fifties Havana casino. He extended his ancient hand for Milo and Bludgy to shake.

“Hello gentlemen.” He spoke with an eastern European ascent. Milo noticed a prominent scar on the man’s right cheek. “My name is Ivan.” He hands them a business card each. “I’ll be your concierge for the remainder of your visits to this the windy city. A chauffeured car is waiting for you both. One of my assistants will show you the way. Anything you want, don’t hesitate to ask, and please enjoy your stay.” Immediately one of the stern men gestured both men to follow him outside to a late model Bentley. The chauffeur then drove them the short distance to the city centre where they parked out front of the Tong Tower, understood by Milo to be the city’s tallest building. A doorman opens Milo’s door. In the lift Bludgy presses the top floor button. He looks over at Milo who’s fidgeting with his fingers.

“Don’t be so nervous,” said Bludgy. “Just be yourself.” Milo takes a deep breath, then turns to Budgy with a smile as he shakes off the anxiety. “Let’s have some fun.” The doors opened to a reception desk in front of a wall of glass show casing the waterfront and bay. Watching them exit the lift was a standing modelesque receptionist.

“May I help you?” She asked sounding bored.

“Messers Bludgeon and Hayes to see Mr Tong.” She gives each of them a short cold stare.

“One moment.” She lifts a phone receiver for a short exchange. “He will see you now.” Bludgy looks left then right.

“Which way?”

“Either,” said smugly. Bludgy gave her a quick glare before pivoting left around the monolithic elevator. Milo followed with amazement. The circular open plan had 360 degrees of floor to ceiling exterior glass. A score or two of beautiful people worked away at elegant desks scattered between indoor plants and stylish settees. Bludgy led Milo across a long golden carpet splitting the floor down the middle. It led towards a splattering of elevated desks framing the highest desk of them all. It was an ornate mass of carved ivory ugliness, constructed from no less than an entire single herd of elephants. Slaughtered entirely for making this single piece of furniture. Seated behind this deafening lesson of corporate decadence was Abdul Tong. He sat motionless, bathing in the wealth of the setting sun glowing behind his head like a stolen crown of blasphemous warmth as courtiers flurried around his head like blow flies.

“My bruva from another muver,” said Tong filling the entire floor with his voice as he fended off human flies that were blocking his way to Bludgy.

“Hey, my favorite slit eyed wog, how are you my man?” Said Bludgy with genuine cheer. Milo gives him a questioning look.

“Very happy you’re here my friend.” He gives Bludgy a bear hug” We’re going to rock this town tonight.” He turns to Milo. “Mr Milo Hayes I presume, it’s nice to meet you.” They shake hands. Milo notice’s Abdul’s extra tight grip. Then Abdul pulls Milo’s hand forwards a little and grips his forearm with his left hand.

“Likewise Mr. Tong.” Said Milo with a slightly forced smile.

“Call me Abdul.” Milo nods his head. “Please follow me.” He leads them to several loungers next windows. Tong gestures for both his guests to take their seats. “One day Bludgy, I’ll have to take you to one of my home towns in Middle East to meet my giant prison guard cousin, and his friends, I’ll tell them about the names you call me, they will rape your white ass until you look like Baboon. I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself very much.”

Bludgy grins. “You are gracious as always my friend.”

Tong turns from Bludgy and clicks this fingers to an unseen employee. “So tell me Milo, why do you choose to spend your time around a deviant such as this?”

“Well,” said Milo without knowing what to say next as a beautiful young woman dressed in a black spandex mini dress with her hair tied behind her head in a bun appeared holding a tablet.

“Just hold that thought a moment," said Tong. What time is it Maria?”

“Six minutes past five Sir.” She said without an accent.

“Excellent, I’ll have a triple bourbon and coke. And what would the racist pig like.”

“Oh I’d love a white russian.”

“And Milo?” Asked Tong. Milo paused and thought. Normally he would’ve just asked for a beer.

“A brandy please.” Milo said to the woman who flashed him a gorgeous smile back.

“Make them all triples.

“Certainly sir,” and she was gone.

“Now both of you are to keep your hands off that spectacular creature.”

“Why’s that?” Asked Bludgy sounding intrigued.

“I’m saving her for my hareem.”

“No shit,” said Bludgy, “you have a hareem now?

“It’s a work in progress.”

“I’m sure it is," replied Bludgy.

Tong turns to Milo. “Are you Milo?”

“Well I was in a long term de facto relationship but we recently broke up.”

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Which is the reason we’re here.” said Bludgy.“ Milo’s only option of staying in this country legally, is by fronting a venture capitalist funded enterprise with a minimum three million dollar start.”

“I see," said Tong, now wearing his business face. "Then I expect to be very impressed my friend. So Milo, how about you start by telling me how you came to be in this country in the first place?”

“Well I lived in L.A. until I was almost eighteen, when my doctor parents decided that they would take the entire family to Westport and work as locums for a few years, all for the experience of living in a foreign wilderness at the bottom of the world. I was dead against the idea, but the irony was that when it was time for us all to go back home, I decided to stay.”

“The boy was cunt struck,” said Bludgy. Tong smiles. Maria arrives back with the drinks which she passes out.

“Is this the same relationship that just ended?” Asked Tong. Milo nods his head.

“Children?” Milo’s face beams.

“I have a little girl, she’s four years old.”

“She’s the light of your life yes?” Milo nods. “And you can’t bare the thought of no more hugs from this little angel?” Maria gives Milo a sympathetic pout then leaves.

“So what are you prepared to do in order to stay here?”

“Anything.”

“Really, anything?”

“Within reason. I mean, I guess I’ll do almost anything as long as it’s legal.”

“So besides becoming a father, what else have you done with your life since arriving here Milo?”

“Well I., I learnt to fly a helicopter.”

“Oh really?” He said, sounding excited. “How many hours have you clocked?”

“Less than one actually, you see I learnt using a simulator I built myself.”

“Oh I see.”

“I’m widely read. I’ve done the entire degree level syllabuses of law, literature, philosophy and medicine.” Tong was nodding his head as if impressed.

“So you have academic qualifications in what exactly?”

“Ah well I haven’t actually sat an exam for anything since I did my S.A.T.s back in high school.” Milo was sensing Tong’s disappointment. “I used to be a qualified lifeguard, but.,” he trails off, “probably not registered at the moment."

“You know at the end of the day Milo, many qualifications are just marks on a bit of paper, it doesn’t paint a full accurate picture of what makes a man. Would you agree?”

“Yes certainly.”

“Think of people like ____________ and ___________ They had no formal education but look at what they achieved in business. Have you ever had your own business Milo?”

“Yes I have.”

“Oh really, in what industry?”

“Surfing.”

“Surfing?”

“Surfboard manufacturing.”

“Oh I see.”

“I started working from the shed out the back behind the house.”

"So how did that work out?"

Milo’s nodding his head, wishing he could think of something impressive. “Yeah, well my friends hanged out all the time at my place. So yeah, yeah nah it didn’t really work cause nothing actually really got done.” Milo laughs, the other two don’t. “But I guess you had to be there as there was always hooters being passed around or the surf was pumping. Ha Ha Ya know what I’m saying. I mean how can you pass up a beautiful summers day at Tauranga Bay, when you’ve got a nice board.” Milo smiles as he looks off into the distance.

Tang’s having an unguarded moment of confusion as he’s staring at Milo. Then suddenly he bursts into laughter. “This is a practical joke. Right?” Milo looks embarrassed. Tang turns to Bludgy who looks unaffected.

“It’s not a joke because this is a special case.”

“How so?”

“The kid’s a freak. He’s got a brain like a supercomputer. Give him a book, and it’s read in about twenty minutes. Ask him any question about it, he can quote eighty percent of the lines word for word. I don’t want to give him a big head, but there’s nothing this kid can’t do. I’d bet against any CEO from any corporation and I’d say, Milo could do better than them, if he had a reason to do it.”

“Do you have a reason now?” Tang asks Milo.

“Yes I do.”

“What’s your IQ?”

“In my last year of high school I was clocked at one hundred and seventy five. At the time I felt robbed,” he smiles to himself, “even though it was my own fault for leaving the exam early.”

“Okay,” Said Tang, looking pensive. “I notice how you’ve absorbed kiwi culture with all your colorful NZ colloquialisms. It shows you love the place." He points a finger at him. "You’re a person of interest.” He skulls his drink. “Lets go, we’re hitting the town.”

The Bentley’s chauffeur drove them to the city’s hippest places with everything paid for by Tang. Introductions were made to many beautiful women, politicians, rich and famous people. Milo was starting to wonder if Tang knew everyone that mattered in this corner of the world. His mother was Arabic, his father Chinese Han. Besides English he spoke Arabic, Mandarin and Spanish. To Milo, Tang was an enigmatic man of the world, with worldly ideas and boundless optimism. He searched for talented people and ideas constantly. For him thought Milo people are a resource to be used in future trends He told Milo that the Earth would be reborn anew, through mountains of blockchain munching through infinite depths of data, mulching into a finale merger of engineering, computing and life, at the fundamental level making anything possible.

“We can be Gods Milo. Right now we’re the seeds of giant redwoods sprouting in the sun. I’ve been feeling the warmth a long time now and it’s been making myself and my company very successful. So I look for other people who are talented, like yourself Milo, that I know, with my shared light, you Milo will grow into your wildest dreams. We’ll achieve things tomorrow that we couldn’t have imagined yesterday. Our hyper engineered products from the tangible to the ethereal will redefine humanity through the expression of blockchain. And blockchain expressed through algorithms will birth A.I. as the new living blood of commerce, making money obsolete and our cups runneth over with wealth.”

At unknown time, beneath said name, Milo Hayes put pen to paper.

He wakes in a rear seat of the helicopter as it descends over the eastern side of Westport. He feels horribly hungover with his mouth void of moisture. The din from the turbine was screaming at the same frequency as his headache. Milo looks down as the machine banks a circle around Victoria Square, at the centre of town. As Logan lands at the middle of the sports ground, Milo feels glad to be home.

They watch aircraft disappearing into the sky as they walk towards Bludgy’s bar across the street.

“I’m exhausted,” said Milo.

“Nonsense," said Bludgy dismissively.

“I’m not kidding it’s like every fibre in my body is begging to sleep horizontal.”

“Come in for a drink first.”

“Nah man please just give me a ride home home in the pub van.”

“But I have to go in there anyway for a piss so you might as well come in for a drink cause I know you need one.”

“I’ll wait outside because if I go in there people are going to start talking to me, then you’ll talk to other people and I’ll never get out.” They reach the sidewalk in front of the bar’s entrance and Bludgy stops Milo from walking further.

“Now for everything I’ve done for you this weekend I think I at least deserve a small favour done in return, don’t you agree?” Milo screws up his face and couldn’t disagree.

“Okay sure.” He give’s a Bludgy a thankyou smile. “But just one beer and then you’ll take me home right?”

“Yep.”

“Alright then.” Bludgy opens the door for Milo who walks into the bar first.

“Surprise,” shouted a room full of people. Milo turns to see fifty of his friends and associates huddled together at the other end of the bar. Collectively they read the words of a banner hanging above them. “Congratulations Milo,” they roared, cheered and clapped.” Milo turns to Bludgy.

“I take it this was your doing?”

“Who me? No I wasn’t here.” Milo smiles at the feigned act of innocence, then goes to his friends for hugs, kisses, handshakes and laughter. A beer is placed in his hand and everyone wants to know about the newly inked project. He thinks about it and laughs a little.

“You know I can’t really remember everything, but it’s been one hell of a weekend and there’s a guy in Wellington who’s backing me for millions.”

“But for doing what exactly?” Asked Tex.

“Well, Its all to do with Hyper engineered products.”

“Like what? Asked Tex sounding more intrigued.

Milo was searching memory. “Ah, real and ethereal.”

“Ether what?” asked Cookie looking confused.

“It means not all there." Said Milo.

Cookie literally scratches his head. "Are there parts missing?"

“No Cookie," said Tex. "It’s just not all there, just like in your head.” Cookie squeaks out a little self deprecating laughter to fill in the awkward moment as he knew that Tex’s remark was actually meant for Milo, who was looking a little lost with embarrassment.

"Well its blockchain expressed through algorithms, that’s the ethereal part." Said Milo trying sound confidant.

"Right," replied Tex, "So what are you going to do with that exactly?"

"Well its going to birth A.I. as the new living blood of commerce."

"Aha." Said Tex

“Making money obsolete.” Said Milo.

"You’re going to make my money worthless? Ask Cookie in horror.”

"Ah…no." Said Milo sounding unsure.

"But if it’s obsolete then it must be worthless.” Said Tex baiting Cookie.

“Sure, but all our cups will runneth over with wealth,” added Milo.

“Ya what?” Asked Cookie, as Milo turns introspective. Deep in thought his friends think he’s gearing up to say something impressive.

“I’ll be right back.” Milo swiftly leaves through the staff only door, leaving Cookie and Tex a little dumbfounded.

Bludgy is sitting at his desk in his office, catching up with administration duties when Milo walks in looking worried. “How much of the weekend do you remember Bludgy?”

“All of it I think.” He pauses to think. ”Well most of it.”

“Good, because after we left Tongs and hit the bars I don’t remember anything.”

‘Oh no, you had another blackout. I thought you were over those.”

“What did I agree to in the business deal?” Bludgy rummages through his carry bag and pulls out a contract. "I don’t know you tell me." He drops it on the desk with a thud.

“Holy fuck It’s inches thick. And why is there blood on it?” Bludgy shrugs his shoulders as Milo authenticates his signatures.

“You tell me Milo. Oh no you can’t, because you can’t remember shit. What a fucking waste. The knowledge that Tong conveyed to you for hours and hours of one on one tutoring, for your sake only man, for your sake only, and you went and blew it. There’s people out there dude, and I know this for a fact man, they would have paid millions for that experience that you had with Tong, and you can’t remember dick.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “Fuck me.”

“I have to read it.”

“Sure take it home.”

“No here right now, from front to end, so you can help with all the questions.”

“I thought you were tired and needed to sleep.”

“Needing to know my entire legal obligations before the start of business hours tomorrow has suddenly trumped sleep entirely.”

“Then pull up a seat and get started.” Milo took the offer and sat in front of the blood splattered cover sheet. It read, “An equity agreement between Abdhul Tong and Milo Hayes.” From the first line the legal language was extremely complex, Milo felt like a runner trying to sprint through treacle. By the end of the first page he could barely keep his eyes open. Bludgy opened the bottom draw of his desk and brought out a small plate. On it he crushed a rock of crystal meth into powder which was formed into a line with a card from his wallet. Next to the line he placed a small straw, then he slid the plate across the desk to Milo. “Take the hit.”

“No thanks.”

“If it’s that important that you have to finish reading the equivalence of two whole bibles tonight, then take a hit. You’re exhausted, you know you can’t do it without it, so either take the hit or go out there and get drunk till you black out or go home to bed.” Milo looked from Bludgy to the line on the plate. He had always avoided non-hallucinogenic drugs. He saw them as a personal Rubicon that he hadn’t yet crossed for the single reason that the end costs would end up being worth less than any immediate benefit. “It’s your choice Milo. I’d just hate to see you end up in a bad situation because you can’t remember what you’ve signed until, you know, maybe its too late.”

Milo’s instantly on edge. “What do you mean by bad situation? What the fuck are you on about?”

Bludgy raises both palms to Milo. “Hey man I just introducing you to the guy that was all."

“But you vouched for him before we left.”

“That doesn’t mean shit. I never guaranteed every aspect of the mans character and I took you up there to get help from Tong with me in the loop to cover your stupid dumb ass so you would be guaranteed a good deal but you blew that by leaving me out of the loop. I don’t know what you two were really up to but most of the time you and Tong were at it together like a pair of fags as if you had a private thing going on. You made a deal with him that I know almost nothing about, so whatever you may or may not have stitched yourself into with Tong, it was all between you and him. It had nothing to do with me.” Milo looks back at the line. “One hit won’t make you an addict kid. Do your future self a gargantuan favour and suck that shit up your nose.” Milo couldn’t disagree with the logic. He took the straw and snorted the line. He felt the tiredness burn off like morning fog vaporized by hot summer sun, leaving his mind laser focused. “You should know by the way, that for a virgin tweaker, you just took a really big hit. You won’t sleep for days.” Milo ignored him and attacked that contract with a gusto.

One hour later he was close to ten percent through the pages, and because he was judging it so far so good, he decided to mini celebrate by getting a quick drink from the bar which he’d intended on carrying straight back to the office. On arrival at the office end of the bar he could over hear Bludgy at the opposite end telling animated anecdotes. Doc Proud and several other regulars erupted into fits of laughter, then doubled up when they spotted Milo. Bludgy turns with a grin to see Milo waiting.

“I’m telling them stories about our trip.”

“Oh really, and which ones exactly?

“When that random girl who was walking out of that club suddenly drops her hot little ass into your lap and starts grinding into ya jiggles, then her friend turns and asks her are ya coming, she licked her lips and said, almost. Doc Proud and his drunken friends laugh like school boys. Milo looks questionably at Bludgy, then recognition of the memory flashes across his face. Bludgy pours him a beer.

“Yeah and her friend said get off him, you don’t know where he’s been.” Milo was smiling and happy to finally remember something.

“And we saw her later on in that other bar remember with her giant boyfriend who wanted to beat you up. That’s when Tong clicked his fingers and four guys in suits seemed to pop out from nowhere and the guy on the floor.

Milo was elated at the revelation. “That’s right. Now I remember.” He sipped his beer as he listened to Bludgy tell story after story. He promised himself that he would go back to the office soon, but he was learning more from listening to Bludgy than he was from reading the contract. Bludgy poured him another beer. All the old soaks gathered round. Soon there was all the time in the world.

In complete darkness, he felt an omnipotent, pure malignant evil brush past his back. Blood was sucked from his skin as Milo receded into his core, leaving his limbs turn cold. He felt feeble, defenseless. He heard an audible tone. He sensed a soft glow to his right. He turned but it was gone. Another tone. This time in unison the glow pulsed to his left. Again he turned just in time to catch a dissipating whisper of a glow. A third tone and Milo spun around to glimpse the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. He screamed and tried to pull back but it had him in it’s grasp. Another tone and the entire creature glowed like ember as it opened its mouth and went for Milo’s throat.

He opened his eyes to a blinding harshness and the call tone of his phone that was vibrating next to his bed. It took him more than a moment to calm down and get his bearings. He affirms to himself that he has woken in the caravan that he’s been living in since his break up with Jet. His eyes wince at the sun piercing it’s way through a myriad of holes in the vans’ drawn moldy curtains. A hangover from Hell was pounding his brain. How could I have been so stupid? He asked himself in thought. What did I do to myself? Within reach of his arm was a half full, topless bottle of Coke. He grabbed it and guzzled to the last drop except for some that missed his lips and ran down his chin. The empty vessel was tossed to the garbage covered floor. The phone stopped ringing. Milo looked at it with a feeling of unknown dread. First he checked the time. It was four pm, on a Tuesday. He had lost almost two whole days and missed forty calls. It started ringing again to an unknown caller.

“Hello,” he answered with a brittle voice.

“Milo where the hell are you.”

Who’s this?”

“It’s Toby Smith from Rapid Freight, I’ve been waiting outside the locked gates of your fucking compound for forty five minutes, this was going to be my last attempt at calling you before I hauled off the entire fucking load back to Greymouth.”

“Where did you say you were again?”

“Are you fucking with me?

“No, no I’m not.”

"Fine I’ll play your silly game. I’m outside your fucking compound at the end of Burwood Place. So where the fuck are you?.”

“Who’s the sender?”

“Tong International.”

Milo was shocked at the speed of events. “Ah,..”

“If I’m not unloaded and leaving in twenty minutes I’m exceeding my drive-able hours, you’ve got five more minutes to get your fucking ass here and immediately unload my truck that’s first in que.” The driver ends the call. Milo crawls out of bed feeling horribly strung out. Every bone feels brittle and every muscle exhausted and torn. He bends over to pull up his pants and almost topples over. Anything harder than getting dressed today is going to be a moon shot. He picks up his phone and keys, noticing a new addition on the ring. He stares at it with unease as he slips on his shoes. Then he kicks the door open to a strong crisp northerly wind that hits him in the face. He looks up the strata of mottled clouds racing over head like scout planes proceeding the rain laden heavy bombers to come. I’ve been here long enough to know the signs. His car was parked next to the caravan on an empty section bordering an overgrown farm at the edge of town. He knew the address that the driver had given him. It took him four minutes driving to get there and find a que of ten trucks parked outside the locked gates. How’s this possible?He parks next to the first truck.

“Sorry about the wait mate,” said Milo sincerely. The driver’s face was unaffected, it looked like a frying pan set on simmer. “I didn’t know anything about this until you just called.” The pan was now on full heat.

“Bullshit, you called me this morning making sure I’d be here on time.”

“Really? You’re sure it was me?”

“What the fuck? Just open the fucking gate I haven’t got time for your stupid games or this fucking bullshit.” Milo stares at the driver a for a moment, gauging him. The driver’s eyes bulge.

“Sure thing,” said Milo, who puts the new key in the gate’s padlock and turns the tumbler. As quick as the gates swung open, all ten trucks drive past in a convoy. He follows them up to the building and parks next to the front door, the same key opens that as well. Inside the building’s almost empty except for a forklift and an empty fuel container. He opens a large roller door with the press of a button then turns to the forklift. He had never driven one before. He climbed into the seat and quickly studied each of the controls. Milo starts the engine and out the door he goes. All the trucks were parked in a line. The drivers had pulled back their curtains revealing eight pallets each. Milo lined the forklift up with the first pallet of the first truck. He carefully raises and tilts the forks tentatively then pushes forwards, sliding them through the middle of the wooden frame.

“Are you alright there son?” Said the driver bemused at Milo’s operating skills.

“I’m learning on the job,” said Milo as a matter of fact. The driver shakes his head in disbelief.

“So here’s what you’re going to do son. You’re going to take off each pallet and you’re going to drop it straight down on the ground, a few feet back from each truck, and in the order that we arrived at the gate, do it this way and we can all fuck off home being no later than necessary, because if you start fucking around taking each pallet into that building one at a time, those poor bastards at the back are going to be here all fucking night.”

“What if it rains?” Asks Milo as he looks up at the fast moving ominous cloud.

“That’s just passing over.” Replies the driver dismissively without looking up. “It ain’t gonna rain.”

“Sure boss,” said Milo sardonically as he drops the first pallet on the ground and moves to the next. He becomes competent quickly and in less than thirty minutes he’s unloaded all the pallets from all of the trucks. As the last driver leaves, Milo’s already stored four pallets inside the building and is coming back for number five when the forklift runs out of fuel. He looks at the remaining fifty six pallets, then up at the endless blanket of rain cloud that’s starting to spit. Quickly he fetches the empty fuel container, then starts running to his car. After just five strides he has to slow right down to avoid throwing up, but he keeps on moving as fast as he can until he reaches the car. He thought of the effort as Herculean. Milo turns the key, hugs the wheel and puts his foot to the floor, feeling like death. As he roars out the gates he slows and thinks. Should I stop and lock them? Nah, he decides, who would steal of pallets of anything in this town in daylight. And besides, I’ll only be ten minutes. Halfway there his car runs out of petrol. He rolls to a stop by the curb then hits his head against the steering wheel several times until it starts to really hurt. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath then takes out his phone. It’s dead. “FUCK,” he screams at the rain hitting the roof of the car. His headache begins pounding at triple strength. Immediately he regrets the outburst. The windows were starting to mist up. The rain was setting in. He would have to run to the service station. He took the container and hit the pavement at a medium pace. Five strides in and he’s already feeling nauseous. Ten more and he stops against a power pole to vomit. He gives himself a brief moment to recover. Never can he recall feeling this ill. He starts moving again at a slower pace, transitioning from a shuffle, building up to a jog. The rain’s getting heavier. Six blocks to go, he thinks with a dread as every movement he makes is labored exhaustion. He keeps focusing on the next power pole. If I can reach it, I can do it again and again one at a time. Twenty poles later he arrives at the service station. He stumbles across the forecourt soaking wet, looking pale and breathing like a constipated bull seal. A guy filling his car is watching as Milo leans against the bowser with eyes shut. The container falls to his feet.

“Hey dude are you alright?” Milo looks at the guy.

“My car ran out of fuel. I feel really ill and I had to run 24 power poles to get here.” He vomits on the floor and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand “You couldn’t give me a ride back could ya? The guy looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Yeah.., He turns his head to a woman sitting in the passenger seat, she’s staring back at him intently, vigorously shaking her head. “Yeah, nah like we’re really filled up aye. Sorry dude.”

“It’s all good,” he replies as he bends down to pick up the container and starts filling it. Can anyone else give me a ride?” He calls out to the forecourt. No one replies, they just carry on as if they hadn’t heard him. He goes inside to pay for the fuel and purchase a craft knife he takes from the shelf. A waiting customer looks concerned at the sight. The cashier spots Milo and smiles.

“Hey Milo what’s up? His voice trails off. “How come you’re dripping wet and looking really ill? Are you alright mate?”

“Oh mate it’s a long story, but my car ran out of fuel and my phone’s gone flat so is there anyone here who can give me a ride back to my car?”

“Sorry man we’re working at peak service right now, not a minute to spare for anyone. But I can call you a taxi?”

“Thanks mate.” The cashier turns to make the call then turns back to Milo.

“They’ll be outside in two minutes.” Milo thanks him and walks out to wait at the edge of the forecourt, just out of the rain. Twelve minutes later the taxi arrives at the curb. The little old lady driver tosses her cigarette out the window. Over her horn rimmed glasses she stares at Milo as he approaches the taxi. The front passenger window goes down.

“Hey, stop right there,” she barks, “what is that?” He looks down at his shirt.

“Vomit probably for the most part. I’m not really sure about the rest. But I don’t need to go far I can take it off and tie it to the roof if it smells.”

“No waster brain, I meant the canister in your hand. I need to hold a dangerous goods endorsement on my licence in order to transport dangerous or hazardous goods on New Zealand roads. So those dangerous goods and you will not be traveling in this taxi.”

“Look lady, I’m really not feeling very well and I have to get to my car that’s ran out of fuel."

She interrupts him. "You’ve got petrol container, vomit down your front, and the horrible sunken eyes of someone who hasn’t slept in a month. I’d say you’re a meth head who’s planning to burn down some poor buggers house, so do us all a favour kid, go sit under the Buller Bridge, take the lid off that sucker, then stick your nose right in and snort the shit out of it until your toes curl up.”

“You know granny maybe I did buy too much, there’s more than enough here to get me totally off my trolley and still burn down two fucking houses wouldn’t you say you old bitch.”

“I know who you are yank."

“You sour old witch I bet you eat children at Christmas.” She glares with a smirk as if she’s already won. The taxi accelerates away. “I know where you live you old fucking cow.” Milo realizes how bad he might have sounded. He turns back to the forecourt. Half a dozen eyes, caught in the act of voyeurism immediately look away. “Can anyone give me a ride?” He asks with a bit of worry in his voice. One shakes their head without looking at him. “It’s just six blocks.” For once in his life people didn’t want to help him. He immediately regretted yelling at the taxi driver. He could imagine what they must have thought of him. I look like a crazy homeless person with gasoline and a knife that shouts at people. He didn’t blame them for not wanting to help. Roles reversed I would have thought the same. No one’s going to help me. He was feeling truly alone, for the first time in his life. The rain became heavy. He started walking back to his car with the fuel sloshing in hand. Normally he wouldn’t consider the weight but today it’s burden was growing. Soon the cold was biting through his soaked clothes. He kept switching the container between hands but after just one block both shoulder joints ached as if they were grinding bone on bone. It hurt so much he felt like crying but to stop or even slow down was not considered. He falls to the grit covered sidewalk and skins his hands and arms. Without pause to take a breath, he picks himself up. Every muscle silently screams in agony. Onward he continues, ever fearful of failure until he turns the final corner to see his car still sitting there where he stopped. He smiles a little. The rain was letting up and there was still enough daylight left to store away the freight. To Milo it felt like he had completed a colossal physical achievement. He had run marathons, but the stamina required to push through this sickness was way beyond compare. He was about to stumble the last few metres when he hears the" WHIRP" of Police patrol that, angle parks between Milo and his car. Police Sergeant Aussie Ozil exits the drivers door looking staunch in his shades as he flicks an extendable baton to its full length. With a pugnacious air he steps directly up to Milo.

“Hello Hayes.”

Milo drops the container and straightens up. His bones all creak and his breathing is ragged. “Hello Cunt-stable Oozil.”

“It’s sergeant Ozil you American fuckwit." He points his baton at Milo. “I understand that you’re in possession of twenty litres of petrol and you’re carrying a concealed weapon. Is that correct?”

“Yes I have a craft knife, because I just bought it."

“And it’s not in your hands so where is it?

“It”s in my pocket.”

"Then yes it’s concealed weapon and I understand you had a conversation with Sally _____ twenty minutes ago concerning the transport of petrol.”

"So?”

“She said you threatened to burn her house down. Is that true Hayes?”

Milo’s headache was reaching peak pounding. “No”

“So what are you going to do with all that petrol at night in thunderstorm? Got a lots of lawns to mow?”

“It might have escaped your attention Inspector Magoo, but I had already purchased the fuel at the station by the time grandma dementia arrived on the scene and narcissitically nutted off on her own ego trip inventing bullshit fantasies of coaching me to my imminent suicide. Now I just want to get to my car, put fuel in it, then drive to my new business and try to save all my very expensive equipment that is right now sitting outside covered in water.”

Ozil thought Milo looked close to cracking It made him smile. His goal was achieved.

“Call her to say you’re sorry. It doesn’t have to be right now just some time soon. or she’ll make a complaint. Cause you don’t want a conviction and I don’t want the paper work. So do it.”

“Sure why not."

Ozil points the baton back at Milo. "I’ll be watching you Hayes." Ozil gets back into the car and it’s not until now that Milo notices Gaz on the other side leaning over the windscreen.

“Hi Milo.”

“Oh hi Gaz.”

“Will I still see you tomorrow night to watch the game?”

“Yeah mate.” Milo knows it’s a lie. So does Gaz as he sheepishly smiles and waves goodbye. As they drive off Milo hobbles to his car and pours several litres of petrol into the tank then tosses the container into the boot and slams the lid. It’s starting to rain again. Milo turns the ignition. The starter won’t turn. The ignition lights are nil. He lifts the bonnet. Rain is pouring on his back as he twists the battery terminals. Back inside he turns the key. Ignition lights dimly flash as the starter motor makes the impotent CLACK CLACK CLACKS. He put his head in his hands and leans against the steering wheel. The battery was dead flat. He was going to have to hump the remaining fuel the entire way by foot. He took a deep breath and let out big sigh. As he opened the door the nervous thoughts of the suffering yet to come made him vomit on the road. He hangs onto the open door to haul himself out of the seat. His joints feel brittle as if they could fall apart at any moment. He opens the boot and continues on with container in hand. In the distance he can see lighting then the booming of thunder as the last rays of the dying sun’s are absorbed by the dense dark cloud. Night was coming early. Soon the paved sidewalk turned into a wild unkempt verge of tall grass. He wanted to walk on the road but the risk of tripping and falling into traffic was too great as his legs were tired and stumbling. The high beam lights of an on coming car blinded his vision. He trips and falls in a mud hole. It was filled with equal amounts of mud and humiliation. He rises covered in filth. On and on forever without end, it seemed until he could finally see his building. Then he noticed moving lights in the compound. He can hear people joking on the far side of the pallets. Thieves. With a shot of adrenaline he quickly he hides the fuel in the darkness of a ditch and locks himself inside the gates. The rain’s coming down heavy again. Giving him some cover as he crouches low, quickly making it to the nearest pallet, then sneaks as close as he can. They had just used the refueled forklift to load one of the pallets onto the back of their flat deck utility. Both were either side of the load strapping it down. Milo silently steps up behind the closest guy who’s entirely bald with his body head to foot tattooed with decaying torn flesh. This was Johnny Rotten. Milo takes a fighting stance with his left foot and fist forward.

“Hey mate,” Milo said softly, so that the guy on the other side of the ute couldn’t hear. Though neither does Johny. "Hey mate," he says louder. Orville spins around around as fast as he can to see a fist hitting him hard, square in the nose. The nose goes crunch. Blood splatters everywhere. Milo feels a little sorry for the guy and thinks that he probably doesn’t need another hit, but at the same time he’s shocked by Johnny’s face looking stripped of of it’s skin showing muscle and bone. Johnny calls out in pain to his partner Mr. Number 2’s. Then Johnny pulls out flick knife and faints on the spot.

"Hey mate this," said a voice behind Milo as a giant spanner comes down hard on his back. It takes the air right out of him. He collapses on the spot, momentarily unable to breath or move.

“Johnny get up we’re going,” said Mr. Number 2’s business like as he tosses the spanner into a box on the back of the ute. Mr. Number 2’s and Johnny had been friends since high school. Their most common interest was shocking other people. Every patch of Mr. Number 2’s body was tattooed with the numeral 2. At the top of his also shaved head was a surgically inserted silicone donut under the skin. In the middle of this sunken donut hole was a mustard yellow tattooed sphincter. Sprouting from this were a dozen curly hairs he kept trimmed and trained. He gives Johnny a couple of slaps to the cheek. "Wake up ya walley." Mr. Number 2’s keeps glancing back at Milo. Johnny groans. Mr. Number 2’s lifts him to his feet. "You Okay now?" A couple more light slaps "You steady?" Johnny takes a couple of breaths then nods at Mr. Number 2’s. He staggers next to Milo and gives him a few nasty kicks to the ribs, stomach and right thigh.

“That’s for breaking my nose cunt.” Said Johnny, to an unresponsive Milo who barely even blinks to the heavy rain pelting his eyeballs. Looking near dead he hears the ute start up and drive off. He forces himself to breath deeply. Willing himself a reboot. It pains him to his core but he knows he must move or lose the pallet. He doesn’t know why but but he can’t help feeling that the thought of losing it is worse than losing his life. He grits his teeth in preparation for the mind over matter effort required. With a heave and a groan he makes it to his feet and limps to the forklift. The effort of hauling himself into the seat almost makes him pass out. As soon as he’s turns the key starting the engine his fingers grip the steering wheel like rings of steel. The pedal hits the floor and regardless of his broken flaccid body, its full speed ahead.

Inside the ute Mr. Number 2’s is a hooting and a hollerin as they drive across the compound. Johnny’s much more subdued as he gingerly touches his broken nose. “Aww man I’m gonna get black eyes.”

“I’ve seen worse.” said Mr.Number 2’s who was driving without lights and at the last moment realizes that the gates were locked. He slams his foot hard on the brakes. Johnny wasn’t braced or wearing a seat belt. The forward inertia of his head went nose first into windscreen. "Double the crunch. I take that back.” said Mr. Number 2’s who chucks it into reverse, screams the vehicle backwards ten metres and does a one eighty turn. Johnny’s whimpering like a hurt puppy. “If you don’t want it done a third time I suggest you better buckle up." Mr. Number 2’s floors it. There’s a definite delay before Johnny’s brain picks up on what Mr. Number 2’s just said. Johnny starts reaching for the belt as Mr. Number 2’s looks in the wing mirror at the gates and floors it. Johnny has the seatbelt clip in the buckle. It’s almost clicked as the rear end of the truck slams into the locked gates. The heavy chain and large padlock don’t let go. The gates wrap themselves around the ute as they bend and stretch draining the vehicle’s momentum in the blink of an eye. Johnny who’s sitting on the edge of the seat is flung backwards. The back of his head bounces off the back of the cab, pushing him forward as if someone had grabbed him by the back of his neck and rammed his face into the steel dashboard. The structural cartilage his nose gives up the last of it’s crunch. The rear wheels spin as the engine screams and Johnny wines. The gate hinges on both sides fatigue, stretch and finally break, releasing the ute down the drive with a burst of acceleration. Johnny’s nose plows into the dashboard for the fourth time. His face looks flatter than a pug dog’s. Mr. Number 2’s back to hooting and hollering as Johnny’s in his own world, full throat crying.

Mr. Number 2’s focus was solely on the wing mirrors as he pushed the gates down the drive. Then suddenly out of the darkness Milo’s forklift appears and rams the front of the ute. “Fuck,” screams Mr. Number 2’s as Milo raises the forks, lifting the trucks front bumper metres off the ground. He’s looking up at the roaring V8 engine as both vehicles follow a slight curve puting the forklift into a slide. Milo can’t stop a jackknife as the ute slips off the forks. Its front end bounces on the road as the forklift continues its spinning slide, slamming into the right hand side of the ute. Both machines were now locked together, spinning on the slippery road. Milo takes a wheel spanner from a tray and smashes the utes drivers window. Mr. Number 2 still has his foot to the floor as Milo takes him by the throat. The ute scrapes down the side of the forklift slowly gaining speed. Mr. Number 2’s keeps reversing, escaping the bonds of the forklift only to get the gates stuck in a low ditch on the opposite side of the road. Milo spins the forklift around. Mr. Number 2’s puts the ute’s gearbox into first gear and gives it all it’s got. The rear tires are smoking up. Milo’s in a rage. He lowers the forks to Mr. Number 2’s head height and guns it straight at him. Expecting his own imminent demise Mr. Number 2’s screams in terror. Johnny who’s unable to see out of his puffed up eyes also screams in fearful sympathy. Five metres out from the ute, Milo’s uncontrollable empathy overcomes his rage and he veers the forklift to the front of the vehicle and lowers the forks with the new intention of piercing the front corner and destroying the engine. But for the second time the forklift runs out of fuel, coming to a stop just short of the ute which is finally breaking free of the gates. Milo swings himself out of the seat and onto the forks. From there he leaps onto the roof as Mr. Number 2’s drives off at full speed. Milo’s holding onto a roof rack with his left arm and left foot in a toe hold. With his right hand he reaches into the cab and tries to take the keys. Mr. Number 2’s elbows Milo in the head and then bites his arm. Milo returns with a punch to the face as they approach a tight left bend. Coming the other way was a large truck. Mr. Number 2’s attacks the corner at speed. Milo’s foot slips from its toe hold. Centrifugal force pulls his legs from the ute as he slices through the air like a horizontal pendulum. The truck sounds its big air horns. Milo’s dazzled by the lights. He guesses the gap between both vehicles to be small as he uses every last bit of strength to pull in his knees up as far as he can. As the middle of the truck is passes, the sole of Milo’s right shoe scuffs the deck, giving his legs enough inertia to flinging him back to the ute, a moment of second before the fingers in his right hand were about to let go. He latches onto the rail with all his strength as the road opens up to a long straight. With the truck well past and no other vehicles in sight, the ute starts drifting across lanes to the wrong side of the road.

“Get the fuck off my ute,” shouts Mr. Number 2’s as the tires touch the edge of the verge. Milo looks ahead. Mr. Number 2’s has lined the ute to just skim passed the next power pole. He pivots the wing mirror so it won’t be ripped off. “Bye bye peckerhead,” shouts Mr. Number 2’s happily at Milo who has but a split second to spare as he puts both feet to the door and kicks off like a swimmer in a backstroke race, narrowly missing the pole. He tumbles down a bank infested with stinging nettle, coming to a stop on his back in a shallow stoney creek. Exhausted and pained, he lay there in the pitch black. He listened to the trickle of the cold water curling over the rocks. He felt the numbness as nothingness, sweeping over him until he was numbed entirely. Until the universe ends, just leave me be. But rustle of leaves and trickle of water were speaking. There was no room for dreaming. Reality called, there was no escape, and at the point that he could have almost easily given himself to cold warm bliss of hyperthermia he started hauling himself out of the creek and back up the hill through the black wall of nettles.

Back on the road with imminent danger seemingly gone, he was once again cognisant of every ache and pain that his body had produced since he had left his bed. It took him thirty minutes to make it back to the forklift. His body shivered and pained. The fuel was retrieved from the ditch and poured into the forklift’s tank. Then he took a chain and shackle from a fish crate on the back of the forklift. Back to the compound he towed the gates. He counted the pallets. The stolen pallet, number one on the manifest was the single pallet missing. Pallets one to five contained the same items called resurrection machines. A problem for another day he decided with indifferent exhaustion. He lifted pallet number two into the building. The wet cardboard was removed with a knife along with the bubble wrap. Milo was relieved to find the contents were dry. Finally he thought to himself, something’s going my way. He looked at the contents and guessed they totaled around twenty boxes. Each one stylishly packaged and presented with the brand: “The Resurrection Game Presents”, followed with a product description: “Fifth Generation, Resurrection Machine Kit.” It showed a picture of a pretty model wearing a bikini and the kit. She has on her head what Milo thought looked like a crash helmet encrusted with electronics and tiny lights. The strap was locked. In her left hand she held a vial of electric blue sparkling liquid. In her right was a syringe with a needle. In each bikini cup was a defibrillator pad The pitch at the bottom read, “Visit other dimensions! Literally blow your mind!! Just three easy steps!!!” Milo was very unverved. His body automatically froze sensing serious danger was afoot but not knowing what. Correlations to the horrific lawyer’s office experience became immediately apparent. How, why? The implications? He realised he was still holding the terrible thing and flung it back on the stack. Automatically he wiped his mentally tainted palms on his wet clothes. It was too much to deal with in one night. He turned his back on the revelation and continued hauling pallets until they were all inside.

An hour later all the wet cardboard had been stripped and stacked away in a corner. The bubble wrap he left on all except for five that he used to make a mattress, pillow and blankets. Completely spent, he strips of his sodden clothes like an elderly man and hangs them on hooks in the wall to dry. Naked bar his underwear, he lays down in his makeshift bed of plastic bubbles. Exhausted like never in his life before. He shuts his eyes and falls asleep.

Mr. Number 2’s and Johnny Rotten watch from the edge of a bright pool of light, watching manly, hairy hands with bright pink nail polish, move caressingly over prophesied kits.

Tong’s voice was reassuringly smooth, covered with a layer of shimmering gilt. "To make this a reality, there is nothing required of you at all. The immigration paper work, business proposal, lawyers, bla bla bla, all of it will be taken care of by my team. To create a turn key enterprise with a clear path to citizenship. All for you Mr. Hayes. Relaxed, content, I’m happy. I’ve made it.

Milo wakes to heavy banging on the front door. He looks and feels terrible. He hopes the noise will stop and they’ll go away, but they don’t. His body is shaking with fever. The inside of his bubble wrap bed is wet with sweat

“Mr Hayes? Hello Mr Hayes I’m Mr. Bateman from the Department of Immigration. I know that you’re in there Mr Hayes and I know that you’re listening, because I heard you snoring your head off half an hour ago.” Bang Bang Bang on the door. “Mr. Hayes? Hello Mr. Hayes?

“Alright,” shouts Milo who puts his head in his hands and winces at the unexpected pain from doing it. He takes a big slow breath and prepares to continue talking just loud enough so as not to hurt his head anymore. “I’ll be right there.” As he gets to his feet, the multitude of aches and pains in his body become acute. The first step feels like the breaking of fused joints. He wraps himself in one of the bubble wrap sheets and shuffles to the door. With a flick of a lock the door opens to blinding afternoon light. Briefly Milo notices a pre prepared smile across Bateman’s face that’s gone by the time the swinging door hits the wall with a clang. Milo winces at the government official standing before him wearing a worn out suit looking perplexed and somewhat nervous. Surrounding him is a constellation of cigarette butts. His fingers start to fidget.

“Ahhh hey guy,” said Bateman to Milo who doesn’t acknowledge. Bateman chews his lip a little. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Milo Hayes is by any chance?”

“He’s right here.” Milo tries to smile but even that hurts. Bateman looks unsure.

"So can I come in to see him?"

"I am him.’

Bateman looks stunned. “Holly cow, I thought you were a vagrant.” He extends his hand to Milo who shakes it “Hi Milo I’m Victor Bateman from the Department of Immigration. I’ve been sent here today to make a visual assessment of your startup. Upon completion, the assessment will be attached to your file for later consideration in relation to your application.”

“Does it have to be today?”

“I’m sorry did I catch you in the middle of something important?”

“Oh no, it’s just that I’m not feeling very well.”

“You know I’m so sorry to hear that Mr Hayes, but I was out of bed at four a.m. this morning, so that I could drive four and a half hours to be here at this time of your suggestion.”

“My what?”

“When we talked on the phone yesterday and you agreed to this appointment at this time.”

“I did?” Milo was baffled.

“Aww jeez.” Said Bateman deflating like a limp balloon. “So can I come inside, at least?” Milo was gathering the strength to answer but Bateman couldn’t wait. “Cause I’m telling you now kid if you don’t let me in, my boss is going to scream my ass off and you will be on the next flight back to L.A.”

“Ah sure come in.” Said Milo without hesitation. Bateman straightens his tie and enters the building. Immediately he notices the empty offices and pellets of freight.

“I seem to be a bit confused. I thought you said we would be meeting at your main office. Not your warehouse.” Milo gently lays himself down in the pile of bubble wrap and shuts his eyes. "Well for the time being, this is both." If Milo had have been watching, he would have seen genuine personal worry wash across Bateman’s face.

“I was under the impression that you were practically ready for business, all I see here is a consignment of equipment from Tong International with the cardboard torn off. So what do I write in my report then Mr. Hayes? Subjects proven somewhat adept at opening boxes and showing possible green attributes by sleeping in recycled garbage?” To sick to care, Milo ignores Bateman’s question. Bateman’s distracted anyway. He’s discovered the missing pellet and shipping manifest. The blood drains from his face leaving him looking like a fragile porcelain piece. "Oh Fuck," he says to himself under his breath.

“How long do I have until my deadline of having the business operational?” Asked Milo.

“Two weeks.” Said Bateman mechanically.

“So put in your report," said Milo, "that it’s all on target. The equipment’s all here and assembly begins today.”

“One of your pellets of freight is missing." Batemans tone is aggressive. "Where is it?”

“I’m sure that’s not something you need to know for your report. Please go home to write it and leave me in peace.”

“It said on the sheet that the pallet contained twenty resurrection kits. What an intriguing sounding device. Mr. Hayes, describe to me the function of one of these machines.”

‘Well to be honest Mr. Bateman I don’t really know. You see I’ve only come into this business very recently. It’s like running a relay and someone passes you a batton, and in my case this is the batton passed to me for the final leg so it’s going to take a day or so to master the running of the whole enterprise.”

“And good luck with that Captain Kirk,” said Bateman cynically as he pans building. Milo feins a weak smile to Batman’s micro aggression. “So how about you strap one of these baby’s on and show me what they do.” Milo can see hidden anger flickering around the edges of Bateman’s eyes. Bateman picks up a kit and reads from its edge of the box. “Guaranteed to go. Three easy steps. It’s your product right Hayes? Tong International your parent company. It’s written right there on the corner. So show me what it does. Shoot yourself up and make it go.” Bateman stands over Milo, grinning like a mad clown who wants his blood. Milo decides to tread carefully.

“Ah, you know I normally would, but right now I have one hell of a flu coming on and that’s why I’m laying down in this bubble wrap, feeling like crap at the edge of death." He puts his head in his hands displaying pain. Bateman assumes it’s acting. "And I’m sure it’s not a wise thing to do in my condition and it probably has something to say in the small print about requiring a sound mind and body, so that rules me out I’m sure.” Milo smiles, as if he’s just pulled a get out of jail free card from his back pocket. Bateman’s unmoved, as he himself is feeling sick to his stomach with his brain trapped inside a pressure cooker. He wants to shove every single kit down Milo’s smug throat.

“And if little Johnny on the shit side of town were to come across one of those missing kits and does the three easy steps, you wouldn’t be concerned for his safety? Like at all?”

“Tong International is a first tier company. I’m sure they follow all the relevant safety certification processes required."

"Don’t bullshit me I know you were tested. Everyone going down this rabbit hole gets a test. Seen anything scary lately? Like the worst thing you’ve ever seen? That gave you nightmares?" Milo’s face betrays himself. "Thought so," said Bateman with a tone of contempt. "I’m here today not representing the department of immigration but for Tong International as a pro bono off the books commitment of having you breeze through the application process appearing clean as a whistle and what do I find when I get here? A giant fucking cluster fuck. "So if you don’t want to end up in that machine that you saw in your test, then you had better start talking or all Hell is going to break loose. Where are they?"

Milo meekly explained the robbery and told Bateman the registration number of the ute that was right in his view as he had raised with the forklift. Bateman immediately calls his ex wife with the plate number requesting name of registered owner. She offers to supply on the condition that he never talks her ever again. He happily agrees then barks at Milo to get dressed into his still damp rags and into the car, still wrapped in bubble wrap. As Bateman drove with growing anger, repeatedly hitting his fists on the wheel, Milo leaned his head against the passenger window and shook. He could hear Bateman saying words like moron, idiot, timelines and Hell, but Milo couldn’t concentrate on any more than three consecutive words. I’m seriously, deliriously messed up. Bateman parks outside of a rundown house then barks at Milo to stay in the car. Milo doesn’t argue. An elderly woman answers the door. Through his barely open eyes Milo watches Bateman’s hands moving around like a salesman. Three minutes later he’s back in the car.

Dear reader thank you for reading all the way to the present moment coal face. Anything after this point at times is a messy construction site, but please come again if you would like to see how the end of this chapter sets up the rest of the book for one Hell of a ride.