Read Online He Died with a Felafel in His Hand by John Birmingham - Free Book Online
Authors: John Birmingham
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around the house at night, holding candles, waiting for fellow cult members to come and stare in through the windows.
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Magyver had the room next to me. He only ever wore blue nylon Dunlop overalls and although he was a qualified psychotherapist, he worked on a mushroom farm and seemed at home there. He was only employed part-time, but he enjoyed shovelling shit and carting trays of mushrooms about so much that he spent all of his spare time out there too. Really got into it. Last I heard, he’d gone to South America, looking for the Surinam toad, which someone told him has a small concave depression in its back – ‘I’m telling you, man. It’s a freak show!’ – and while he was over there checking it out he met some Chilean girl in a brothel. She wasn’t a hooker – just had a room on the top floor. Magyver shacked up with her in this cat house. He sent back one postcard, said she was the most fantastic woman he’d ever known. When his visa ran out, he gave her three thousand dollars to arrange a passage back to Australia, but the next thing he knew, she had a job with the World Bank. That was the last he ever heard of her.
----
Bob
These girls I knew, lived just around the corner, got this guy in. He’d been there for three or four days, everything was fine. But they came home one night and found him on the couch with all the lights on, completely naked, sucking on their panties. He booked himself into the loony bin the next day.
----
Neal the albino moontanner had the master bedroom in the house. You’d come home at one or two in the morning and he’d be in his underpants, stretched out on the banana lounge in the front yard, staring up at the heavens.
‘What’s happening Neal?’
‘Moontanning, man.’
One night he came in all shaken up. He’d been checking out the girls across the road from us, whom he was kind of keen on. Not looking eager, just kicking back on the banana lounge. They were cute, in a cashmere sweater kind of way, and Neal was certain that if they could just be introduced to sex by an albino moontanner, they’d never look back. Sadly one of the girls spilled out of a cab, drunk, with a flat-headed rugby type who fucked her like a dog on the front lawn in the moonlight. Took a few cones before Neal could get over that one.
After catching those moonrays, Neal liked sleeping more than anything else. Had this theory about it. The hassle avoidance theory of sleep – ‘I’d sleep twenty hours to avoid a hassle,’ he’d say. He had a rumpled street-dwelling demeanour and his room looked like the inside of a big St. Vinnies clothing bin. There was no mattress to speak of, just enough rags and old clothes to pile up and crawl under so that it didn’t matter. His best friend was Howie, a mad red-headed bastard who became a virtual flatmate by reason of his never leaving the house for more than a few hours at a time. When he did leave, it was only to pick up one of the rusting, arthritic old British motorcycles he and Neal used to strip down in the spare living room, the one in which we normally played basketball. They’d only ever get half way through the job, and then the bike would be gone, replaced by another in even worse condition.
Neal and Howie were guys with way too much time on their hands. I was back doing Law by this time, but I gave up studying at the house because of the noise. Noise from the indoor golf driving range, noise from the motorbike corridor time trials, noise from the chainsaw Howie attached to his arm while they role-played Evil Dead and Evil Dead 2 . He loved strapping on that big Makita and charging around, looking for Undead zombies to chop up. His eyes were strangely vacant as he laughed and smote the fibro walls, tearing chunks out of them in roaring clouds of asbestos dust. At least with the chainsaw you’d hear him coming. Golf practice was way past frightening. Neal and Howie didn’t fuck around with office Putt Putt. They teed up
----
Magyver had the room next to me. He only ever wore blue nylon Dunlop overalls and although he was a qualified psychotherapist, he worked on a mushroom farm and seemed at home there. He was only employed part-time, but he enjoyed shovelling shit and carting trays of mushrooms about so much that he spent all of his spare time out there too. Really got into it. Last I heard, he’d gone to South America, looking for the Surinam toad, which someone told him has a small concave depression in its back – ‘I’m telling you, man. It’s a freak show!’ – and while he was over there checking it out he met some Chilean girl in a brothel. She wasn’t a hooker – just had a room on the top floor. Magyver shacked up with her in this cat house. He sent back one postcard, said she was the most fantastic woman he’d ever known. When his visa ran out, he gave her three thousand dollars to arrange a passage back to Australia, but the next thing he knew, she had a job with the World Bank. That was the last he ever heard of her.
----
Bob
These girls I knew, lived just around the corner, got this guy in. He’d been there for three or four days, everything was fine. But they came home one night and found him on the couch with all the lights on, completely naked, sucking on their panties. He booked himself into the loony bin the next day.
----
Neal the albino moontanner had the master bedroom in the house. You’d come home at one or two in the morning and he’d be in his underpants, stretched out on the banana lounge in the front yard, staring up at the heavens.
‘What’s happening Neal?’
‘Moontanning, man.’
One night he came in all shaken up. He’d been checking out the girls across the road from us, whom he was kind of keen on. Not looking eager, just kicking back on the banana lounge. They were cute, in a cashmere sweater kind of way, and Neal was certain that if they could just be introduced to sex by an albino moontanner, they’d never look back. Sadly one of the girls spilled out of a cab, drunk, with a flat-headed rugby type who fucked her like a dog on the front lawn in the moonlight. Took a few cones before Neal could get over that one.
After catching those moonrays, Neal liked sleeping more than anything else. Had this theory about it. The hassle avoidance theory of sleep – ‘I’d sleep twenty hours to avoid a hassle,’ he’d say. He had a rumpled street-dwelling demeanour and his room looked like the inside of a big St. Vinnies clothing bin. There was no mattress to speak of, just enough rags and old clothes to pile up and crawl under so that it didn’t matter. His best friend was Howie, a mad red-headed bastard who became a virtual flatmate by reason of his never leaving the house for more than a few hours at a time. When he did leave, it was only to pick up one of the rusting, arthritic old British motorcycles he and Neal used to strip down in the spare living room, the one in which we normally played basketball. They’d only ever get half way through the job, and then the bike would be gone, replaced by another in even worse condition.
Neal and Howie were guys with way too much time on their hands. I was back doing Law by this time, but I gave up studying at the house because of the noise. Noise from the indoor golf driving range, noise from the motorbike corridor time trials, noise from the chainsaw Howie attached to his arm while they role-played Evil Dead and Evil Dead 2 . He loved strapping on that big Makita and charging around, looking for Undead zombies to chop up. His eyes were strangely vacant as he laughed and smote the fibro walls, tearing chunks out of them in roaring clouds of asbestos dust. At least with the chainsaw you’d hear him coming. Golf practice was way past frightening. Neal and Howie didn’t fuck around with office Putt Putt. They teed up
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