Just got a text message from my bro...
PORK CHOPS @ VINNIES... SWEET!
We have an understanding, he and I. If we do something good
we share it by text. We don’t actually speak that often, which I suppose
most people would think strange considering we live in the same city. But
still our simple little system lets us share a lot of what life has to offer.
Now I have the text, I have to try pork chops at Vinnies within
the next week. Once I've tried them I’ll send him back a score from 1 to
10—that’s how we roll.
My name is Adam. I’m a 24 year old apprentice electrician
who's on the hunt... I should say always on the hunt... for pussy! I consider myself a sex addict, I love to shag, I watch shit
loads of porn, and happily pay for good sex. My brother is the same.
I would say fifty percent of our understanding is based around rating girls—you know, hookers. And our little system ensures that we get the fresh
ones, the newbies of the streets. We go for quality not quantity. I
know it seems a little off but hey, they’re going to get shagged anyway, and
we consider ourselves easy money for these girls because we don’t beat them, we
don’t make them do anything to push their boundaries. I've had girlfriends, but found they cause me more
stress and cost me more money than any hooker has. I just can’t find the
right one. Maybe there isn’t a right one for me.
I can’t say I’m really that excited about pork chops at Vinnies,
but hey, a bloke has to eat. I have one more job to do, an oven repair at
a rental property— should be getting the address sent any minute—and then I’ll
zip back to me unit, have a splash, and chuck on some fresh threads.
Another text. I can tell its work by the tone ‘DICKHEAD
ALERT... DICKHEAD ALERT.’
287 KINGSGROVE AVE 15 MIN.
15 min... It’s always fucking 15 min. Half the time it takes
people 15 minutes just to explain what’s wrong. But who gives a shit—287,
I’ve been there before. And let me say what a way to end the day.
So I valve bounce the van from light to light and pull a few white
van manoeuvres, 20 minutes later I’m pulling up outside 287 Kingsgrove.
I take off my jumper, flex my guns, and spray on some deodorant...fucking hair’s a mess so I’ll have to go the hat.
I dodge a plastic police motorbike and some assorted sandpit toys
as I cross the lawn—fuck, lookout—skateboard on the doorstep. Fucking
place is riddled with potential compo claims!
When the door opens I have to concentrate on keeping me jaw
attached to the rest of me. ‘Hi there. I’m Adam from Precision Electrical, had a
call about your oven.’
‘Hi I’m Eve. Come on in.’
As she turns I can’t help but look at her ass. She’s wearing
tight multi coloured shorts. And fuck they’re short! Her
singlet shows a nice rounded bit of cleavage and Eve; fuck me if her name isn’t
Eve. I thought the exact same thing the first time I met her, you know
Adam and Eve, the bible and all that shit. Oven, fix the oven.
‘Vrooommmm.’
A little blond haired kid near cleans me up as he flies his jet
plane past. ‘Hey little fella, ya near knocked me down.’
‘Are you my Daddy?’
I almost blurt out I wish. ‘I... Nah mate I’m not your daddy. I’m here to fix your
mummie's oven.’
‘Damien, no running in the kitchen.' Eve looks at me, smiles
and shakes her head.
The little boy pulls up a plastic gun and fires two orange darts at his mum;
the first bounces off the wall and rests on the passage floor, the second makes
it through the door and sticks to the fridge between two finger
paintings. He shoves the gun down his trousers, grabs the edges of the
towel he has wrapped around his neck and pretends to fly off down the
hall. With a bang...
he disappears out the back door.
She leads me to the oven. ‘So Eve, what seems to be the problem?’ I ask.
‘The plates don’t seem to adjust. They always seem to be on
high and I keep burning stuff.’ She blushes a little and smiles, ‘I can cook you know.’
As I grab the oven and start sliding it clear from the bench, I
consider responses to her last comment. If I play it right I might get a
date, but if I botch it I’ll look like a dick. ‘Okay I’ll have a look. But if you can cook or not, well...I
always believe it when I see it.’ I give her a smile and my trademark tradie wink. She smiles
again, twirls her hair around her finger while she thinks. I twist the
oven around, kneel down and begin unscrewing the back and to my surprise, she
leans casually over the bench beside me. ‘Well Mr Believe-it-when-I-see-it, how
about I prove it.’
‘And how do you plan on doing that?’
‘How about I cook you a meal?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Okay, Friday at seven suit you?’
‘Sure does.’
14 minutes later the oven is fixed. Two of the plates needed
new thermostats and whilst I replace them I engage Eve in some more small talk
and a little flirting. Pity little Damien zoomed past every couple of
minutes, but I have to say with him around there’s no chance of an awkward
silence.
I give her my personal business card; as I do all the
ladies. You never know when these ladies need a little help and believe
me, it’s worked in my favor in the past; and Eve is hot with a capital fuckable
H. If I were to ever settle down I could see myself with a chick like
her, pity about the kid though.
As I drive toward my unit I’m fully charged and debating whether I
should get home and call one of the regulars or—nah fuck it—I’ll have a
quick shower and head out to Vinnies for chops.
Later...
After circling the block four times, I finally find Vinnies. I park the van directly across the street; this part of town is full of gooks
and I wouldn’t trust the little leather jacket wearing fuckers as far as I
could kick them. As I get out of the van, a pimped up black Impala rolls
slowly toward me, the base in the boot vibrates the shop windows as it cruises,
it’s screens tinted so dark I can’t see who’s inside. I wait for it
to pass then cross the street.
As I reach the kerb, the Chev’s brake lights come on and it stops
in the center of the road. I stop and look down the broken
street, hot fumes curl from the chrome pipes giving the tail lights a magical
gleam. The base drum stops. I notice an arm hanging from the boot
like the ones you buy from a joke shop. Then I get the feeling whoever’s
inside is looking at me. The hazards flash, then the reverse lights
come. Fuck...
I look down the alley for the sign, the italic words flash red
spelling Vinnies and then bright blue spelling inn, the use of the inn in Vinnies strikes me as a clever money
saving idea, although a bit of a headache for the sparky that set it up. Below the words there’s an arrow
that flickers erratically, pointing to a set of stairs. I can’t help
but think that my bro’ has let me down here, but I remember our deal and it’s
worked well in the past. I hear the Impala start to back up so I head up
the stairs to get out of sight.
I barge into Vinnies feeling rattled but as my eyes adjust to the
dull lighting my heart slows and the Impala soon becomes a distant
thought. I take a seat and settle myself. What’s with this place
anyway? Fucking weirdos out on the street and that smell out there—actually that smell’s in here too. What the fuck is that?
I glance around the restaurant and besides me there’s only two
other people in the room, both alone; the furthest away, a plump little Chinese
man that avoids eye contact by hiding behind a newspaper; and the other, an old
white guy puffing a pipe, he reminds me of a wizard.
I glance at a menu that’s written in jibberish and wonder how the
fuck these people write all these little shapes and shit anyhow; it must take
them a fucking week to write a page full. I’m just about leave when I
notice a laminated sheet of readable writing hidden between the salt and pepper
shakers. I grab the sheet and have a read.
I select my fancies and look around for a waiter, fucking service
is slow! As I look around and take in the furnishings, I begin to feel
comfortable with the place; the red carpet combined with the black leather clad
seats, the shady booths each lit with their own dim wall lantern, the gold framed artwork of abstract shadows performing martial arts, and fans above
every door with those same confusing symbols as the menu. To the left of
the entry there is a bar that is also dimly lit. The shelves where the
liquor bottles are displayed must back onto the kitchen because you can see
light through the liquor bottles, and shadows that move back and forth behind
them. There is a door each side of the bar; what lays beyond is hidden by
heavy blood red curtains
One of the curtains pulls aside, through it comes a little Chinese
fellow carrying a plate. He gives the wizard his meal and then makes his
way toward me, straightening chairs and menus on his way. He stops at my
table, ‘Ware you weady to wake your worder?’
‘Yes thanks.’ I point at the menu. ‘Pork Chops, thanks mate.’
‘Would you wike wice or wedgetables wid dat?’
‘Wed- I mean vegetables. And I’ll have a drink
too.’ I point at the menu again.
‘Ohh wery nice. Your worder will we weady soon.’
Within 10 minutes I’m flat out eating pork and vegies, and my bro
was right, this would have to be the best pork I’ve ever eaten. I finish
my meal and the little fellow comes out and drops the bill on the table. As he turns to walk away I call him back. ‘Hey waiter—’ he turns to look at me.
‘Toilets.’ He points to the far end of the bar where a bamboo screen
protrudes from the outer wall.
Fucking hell, my guts are cramping.
Behind the screen, there’s a narrow hall that has two doors on the
right and one at the end. I pass the ladies door and dart into the mens. As I sit and shit ,I pull out me phone and tap in a text to the
brother.
8.5 BUT MAKE ME SHIT!
As I slip the phone in my pocket I hear a familiar message tone
coming from the other side of the wall to my right. What the fuck... I
quickly type another message.
HEY BRO WHERE YOU AT?
Seconds later I hear the phone tone again. As I sit there I
begin to wonder if my brother is playing some kind of prank, or maybe he’s lost
his phone. I wipe my ass and wash my hands, then sneak out the
door.
Instead of heading back to the restaurant I sneak through the door
at the end of the hall. I close the door quietly and turn to see boxes,
shelves, a door on the left that I’m thinking leads to the kitchen, and a large
freezer door at the far end. There’s nothing but an untidy pile of boxes
where I expect to see my brothers phone. I kneel down and begin searching
through the boxes; the first two are full of clothes and the third’s the same,
‘Wait on a minute, these are my brothers clothes!’ As I lift up
his blood stained shirt his phone falls out, ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’
I stand up, turning quickly to locate the scuffling sound behind
me. I reach out and catch a falling box, at the same time extending my
right leg to secure a lower box that’s stopping the whole pile from coming
down; fucking boxes are stacked to the ceiling! As I carefully try to
rearrange the stack, one of the higher boxes falls to the floor. Within
seconds I hear footsteps approaching.
Next thing I know I’m knocking on Eve’s front door. The door
opens; she smiles and invites me in. She’s looking fine as usual. We chat a while, and before I know it she’s pulling a roast chicken from the
oven, at the same time saying, ‘Seeing is believing!’
I wake up on the floor, head aching like a bitch. The sight
of the boxes neatly stacked back in place makes my stomach feel as if I just
swallowed a cup of concrete. Fuck
it’s not a dream! I take a moment to consider my options.
Option one; I sneak around and see what I can find, or option two; I get
the hell out of here and call the cops. They’ll soon notice me missing
from the restaurant so I decide option two is the go. I quietly get up
and as I step out the door I suddenly find myself in Eve’s hallway.
‘What the fuck?’ I turn and open the door. As I look
in I expect to see Vinnies dodgy store room but instead it’s a toilet... Eve’s toilet. Confused, I close the door and make my way to the
kitchen where I find Eve pouring herself a glass of wine. She looks at
me and smiles, ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you.’ She reaches into the
fridge and pulls out a can of Jack Daniels. Fuck me, my perfect
chick. I approach her. I’m filled with confusion but still have an
urge to kiss her. As I reach for the can the back door bursts
open letting a freezing breeze into the room.
Everything’s black. The floor feels frozen. I feel
naked. What the fuck’s
going on? My legs and arms are bound and there’s rag stuffed in my
mouth so tightly it feels as if my jaw is about to pop. Everything’s
freezing. There’s no noise... none at all. I feel my digits
beginning to freeze and the cold slowly infusing with my flesh. My limbs
remind me of cold iron rods, my heart beats slowly, like an old clock with a
tiring battery.
A sudden cracking sound reveals light. The little Chinese man
walks in wielding a machete. He stops and looks at me, ‘Ha ha fucking
Aussie. Your bruder taste good?’ He gestures behind me with the
machete then reaches over me and begins hacking at something. He steps
back holding a frozen severed arm, then begins patting me on the head with its
hand. ‘Don’t worry little bruder.’
Everything goes hazy and I close my eyes.
A buzzing grows louder and louder. I wake suddenly, roll over and slap my alarm clock. I sit up shocked. ‘Fuck, what a cunt of a dream.’ I leap from my bed and go for the
shower; I need to hurry up or I’ll be late for work. In and out, then I
wipe the steam from the mirror and look at myself; my bloodshot, baggy eyes are a testament to the disturbing night passed. As I slip on my jeans, I
hear my mobile message tone sound. I hop out the bathroom door, at the
same time pulling my trousers up. I zip up, grab my phone, and open the
message...
