Stonedogs Read online

  In between drug deals and binge-drinking, reckless driving and street fights, the delinquents of the Brotherhood wage the holiest of wars. Yes, they will derail the Juggernaut before it can suicide … or have a ball trying at least. But when one of them falls prey to Roto-Vegas gang members, the cultural terrorists mobilise in earnest.

  Revenge takes them on a road-trip — a coming of age from hell. It is a journey to the corners of a collective psyche peopled by nightmares as real as the headlines of today, a New Zealand the tourists and executives had better pray they never stumble upon. Alone and gut-shot, the Juggernaut closing in, the Brotherhood will rally for an audacious final stand, a last ditch fight for their minds and their lives … and perhaps for the future of us all.

  Craig Marriner is New Zealand’s response to Irvine Welsh and Quentin Tarantino. His first novel will make you cringe and shudder, then wet yourself laughing. Its raw and scathing prose breaks new ground against the backdrop of a world-view as chilling as the nightly news. Rest assured, Stonedogs will soon be banned from every classroom in the land.

  stonedogs

  craig marriner

  To Denis and Mum: for shelving the ‘get a real job’ speech.

  To Debbie: for planting the seed with story.

  To Shaq’, Monique and Caleb: love ya’s to pieces.

  To Mike and Helena Z, who I owe much more than they know.

  To Shereen: for ‘giving me peace’.

  To Auntie Lona, who lives on in our hearts.

  To Sab, best friend of thirteen years, all four legs of him.

  To Nana (though she’s to read no further!).

  And to Granddad (though he’d of hated ‘every bloody word of it’).

  Many thanks to Michael Gifkins and Harriet Allan.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  Friday, 3 March, 11.42pm, Roto-Vegas

  They’re at it again. Flexing muscle, that is. Hardly surprising really: the sun’s been down for hours. Hardly disappointing either: it’s what we’ve been waiting for.

  Two of them: big; Maori; smooth. ‘Doormen’ they call themselves.

  Though after his curt eviction from the doors of their fief — the shove in the back almost toppling the kid — I doubt he’s of a mind for such euphemism. No, as he collects himself and turns back to face them, I’d have to guess he has other names in mind.

  Bastards? Pricks? Tyrants? All of the above?

  He’s not saying it aloud, though … he’s not that drunk. His face isn’t saying it either, nothing but wronged innocence there, a desperate snatch at drowning pride.

  But he’d do better to swallow it — swallow it dry — for he can still escape if he’s quick enough; quiet enough. The window’s shrinking rapidly, though. He’s the first of the night, you see — the first to be marked — and the locals are looking restless.

  The forecourt of Deuces, our fine city’s premier ARC (adult recreation centre), is no stranger to these scenes. Neither are we. We know the rules.

  It’s safe enough out here, though. In the car park. Behind smeared glass. I’ve got a brother at my side, and though he’s no fighter, the dude can drive like Senna himself. We may not get full audio, but the view from here is bitchin’. Ring-side seats. BYO refreshments: sweet Mary Jane and a box of Red Lions.

  Yes, as sad as it sounds, this is hardly our first evening passed in such fashion. Of paramount importance its work may be, but even the Brotherhood needs diverting of a weekend.

  In front of the club, the kid’s still protesting, and Mick reads the score as I do. Spellbound: ‘Unless he cuts his losses riiiiiight about now, that guy’s night is quickly gonna shift from piss-poor to shit-house.’

  Oh, yes, we know the rules all right, my amigo and I.

  Me, eyes stapled to Act One unfolding before us: ‘How long do you give him?’

  Mick muses on this a while. Finally: ‘About a minute, I reckon. The apes won’t do it themselves, though; no glory in a kill so small … and they can’t be that bored yet. But one of their lackeys’ll soon be up for it.’

  Me: ‘You’re not wrong. And even if you are, some cunt in the queue’ll take the points.’ The ‘doormen’ and co may be the elite right now, but when the jungle juice flows, the Fiendish Beast lacks no minions. Not in these parts.

  And that push in the back may as well have been a bull’s eye.

  ‘I’m picking two minutes, though.’

  ‘…You’re on. What are the stakes?’

  ‘Joint rolling duties for a fortnight?’

  ‘Done. Time starts … now.’

  But I may’ve spoken too soon, as from the foyer of the club comes our first volunteer.

  Fat; mean; native. Linked to the ‘doormen’ like the jackal to the lion.

  His hooded eyes assess centre-stage quickly, learn that the titbit has stayed within reach — a mere slither or two — and then he relaxes, sups on the post-glow, trades banter with his betters.

  But their stock of apt platitudes will expire very shortly.

  Me, half drool, half cringe: ‘What do you think his crime was, anyway?’

  Mick, distracted: ‘He either jostled a member of the ruling body and associates, spilled piss on one of them, managed to get served in the drinks queue ahead of them, or …’

  But I beat him to it, announcing the crime that in these parts is capital: ‘… or he spoke with a bitch the said clique had its eye upon.’

  HOW FUCKING DARE HE! BIND HIM TO THE YOKE! STAKE HIM IN THE SUN; WINDFALL FOR BUZZARDS AND MAGGOTS!

  Outside, around the forecourt, the gallery waits eagerly. Breaking from their activities — queuing to get in, shooting the shit, burning Mary Jane — many eyes are on the hunter, and he resists temptation for no longer than I augured.

  He swaggers toward the kid, and I can see his lips wiggling, the ritual accusations inflating him fully. Every tingling gaze locks on him — ‘better than TV, ladies and gents’ — and attention cloaks our hero in a sensual shroud.

  It tugs at his lips, a gloating leer, dark with promise.

  And finally, at this unveiling of his nemesis, our pissed entertainment grows aware of his status. Too late though. Way too late. As the stalk is completed, a futile denial, perhaps a plea, is seen to be mouthed.

  Only ‘stalk’ it is hardly, for caution plays no part. And why should it? Why should our bloated carrion show prudence? Even if his prey were not white, semi-paralytic and half the hunter’s size, respect of any nature need not be awarded.

  Our protaganist is connected, you see.

  And his quarry quite alone.

  The kill is seasoned thuggery: a heavy left shoulder, three driving paces, and the drunk boy with a mum waiting up is on the back foot, fumbling for balance …

  … window enough for a cudgel of a fist to pound jaw unopposed, probably unseen.

  Like a hungry dyke, the patsy goes down, head bouncing on cold concrete …

  … his conqueror looming above, wallowing in the moment, holy ire blunting his gaze as it wolfs down the homage on offer around him.

  Me, thickly, hunched forward in my seat: ‘Oh, man, I felt that from here.’

  Mick, a delicious wince: ‘I doubt that kid felt a fucking thing. He will tomorrow though.’

  And the tomorrow after that. Perhaps a lifetime of tomo
rrows if he’s eating through a straw for the next three months.

  But the twist of guilt is weaker tonight — many thanks, Lion Breweries — and I know I’ll be back again. Why fight it? I’m human, you see, a cog of the Juggernaut. And me and my race, with our thumbs and our wheels, need regular doses of the good Lady Drama.

  ‘We watch, therefore we are.’

  Yes, even as the scavenger’s eyes drop once more to his kill, even as the fat, dirty prick clearly weighs the merits of ‘lengthening sentence’, even as the stakes are upped viciously and a real chill sweeps the audience — blows poison bubbles through my spleen — looking away is beyond me.

  But in the temple of my mind a mantra is heard. I’ve no need to glance at my comrade; Mick’s expression surely mirrors my own — hypnotised abhorrence, kittens before the mamba — and I know his inner chant is at least as loud as mine, of a strain very similar …

  Don’t do it, you fucking arsehole cunt. Don’t do it, you fucking arsehole cunt. Don’t do it …

  Running beneath this, though, in a shadowed recess of my conscious — like a streak of corruption through damp wood — a part of me, thankfully a tiny part — a part I seldom have the courage to acknowledge, let alone confront — wants to see it happen.

  Wants to watch a kid, barely old enough to shave, have his ribs made like Humpty’s.

  Though I know it would leave me emotionally mauled, a part of me wants to see our leading man’s rendition of the Taihape Tap-dance.

  Why?

  Because I’m human. Like most, my soul offers anchorage to the Fiendish Beast.

  But a few seconds later, the predator spares us, sneers a dismissal, withdraws to the door, to camaraderie, bumping shoulders with bourgeoisie.

  Mick’s the first of us to speak, sighing post-orgasmically: ‘Thank fuck for that.’ Then, checking his watch, pleased with himself: ‘And I hope your fingers are in good shape, McPike: one minute and twenty-seven seconds makes you a raw loser.’

  Soon, with the cast between acts, Mick takes a Zippo from the dashboard, conjures flame with a flourish and resurrects the roach he clasps, forgotten for minutes now. His thin lips pucker as he tokes, and in the car’s dark interior the ember lights his long face like a jack-o-lantern, reflects from the lenses of his Lennonesque specs. His dainty fingers shy from the heat, deftly gripping the very end of the stained paper.

  At last he breaks off, smoke held deep, where it’ll stay for the mandatory twenty-count named in Habitual Drug-Users Monthly, that fine publication of which my associate and I would own a quarter share, were our world only fair.

  Unconsciously, Mick rasps a hand across the bristles of his head. His red locks were consigned to history just days ago and Mick’s struggling to adapt. He’s copped a lot of shit for the move from us longhairs, but, though I’ve yet to concede as much, it don’t look half bad. Mick’s is a head well shaped for baldness, a state one can never be certain of until the plunge is taken. Many, like Mick, seem somehow cooler for a lack of hair. Others, even the fair of face — a claim Mick’s mother wouldn’t make of him — come away from a shears job looking like something Sigourney Weaver would consign to hard vacuum.

  In addition, to those who don’t know him, the look certainly adds to Mick’s staunch points — and when you’re as runty as he is, this is nothing to shake a stick at.

  His roach goes out, too small to smoulder, but Mick is clearly unwilling to surrender yet.

  Oh, yeah, as I’ve always maintained: to spot life’s stonedogs just observe how far down someone tokes their doobies; the persistence with which he/she extracts optimum THC levels.

  Swigging on hollow aluminium, I learn that my beer can’s barren. Only cracked it as Jabba the Gutt waddled into contention for the feather-weight title. At least I think I did …

  Shrugging it off. Crushing the can, as is my way. Pitching it in the back with the others. The lid from another is hastily lifted, a third of its contents successfully seen to.

  Mick, hoarse from his toking, eyeing the roach like a bird might a worm: ‘Seen that safety-pin, man? I’m pretty keen to pinball this bastard: it’s the last of it.’ Then, courageously, he lights the Zippo and hoists it — lantern-like — and begins a forage of the debris near his feet, the flotsam piled across The ’Dan’s floor in drifts.

  Not an enviable task considering The ’Dan was last cleaned around the time Cobain took up mural art.

  I choose to ignore Mick’s question; ease back and watch him search for a while, amusing my eyes, impressed as always by his methodicalness.

  Because in this situation — and I’m speaking from experience — your average druggie rummages willy nilly through the trash for a minute, declares the task hopeless, then puts his/her faculties toward filling the void with a surrogate implement. Mick, however, is not your average druggie.

  Were the safety-pin located in the proverbial haystack, Mick would find it. It might take him years, but he’d find it. Trust me on this.

  After calculating the minimum distance he need walk in order to build a stack independent of the original, Mick’d begin a minute inspection of the hay, depositing that declared ‘free of pins’ upon his new pile. It’s just the way he is: Mr Methodical, Mr Logic — when I’m in a good mood.

  A bad mood: Mr Pedantic.

  Either way, his proclivities leave him an asset highly cherished by the Brotherhood …

  … the sacred order to which we swear blood oath.

  Mick, bent to the floor: ‘For fuck’s sake, there’s enough organic matter down here to keep the Coromandel in compost for the next coupla planting seasons.’

  But he hunts on grimly, a serf to instinct, covering the floor by search pattern.

  Though both of us are greatly responsible for her present state of adulteration, neither Mick nor I can claim sole ownership of the black-primered behemoth in which we currently linger: the Sherman tank replica known throughout Vegas as The ’Dan. Tricky Dicky was ‘retiring’ around the time The ’Dan was birthed in the Big Red Land, and she’s since seen registry beneath a plethora of shepherds. Her upkeep at the moment, however, is maintained by the coffers of the Brotherhood, the car featuring prominently on our shadowy list of assets.

  We kind of inherited The ’Dan from an older mate of ours who got banged up a year or so ago. In happier times Luke used to do a half-decent ‘Good Ol’ Boy’, hence the title (‘Well, if Ah were you, bouy, Ah’d be fixin’ to buyrn that Jap’nese piece’a sheit an’ bah mah’self a Hol-dan!’).

  We all agreed to pass a few hundred bucks on to Luke’s missus and baby as soon as we could.

  It remains one of those ‘do it next month’ things.

  Mick, shuddering, diligent eyes brave inches from the contaminant: ‘This car is some fucked-up loathsome shit, dude. We really should clean up one of these days.’

  Me, apathetic: ‘Yeah. Tomorrow.’ I’ve a vague recollection of glimpsing the pin near my feet — somewhere between an empty oil pack and one of Lefty’s used rubbers — but I choose not to share this: stoning’s the last diversion on my mind right now and I fear the floor too greatly to risk being roped into assistance.

  Ordinarily, though, on a drink-free night, I’d bend for a K Road she-male before I’d watch Mick blow the last of the gunja solo. But for me Fris and Sats are given to the worship of Mr Brownstone. You see — as with most punters — weed for me is an introspective lodger, best hosted in confined company.

  Certainly not when hopeful of tracking down a warm, wet cavity in which to park Mr Jonathan Thomas.

  Because, let’s face it, for all but a gifted elite, chatting up chicks when stoned is like trying to eat when not hungry.

  Not that the chances of laying paws on a piece of snatch from the passenger seat of The ’Dan could sincerely be described as strong.

  Weak? Yes.

  Effectively non-existent? Bingo.

  Strong? Nein. Non. Nyet.

  So if pussy patrol be your objective, one might ask, why do yo
u languish out here, in the carpark — boogie clothes awasted — while the club’s interior surely drips with tight, succulent growler?

  The answer is simple: Fear yet grips me.

  I have my moments with the birds, make no mistake. Six feet of height — albeit a narrow six, vegetarianism not being conducive to robust muscle growth — a head of longish brown hair and eyes once described as ‘jade-chunks in ivory’ (so what if the bloke bit pillows?) at times compensate for a face implacably gripped by mediocrity. At least it is now, once again, twenty-hood having recently extracted it from Acneville, Hades.

  However, I must confess to an affliction bestowed upon me by either upbringing or genetics (I’m yet to pass verdict on which; let it be said that when I do, sentencing shall hold no clemency).

  Shyness.

  Yes, that instinct toward philandering, present in me no less than in any male of the red-blooded persuasion — my hankering to number among the monogamously challenged — has been given an enormous hurdle; some would say shackle.

  Timidity; modesty; all the caddishness of Bashful Dwarf.

  As such my dormant womanising instincts — my fragile sense of rejection — require the fuel of at least three more rapidly downed brewskis before a pulse of any cogency can begin to throb.

  A sarcastic jeer from the cheap seats: And the bar of this club enforces a policy of teetotalism?

  Oh, no, reply I. They sell piss, all right. A wide diversity, and at thrice the price of the stuff I currently drop.

  At last Mick locates the warped and blackened safety pin. Muttering: ‘Eureka.’

  Settling back, he takes his roach, impales it on the pin and puts flame to the thing. It catches alight; is allowed to burn, in time extinguished with a measured puff and a veteran’s timing. Mick then waves the smoking pin beneath his proboscis, welcoming fumes through an ample nostril.

  Burn, baby, burn.

  As I sip, a disturbance ripples the congregation near the club’s door. A passage hastily develops and, within seconds, another punter strides into the night.