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  Though this one decamps in a fashion distinctly more dignified than the last.

  Lean and tall — inches more than myself, all of them in full use — black hair to his arse almost, the newcomer’s leather jacket hangs from him as I imagine one does from the Pres of the Hell’s Angels California chapter. Some who try for this look, attire themselves so — leather, jeans, cowboy boots — do little but expose themselves to mockery or worse.

  This dude just looks cool.

  And mean.

  No doubt his carriage has much to do with both: he holds himself as though god were running low on spines when his turn rolled round; handed him a broad sword instead.

  On top of this the guy’s good looking. So much so that if it weren’t for the dark goatee he sports, one might almost have had to label him Pretty Boy.

  The fashion with which he exits, with which the gallery stills to regard him, leaves it apparent that, inside the club, he has recently been involved in some breed of incident. But unlike the previous lead in this limelight, this big dude might as well be alone for all he lets it affect his expression.

  Style to burn.

  Breaking from his indulgence, Mick looks up, absorbing the sudden shift in centre-stage status quo. Passing hoarse judgement: ‘Uh-oh.’

  The newcomer scouts about for a second and locates the fall-guy lying in the courtyard, only now beginning to stir. He moves in for a closer inspection. Stiffens.

  I hear what he says from here, disgust in words like scum. ‘You absolute fucking wankers.’

  He turns back, faces the party nearest the door: Jabba with peers and superiors all eyes, perhaps five of them in all.

  Without thought I initiate a play. Thought — or at least reasoning — is outlawed for the moment, bravery being a liability I possess but a pittance of. Mind you, even I own more of it than wee Mick, Mr Analytical — he stays put as I throw open my door, leap from the womb to bleak asphalt, beer can clutched like a standard.

  And, as though a platoon of Spetsnaz stand at his back, AKs locked and loaded, the leather-wearer confronts those present of the ruling clique, narrowing the distance by five assured paces, aggrieved hands bunching.

  Jarringly casual in the sudden silence: ‘Who did it?’

  No reply.

  Tick followed tock, followed tick …

  ‘Simple question, fellas. Which one of ya’s fucked the kid over?’

  With as much alacrity as propriety permits, I power-walk toward the scene. Even as all other spectators are at pains to remain just that, I enter from stage right, strutting through my dread, swigging at my can like a man on a mission who just doesn’t give a fuck.

  And at this point a strange occurrence takes place. Though they hold the high ground, though numbers, colour and weight are stacked firmly in their corner, though they surely stand to lose great face in the eyes of the gallery — and many more beside, once the rumour-mill starts turning — the governing body, with its virtual impunity, its proclivity for draconian sentencing, suddenly appears at a loss.

  It seems they’ve recognised what it is before them: this prehistoric force of boundless unpredictability. They’ve realised that a habitual response to this challenge could well breach the seals of a box once owned by a lady named Pandora.

  Prudence must now play a role in their rejoinder, for the insurrectionist is not alone, as cursory appearance implied.

  In his head, they can see, insanity rides shotgun.

  Demands met only by silence, with half-hearted sneers, Justice takes its inquisition further. Addressing the gallery, voice carrying effortlessly: ‘Heaps of you’s musta seen it. One of ya’s show some nuts and tell me who the arsehole is. C’mon, don’t be pansies all ya fucking lives.’

  And as is often the case with bruised herds — with flocks shepherded harshly — one shedded fleece has others quickly learning that bleating’s not for them after all.

  Some stocky character in cargo-pants, piping up to the surprise of most: ‘It was him: the fat one with the red turtleneck.’

  As if he’s been fingered to the might and paranoia of the NKVD, Jabba glares a quick promise at the second mutineer …

  … as smiling blue eyes harpoon him. ‘Well, aren’t you just the baddest fucking hardman in the whole of Maoridom!’

  I’m almost there. Might even make it with time for my play. Things will precipitate rapidly from here, though. I know the rules.

  Jabba’s back goes up in a show of strength, yet he can’t resist a sidelong glance, assessing the mood of his autocratic associates.

  The rebellion builds mordant momentum. ‘What a tough cunt you must be, bro. Not only is that joker bleeding on the ground over there half your weight, but he’s been up at the bar slamming straight shots of Beam all fucking night — that’s why he spewed on that bloke’s shoes like he did. But you still found the balls to waste him, eh? Man, I’m so impressed with you I’d like to take the time right now to invite you back to my place: we’ll blow a few joints, toss back some of the old man’s cognac, and when you’re good and ready you can stroll upstairs and fuck my little sister!’

  I clap the crazy bastard on the shoulder, seemingly unaware of the looks groping me as all and sundry rework the equation. A counterfeit gleam lights my eyes, but I will myself to project the notion that it has nothing to do with the uprising, that such trivialities are way beneath me. ‘Here you are, Barry, ya prick!’ My voice is an eager babble, and by his face I see that Barry is snared by it; he seems to shelve the chaos he’s surely seeking. ‘You’ve gotta come quick, man!’

  Though it’s something in which I take no pride — well, not often anyway — a teenagehood on the edge of the rails has equipped me with a certain ‘feel for falsehood’ when pressured. And sometimes when not. Fully aware of this, when springing to my comrade’s rescue I didn’t bother premeditating anything, confident my ‘instinct for disinformation’ would step into the breach admirably, as it so often seems to.

  Without prompt, at 8000 R.andell P.atrick M.cMurphys, it goes on line. To Barry, as if we’re alone: ‘Sonya Kennedy’s down at McDicks. Me and Mick’ve been chatting her up for about an hour.’

  The said person happens to be a luscious female of the hot, blonde and amply chested variety. Indeed, it is often argued that Sonya has played the lead in more masturbation fantasies than any other girl from our town and generation.

  Like myself and multitudes, Barry has the horn for her big time. Only his horn is bigger on the grounds that, given the right circumstances, he’s of the type to actually stand a chance of shafting the dirty slut.

  The masque continues. ‘She’s fucking trashed too, man. Been drinking vodka all night. She’s well up for it and all she can ask us is where the fuck you are, ya jammy prick! She spilled her guts, reckons she’s had damp undies for you for years. You gotta come, bro, and fast: Jason Phelps and them are on their way to pick her up.’

  The big tweaked puppet leaves the blocks like Ben fucking Johnson, practically hurdling the catalyst of the episode without so much as a glance, beating me to The ’Dan by a good two metres, where Mick, having fired her up earlier — as any good pilot should — spirits the Brotherhood clean away.

  One rescue officially consummated, thank you very much.

  And make no mistake, a deliverance it was. Barry’s a tough prick; he’s got balls the size of watermelons, too. He may even be as crazy as those bouncers suspected (particularly when pissed). But when all was told, the bastards would’ve been left no choice but to bite the bullet and jump him en masse.

  Barry may be a scrapper; Jake the Muss he assuredly is not.

  — Gator McPike? Hi, how are you? If you’d like to come through? My name’s Raquel Boucher. Nice to meet you.

  — Wahay! You’ve certainly got the Dead Fish handshake down pat there, Raq. That’s an attempt to put me at ease, yeah? A subliminal prompt toward intestinal spillage?

  — Ha ha. That’s a good one. If you’d like to close the door and take a
seat? As you may be aware, I’m the school’s new Guidance Counsellor.

  — Bravery or just plain masochism?

  — Ha ha. That’s a good one. No, nothing of the kind, I’m afraid. OK. I’m curious: how did you come to be called Gator?

  — Long story.

  — … Which you’ve no wish to share. Fine. No problem. OK, then … I wonder if you’ve any idea why you’re here, Gator?

  — Because the Law of Natural Selection is yet to fault my design.

  — Hmmm. No, I meant in a more immediate sense.

  — Because progressive society programmes its clones in cloistered environments?

  — … No, I’m really trying to find out if you’ve any guess as to why you’ve been referred for counselling. And, forgive my frankness, but maybe we can do it without the sarcasm?

  — Whatever you fancy, Raq. Sarcasm, after all, is the cheapest brand of wit. Am I right?

  — Possibly.

  — That’s good enough for me. OK, I’ve a fair idea why this ‘union of minds’ thing we’ve got going here came to pass, but, to be frank, I’m a little fucked off about being catalogued behind my back as one ‘in need of help’. For that reason I’m gonna make you spell it out. Why am I here, Raq?

  — Perhaps we can do it without the profanity also?

  — Like my Grandad was wont to say, Raq, ‘Swearing is deplorable … unless done well.’ And, thanks in part to the great man’s tutelage, I happen to be one of the art’s more accomplished practitioners.

  — Well, your Seventh Form dean, Mr McKillop, thought a chat between the two of us might prove … conducive to the standard of education you’re presently receiving.

  — Euphemisms aside …?

  — OK. In the past year and a half, since School Certificate, you’ve reportedly become a markedly different student. Back then you were being touted for an A Bursary. Since, your attendance has slipped quite drastically, as have your grades. Several of your teachers are reporting a … belligerent shift in attitude. You’ve been seen in the company of expelled students. You’re a well-known smoker around school; indeed, there are rumours of your involvement in cannabis … and worse. Your personal grooming has taken a shift for the worse: haircuts seem to be a thing of the past for you, shaving a monthly chore. Your contributions to school sport and culture have all but ceased. Your name has become a daily feature on the detention lists, and, most worryingly of all, you’ve been involved in several incidents of violence about the school yard.

  — And to top it all off, my dietary intake seldom features all five food groups?

  — Will you talk to me, Gator?

  — … I wouldn’t know where to begin.

  — Let’s start with what your goals are.

  — Hahaha. You don’t even wanna know.

  — Let’s start with what you’re goals were, then. Teachers around campus tell me that until Sixth Form you were an aspiring and industrious young man. In those days where did you see yourself in, say, ten years’ time?

  — Ha. I wanted to be a doctor.

  — And you now find that contemptible?

  — Despicable.

  — Why?

  — Because the single most tangible factor in the Earth’s broadening destruction — this defecation of our own nest — is the burgeoning of human populations. This given, what kind of a twisted, blind, gormless motherfucker gives his entire existence to the rescue and preservation of human-bloody-kind?

  — … Do you like animals?

  — Well, I boycott utterly the practice of rearing them for slaughter. Does this qualify as like?

  — You tell me. Does it?

  — Emphatically.

  — In view of this, then, if you’ve an interest in healing, have you perhaps contemplated a career in veterinary medicine?

  — Problem here, Raq, is that for every animal lover in the world there are a thousand arseholes out there happy to, in the name of a buck or three, subject the ‘lower’ creatures to all manner of degradation and atrocity. A vet no doubt feels this carry-on rammed down his throat day in and day out. On top of this, university attendance raises moral issues for me. Today, though, I shan’t bother with either of these arguments as there’s a more pragmatic reason why I’ve no interest in studying. Namely, the prospect of fettering myself in chains made of tens of thousands of dollars excluding compound interest. I’m the type who stresses over owing a mate a twenty-buck bet on the footy, Raq. Do you know what I’m saying?

  —You’re saying you’d find tertiary study prohibitive thanks to the student loans scheme?

  — Someone fetch this woman a fifty-dollar meat-pack.

  — Where there’s a will there’s a way, though, surely. You could work for a few years and then study.

  — And where would you have me working without experience or tertiary comfort-ticket, Raq? Shall I become a chattel of progressive society; of the careering Juggernaut? A worker bee stunting itself at tasks that disgust me? Or shall I take occupation and do what we of the West are encouraged to from birth: ‘Aim for the Top’, ‘Surpass the Mediocre’, phrases effectively meaning: shamelessly flatter your superiors — people one would seldom bother speaking to were it otherwise — kiss arse until your lips bleed and render one’s nose thoroughly brown; place on hold encumbrances like self-respect, honour, trustworthiness to one’s peers; show conscientiousness and work ethics to gulag standard and resort to all manner of shenanigan in order that this come to the notice of Those Who Matter; stab one’s workmates — i.e. the competition — in the back with any misdemeanour the ruling class might conceivably find fault with; polish boots and chase brownie points and sniff, sniff, sniff. I’m afraid that’s just not me, Raq.

  — What you’re telling me is that … is that your outlook on the future — both cultural and environmental — has grown so pessimistic you really don’t see much point in trying any more?

  As we pull from the ARC, Barry waves a finger at the ‘doormen’ on reflex alone, and at this point someone who hadn’t been friends with the dude for years might find themselves wondering how it was I so easily sidetracked him from the wrong he witnessed; was so visibly incensed by. How can a person work up a head of indignation to the point where personal safety ceases to be an issue, and then — through nothing more than a whiff of prime pussy — abandon the quest for justice so utterly and instantly?

  Well, hypothetical party, the answer’s double pronged.

  Firstly, more so than anyone I’m yet to come across — Christ let it remain so — Barry lives in the moment. He does what takes his fancy from minute to minute, hour to hour, without observable thought for the morrow. Barry decided some years ago that his chosen lifestyle couldn’t accommodate concepts like ‘aftermath’ and ‘consequence’ and ‘accountability’. He thus liquidated these puritans from the realm of his mind so comprehensively that at times I have to wonder if he even remembers what they look like. I’ve seen this guy commit more acts of extreme bravado than Evel Knievil, and the number of occasions on which he’s landed me fair and square in the shit do not bear reflection.

  One icy July when we were fifteen and loaded on an uncle’s home-brew whisky, Barry drove us in a mate’s car — an RX3 death machine — into the forecourt of a busy Shell station and proceeded to lay a standing burnout. (‘Vive Nigeria, ya fucking capitalist wankers!’) This was nothing unusual. What was, was that after a few minutes of smoke, mechanical bedlam and the clamour of forecourt attendants, the burnout showed no sign of abating. Indeed, even when Barry’s record of four minutes twenty-eight seconds had been well and truly smashed, his feet continued to work their magic on brake, throttle and clutch.

  At first I found it all outrageously funny. By the time the oinkers appeared, I’d have cheerfully had Scotty beam me to the streets of sunny Knoxville in my ‘Uncle Sam Swallows’ T-shirt.

  At that point Barry killed the engine, leapt from the driver’s seat and legged it across the park, down to the lakefront, the fascists in h
ot pursuit. I took the opportunity to slip from the scene, but not before witnessing Barry make good his escape. Not even checking that the chase was looming — it was — Barry pelted to the end of a jetty and entered the drink in a technically flawless swan-dive.

  Did the oinkers’ commitment to peace, liberty and justice for all extend to pursuits through near-zero waters? Did it fuck. Barry swum about a click due west, made shore, then phoned for a pick-up unmolested.

  Once word of the episode filtered through our extended circles, Barry’s rep underwent a meteoric ascension — from legend to demi-god in one easy drenching. Of course my role — I contacted the owner of the car and had him report it stolen — went largely unsung, leaving me to milk what I could from the roles of Eye-witness and Chief Mouthpiece.

  Another time, New Year’s morning, the Mount, five of us were sleeping off our debauches in The ’Dan when a blue squealer tapped on the window, enquiring if we were OK.

  ‘Immeasurably,’ I replied.

  Satisfied, the fascist moved to depart, at which point Barry awoke. Seeing blue, he clambered across two inert bodies, threw open a door, uttered an oft-quoted phrase — ‘Fucking pig cunt!’ — and punched the man flush in the face.

  More pork materialised, enlivening an otherwise dull morning with a game of Let’s Fuck Over the Big Psychotic Kid.

  All things considered I couldn’t really blame them. Still, the dude’s a brother: I was left no choice. Pleading, I jumped around the fracas like a bitch, dodging blows, making a general obstacle of myself, persuading them to stop eventually amid threats of oinker brutality charges.

  So yeah, I guess there’s no real overlooking the fact: any headshrinker worth their salt would surely take a keen interest in Barry.

  In teenage social networks terms like ‘mad’, ‘crazy’, ‘nutcase’ are bandied about frequently — have come to connote little more than extroversion. Barry receives such compliments regularly. The complimenters, however, seldom realise just how apposite their words in fact are. Little do they know that for Barry a spell in the Laughing Academy probably wouldn’t go astray. At the worst, the world would be a safer place for a while.