Chapter One, paragraph 4, 5 ,6: Guy Steel, PI

The office Guy rented was one of many in a mostly disused block. Back in it's heyday it was home to aspiring failures waiting to happen, now it kept the resigned but employed out of the way of successful and respectable citizens.

The light over the rear exit cast a feeble glow on the steps down to the car park out the back. Guy swore and smashed the light globe on his way out. Nothing like a little light to give the wrong people an easy target. He'd told Mr Lim to leave it be but the maintenance man still had enough pride to fix what he could in a building that no longer worked.

The matt black Camaro sat where Guy had left it in the disabled parking spot closest to the exit. He knew noone but him used it these days. He pressed the disarm switch that turned it from shrapnel bomb to car and got in. He kissed the St Christopher medal hanging from the rear-view mirror and moved out onto the street.

Chapter One, paragraph 3: Guy Steel, PI

Time passed in sweaty bordom and sleep until dusk made a welcome entrance. Guy set out the tools of his trade then showered to wash away the nightmares every sleep brought. Clean but never shaven he grabbed a fifth of cougar and his bag of tricks and headed for the door. He hesitated at the front door before existing by the rear. He still wasn't sure he'd smoothed over the problems of the last cheap job for a cashed up client who didn't like the truth. He'd learned back in the Force that you had to know when to move in the shadows when money came after you.

Chapter One: Guy Steel, PI

The fan spun lazily, barely moving the hot humid air in the small once-white painted office. It was hot, damn hot. Guy Steel, P.I., had his feet propped on the old worn desk he bought from a school auction last summer. It was cheap and institutional but he could hide the bourbon in a draw on the left and his Penthouse mags in a draw on the right. Somewhere in the middle it kept the files he was working on off the floor. Just like Guy himself, it wasn't pretty but it did the job.

A snore escaped from under Guy's hat. In this heat he took the same approach as his dog Sargent, he slept away the hottest hours until the evening crept up and he crept out. Camera in hand, Guy would spend the night hours watching and waiting. Occasionally he would come up empty handed but he was persistent and patient and eventually he'd get a snap every spouse dreaded, the loved one walking out of a cheap motel with the shirt misbuttoned or the skirt not quite straight. For now though Guy slept and waited for his hour to come.

to be continued...

Arse humping butt freaks

Yeah I know, but those porno junkies might goolge that and stumble in here by mistake and sup from the teat of my wisdom.

So what has been happening with me I hear you wail? My absence from the bloggerphere has been keenly felt and I can tell. Remember that angry person on the ride in today? Not getting the good stuff from Papa Banana. Time to fix the drought my thirsty lambs.

I had a house warming during one of Melbourne's classically shitty freezing winter days. Rained all day then the skies cleared for the evening and dropped 20 degrees. I know this foul winter bitch well and stocked up on coal and gas bottles and fought back the cold with heat and many happy people eating spicy food and drinking silly drinks called "aftershock" and tequila. Papa Banana - 1, winter bitch - 0. I rock.

During the same night a friend of mine finally succumbed to the mind rays and agreed to sell me one of his motorcycles. Best for both of us really. He will no longer get brain cancer from continuous subliminal brain tuning and I get an SR500 to tinker with. Although the actual transaction is yet to take place he said it in front of witnesses and even repeated the agreement when sober a few days later. Technically he is now my new bike's caretaker as I am the caretaker of his new cash. We will both be very happy I'm sure.

I have bought new sexy bits for the Betty the viffer, soon to be fitted. She has a new set of swanky Italian wave disks, a new one-tooth-smaller-just-so-I-can-finally-do-wheelies-sprocket, and soon to arrive ......a set of ultra-studmuffin steel-braided brake lines that look like carbon fibre and have gold fittings. My pants are suddenly tight with joy. My bike will cause women to swoon and make men want to be me... or just wonder why I spend so mucho peso on a bike. Simple answer, I like hotrods, I like bikes, this will be my bike hotrod if I can ever afford to do all the good and expensive and ludicruous things I want to do to it. Plus, every fucking wanker squid knob jocky has a GSXR, R1, CBR1000r, ZX10 penis extension and might as well buy there personality from Kmart and be done with it. If you don't race don't fucking pose in front of me you utter bastard on your ultra-bike you can never hope to ride properly. They think neons and a loud exhaust make them special and cool and unique. It makes them common and fucked.

I'm off to Tassie next year with a good crowd of some of my favourite people. We're all heading over on the boat then visiting my Dear Mother for coffee and a fry up the next morning before risking licence and limb as we navigate arguably Australia's best riding roads. My mum is a quiet soul so God only knows what she will make of me and my 15 mates, all aboard noisy bikes, rocking into her cul-da-sac at some early hour to say "hi, we need coffee and a bbq breakfast". I hope she will still speak to me afterwards. It's going to be a cracker of a trip and I'm already planning my kit, spares and tools. I expect I will forget or leave all such things at home and make do with a swiss army knife, 1oomph tape and WD40. Works every time.

Well then, I don't want to wear out my welcome in your frontal lobe so will do my usual.

Catch you later...

Still lazy, not dead, news at nine

óla folks,

So much to say and so little voosh. I'm having my house warming at last, should be good and if all goes to plan I will end up drunk, naked and running down my street followed by like-minded souls. That's the sign of a good party. There is a roundabout near by which I hope to incorporate. I'm thinking tequila shots with a dash of tabasco and a bear chaser. I might have enforced a "no pants" rule but I know some people I'd never want to see naked are coming so that's out. Have to do with a mad naked dash and hope we don't attract the cops.

Catch you later

I am not dead

I am just lazy.

Catch you whatever and all that...

ANZAC Day

I find this to be one anniversary I don't miss. If for no other reason than my beloved Essendon take on the stinking refuse that is Collingwood.

I spent the early part of the day meeting up with friends and taking time to go for a ride out west through some dull road, some fun roads and some contemplative roads. We spent the morning enjoying ourselves just as we pleased. The destination was a quiet country town, the corner shop sold milk, bread and ammo just to give you an idea. We turned up just as the commemoration ceremony was under way. I was moved to stand amongst the locals and my friends and listen to the old digger doing the talking and listening to the Last Stand.

My freedom and way of life was paid for by the men of my country, fighting Europe's wars and then our own on the so-near boarders of Singapore, Thailand, New Guinea... These same young fighting men and the women of the nursing corps put it all on the line so blokes like me could live the life I'm living. So, when I think about the irreverent and fun way I spent ANZAC Day on my motorcycle, I don't feel like I've let them down or I'm wasting my time. Instead, I feel that I am paying them the respect due to them by using and enjoying my time and freedom as I choose, since that's just what these poor buggers fought for - our rights and the defeat of tyranny.

I'm very proud and very grateful of my countrymen now gone. Lest we forget.

Catch you later.