Sunday, March 11, 2012

In his sights, in his travels.

Jim had been a truckie for almost 27 years, holding the road through bushfires, floods, locust plagues, hail, even ice. He’d seen sunsets over dunes, dusk over mountains, thunderstorms havoc over deserts. He’d watched wombats fly 70 metres off his bulbar and pile into trees, foxes decapitate rabbits, bulls have their way with dozens of cattle, birds flying South, birds flying North and sheep giving birth. He’d gazed at all kinds of clouds that reminded him of famous footballers, tufts of fairy floss and his own penis. But by far the most beautiful thing Jim had witnessed in his 27 years on the road, was Sal winning her call centre’s ‘Nugget-Off’ at the Wagga Wagga McDonald’s in 1987. To this day he can vividly recall the horror on the faces of her much larger male colleagues as she devoured her 37th, then her 38th and finally, her 42nd Chicken McNugget under the artificial light of her red and yellow booth. During their entire romance, the only thing he masturbated to on the road was a picture of her in a bikini on their first holiday interstate. Seeing a sharp decline in the sales of “40 Years Or Older” porn magazines at the BP in Seymour.

In the winter of 1992, five years after Sal was crowned ‘Dick Thomas Call Centre’s September Nugget Champion’, she started out with Greg, the only chef Jim has ever seen who wore spectacles.

On a six-day long haul from Melbourne to Alice, Jim decided to pull over, take a shit, and use the phonebox to check in at The Townie, his local, and second home. When Big Tony described what he had seen take place by the pool table the night before, Jim experienced a pain like never felt before in his life. It was as if someone had served him a shot of kerosene, and then lit his stomach on fire with a giant match through his asshole. It was around closing time, Big Tony said, that he had seen Sal bent over the pool table, clawing at the felt, “gettin’ done hard from behind” by Greg, the spectacled chef.

Two days later, on his way through Peakman’s Bend, about 7 hours from home, Jim pulled into a bottle-o and bought three bottles of Jack. He then walked across the road to the servo and bought “Whores Corner”, “Cumsluts 4” and “40 Years Or Older”. And, finally, he turned left at the servo and rang the doorbell of the local gunstore. In a very calculated and calm act, Jim handed over his gun license and ordered himself a .303 rifle and 100 rounds.

“Hunting, I’m going. Nothing like good venison… What, this stuff!? You can’t go bush without some Jack and porno now, can you?” The gunstore owner agreed, made a comment about no queers being able to shoot more than an HIV positive rabbit, and handed him over his rifle and rounds. 30 minutes, three vigorous masturbating bouts and one bottle of Jack Daniels later, Jim hit the road, en route for The Townie, the scene of the crime. He felt as virile as bull, as dangerous as a thunderstorm, and as vicious as fox, readied to decapitate a disease-ridden rabbit.