Overkill : Pure Venom

by Lawrie Jordan

  “That’s just plain crazy.”

  “It sure as hell was! Two long, painful hours later, Drummond was stone cold dead. Not a good way to go, believe you me. Meanwhile Spires was in the Old Melbourne Gaol. The coppers bashed the crap out of him – more bloody police brutality – and charged him with manslaughter. But he got off it on the grounds that they’d taken him away before he’d had the chance to administer his home-made antivenom.”

  “That’s amazing,” Mike said, and Ronda wasn’t sure if he meant the story or the fact that she had started casually playing with his dick.

  “But wait. 1867 you said? They had antivenom way back then? I thought it was a fairly modern invention.”

  Ah, so it was the story; hmmm, I’ll soon change that!

  “Yes and no,” she replied, continuing her deft touch. “Spires may have had a serum, but he was probably bullshitting. His ‘bites’ were probably just slight of hand. There wasn’t a serum to neutralise Tiger Snake venom until the 1930’s. The first ever recorded antivenom was developed almost two decades after Drummond’s death by the way, in 1895 by a French dude called Calmette. That was for Cobra bites by the way. It’s not a case of ‘one size fits all’. Each family of snakes needs its own.”

  Mike was enjoying her administrations, but wasn’t quite up to Round Two just yet. He wasn’t eighteen after all, mickey junior no longer sprang straight back up ready to go again. Besides, he was also enjoying this conversation.

  “Because each type of venom is different, right?”

  “Exactly. And there have been some real struggles developing some of those antivenoms over the years let me tell you. Case in point, the Taipan serum. Prior to 1955, if you got bitten by a Taipan, you were pretty much screwed. Enter my hero, Kevin Budden. Kev was the first herpetologist – back in 1950 – to capture a live Taipan in the interest of research.”

  “Wow. Brave man.”

  “You can say that again. Caught it by hand too. A big six-footer up northwest of Cairns. And wait for this…Still hanging onto the snake for grim death, he hitched a ride with a truckie to a fellow snake catcher’s place south of the city.”

  “Are you shitting me? A truck driver actually picked him up? He must have been mad as well. I mean, who in their right mind would see some random standing on the side of the road holding a big writhing snake, stop and say: ‘Yair, jump in mate. Nice poisonous snake you’ve got there’ …er, apart from a total madwoman like you that is.”

  Ronda gave his old fella a sharpish squeeze, to remind him never to have a go at anyone with your penis in the palm of their hand.

  “Ouch!”

  “That was for calling snakes poisonous when they’re actually venomous. There’s a big difference. The venom is poisonous, not the actual snake.

  And for calling me ‘totally mad’. I’m not, totally. Anyway, while they were bagging it, the pissed off Taipan doubled back on itself and tagged him a beauty on his left thumb. Whack!”

  Mike shivered, involuntarily.

  “So, as you said, he was pretty much screwed.”

  “Absolutely gone for all money, and he 100% knew it. But instead of worrying about himself in his final hours, he gave the bagged Taipan to the truckie and made him promise to get it to the Research Lab in Melbourne ASAP. Which, to his everlasting credit, the driver did. Long story short, they used the venom milked from that snake to produce a serum that has saved hundreds of lives ever since. Including mine.”

  Marr almost choked on his cappuccino, sending a spluttered spray onto his bedsheet.

  “What!? You’ve been bitten by a bloody Taipan?”

  “Sure have. In fact, I’ve been tagged by almost all of Australia’s most venomous snakes, all apart from the Fierce Snake. Occupational hazard I guess; they’re not real keen on being grabbed and they’re unbelievably quick if they’re not immobilised. The Taipan was the worse. Even with the serum, I was violently ill for eight hours and sore for days. Still get the occasional twinge.”

  Marr looked at her long and hard.

  “You ARE totally crazy! Ow…ouch…sorry.”

  Ronda released her vicelike grip on his dick and went back to softly stroking it. It was slowly responding.

  “Maybe. However I do carry a wooden cigar box full of antivenoms with me at all times when I’m working. I’m not that crazy. Anyway, let’s get back to good old Kevin Budden. Although he was only 20…”

  “Whoa! Say what!? Bloody twenty? The picture I had of him in my mind was of Indiana Jones, like in his forties at least. Greying hair…”

  “No Mike, a youngster, although he had already caught 59 snakes by then and been bitten five times. As I was about to say, they did try to save Budden’s life by giving him antivenom, however the only one they had on hand was for Tiger Snake. That would have stopped the Taipan venom coagulating, but it didn’t – couldn’t – stop it from paralysing him and causing his organs to shut down, and young Kev sadly died the next day.”

  “I would have asked somebody to shoot me long before then.”

  “Well, being a dedicated herpetologist, he was no doubt studying the effects of the venom on the human body right up until he died. Would probably have taken notes if his seized-up fingers could have held a pen.

  “Oh, and there’s an interesting anecdote too. Left over samples of the venom harvested from the snake that killed Kevin Budden were stored at the Melbourne lab indefinitely. In 2014, a herpetologist from the University of Queensland – my old lecturer and mentor – conducted tests on that venom and deduced that it had retained its full toxicity even after almost sixty years in dry storage. Apparently, venom doesn’t have a use-by date.”

  Marr was impressed, with both the stories and of Ronda’s depth of knowledge. She really knew her snakes…especially the one-eyed pyjama python.

  “Just lucky we have antivenom these days, eh? What the hell did people do without it?

  “Not much, Mike, although they tried all sorts of things. Ligatures, tourniquets, wound incision and scarification, they even thought that injecting ammonia or strychnine would help, but of course it didn’t.”

  Ronda’s rhythmical rubbing was clearly doing its job now, as her thumb moved up to the swollen head of his penis, and her voice became more husky. She looked at him with her gorgeous green ‘come-to-bed’ eyes.

  “The Chinese even believed that rubbing the head of the dead snake on the bite would work…and of course there was always sucking the affected area… slowly but firmly...”

  “OK, enough with the snake tutorial already,” he said grabbing her, throwing her onto her back and spreading her long brown legs. “Come here you! I might not have a forked tongue but you, young lady, are in for a real tongue lashing. Then we’ll see how you deal with this angry snake…”

  And so The Sunday Territorian was never read. If it had been, the detective would have been particularly interested in one article. Not the front-page story about an illegal parrot trapper who’d been attacked by a cassowary…

  (“BIG BIRD ROUTS BUDGIE SMUGGLER”)

  …but the two-column piece buried on page 9.

  Missing Brissie couple found dead

  Bushwalkers have located the skeletal remains of what is believed to be Brisbane couple Robert and Fiona Murray. Their bodies were found in the rusted wreck of their late model 4-wheel drive in thick bushland 30 kilometres north of the NSW border. The Murrays went missing on 13 January and there has been widespread speculation as to their fate. It appears the V8 failed to negotiate a sharp bend on a treacherous mountain road and plunged 100 metres into the Canungra rainforest, presumably killing the driver and passenger on impact.

  No suspicious circumstances

  A police spokesperson said that they are investigating a range of possibilities; that they may have been run off the road, swerved to miss a kangaroo, that the driver may been intoxicated, or distracted by his mobile phone, or that he may have fallen asleep at the wheel or had a possible heart attack. Queensland Forensic detec
tives are investigating but at this stage there are no suspicious circumstances.

  Chapter 13

  No way out.

  Matthew Muir pressed the button on his phone and waited.

  Mississippi one…Mississippi two…Mississippi thr…

  The door to the adjoining room burst open and there was Max, left hand holding his beeping phone, right hand in the breast of his oversized black leather jacket presumably reaching for a weapon. A knife? A gun? Nunchucks? Muir didn’t know; more to the point, he didn’t want to know.

  Max’s eyes expertly swept the room and in one quick glance had appraised the situation and ruled out any clear and present danger.

  He removed his hand from his jacket. “Everything OK, sir?”

  Still with the ‘sir’, even though Muir had asked him repeatedly over the past three weeks to call him Matt or Matthew. Even ‘Shit-For-Brains’ if he liked. Anything but sir – it just sounded so fucking gay. And he was starting to suspect that Max was queer. He’d seen him in shorts the other day and it looked like he shaved his bloody legs! The fact that he bore a resemblance to the Poofs’ Poster Boy, former Manly Warringah forward, Ian Roberts, didn’t help. Hell, if the boys found out he was living with a queer, they’d think he was gay too.

  Once again he asked Max to call him Matthew.

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll continue to address you as ‘sir’,” Max had said, “helps me keep my mind on the job.”

  As if he needed help to do that; Matt had never met anyone as professional and diligent. Except maybe Cliff who worked the second 12-hour shift each day.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine, Max. Real fine. That’s why I’m giving you the night off.”

  “The night off? That’s a negative, sir. I’m on duty till midnight, till Cliff gets here.”

  ‘Here’ was a swanky one-bedroom apartment on the 15th floor of The Greenland Centre in the Sydney CBD, with superb Harbour views and an interconnecting suite next door. Both apartments, as well as Max & Cliff’s services, had been paid for by The Benefactor; it appeared the man had very deep pockets.

  “It’s like this, Max,” Muir said, “We’ve been joined at the hip – (fuck, did I really say that) – these past few weeks. I’m tired of you watching my every move and I’d just like some space for a few hours.”

  “Fair enough, sir. I’ll just be in the room next door if you need me.”

  Hmmm. It’s not just his arms, chest and neck that are thick.

  “No, you don’t understand. I want total privacy without any danger of you bursting in on me. If you must know, I’ve got a hot date. An old flame’s coming to help me celebrate my 30th birthday this evening. Should be here soon.”

  “Ah, I see, sir. Why didn’t you say? I can do privacy. Make myself invisible. If you like, I could go kill a few hours down in the gym. Then maybe grab a steak in the ground floor restaurant.”

  The way Max was built, he sure as hell didn’t need to go to the gym – certainly not for a few hours – and he looked like he could easily put away more than one steak.

  “Perfect. Make sure you charge it to Room 1529.”

  “Oh, I will, sir. I’m not that thick,” he said walking around the room. “I’ll just make sure the room is fully secure before I leave. And remember, I will still be in the building. Never more than 100 metres away. So if you or your lady friend are in any trouble whatsoever, just hit that button on your phone and I’ll be here within sixty seconds, OK?”

  “Fantastic, Max. I’m sure you will. Thank you.”

  “Not a problem, sir. Happy birthday.”

  With a respectful nod and one last look around, Max strode out the front door of the apartment, shut it firmly and was gone. Muir was alone at last.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later came a soft knocking on his door. He hurried over to open it and there stood his hot date looking amazing, arms filled with a large, beautifully wrapped gift and a chilled bottle of champagne. “Happy birthday, handsome!”

  Muir put the square box down on the lounge, popped open the champagne and took a very large swig straight from the bottle. His lover took the fizzy bottle and followed suit as they made their way straight to the bedroom, stripping off as they went.

  They made love with the urgent passion of lovers who hadn’t been together for quite some time, and 20 minutes later they both lay naked on the bed totally spent; sweating profusely and breathing hard.

  Muir was the first to speak.

  “Whew! That was amazing, Marco. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten just how fucking good you are.”

  Bellotti smiled and kissed him deeply.

  “Ah yeah, mate, it’s been way too long. Seven long months since we last slept together, although I seem to remember there was bugger all sleeping involved. I tried to sneak into your room in Hobart, but Van Heerden was hanging around like a bad smell – a very large bad smell – and I didn’t want to risk it.”

  “Good on you, mate. No one needs to know about us. I was worried someone would find out that I was a poofter when I couldn’t get it up for that black bitch in Ayers Rock. I was going to say I was too pissed, but luckily with your help, I got away with it.”

  “From memory,” Bellotti commented, “you were too busy bashing the shit out of her to fuck her.”

  “Ha, yeah. People think that you can’t hate the way the fucken abos are stealing our country away from us, and making hard-working white Aussies their niggers, and still be gay. Well, I hate what’s happening to this once-proud country just as much as any straight dude. Probably more so…”

  “I know you do, mate,” Marco agreed. “You’re as staunch as anyone in Home Base. Ignore those homophobic pricks. Hey, can you pull the doona up…it’s gotten freezing in here. The air con must be stuffed.”

  With only their heads and drinking arms outside the covers, together they polished off the last of the bubbles. Muir dropped the empty bottle onto the plush carpet and remembered the gift.

  “So, now that we’ve got that out of the way – for now at least – what did you get me for my birthday?”

  Bellotti looked embarrassed. “Er Matty…nothing yet…I had a hard enough time shaking my damn bodyguard off, so I couldn’t go shopping, apart from the Moet at the Bottle-o downstairs, but I will get you something real nice as soon as I…”

  Muir sat up sharply, alarm bells ringing in his head.

  “Then what the fuck was that present you gave me before!?”

  “Oh that. Nah, not from me, mate. It was just at your door when I arrived, so I brought it in.”

  As he spoke, the penny dropped and so did his jaw. The two men looked at each other with ‘oh crap, what have I/you done’ expressions on their mortified faces.

  Muir was first to act. He jumped straight out of bed and bolted screaming to the living room. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…let’s hope it’s not too late.”

  I’ll just grab the parcel and throw it straight out the door before whatever is inside…

  But when he got there, he soon saw that he was already too late; the wrapping paper featuring a leaf motif in the shape of blood red lips, was ripped and he could see a wide jagged tear in the side of the cardboard box.

  He picked it up anyway knowing that whatever had been inside was no longer there. The parcel, fairly heavy when he’d plonked it onto the lounge half an hour ago, was now as light as the proverbial feather. He tossed it back down, eyes desperately scanning the room. Then it hit him.

  Max!

  One push of a button on his iPhone and Max – strong, fearless, dependable Max – would be there in a flash to protect them. Sure, he’d have some explaining to do about Marco, especially if Max turned out NOT to be gay. But being outed was small potatoes compared to…well, compared to anything at the moment.

  All he needed was his phone. Shit! Where the fuck is it? He looked around frantically, rushing to and fro. On the kitchen bench? The arm of the lounge? The TV? The pocket of his Hawaiian shirt in a heap near
the bedroom door?

  No, no, no and no.

  Oh, that’s right! It’s in the back pocket of my jeans!

  He raced back into the bedroom and saw said jeans lying crumpled at the base of the bed. He enjoyed a second or two of relief, before he looked up and noticed the look of sheer terror on Bellotti’s face, his brown eyes bulging.

  “It’s alright, Marco,” he said, “I’ll call Max. He’ll sort this fucking thing right ou…”

  Just then Bellotti started shaking uncontrollably and he vomited up a chunk of white, bubbling foam onto the bedcovers as he thrashed about.

  “Christ, mate,” Muir said, “are you alright? Marco! Marco, speak to me. What’s wrong?” And with that, he pulled the doona right back.