by Hercules
'I said, listen up,' Metho said, and was ignored. He sighed, picked up a chair from the empty table behind him and brought it down hard on the full table in front of him. 'WOULD YOU FUCKERS SHUT THE FUCK UP!' he screamed.
The Crew fell silent. Even those injured by flying bits of crockery and baklava muffled their anguished cries of pain. Metho was pissed, which usually meant that someone was going to get hurt. In the case of those already injured, they would get hurt more.
'What you do, you crazy fuck?' Tasos said, drawn out of his kitchen by the almighty noise Metho had made. He retreated at double speed when he saw Metho pick up the leg of the shattered chair and bring it down hard onto the broken table.
'THIS IS NOT A FUCKEN WORKING LUNCH FOR CONCERNED FUCKEN CITIZENS,' Metho screamed, and the spittle flew from his lips and the veins stood out on his neck. 'The next fucker who speaks when I is trying to get stuff done will be picking splinters out of his ball sack for a fucken week!'
There was a moment's silence during which no one dared breath.
'That's me off the hook, then,' TS said, and smiled. 'And this is a meeting of concerned citizens, just not very clean ones.'
Metho smiled back, and then smacked her in the head with his chair leg. Not hard enough to cause serious injury, but hard enough to cause considerable pain. 'Weren't you listening to your boyfriend, you stupid fucker? We is the fucken bad guys.'
Little Spaz jumped up and ran to his sister's side. 'You stupid arsehole,' he said, as he helped the dazed TS back onto her chair. 'My old man is going to fuck you over when I tell him what you've just done.'
'Oh will he now?' Metho said, in a quiet voice. 'You better let him know right away cos you might not get a chance later on. Pick up your phone an' call him.'
'In good time.'
'THERE IS NO GOOD TIME, YOU FUCK, WEREN'T YOU LISTENING?' Metho screamed. 'WE IS THE BAD GUYS AND WE DON'T DO GOOD STUFF. CALL YOUR OLD MAN NOW!'
'No.'
Metho threw his chair leg and caught Little Spaz right between the eyes. 'And you can tell him I broke your fucken glasses while you're at it.'
Little Spaz, who had never seen Metho like this, looked about him and realised that everyone else was trying to minimise their physical presence in the world. While they'd been trying to be inconspicuous, he'd been gibbering like a baboon. In a room full of belligerent arseholes, he realised, he'd been the only stooge to poke the psycho.
Without taking his eyes off Metho, Little Spaz slowly pulled his phone from his shirt pocket and called his father. 'Popy, Metho's gone crazy. He hit TS in the head and then chucked a chair leg at me and smashed my glasses.'
The Crew couldn't hear what Big Spaz said in reply, but they could make a guess based on the expression on Little Spaz's face. Without saying another word, he put his phone away and sat down. When he finally did speak, his voice had the hollow quality of a man betrayed. 'Big Spaz wants you to know that he apologises for his children's bad behaviour.'
'Of course he does, cos I'm tryin' to teach you fuckers about the real world. This ain't college, you understand? Look around you, do these people look like they have ever attended a fucken lecture?'
Both the Spaz's mumbled something incoherent.
'Look, right, if you piss one of these blokes off by kicking 'em in the head, for example, or by not doin' wot you is told, then they is going to retaliate. An' they won't walk up to you and explain wot they is gunna do. They'll wait till you're back is turned and then clock you from behind. If you're lucky, you'll wake up in a hospital.'
'Actually, I'd never hit anyone from behind,' Tits said.
'Okay, all these blokes apart from Tit's will wait until your back's turned before thumping you, an' we all think he's a bit soft because of it.'
'Actually, neither would I,' Skip chimed in, 'an' I don't reckon you would either.'
'Okay, maybe me an' Skip wouldn't either,' Metho conceded.
'Or me,' said a voice from the back of the cafe.
'Nah, it's not fair, is it?' added another voice.
Metho looked about him, defeated. 'Okay, so they is all pretty good blokes, actually.'
'Except when I'm on the piss,' said a small Crew member called Tubsy, who was sitting at a table to Metho's right. 'My mum reckons I'm a real bastard when I'm pissed.'
'Would you fuckers just shut the fuck up?' Metho said, 'I'm trying to teach the neubs about life on the street, okay?'
'Sorry,' chorused the Crew.
'An' that's why your old man sent you to me, see? It's my job to toughen you up a bit and get some street smarts into ya,' Metho said, with an air that suggested it was his concluding statement, and his 'life-is-tough-on-the-street' lecture to the battered Spaz's was over. He sat back down and realised that his galaktoboureko had been a victim of his recent outburst, which deflated him further. 'Anyway, now that's sorted, let's get down to work. We has nine auctions to go to tomorrow, they is two or three at a time, so we're gunna have to split up if we wanna get to 'em all.'
Metho paused to retrieve a wad of papers from the front pocket of his overly tight slacks, which caused some of the more prudish members of the Crew to turn away in embarrassment. 'Dago, take your boys an' go to these two,' Metho said, and held out a slip of paper towards a horrified thug. Dago, to his credit, hid his distaste quite well and accepted the paper with barely a hint of revulsion.
'Wozza, yous have got the ones near the oval, and Wingnut, the ones near the hospital is for yous,' Metho continued, and handed slips of grubby paper to the appropriate Crew member. 'Me and Skip are gunna take the last three, while Tits and the Spaz's will try an' make some sales at the market cos it'd be nice if we could actually make some money for a fucken change.'
'Oh come on, Metho mate, I don't wanna babysit,' Tits said, and made a sad face. 'Can't we come with you? It's not like there's all that much going on in the morning anyway.'
Metho always felt a bit of a bastard whenever he had a temper tantrum. 'Alright,' he said, letting his heart soften a little in the hope that it would drive away the guilt, 'but you gotta remember this next time you're thinkin' of bitchin' about me being a slave driver, okay?'
'Thanks mate,' Tits said, and made a happy face.
'Okay, what we is gunna do is fill our coolers with beer an' food, and then take them along to the auctions to have a bit of a party with the folk wanting to buy a house in Rosetown. An' we'll push products hard to 'em because there's nothing that's more Rosetown than good drugs at good prices,' Metho said, and his face hardened. He stood up and stared out of the cafe window to the streets beyond. 'This is our place,' he said, softly, then turned suddenly towards his Crew. 'And those fuckers want to take it off us. But they don't just want our houses. No, no, my friends. They don't just want our streets. They don't just want our suburb. They want our souls,' he said dramatically and paused. 'We are Rosetown,' he continued, his voice shriller and louder. 'Not the houses. Not the streets. Us. We make Rosetown wot it is, an' we aren't the sort of pussies that rolls over at the first sign of a fight. If they wants our suburb, then they is gunna have to take it from us. Tomorrow, we is gunna go out into the streets and make these aspirational fuckers understand exactly where it is that they is gunna buy a house. So get out there an' do wot you do best. Sell drugs. Drink beer. Eat like a pig. Fart like there's no one there.'
'Um, Metho, can I bring me missus?' Dago asked. 'She's always complainin' that I never take her anywhere an' that.'
An image of Dago's significant other floated through Metho's consciousness, which caused a shudder to run down his spine. 'Yeah, no worries,' he said. 'Make sure she gets plenty to drink.'
'Ain't that the way, with misseseses,' Skip said, almost tripping over the stream of esses. 'I took Steph to one of them fancy new aspirational places the other day, but was she satisfied? Nah. She's still going on about me not making time for her. What am I...'
'You back with Steph again, are ya?' Tits asked, cutting off what he knew would be one of Skip's famous—and
tiresome—Steph-related whines.
Skip looked shifty for a moment. 'Yeah, we is together.'
'So what was this place like?' Metho asked.
'It was shit, mate, absolute shit. My chicken parma was fucken tiny. And there was only four chips, and the whole thing was covered in this horrible red stuff that I thought was tomato sauce, but it tasted like arse. An' it was forty dollars each.'
'Did you pay?'
'Nah, but it's the principle of the thing, isn' it? Forty bucks for a tiny chunk of chicken and four chips? Fucken rip off. And they should have to pay people to eat that fucken horrible stuff they puts on everything.'
'Jus,' Little Spaz said.
'Nah, it wasn't religious or nothin'. Just expensive.'
'Not the religion, you stooge, the sauce. It's called jus.'
'Is it? It should be called crap,' Skip said, with feeling. 'You know, you look funny without your glasses.'
'Do I?'
'Yeah, I can see more of your face, which is not a good thing,' said the ever witty Skip.
(ii)
The following morning found Metho and part of his band of merry scofflaws lurking in the shadows of the defunct haberdashery store at the very heart of Rosetown. He'd allocated himself the three closest auctions to his home which, in hindsight, wasn't the best idea.
'The fuckers won't be happy till they takes it all,' Metho said, in a loud and slightly unhinged voice. 'They is gunna sell the toy shop. They used to have all those little robot men in there, the ones we used to steal when we was little, remember Skip? Do you remember?'
'Yeah,' Skip said, 'but it hasn't been a toy shop for a long time now.'
'I don't fucken care if it's not a toy shop anymore, it's still the fucken toy shop,' Metho said, his voice becoming even louder, 'an' I don't want no aspirational fuckers selling jus covered shit in there.'
'Well, we're here to stop the auction,' Little Spaz said, trying a to use reason to walk Metho back to sanity. 'Let's execute our plan and, hopefully, we can unnerve them enough to prevent anyone placing a bid.'
'The fuckers are gunna fuck my toy shop, an' that means they'll get the train set an' I won't ever get it.'
Skip and Little Spaz looked at Metho, then at one another, then back at Metho.
'Um, there hasn't been nothin' in that shop for five years,' Skip said, acutely aware that he was closer to Metho than Tiny Spaz. He tried a backward sidle, but Little Spaz had read the situation and was moving backwards as well.
'What the fuck are you two fuckers doing?' Metho all but screamed. 'Get back here.'
All three turned at the sound of a two-stroke motor and saw Tits approaching fast on a motorised icebox with TS hitching a ride on the back. Skip and Tiny Spaz, seeing that Metho was momentarily distracted, took the opportunity to sidle further from the danger zone.
'You sure know how to make a splash,' TS called out when they were within earshot. 'Check 'em out! All the aspirationals are staring.'
'Yeah, that's what I was doin',' Metho said, 'making a fucken splash. Does unnerving mean I get to rips their fucken spines out?'
Little Spaz shook his head. 'Nah.'
'Pity,' Metho mumbled, and then sighed. 'I loved that toy shop when I was a kid. Used to look in the window for hours while me dad was in the Belgradia. Me mum said that one day we'd open a toy shop of our own, just like that one, an' I could play with the toys all day, an' we wouldn't have to sell me favourite ones, an' me dad would visit us every week to help with stocktake an' that.'
'It'd be just like your old man to escape from jail every week to come over and smash up your shop,' Skip said, and snorted a laugh.
'Yeah,' Metho said, and his face hardened, 'he woz a bit of a mad fucker, wasn't he?'
Tits—who was probably better at reading people and moods than anyone gave him credit for— flipped open his icebox and tossed a chilled beer to Metho, which he caught, opened, and drank it in one fluid movement.
'Okay lads, let's get to work.'
'Hey, we aren't all lads y'know,' TS said
'Here, on the job, we is all lads,' Metho said, 'so you got a choice to make here an' now. You is either one of us or you isn't.'
TS paused just long enough for her hesitation to be noted. 'Do we all get to drink or is it just you?'
'Tits, I think the rest o' the lads would like a beer as well.'
(iii)
Armed with beer and a variety of snack treats, most of which were an unnatural yellow colour, the Crew set about their work.
Metho went from aspirational to aspirational, alternating between glowering or offering 'The best fucken drugs at the best fucken prices in all of fucken Melbourne.' Angry and unrepentant, he moved through the crowd like an enraged tomcat shouldering its way through a pack of neutered pussies.
Skip oiled his way through the mass of property buyers, cajoling and pleading, offering a free tale of woe with every bag of dodgy powder purchased. 'I don't like doin' it, right, but me mum's got fucken cancer and the fucken government doesn't subsidise the fucken drugs she needs to keep her alive, so I'm selling good-time drugs to you so I can buy life-saving drugs for me mum.'
Little Spaz took on the part of a crazed drug addict and vibrated his way through the aspirational crowd, drooling and growling. 'Look, right, I don't need this shit anymore. I just wanna get rid of it, so I'm selling it cheap to you. Seriously, it's fucken amazingly pure, mate, worth twice as much as what I'm selling it for, I just don't need it anymore, believe me.'
But no matter how much they threatened or how hard they begged or how disgusting their physical demeanour, the aspirationals just looked through them like they weren't even there.
'Told ya it'd be fucken useless,' Metho said, when they had gathered to replenish their beer and snack supplies. 'They know where they is buying, an' they don't care what we do.'
'This is fucken creepy,' Little Spaz said, and helped himself to a beer from Tits' cooler. 'I don't know what it is about those people but they make my skin crawl.'
'It's just cos you're used to dealing with normal people here in Rosetown,' Metho explained, 'these fuckers come from all over Melbourne and most of 'em don't know how to behave in public. It's not their fault, really, it's the way they wos raised. This is wot happens when parents let their kids get away with murder when they is little.'
'Yeah,' Skip said, 'not like us. I still got scars from where my old man took to me with his belt. Taught me right from wrong, those beltings, and how to be respectful an' that.'
Little Spaz looked like he was about to say something, then frowned. 'Hey, where's Tits? And where the hell is my sister?'
Metho looked this way and that. 'I knew it, right, I knew it,' he snarled. 'The fuckers are abandonin' their fucken duties to have a fucken roll in the hay.'
'You think so? You think they is fucking?' Skip said, in an incredulous tone.
'How the fuck do I know?' Metho snapped.
'You just said it,' Skip said, pointing out what he thought was obvious.
'Oh my God,' Little Spaz said, and pointed to the roof of the defunct toyshop where Tit's had appeared, precariously perched and undoing his fly. Below him, the auctioneer was raising his gavel.
'Wot's he gunna do?' Metho asked, trying to deny the evidence of his eyes.
'That's one way to get their attention,' Little Spaz said, as Tits began to empty his bladder onto the crowd below.
'Yeah, but is it Rosetown enough?' Skip said, as the stream of steaming yellow liquid splashed onto the auctioneer's head. 'I mean, you can piss on someone's head almost anywhere in Melbourne. All you need is elevation, really, and a few drinks beforehand.'
'How can he not know that someone is pissing on his head?' Metho said, but quietly and in a distracted voice, as he watched the auctioneer completely ignore the liquid drenching his hair.
'Eeeeew,' Little Spaz exclaimed, as he watched the auctioneer explain the terms of the sale to the crowd as if there was no stream of yellow liquid falling on his h
ead and streaming down his face. 'Look at that colour. Tits definitely needs to drink more water.'
'You'd think he'd at least close his mouth,' Skip said a moment later, as the auctioneer started the bidding at what Metho considered an already stupidly high price.
'It hasn't even slowed him down,' Metho said. 'The fucker's got piss flowin' down his fucken face, and it hasn't even slowed him down! What the fuck is wrong with these people?'
(iv)
The Crew were so shaken by their encounter at the auction that they bolted right past Socrates'n'Friends to the home of Vera, Metho's mum and unofficial matriarch of this band of belligerent bandits. From the outside, Vera's home was a small, non-descript timber cottage near the centre of Rosetown. There was a tidy rectangular lawn bordered on three sides by beds of roses. A covered concrete driveway ran along the fourth side, upon which sat a rarely driven but always washed midnight blue Holden Kingswood station wagon. On the inside, however, the house was anything but ordinary. On the inside, Vera had transformed her home into a temple devoted to the worship of the Rosetown Football Club.
Every flat surface supported a Rosetown FC ornament, every inch of wall space was covered by a photograph, or a framed guernsey, or a pastiche of past glories. Everything was red or white or blue, or red and white and blue. And where nothing would stand or hang, there lurked stuffed bullfrogs—the club mascot—of wool and cotton.
Vera had greeted her son and his associated wearing a shapeless blue dress that had the Rosetown Bullfrog emblazoned proudly across the chest, and bullfrog slippers on her feet. Red, white, and blue rectangles dangled from her earlobes, which matched the tri-colour varnish on her fingernails.
'Hello boys,' she said, and then caught sight of TS. 'Tiny! what are you doing here, love? Has your father finally seen some sense, has he? Gotcha working out in the field like you always wanted?'