automatic search erasure with a cleaning mechanism and a crane

Greetings, investors! My name is Hector Faigle, CEO and Chief Technician at KustomCompLTD!

            (wait for applause)

And do I have an opportunity for you!

With the lives we lead online, there’s always someone watching. The government. The social media. Invisible creatures going by unconscionable aliases dwelling in the corner of the internet. And worse still, friends and loved ones. They observe, analyse and judge. Who wants to be judged for what they do in private with their digital selves?  

            Some would say that the answer lies perhaps in shutting down. Switching off. At best, controlling our online habits. Reclaiming and rewriting, maybe even eliminating our online personalities. I say that such solutions are nothing more than thinking small! Refusing the gifts technology has given us! In these days of our enlightenment and access and fantasy made real, why turn our backs to the internet? Why refuse ourselves?

            See, my current girlfriend and I, we are deeply in love. The proper kind of soul to soul understanding. She gets me. I get her. We like the same televisual entertainment. Have similar senses of humour and both thoroughly enjoy West African cuisine. Life moves pleasantly along. Supportive and affectionate, filled with Ghanan curries and long bouts of Netflix.

            But does she need to know all about my online life?

            I have this close friend. We’ll call him Harry – for anonymity’s sake, of course – and he had a girlfriend who happened onto his personal, internet habits. And, well, Kate was somewhat perturbed. Which isn’t to say that Harry’s tastes and viewing rituals online were any more peculiar than the next persons. Not at all. Who are you – am I, to judge? I mean, one man’s fetish for feet is another’s longing for dark vans, chains, foreboding music, and little blondes with blushed cheeks. Right? It all amounts to the same thing: personal, private enjoyment.

Did you know that ‘fetish’ means to be in awe of something? Apt, isn’t it? Are we not entitled to enjoy a little show every now and again? Have our awe bodily inspire us? Give our quieter, but no less urgent desires, a little attention? Can we not light a few candles, dim the lights, turn up the speakers, and indulge?

            Kate seemed to think not. Seemed to think Harry’s own penchants were her concern also. A betrayal of taste and common decency, she said! Like he would ever ask her to partake in his fantasies. Unless she wanted to. It’s not like they’re that dangerous in properly controlled conditions, with the right safe bells nearby for her to ring after the ritualised gagging. It’s all performance people! Not real, but fantasy’s reality.

But, in the end, these are private concerns of the flesh. And Harry’s privacy was compromised when Kate stumbled, firstly, into his office unexpectantly, then secondly, into his personal computer’s search history. (I’m still yet to figure out how one accidentally opens another person’s search history, but Kate was an honest woman – her own internet life (of course, according to Harry) was littered with Practicing Truthfullness memes and Honesty Forums.)

            Kate and Harry were close. A lovely fit. I mean, no one questioned the strength of their bond. They were what all their couple friends aspired to. It seemed like fate. Even after it was all over, after Kate had let the chained blonde out of the bag – so to speak – their friends were still certain they would make amends. It didn’t seem right they said. I certainly thought so.

But her judgment of his innocent little predilections, and understandable predilections for the innocent, left a permanently bad taste in the mouth of their relationship. Harry never felt safe indulging around her again, lest she mistakenly opened a window she would never understand. Not that they could be ‘understood’ in the conventional sense. No. They were beyond understanding, I assure you. More sensuous than anything.

            Oh, he was a broken man when she left him. I, personally, up-close, had to bear witness to the tides of erotica and amateurs and black van rouge videos he bathed in to exfoliate his hurt. These videos and fantasies, so often a source of comfort, became a blasé glut. He drowned in them and forgot his simple pleasures.

He said, that it all became too easy. There was less rush, less satisfaction. There was guilt, but the wrong kind.

            I watched his malaise sadly and I grew concerned with my own totally normal, regular infatuations and habits. Not that his were not, you know, normal – mostly. Honestly, I can see the particular appeal: the control, the shadows, the shine off the chain.

But instead of dwelling in desolation, worried forever that my significant others were always bound to uncover my satisfactions, I rose up to create a better world. Not just for Harry, but for others. For those who just like the occasional release without being accidentally discovered for their individual delights. For those whose tastes tend to side with what the rest of the world may unfortunately call ‘unusual!’ For those who value well-made technology that enhances and protects their online selves. For those who love the game of evasion, but not the risk of ever losing.

            I designed the first Very Private Cumputer (VPC)™ personal laptop.

            (wait for rapturous applause)

Now, you may be asking yourselves: well, haven’t we mastered computer design? What more could possibly be added to my well-made, sleek little laptop? It does all the tasks I need it to. Some I don’t. And, hell, some I don’t even know about.

            (wait for laughter)

            And, even then, Mr Faigle, surely you know that there are ways to delete search history, to control your online persona, to be more selective about when to indulge so as to avoid prying eyes?

            Well, of course there are! But that requires so much boorish planning. So much clicking and cleaning up. Who has time for that? And who is to say it is even comfortable? Perfectly safe? We all make mistakes, friends. These days, these mistakes can be gargantuan, leading down the path of public humiliation, judgement, or a Kate breaking your heart over some very small personal pleasure, shot in perfect HD to get the lighting on the chains, cheek’s blush, and side nipple just right.

            With the VPC™, I can guarantee you all the enjoyment of your personal moments, along with privacy, comfort, and, above all, SIMPLICITY!

            The VPC™ is ergonomically designed by the best German and Dutch engineers, with a dual mouse feature. Finally, you’ll be able to handle your ‘mice’ simultaneously

(wait for laughter)

without ever having to awkwardly cross arms! Or, alternatively, switch it up and try out your other hand for a bit of a stranger experience! Either way, you’ll find this to be the most comfortably designed laptop you’ve ever seen. Heck, sometimes I have to hide it from my current girlfriend who adores its streamlined features and adjustable screens and keyboards. It’s my turn, Hector, she’ll say.

            (wait for thoughtful pause)

            And, you know what, she can have it. (When I’m not using it, anyway!) I’ll never have to worry about her finding any mess on my VPC™, because it features a discrete Japanese-made self-cleaning system, with a six ply tissue dispenser, desticking mister, and a one of its kind Catching Glove which can be fitted to almost any household drainage system. In our world of convenience, why continue with thin  tissues when a perfectly adequate Catching Glove is right there? 

            That’s not all, either! The VPC™ also features a unique in-built security system that automatically keeps your computer free of pop-ups, viruses, government watchdogs, and unfortunate accidental Social Media shares. It automatically erases your search history, while maintaining a finger print locked personal history of your beloved videos, performers, scenes, and sites! If I want to go straight to my favourite completely normal live stream, all I’ve got to do is wipe my thumb across the print reader and my VPC™ sends me straight to the peep show. What a service! And no accidental, Kate-like stumbling across your own special video stash, like the old days!

            The security measures don’t stop there either, because you’ll never have to worry about people sticky beaking (accidentally or deliberately) into your private business ever again!

            (wait for applause)

            The VPC™ features 360-degree motion sensors that alert you to any immediate dangers to your personal enjoyment, which can be toggled to monitor distances from six to 50 meters. Never get caught out surprised again! Be aware of your surroundings! Personalise your alarms sound from over 100 options!

            Of course, I know sometimes we all get lost in the thrall of our pleasures and with a system like the VPC™, with its beautiful 4K HyperReal screen and a carefully curated surround-sound system, it is all too easy to ignore its inbuilt warning signs. Which is why I am so excited about the revolutionary design of the Crane. Attached to the rear of your laptop, the Crane is suspended over your head and attached to the rear of your pants. If all warning signs are ignored and someone is detected by your VPC™ to enter your special pleasure palace, the Crane goes into action, quickly yanking your pants back to their acceptable on position, before withdrawing behind your laptop and opening Excel.

            Brilliant, no!?

            (wait for rapturous applause)

            This, folks, is the game changer! It has already saved me from potential embarrassment in front of my current girlfriend – a close call it was too! – and could have saved the otherworldly bond Harry had with Kate: the one everyone thought would last a lifetime because they had it all and it worked so well and they just seemed to walk in one another’s steps in perfect synchronicity. Never would she have seen, nor heard, those videos, and busted him in the act, chain wrapped delicately around his neck, oil greasing his chest, pants around his ankles – the Crane would have saved him.

It isn’t worth trying to get over the loss of people like Kate in your life. Harry says he’s ok now. Been very busy, I assure you. But we all know he still hurts and his little online worlds and pleasures have never been the same.

According to such distinguished websites like pcworld.com, computerreviews.eu and safeerotica.org, VPC™ is the way forward for laptop design! Acclaimed online reviewer and prominent Pornhub commentator, Barry Snife, recently wrote: ‘For the amateur purveyor, or homegrown connoisseur, the Very Private Cumputer™ is the way forward for properly hiding your pornographic habits.’

In the old days, we’d stash our magazines under the bed, and Kate would have turned a blind eye. But, these days, with limitless exciting options to explore, we need something more than a bed, something more than merely changing our habits. Now, all you need is a personalised VPC™ laptop!

Why I, Dr Dick, Should Be Prime Minister

Attention fellow citizens!

            Today is the day I announce my intention to be Prime Minister of this fine, wild, sunburnt nation of ours! I wish to take the reins of the bucking brumby that is our island and tame that wilful beast, whipping it onwards to better tomorrows, like a monumental jockey winning the Melbourne Cup of being a great nation!

            But, why you, Dr Dick? Why should we elect you our Prime Minister? Our figurehead? Our supreme ruler? Why should you be the captain of our Spirit of Tasmania lost in the tumult ridden seas of our modern world?

            A fine question and one worth a strong answer!

            I am a man driven by his convictions. I stand by my beliefs as the swagman stands by his jumbuck – taking them to my grave. Particularly, the conviction that my convictions are in fact malleable. A man should stand by their beliefs, their ideologies, their driving philosophies, as a man should also stand by their willingness to abandon them if they are proving to no longer be profitable!

            There is nothing braver in this dusty bushranger tundra of ours than a man whose conviction is to have no conviction and thus have greater conviction than everyone else!

            I will never hold back when it comes to this fact! And I will stand by all the truths and non-truths in the unfolding narrative of my rise to power, giving credit to all ideas, for this is the genuine democracy of our thirsty archipelago girt by sea.

Should one man dispute that the Yarra is in fact turquoise, I will readily agree, even as I stare at its unique shade of brown and see therein only crystal.

Boat people are a problem, but not. Boats are the real problem, or the sea. Refugees don’t exist, except when they do.

Climate change is a myth, and also real. An energy initiative is the only way to fix it, though I do not believe in crafting an energy policy, though maybe later, if people want one.

African gangs in Melbourne are a problem, but also not, though I do and do not go out for dinner in Melbourne some nights, and African gangs may or may not be why.

Clearly, I give my ears to both sides of the debate: from the north of Queensland, to the boroughs of Melbourne's inner city, fact and truth reside everywhere, even in falsehood and lies. For I have feelings about the issues. 

            Is this not what we need today in our great Southern land of kangaroos bounding freely across the eucalpytus horizon? The ability to have many feelings about many issues? And to then articulate them? Like my feelings about immigrants. These are complex feelings, because there are lots of them. Feelings, that is. 

            Should I become Prime Minster I will continue to have many feelings, and I will boil them down, make them simpler, craft them into phrases palatable to your damper taste buds. And, like our emblematic kangaroos, I will leap from one feeling to the other, exploring them, breaking them down, giving them to you. 

            Experience? What about it?

            As I am an academic and clearly smarter than the average punter, up above while everyone is down under, experience does not matter, for my wits will travail and succeed on all the rugged Burke and Wills paths of our problems.

Even should I lack the title of doctor – which I do not – I would argue experience remains irrelevant in the echidna dirt of our storm boy washed shores. What we need is an absence of experience in governing to govern effectively. To climb the grassy knoll of our Parliament requires no mountaineering equipment. I see a lack of experience as a new start. And in the great Bathurst race of life that our nation is caught in, isn’t it an amateur we need at the wheel? One brave enough to hit those corners hard, with no prior knowledge of what can go wrong, so that everything can potentially go right? But, faster.

            A vote for me, Dr Dick, is a vote for a man with conviction, on the side of fact and feelings, with fruitful inexperience, who will be willing to put aside running Australia so that I can maintain my grip on power, as a koala hangs onto a tree when chased by a territorial cow.

            I can be that koala. We can all be that koala.

            Dicks your pick.

Some True Facts About Peter Dutton

·       Peter Dutton is, in fact, a semi-sentient potato. Now this is well known. What is less well known is his particular species of potato: he is an unwashed russet burbank potato left outside in the sun too long. This explains his sickly bluish tinge, unsightly tentacles, and the slight stench of ferment about him. Peter Dutton is on his way to becoming a really cheap, nasty vodka.

·       In his previous life as a cop in QLD, his workmates referred to him as only Dirty Ol’ Russet.

·       His oft documented fear of ‘people of African appearance’ and ‘Sudanese gangs,’ has its nexus in both his inherent racial insecurities (a trait common to semi-sentient potatoes and other edible tubers – see also, Eric Abetz, semi-sentient turnip) and his fear of the dark and, more specifically, dark colours (no one has told him the irony of this fear, considering he is, in fact, a semi-sentient nightshade). As such, Peter Dutton is also terrified of: black or navy suits (and only wears them at parliament under great duress while heavily medicated), shadows, ninjas, having his night light switched off when he’s going sleepys, most black animals but particularly black bears, the sun setting, pirate eye patches, black holes, cauldrons, and –

·       He is deathly afraid of the Indigenous people of Australia (well, as scared of them as he is of ninjas, and Peter Dutton is very frightened of ninjas). The Indigenous flag terrifies him, mostly the top half. This partly explains his decision to absent himself from Kevin Rudd’s apology speech. (Also he misheard Tony Abbot who said there’d be ninjas there, but may have been using another rhyming n word. Either way, Peter Dutton wasn’t taking a risk, being deeply alarmed by both possibilities).

·       Peter Dutton believes that climate science is a form of black magic. Peter Dutton is terrified of black magic, and often feels compelled to tell his conservative allies that they must be wary of black magic and their practitioners. His fight against black magic is at the core of his ideology.

o   A generalised list of people whom Peter Dutton thinks use black magic: immigrants and refugees, the gays, women (he is particularly suspicious of the vagina, which he  associates with black holes and cauldrons), the Lebanese community, African gangs, Melbournians (particularly Melbournians with the gusto to visit restaurants at night) and, of course, Malcolm Turnball.

·       Peter Dutton’s private police unit, Border Force, is often given the secondary task of monitoring black magic and keeping watch on dark shadowy areas near Peter Dutton, lest either an African, ninja or black bear is hidden within.

·       Peter Dutton never ventures out at night to dine. He finds the experience too stressful – from the whole ‘night time’ dilemma, to dealing with peasant wait staff who do not appreciate the political class to which he belongs. Also, African gangs. African gangs everywhere.

·       Peter Dutton would put the very idea of dark colours and dark races in offshore detention if he was able. He is currently working on how to make this achievable.

·       Peter Dutton’s biggest dream is to ride a stallion adorned with Trump’s toupee, while shirtless, alongside Vladmir Putin, across the tundras of Russia, hunting foxes, black bears and undesirables. They’d be sweating and Putin would be licking Dutton’s vodka flavoured skin. And they’d both be white together. And neither would acknowledge the weather, for the weather is black magic and not worthy of their haughty concerns. And there would no gays anywhere.

Georgia's Tray

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The 12 Biblical Rules of Hospitality (Old Testament)

If thou doth turn a deaf ear to a waiter’s greeting, then thou shalt be forever disfigured, finding thine own tongue rendered mute and thine own ears turned unto globular masses.

If thou doth impede the passage of a waiter’s walking, then thou shalt be hobbled at the knees.

If thou doth interrupt a waiter’s specials sermon, then thou shalt be deprived of taste, smell and sight.

If thou doth use cutlery with graceless ineptitude, then thou shalt feed from a trough.

If thou doth recoil from the hearty touch of gluten, then thou shalt forcefully partake of the glutinous Body of Christ.

If thou doth click thine fingers in the manner of a wanton peasant for a waiter’s attention, then thou shalt find the divine privilege of opposable thumbs no longer available to thee.

If thou doth fail to account for the activities of thine children, then thine children’s adorable little heads will toil diligently as toilet brushes for eternity.

If thou doth find the act of sitting graciously an unbearable chore, then thou shalt no longer comprehend the act of sitting itself, forever bewildered by chairs, stools, couches and on and on.

If thou doth leave thine phone in the place where a sacred meal is to be set, then thou shalt be made to dine on thine phone.

If thou canst handle thine alcohol, making grotesque mockery of holy dining manners, then thou shalt be cursed to a lifetime of lemon lime bitters, the coward’s beverage.

If thou doth finds the words thank you to be scarce in thine mouth, then thou shalt utter no other words but thank you so long as life is present in thine body.

If thou doth linger past one’s welcome and grasps not the concept of closed, then thou shalt be entrapped in a moment’s perpetuity, no longer a creature of time or God.

thoughts of a hot day

I am not of the heat, but within it.

I am, in fact, Ra.

To dip in the oily rag like waters of St Kilda and feel the slime of its sand nestling around, not between, my toes. Refreshing.

Is that the cool ripple of air conditioned condensation playing across my brow? Or doth my own sweat create its own fearsomely duplicitous mirage?

There are only so many layers to remove before we reach the skin and I would like to strip down past my skin and be truly naked, truly exposed, and perhaps truly cool.

All the grandparents are on park benches wearing slacks and their insides are becoming medium to medium-well and sweat nestles gently in the folds of their wrinkled skin, granules of perspiration promising a coolness not to come.

Alas, it is all now a cruel mirage. A promise of respite, but just another hot gust of wind.

Thoughts tentatively reach for the beach, but are accosted by men in speedos complaining of the temperature of the sand turning their feet to stone as lava does.           

Now for the fever dream: the same nightmare hallucination of Tony Abott and Andrew Bolt engaged in tender coitus, whispering of the global warming fake news, more coal they add to the fire they lay before, turning orange and white, in a bed of toupees. And, here, I am left stricken by these beacons of paleness invading my flash fried thoughts.

I cannot flee the inferno. I cannot flee the inferno’s infernal thoughts playing at the margins of my dwindling sanity. 

I am a sloth in a tree in a great fire.

Is that now Trump who joins the fray? Or some magnificent golden being whose court I must attend? Do we all talk to the sun at Fire Island?

I am, in fact, merely a servant of Ra. Hardly an Aztec. A slave whose heart placates confused gods who breath fire.

I am a Prophet of the Cool Change and I will write its prophecy as soon as I rebuild myself, as Alex Mac, would from the pool of warm salty water I have become.

We are now a living 42 degree day with the strong chance of bush fires and a total fire ban.

I am made of boiling water meant for pasta.

Them Sandhill Boys and The Doll Tree

In Kodshollop we named it The Doll Tree and it was best known that you steered well clear of The Doll Tree and the creamy white cottage behind it, specially when the summer bushfires was more than just a warning on the tele about making sure youse got plenty of space between the house and the bush, you mow the grass, keep plenty of water on hand, all that kinda stuff – always have an escape plan. Ol’ Papa Pete Sandhill, the grouchy gray bearded patriarch of them rasculous Sandhill boys, though so far as we all knew he bore no direct relation, ol’ Papa Pete being of this robust onyx complexion, while they was mostly being white and all, except for little Gerys Sandhill who had a bunch of Maori in him and Jayden Sandhill who, well, we didn’t know what heritage was in him. Them Sandhill boys, despite the ‘damn’ that followed em like a stink, particularly when they got to cruisin in their Ford Fiestas about town playing their R’n’Bs so loud youse swore the gentle bass of their factory set sound systems would rattle a tin bin, well despite these rebellious behaviours, them Sandhill Boys were not a nitpicky bunch about such matters of skin and ethnicities. Youse were a Sandhill boy or youse weren’t. Well, as I was about to be sayin, ol’ Papa Pete used to regale with tall tales about The Doll Tree and the witch who lived in the creamy white cottage behind it who would be witchin away at all the hours. And they was tall these tales, tall as the clumsy made brick clock tower down the end of Main that we all thought was shaped like a great big dick – with its narrow body and enormous bulbous top where the clock and all its gears was stashed to keep time – but we felt better than to talk nasty about our own town’s proudest, oldest monuments, and that clock tower had likely seen more years than ol’ Papa Pete himself. So our guffaws was all in muffles when we saw its shadow come the afternoon, when the sun would hit it just right and leave the imprint of a huge black shadowy dick on the grassy hill in Georgia’s Paddock behind, which was damn near as funny as Lloyd Jeffer’s three legged mule, Cap’n Hoppers, lusting after Sheila Bronkowski’s cattle. Such was our respect, we even kinda kept it quiet when Davey Sandhill, who read some and enjoyed goon straight outta the sack, referred to the tower as ‘turgid,’ which we all felt was gross, partly cos it sounded like turd, but mostly cos we couldn’t think of our own dicks as bein so rigorously swollen with blood as to be labelled ‘turgid,’ as inflated and rough to touch as that clock tower. We fancied our dicks as prettier than such a downright perilously ancient structure, which we swore leaned when the winds got up and about a little. Them Sandhill boys in particular was well known for bein confident of the perfect functions and looks of their parts and would be damned if their dicks was ever swayed by the wind. Fuck, they’d boast, to shift our cocks from their course, it’d need to be like one of them westerly gales that blew down Nancy’s farm in ’92, when all of Kodshollop had to keep a low head to escape the foliages bein blown from out of the bush. But, we agreed, ‘turgid’ was kinda funny all the same, we guessed. Davey had his way with words, even if he pissed most of them away in his low drawl when head divin into his goon sacks. It’s one of them good words that mostly sounds like it is: hard as its meaning. Turgid. Hehe. Anyways, ol’ Papa Pete had had a few dealings with The Doll Tree and more than a few run-ins with the witch who used to frequent the tourist gift store, The Kooky Kodshollop Kift Boutique, he ran for years on the corner of Penelope and Kaya, a block off Main, up the north end of town near the Murray. ‘She’d come amble in,’ ol’ Papa Pete would say, ‘cos she never really seemed to walk, her impressive girth made her kinda barrel everywhere and when she wasn’t a barrellin, well, she’d amble, like a kinda heavy sashay, and when she’d come on in, she’d always head straight to the plastic dolls I kept up near the rear of the store cos I couldn’t stand their painted blue and green eyes but they always seemed to sell well when I’d tack on a sticker that said Kodshollop Made or Murray Fresh. Them tourists love the local crafts, though these dolls come from somewhere in Vietnam. Mongolia? Latvia? Damn, I don’t recall such trivias. So this witch, who went by Baba Yaga, though I swear I’d heard some girls about town just call her Madame Becky, would come on in and always be snoopin round me dolls, liftin em up, poking at em, flappin round their clothes – just them kind of inspections. I knew she was a witch cos she’d gone and told me once that her business was spells and potions relatin to matters of “knowing” and “needing,” which don’t make too much sense, but I figured neither does witchin. Bout town we was all used to seein her wanderin, always mutterin sumthin to herself a lil bit cross-eyed. Never really bothered us much cos we all went on, unwitched you could say. Though some nights I swear you’d hear her out there past The Doll Tree screamin her nonsense and cold nights would be afflicted with an extra cold and my balls would go and shrink up inside me body. Boys, you know how I like my balls to dangle. I’m always struck by a hectic discomfort when they go crawl back up inside me.’ If them Sandhill boys took a special kind of pride in their parts, ol’ Papa Pete was OG with that pride, mostly in reference to his famously low dangling balls that would drop all too often unannounced like a pair of fat wrinkly drops of grey-black flesh coloured rain from the navy footy shorts he wore near year round. ‘Like to air em out,’ he’d say, spreadin his legs. We’d all been tricked by ol’ Papa Pete more than we cared to admit into castin our eyes downwards to have these testicles drift suddenly into focus, flopped up against his veiny thighs. He’d giggle like he always does and take a drink from his Earl Grey Tea and say that they were a beautiful thing, lowest dangling balls this side of the Murray he’d say, then his eyes would always lose a lil focus cos he’d be thinkin about his nemesis Mayor Herman up in Brackhurst whose balls fell even lower than ol’ Papa Pete’s. Oh, when the Brackhurst Footy Club was in town, the rivalry between Mayor Herman and ol’ Papa Pete was sumthin to behold. While the game was on, another game of cat and testes was goin on, where the loser was he who fell to unwillingly stare at his opponent’s baby factories. The ladders about the club house the two older men climbed to get their opponent get eye level with their testicles was sumthin of a testament to the two older men’s robustive spunk. We in Kodshollop could only stand on the sidelines, it wasn’t our fight, but we cheered for ol’ Papa Pete all the same, wincin when he’d get an eyeful of Mayor Herman’s fermented fruit. Needless to say, ol’ Papa Pete was protective of his precious pebbles. ‘So Baba Yaga would come amble in and head straight to the dolls,’ ol’ Papa Pete would go on, ‘and she always seemed to git the most pot bellied, skin blemished freak of the lot –they came in little white skirts, sometimes in little colourful nappies, sometimes completely nekid, maybe plastic, maybe fake porcelain – and she’d pay in nuthin but gold coins and leave with the doll. You always knew the darn thing would be strung up in that tree with all the others before the sun had even checked out and gone headed to the other side of the Earth. So, one day she comes in again, now she never said a word, just grabbed whatever doll took her fancy, came to the counter and paid without even a how-ya-doin-cunt’ – the most common exchange between them Sandhill boys – ‘and she would go amblin back off to her cottage behind The Doll Tree, but this one day I have this impulsiveness to ask her what she’s aimin to accomplish with these dolls. See, the night before, I’d heard her weird hollerin noises out there, in her cottage, and my balls had done their disappearing act and I was not a bit myself, short of me proper eight hours and findin some unusual curiosity creepin up on me. So, I ask, what you doin with them dolls? And she says, trying to make life. And I have no idea what she fucken means by that so I ask her what she means by that and she says that maybe she can know life if she can make it and I still have no clue what the fuck is goin on, so I turn a lil crass, cos I’m not only curious that day, but, on account of temporarily losing me balls for the evening, grumpy as Sally-Bob Bufford when Jeremiah Jefferson goes and takes her favourite seat at the Civic Centre on bingo night. So I tells Baba Yaga, well you have to fuck to make life, are you gonna get them dolls to fuck? Now, she looks at me with this slinty eyed stare, like I’ve gone insulted her but also given her some kind of bright light idea – there’s a fucken bulb gone off somewhere in there, like this wet light playin round her peepers. And she says, you’re right – and I fucken already know it, so I don’t rub it in – and she continues, I thought if I got enough of them in the same place, all hanging up in that tree, life would rub off onto them, they’re near the Murray and the Murray is life around here – now this shit is all hippy to me and as a proper Liberal man, I’m startin to get suspicious (and, I’ll tell you what, my good ol’ boy Mister Howard would had her tarred for such soft soap gibberish). She carries on all thoughtful, philosophising and the like, maybe they’re missing the vital ingredient of humanity and, I kid you boys not in the fucken least, she stares down at me glorious nuts and, as they do, as if humming along to the melody of their own fickle fate, they decide there and then to just pop out – my sodden, heavy little bastards maken that wet thwacking sound on me thighs they always do when they’ve been cooped up in sweat and suddenly find their freedom – and her eyes got hungry lads, but not in the ways we usually like em to. She licked her lips and pays in gold coins for her latest plastic doll – a bigger one, beige coloured, with blue eyes, almost the size of small toddler – then ambles on out. And what happened the next morning, well boys, you mightn’t believe it, but it happened, sure as a promise, I woke up and someone had crept into my house and gone taken my fucken scrotum. This was a singular shock, fellas. It was not like it had been cut off neither, there was no stitchin or wounds or nuthin, they was just gone – plucked off clean, not a pubic hair left – and my poor old pretty cock was left all lonely hangin there. Now, in a fair state I looked everywhere about the house in case I’d gone misplaced them in me sleep, but it was hopeless. Poof, they was just gone. So I settled into a few jugs of Early Grey to soothe me nerves – at least three after me morning shit (fortunately not put into jeopardy by the absence of me balls – I thought there not bein there would throw me balance on the can, like they’ve always been me anchors, lads, me counterbalance in the act of specially difficult shits) – and once I’d got over the shock of not having me boys, I realised that this mopin was doin no good, so I bundled into me ’76 Ford Fiesta and got to investigatin.’ Them Sandhill Boys would always whistle when they heard this part, givin each other elbows and nods and you betchas. Partly cos they was all lovers of the Ford Fiesta, lovin nuthin more than lappies about town in their own Fiestas (all hues of colours) and were in awe of ol’ Papa Pete’s original model – all soft curves, baby blue, small functional tires and great mileage, thing could get up to 60 with a proper putter in round 8 seconds. And, of course, they’d always had their own tumultousistic relations with the boss of the Ford Fiesta plant, Boone Bufford, a worm if ever there was, always tryin to get it shut down and shipped off outta town. Man is scum. But also partly cos ol’ Papa Pete’s investigatory work is true to the Sandhill habit of mystery solvin. This is kinda where it all starts for them Sandhill Boys, why they get these urges to get into their Ford Fiestas and get about town makin sure nuthin is left to mystery: the mystery of what happened to Aunty Jemma’s cat’s anus, the mystery of the fallin’ shippin container out the back of Nancy’s farm, and the great who dug that hole mystery on Main – all stories, like the run ins with Boone Bufford, who so often seemed entangled in these mysteries, for another time. Spurred into action, Ol’ Papa Pete said he went out cruisin around Kodshollop, up and down Main with an eye sharp lookin for his absent balls. ‘Boys,’ he’d say, ‘I was at the finality of me wits, no one had seen em and there was not even their sweaty scent anywhere in the air. I asked Constable Ernie, snuck into them sneaky bastards Geoff and Margaret’s Kodshollop Knick Knacks cellar to make sure they hadn’t tried to rob me, went digging round Georgia’s before the shadow fell, and even checked at the Koddy Royal Pub to see if in a stupor of Earl Grey I’d gone and bet them at the pokies. Nuthin. Not a fucken thing. But I decided not be a quitter and headed to the only person besides meself who had seen them the past day. So I got to drivin to Baba Yaga’s. As I pulled up in Kimmy’ – the name of his ’76 Ford Fiesta – ‘I saw The Doll Tree. Fucken ugly.’ We all know The Doll Tree. Still stands today, still in front of Baba Yaga’s creamy white cottage, left alone but for the odd kid who will touch it for a dare, who will brave both the witch – admittedly quieter and more taken to her old ham radio on the back verandah than her hey days of squealing spells – and them doll eyes that follow you round wherever you go. The Doll Tree is a great big eucalpyt, boney bark, sticky leaves, thick trunk, perfect for a koala, though no koala with any sense would stumble near it, not even them moronic Thompson koalas Davey Sandhill told us all about down in Tassie. It was like a postcard tree as it was. Old too. Yet the dolls made it sumthin different. Sumthin ugly. Hauntin, like Madam Herandez’s mansion near the end of Kaya, that one with them dead roses none of us have much trust for, bein all covered in thorns and whatnot. These dolls, they hang off the branches from twine, are tied to the trunk. They’re tacked to leaves and twigs. All danglin and swayin like. The tree had even taken to growin round some of the ones which had been there for a long time. At its base, in all this mildew and compost, there’s like another hundred bits of doll parts that have fallen from the tree, stacked up in this mound of arms, torsos, head and legs. Ol’ Papa Peter, when he drove up on The Doll Tree, was cautious, everyone in Kodshollop was when they was nearby. But sure as the Murray floods, he saw them. His prides and joys. ‘They was sticky taped to that brand new plastic beige doll she’d got from me the other day,’ he told us, ‘me balls danglin between its stubby legs. Actually, they was longer than its legs, like it could bounce around on them if it was alive and could move. I saw em up there where they was pushed round by the breeze and they was all dried up not being enclosed in me shorts and I knew they were moments away from falling to the damp heap below to be lost in all that dirt and toy parts. Likely, a neat lil teste tree would grow, and I thought such a thing may be purty, but they was mine and I wanted em back. I got to screamin, Baba Yaga, youse get to amblin out here right away, I want me scrotum back. Come on! Now, woman! All I heard was her witch’s cackle from that creamy white cottage and then it happened. The doll with me balls looked down at me and its already smilin face took to smilin even more and it lifted its arm as if to say, come get em. All them dolls got to movin then and it wasn’t no wind or nuthin – they was squirmin in their twine, twitchin round, all stiff like, knees and elbows flexin. The one with me balls was particularly animated, usin the significant weight of me boys to get some momentum as it swung back and forth. Thanks Petey! I heard Baba Yaga yell out. Your balls are all the magic I needed! Now see the life they bring! She wasn’t tellin me much, cos I already knew me testes were magic, but I didn’t know they was magic enough to give plastic dolls life. Boys, I was kinda impressed, but mostly shit scared. Then, there was this big ol gust of wind and the one with me boys suddenly flung itself loose of its noose and fell with a loud wet slap in the leaves below. It rose up out of that muddy mess and worked up into a gallop as it charged directly at me, my balls scrappin behind. And they was all startin to drop now, ploppin into the leaves and runnin straight at me. Now, you all know that I am a man of vitalities, and shouldn’t have had any problems dealin with sum stiff plastic dolls, but I was outnumbered and they was deceptive quick and fierce. Quiet too. Not a sound as they rammed into me. The one with me balls got me first, took the wind right out of me, as another darker little bugger took out me left arm. I caught one with a right foot and it flew off past The Doll Tree, over the cottage’ – ol’ Papa Pete, back in his youth, when he played for the Kodshollop Gators, was well known for havin the biggest kick in the region, could kick the leather off a footy it was said – ‘but another three got tangled up in round me left leg and they took me down, continually sockin me in all me parts. Fellas, I put up quite a fight against them lil monstrosities, even gettin up durin the tussle and kickin em off into the distance left and right. Then I feel this solid whack catch me in the jaw and I see that they’ve started to throw all them broken doll parts at me, and these dolls had some fine arms – I’m gettin well bruised and me clavicle in particular has taken a fair poundin. I figured, as I was gettin pelted by plastic, that my balls had surely gone and given em all this strength and I was right might proud through me confusion and, yeah, I’ll admit to it, fear. Then the one with me boys still danglin and draggin tween its legs hit me a solid one-two, and in this barrage of doll parts and things punchin at me shins I went down in a heap. And I hear Baba Yaga off laughin and clappin. They all came and surrounded me then, glarin with their dollish malice, castin tiny lil shadows, all menace and meanness and glass eyes. I see the beige one with me testes come up to me. He stared for a minute, then kicks me in the face, spits at me (and I’ll never know where that moisture came from), rips off me testes and flops em down on me forehead, turnin round and raisin its arms, and all them dolls raised their arms back. Then they turned back round, wander to the old eucalypt and began to string themselves up in The Doll Tree again. You men and your balls are all the same, I hear Baba Yaga start rattlin off. Good for a burst, a spurt of life and not much else. Ya your all just wet sacks of flesh. Now you watch your mouth, Mister Sandhill, and show some respect, or we’ll be back for your scrotum, and we won’t just off and leave with only that next time. Your penis would be a fine addition to my doll menagerie, don’t you think? And I heard her screen door slam and I scurried outta there fast as me bruised legs would carry me, my balls danglin from me fist. Dear Kimmy was pushed to her limits that arvo, but I got over to Docs righteous quick, findin him thankfully to not yet have indulged in his afternoon’s nang and whiskey repast. Anyways, after a moment’s confusion and Doc’s unbearable laughter at the predicament I found meself in, he stitched me boys back on and I felt whole again.’ At which point, to calls of proof, ol’ Papa Pete would always stand, perch his leg on a chair and let his balls drop wetly out his shorts, and he’d start pointin to the faint scar he had on his scrotum near his gooch. ‘There she is boys, all the evidence you’d ever need.’ Them Sandhill Boys would all call bullshit then, and say it was all a trick to get them eye level with his damn testes again. But then they’d all reach down to check there’s was intact and they all steered well clear of The Doll Tree, specially when the summer bushfires was just round the corner and Baba Yaga’s ham radio would go quiet and all you could hear was them dolls rustlin in the trees and her occasional cackle in the cottage.