Extract from Spoils of the Moon - Mark Shearman

1970 Adelaide Australia

South Australia natural history museum was home to the world's largest collection of Australian aboriginal cultural material, with thousands of artefacts on display. Founded in 1856, it occupied an impressive complex of buildings on North Terrace in the cultural precinct of the Adelaide parklands and across from Government house.

Monday morning, relatively quiet business as usual on the inside. Outside, a few blocks away, the angry shouts of protesters could be heard from groups of Aborigines expostulating over recognised Aboriginal land rights.

Voices echoed through the marble halls as people shuffled in through the main doors. A group of tourists hustled behind a blue-suited tour guide. She wore a pale blue hat over her tied back red hair, and a silk scarf worn as a cravat. Looking more like an air stewardess, she hurried to usher people on with her fast talk and brisk walking. She stopped in mid spiel and glanced up. Through a stained-glass window, the sun blasted beams of multi-coloured sunlight. The air suddenly thinned, now absent of her banter, it was stone-cold quiet.

In and out of the sunbeams, a bird swooped and squawked, clearly stressed. The tour guide focused, winced, and changed her plummy English, "What the fuck," she shouted, "it's a magpie," followed by various high-decibel screams. The redhead dived to the floor with the skill and reservation of a rugby player, her heavy breasts cushioned the impact. People scattered with hysterical shouts. Two more aggravated magpies swooped down, menacing the terrified patrons as they cowered down and sprawled on the shiny floor. And then...

Smoke canisters spun, hissed, and choked the marbled hall as the red haze cleared–

Three fierce, flat-nosed Aboriginal men with lusty violence in their clouded eyes, stood rigid. Dot painted brown overalls, wild hair, red head scarves, and dark-brown faces, stencilled with white crescent moons. They towered over a twitching security guard slumped on the floor. His head wound seeped crimson blood, still holding a half-eaten bacon sandwich.

A strapping, lumber of a man rubbed his grey patchy beard, slowly eyeing the room exuding the air of a tribal leader. He wheeled a bulbous nulla nulla weapon, a decorated, thick wooden baton with a bulbous end. It spoke a unique dialogue as he spun it around in some ritualistic movements.

More people scattered and dove for the floor– sheer panic – hell – what are they capable of next?

 

A poem about ageing - Mark Shearman

 

A Recent Encounter

 

“You need to look where you’re going mate.”  

“You what?”  

“Deaf as well,” said the football hooligan.   

“Who you calling deaf?”  

“What?” 

“Funny bastard,” said the vicar. 

“Are vicars supposed to act like arseholes – apologise,” said the football hooligan.  

“Do you know how much of a fucking cliché you look right now. Go home, drink your Stella and beat your wife,” said the vicar.   

A traffic warden comes within ear shot followed by a policeman who hears raised voices. 

“Is there problem here?” 

“Fuck’s it got to do you with you Plod?” said the vicar.  

“I beg your pardon are you mad?” said the policeman.  

“Mad! I’m fuming mate, this arse clown bumped into me and made me spill my whiskey.” 

“Whiskey, they have whiskey,” said the policeman. 

“Don’t get excited it’s a single malt. I’d try the bourbon,” said the vicar.  

“I’m from Scotland I’ll stick with the malt,” said the policeman. 

“Hellooo, I’m still waiting for my apology,” said the football hooligan. 

Elvis swans into the, now most interesting, circle with Marilyn Monroe on his arm.  

“What we missed?”  

“Apparently, there’s some deaf, wife beating clown from Scotland moaning about the bourbon,” said the traffic warden.  

“I’d like to remind everyone,” said Cinderella, “this is meant to be a charity do.”

No More Cheek Kisses Pilot - Extract

 

Somewhere in Spain… 

 

Cloistered community convent, white cal walls stained dark by shadows and the sins of a bygone era. A sparse room, one bed, a large wooden crucifix nailed to the wall. 

Buttocks flashing white as they pump between the legs of a suntanned beauty, heaving breast atop a head of black hair as he motorboats her. She wears the habit of a nun pulled over her shoulders. This is no Bronte novel. He comes, she fakes – they arrive at their contractual goal. 

There’s a faint scream outside the room. 

“Go – dey vill kill you!” said the prostitute. 

“I’m here to help you get out,” said the journalist, snapping on his underpants with his thumbs. 

“Are youse stupid? Do I look like a Ukrainian sex worker?” Her ascent changes from quasi-eastern bloc, broken English, to scouse. 

“Actually, yes I’m remembering the whole – they have my passport and child hostage in Odesa thing.” 

“Fucksake lar, why the ‘ell would I want to leave ‘ere. I’m ten grand from buying a fucking house,” said the prostitute. 

“You’re an oxymoron,” said the journalist, incredulously.  

“I’m an artist, now come ‘ed.”  

“Con artist, luring unsuspecting, vulnerable old men into saving you from sex slavery with their pensions and nest eggs.”  

“Boo hoo,” said the prostitute. 

A flourish like some street magician she produces a taser, swipes at him. The journalist blocks it and pushes her onto the bed. He backs off, pulls on his hassock and opens the window, dithers, turns and spears her a look of self-righteous indignation, snatches up the cash he had left on top of a cupboard. He lurches in a leap of faith. 

The door burst open. Two, no-neck, gangsters rush to grab him. 

“Bastardo!” 

The journalist, Mat Sharkey, lands, forward roles and runs across the manicured lawn of this ancient monastery. 

He's got handsome but doesn't let that hold him back from not giving a shit. He will do whatever it takes to grab a scoop, but things don’t always go to plan. 

Mat ties his hassock stopping himself from spilling out as a black Wrangler Jeep pulls up and swings open the passenger door. A town called malice, by The Jam, pumped through the radio. 

He jumps in. 

“Gun it baby!” said Mat. 

The driver, an Iberian beauty, his sidekick, her name is Charlie, but she is no angel. She sniffs up. 

“I can smell vagina emmm… I though jew are on a crusade to save the oppressed, trafficked, enslaved,” said Charlie. 

He offers a baleful look. 

“I'm...” 

“Weak and pathetic,” said Charlie. 

“Drink, bar,” said Mat. 

“It’s...” 

“Not early enough,” he pauses and sees she is just wearing a bra and sarong. Off his look... 

“Work we were in the middle of a costume change.” 

“What you playing this time?” said Mat. 

“I’m tied to the mast and aboard the hero swings, saves me from the lusty pirates.” 

“Sounds erotic. I've got a touch on,” he said, holding his groin. 

“It’s a kids' theme park show jew perv, joder! Anyway, I can use your Jeep for the rest of the day?” 

“Sure.”