“Motherfucker”
-Marsellus Wallace, Pulp Fiction
April 27th 2025 – Perth CBD – 2 weeks before Osric Dangerfield is found dead.
The fluorescent lights of the large open planned office level shimmers and saturates every last drop of surface area. The building itself was built mid 10s and it’s once trendy hip design was now betraying its fast, affordable construction. Tarquin sits, imagining the two pens that he is holding horizontally towards each other in the air are actually large airships preparing to do battle in epic naval proportions. Just as his red pen was about to unleash a tide of pain onto the blue opposition Denise caught him in her eye “Are you in idle? Check your time Quin!” her oily face and peroxide blonde and light perm caught the fluorescents and danced in the electric light. “Here’s your weekly report” she said, barely moving her massive lips and slapping down Tarquin’s weekly productivity report. This was the day, the day he was going to walk out of this hive of wasps. There were many reasons for his decision to leave, but the deciding was that he felt that if he didn’t leave soon, he would break his rule of never hitting women. That woman would be Denise; for some reason his manager inspired a rage in him, he wasn’t sure why. Tarquin was always aware of the rage in him, it seemed to sit there like a giant sea creature and upon awakening would lay siege to the city of Tokyo and its denizens. Who knows why the creature came, perhaps because of over fishing or mining had awoken its mighty deep sea slumber. Denise was over fishing Tarquin’s waters and for Tarquin, it was time to move to calmer ones. “You need to pick up your overall call duration”,
July 4th 2025 – Stirling st, North Perth – 2 months and 18 days before Tarquin Dangerfield is found dead.
Tarquin stepped on his cigarette, recently he had taken up smoking; it helped keep him awake and the lighter had come in handy a few times already, plus it made him look cooler. He took a hit from his inhaler and studied the outside of the brothel. This was the last one in the area, Stephanie had hinted that she had a feeling the girl in the Polaroid had worked or was working at a brothel in this area. It turned out that checking every brothel in the area of North Perth was easier said than done, with rope lights and multi-coloured party bulbs strung outside half the houses in each block. The street was littered with idling cars with darkly lit individuals, sitting, waiting, thinking. The police had seen fit to turn a blind eye to this part of town as long as there was order, so the small niche of streets were left dark and alone, as long as they were quiet, dark and alone. Tarquin pushed the door open; a desk, some chairs to wait in, some fake pot plants, the light was all reds, yellows and ambers like a sunset after a bushfire. A portly woman sat at the desk, her face caked in dry, heavy layers of makeup, she had everything, foundation, rouge, eyeliner, blush, mascara, lipstick with the liner on the outside, making her gargantuan lips look filter feeding marine life. There was something about her that made Tarquin uneasy, he smiled as he realised why “Denise?". The clown face looked up in horror "Oh Fuck!" Denise screamed "What the fuck are you doing here you little dipshit?" Tarquin takes out the photo and shoves it in her stupid face "This woman? Who is she?" Denise stops and looks at the photo "I can't help you, now fuck off" she lies. Tarquin saw the look, she was surprised to see Ozzie with her, she knows who it is and she's too stupid to hide it. "Still work in insurance?" Tarquin asks, as she pushes him to the door "None of your business fuck ass I..." Tarquin stops her mid-insult "I know what your thinking. There is no way Quin from First Assist could do anything, but believe me when I tell you that I am not the same man you gave weekly productivity reports to..."
"...now I have a gun"
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 7
"...if they take my stapler then I'll set the building on fire..."
- Milton Waddams, Office Space
September 23rd 2025 Perth, Highgate – Ophelia Lang’s Resident – 3:00am
Tarquin breaths, the thick rain pelted on his back, his body like a dog’s, his hands burn, everything burns. He puts his hand on his stomach; it itches to the point of pain. His brings his oily fingers to his eye; it’s dark, black even. “Tarquin!” she yells, through the sound of the fire and rain. “Tarquin!” her hands grab him pushing him off balance, she yells at him, ordering him, Tarquin wonders who she is. Tarquin is so tired; he’s been through a lot. Things you haven’t seen yet. Soon Tarquin will stop feeling the heat of the fire and the cold of the thick rain. He will die. “Tarquin! Somebody! Please! Fuck you Tarquin you can’t...” He can see her. She is crying, she touches him and screams at him, he can no longer hear her words, she lingers then fades. He is dead. She still screams but no one comes.
July 3rd 2025 – Gin Gin – Pine plantation – 3:00am
The flames rose high, nearly reaching the crown of the tall pines. Tarquin stands, a bottle of cheap whiskey in hand, the heat irradiating the thick darkness of the pine plantation. He takes a swig and feels something in his pocket; a photo; the one from Ozzie’s house. Tarquin pulls it out, and has a mouthful as he stares into the frame. Ozzie seemed different than what he remembered growing up; the smarmy mommy’s boy grin had frayed, heavy, sad. The woman looking at the photo, red haired, smiling. “You were the last person to be with Ozric” he whispered to the girl in the photo with the fiery hair. Throwing the bottle into the dying fire Tarquin got back into the car “What do we do now?” she asked, starting the old Chrysler.
To be continued...
- Milton Waddams, Office Space
September 23rd 2025 Perth, Highgate – Ophelia Lang’s Resident – 3:00am
Tarquin breaths, the thick rain pelted on his back, his body like a dog’s, his hands burn, everything burns. He puts his hand on his stomach; it itches to the point of pain. His brings his oily fingers to his eye; it’s dark, black even. “Tarquin!” she yells, through the sound of the fire and rain. “Tarquin!” her hands grab him pushing him off balance, she yells at him, ordering him, Tarquin wonders who she is. Tarquin is so tired; he’s been through a lot. Things you haven’t seen yet. Soon Tarquin will stop feeling the heat of the fire and the cold of the thick rain. He will die. “Tarquin! Somebody! Please! Fuck you Tarquin you can’t...” He can see her. She is crying, she touches him and screams at him, he can no longer hear her words, she lingers then fades. He is dead. She still screams but no one comes.
July 3rd 2025 – Gin Gin – Pine plantation – 3:00am
The flames rose high, nearly reaching the crown of the tall pines. Tarquin stands, a bottle of cheap whiskey in hand, the heat irradiating the thick darkness of the pine plantation. He takes a swig and feels something in his pocket; a photo; the one from Ozzie’s house. Tarquin pulls it out, and has a mouthful as he stares into the frame. Ozzie seemed different than what he remembered growing up; the smarmy mommy’s boy grin had frayed, heavy, sad. The woman looking at the photo, red haired, smiling. “You were the last person to be with Ozric” he whispered to the girl in the photo with the fiery hair. Throwing the bottle into the dying fire Tarquin got back into the car “What do we do now?” she asked, starting the old Chrysler.
To be continued...
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Corner Shop Jockey
"You know, that's good, because if you actually were as innocent as you pretend to be, we'd never get anywhere."
- Sam Spade, The Maltese Falcon.
The quiet inner city street slept, dark and forgotten. A remnant of when the city was smaller and the sprawl not so merciless and destructive. The city centre, while large and bustling during business hours, was a wasteland of underground parking lots and lost souls outside of these times. The sprawl made the city hard to manage, thousands upon thousands of square kilometres of housing projects and fibro homes, gated communities, hate factories.
Lying on a corner in the middle of the misplaced suburb there was a corner shop. It had been built there and used by a family. Catering to locals and children on their walk to and from school. On hotter days a refuge for neighbourhood kids. Icecreams and chocolate milk. Newspapers and tabloid magazines. As with the passing of time the family grew older, the kids grew up andmoved away. More conveniences moved in around the area, lower prices, longer hours, and like many of it's kind the corner shop closed. The parents grew old together and died together, and the land sold.
Emily Ticonderoga Jones lived on the corner of Halls and Peach st in an old corner shop convenience. Attached to the shop front was a small two bedroom one bathroom flat. The corner shop itself was converted into a studio, half finished oils and breif experimentations with watercolours hang and rest on paint spattered easles, calico, horse hair, the smell of oil and solvents. Emily was a military brat but worked hard and now had a comfortable house with a comfortable mortgage. A rich ex-boyfriend had bought three of her paintings and set her up with a few clientel who kept her busy buying her work. Emily sat in her small but comfortable living room, watching trashy television, nursing a joint and pampering a large maltese tabby named Chairman Meow. Her malaise was broken by the screech of brakes outside, a car door slam then a feirce, panicked rap on the studio door. Emily jumped at the sound, distubing the Chairman and dropping the hot roach. "Who is it?!" she asked, furiously fishing for the red hot remains. A voice responded that sounded suspiciously familiar. "Just a sec!" Emily grabbed the butt, dousing it in an empty wine bottle. "This better not be who I think it is be..." she stopped, having opened the door to a suspiciously familiar face with an unfamiliar expression, unfamiliar breathing, bleeding, bent over. "Tarquin, what the fuck?" Emily yelped, taking the battered Tarquin in, a quick scan to catch prying eyes.
Light streams into the homely lounge room, corridors of sunlight invade through the gaps of the curtains and catch the dust and floating detritus. Tarquin, groggy, strains to remember where he is, how he got there. The events of last night flow back, the darkness, the oily blood and cold steel. Tarquin groans, his hands on his head, trying to stem the tide of anxiety, the feeling of chaos, his life had been inexorably changed and Tarquin couldn't help but think for the worse. He struggled to remember how the ride had started, his original intention, his mission. Whatever it was it was no more, enveloping, changing, perverting, consuming. Osric's face seemed distant, obscured, being slowly forgotten. Tarquin, pulled his inhaler from a sandy pocket, using it, his mouth instantly showered in sand and dirt amongst the gas and wind of the medication. "Oh God!"
"Are you alright?" her voice called from the door of the bathroom.
"Fine thanks" his voice gagged from the toilet.
"What happened?"
"My inhaler..."
"What?"
"...Never mind" Tarquin conceded, rising from the bowl.
"You want some lemonade?"
"I'd love some, please." he sighed as she moved to the kitchen, her eye still tracking Tarquin.
"So...?"
"So what?" Tarquin glibly replied, wiping his mouth and walking into the kitchen area, leaning on the small breakfast bar, it's original use overridden by an avalanche of miscellaneous bills and papers. "Oh I don't know Tarquin, how about; so what the fuck were you doing bleeding on my doorstep at 3am in the morning? So where the fuck have you been since your brother's funeral, almost two weeks ago? So? So? So why don't you stop fucking lying to me for once and..." she swallowed, fighting down the urge, like hell she would let him see her tear up "...and let me help you for Christ sake". She tossed the can to Tarquin and sighed over the sink. Tarquin, thinking for a moment, tapping the top of the can with the one fingernail that had avoided being eaten away. "Ozzie was murdered Emily, this guy called Mr Niles murdered Ozzie and I still have no idea why. But he was working for someone else and I think I know who." he explained, producing a disc from his jacket pocket, placing it on the bar. "Last night I went to his apartment and I found some stuff. The guy was an contractor for someone called Ophelia"
"Tarquin, what are you telling me? How do you know all this? How did you get into this guy's apartment?"
"Because I got his wallet and keys, because he told me."
"Where did you find this guy?"
"Pete's Funland in The Beacons, he found me"
"Well where is he now?" Emily pleaded, stuggling to piece together what Tarquin was telling her.
"Still there. He's probably still there. Unless the cops have moved him" There was a cold silence as she realised what he wasn't telling her. "Why would he still be there Tarquin?" Silence. "What have you done?"
"I had no choice Emily." Silence. "He was going to kill me I... I had no choice."
Silence.
- Sam Spade, The Maltese Falcon.
The quiet inner city street slept, dark and forgotten. A remnant of when the city was smaller and the sprawl not so merciless and destructive. The city centre, while large and bustling during business hours, was a wasteland of underground parking lots and lost souls outside of these times. The sprawl made the city hard to manage, thousands upon thousands of square kilometres of housing projects and fibro homes, gated communities, hate factories.
Lying on a corner in the middle of the misplaced suburb there was a corner shop. It had been built there and used by a family. Catering to locals and children on their walk to and from school. On hotter days a refuge for neighbourhood kids. Icecreams and chocolate milk. Newspapers and tabloid magazines. As with the passing of time the family grew older, the kids grew up andmoved away. More conveniences moved in around the area, lower prices, longer hours, and like many of it's kind the corner shop closed. The parents grew old together and died together, and the land sold.
Emily Ticonderoga Jones lived on the corner of Halls and Peach st in an old corner shop convenience. Attached to the shop front was a small two bedroom one bathroom flat. The corner shop itself was converted into a studio, half finished oils and breif experimentations with watercolours hang and rest on paint spattered easles, calico, horse hair, the smell of oil and solvents. Emily was a military brat but worked hard and now had a comfortable house with a comfortable mortgage. A rich ex-boyfriend had bought three of her paintings and set her up with a few clientel who kept her busy buying her work. Emily sat in her small but comfortable living room, watching trashy television, nursing a joint and pampering a large maltese tabby named Chairman Meow. Her malaise was broken by the screech of brakes outside, a car door slam then a feirce, panicked rap on the studio door. Emily jumped at the sound, distubing the Chairman and dropping the hot roach. "Who is it?!" she asked, furiously fishing for the red hot remains. A voice responded that sounded suspiciously familiar. "Just a sec!" Emily grabbed the butt, dousing it in an empty wine bottle. "This better not be who I think it is be..." she stopped, having opened the door to a suspiciously familiar face with an unfamiliar expression, unfamiliar breathing, bleeding, bent over. "Tarquin, what the fuck?" Emily yelped, taking the battered Tarquin in, a quick scan to catch prying eyes.
Light streams into the homely lounge room, corridors of sunlight invade through the gaps of the curtains and catch the dust and floating detritus. Tarquin, groggy, strains to remember where he is, how he got there. The events of last night flow back, the darkness, the oily blood and cold steel. Tarquin groans, his hands on his head, trying to stem the tide of anxiety, the feeling of chaos, his life had been inexorably changed and Tarquin couldn't help but think for the worse. He struggled to remember how the ride had started, his original intention, his mission. Whatever it was it was no more, enveloping, changing, perverting, consuming. Osric's face seemed distant, obscured, being slowly forgotten. Tarquin, pulled his inhaler from a sandy pocket, using it, his mouth instantly showered in sand and dirt amongst the gas and wind of the medication. "Oh God!"
"Are you alright?" her voice called from the door of the bathroom.
"Fine thanks" his voice gagged from the toilet.
"What happened?"
"My inhaler..."
"What?"
"...Never mind" Tarquin conceded, rising from the bowl.
"You want some lemonade?"
"I'd love some, please." he sighed as she moved to the kitchen, her eye still tracking Tarquin.
"So...?"
"So what?" Tarquin glibly replied, wiping his mouth and walking into the kitchen area, leaning on the small breakfast bar, it's original use overridden by an avalanche of miscellaneous bills and papers. "Oh I don't know Tarquin, how about; so what the fuck were you doing bleeding on my doorstep at 3am in the morning? So where the fuck have you been since your brother's funeral, almost two weeks ago? So? So? So why don't you stop fucking lying to me for once and..." she swallowed, fighting down the urge, like hell she would let him see her tear up "...and let me help you for Christ sake". She tossed the can to Tarquin and sighed over the sink. Tarquin, thinking for a moment, tapping the top of the can with the one fingernail that had avoided being eaten away. "Ozzie was murdered Emily, this guy called Mr Niles murdered Ozzie and I still have no idea why. But he was working for someone else and I think I know who." he explained, producing a disc from his jacket pocket, placing it on the bar. "Last night I went to his apartment and I found some stuff. The guy was an contractor for someone called Ophelia"
"Tarquin, what are you telling me? How do you know all this? How did you get into this guy's apartment?"
"Because I got his wallet and keys, because he told me."
"Where did you find this guy?"
"Pete's Funland in The Beacons, he found me"
"Well where is he now?" Emily pleaded, stuggling to piece together what Tarquin was telling her.
"Still there. He's probably still there. Unless the cops have moved him" There was a cold silence as she realised what he wasn't telling her. "Why would he still be there Tarquin?" Silence. "What have you done?"
"I had no choice Emily." Silence. "He was going to kill me I... I had no choice."
Silence.
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