Free Volcano Street by David Rain Page A

protruded, thick as couch grass, from the V of his open-necked shirt. Rolls of belly oozed over his belt.
    ‘By now the bloke’s up to his waist. He’s sinking fast. “Fuck me dead, I’ve cashed in me chips,” he reckons, but lo and be -hold! Just then he hears an engine – brmm, brmm – and here’s a mauve Monaro, burling along the Birdsville Track. So the bloke waves and waves, yells and yells; mauve Monaro pulls up next to the FJ, and the bloke in the Monaro winds down his window, leans out and reckons, “Shitting fuck! What’s happened to you?” “Mate, can’t you see I’m sinking? Pull me out, for fuck’s sake!” Well, the bloke in the Monaro puts a little pout into his lips, a twinkle comes into his eye, and hereckons, “Ooh, duckie, only if you give me a cuddle.” So, as you’d expect, the bloke reckons, “Poofter!” and tells him to fuck off. Mauve Monaro drives away.’
    For the third act, Sandy Campbell rose from his chair, lit a fresh ciggy, and paced around the table, heavy boots shaking the floor. Auntie Noreen’s bulk wobbled as if she knew the punchline and could barely hold back laughter.
    ‘The bloke’s just about done for. He’s up to his neck. “Time to meet me fucking maker,” he reckons, but lo and be -hold! Just then he hears an engine – brmm, brmm – and here’s a black Kingswood burling along the Birdsville Track. Going like a bat out of hell it is, clouds of dust behind, but it’s the bloke’s last chance; he screams at the top of his lungs, and bloody hell, he’s in luck. Kingswood pulls up, bloke gets out, comes and stands over the bloke in the quicksand and reckons, “Jeez, you’re in a fucking pickle.”
    ‘Well, as you can imagine, the bloke’s really packing shit by now, so he yells, “Mate, pull me out, for fuck’s sake! I’ll give you a kiss, I’ll give you a cuddle, I’ll let you ram it up me fucking bumhole, just pull me out!” And the other bloke looks down at him – just this head, that’s all that’s left, sticking up from the quicksand – and a scowl comes over his face, and he stamps on the top of the bloke’s head’ – Sandy Campbell, with a clumping boot, mimed the action: squelch! – ‘and reckons, “Poofter!”’
    Auntie Noreen’s laughter was uproarious.
    Skip and Marlo rolled their eyes. They were used to dinner at their aunt’s by now. Whether Sandy Campbell made it worse or better was a moot point. Without him, their aunt dominated the table, stuffing down food while holding forth upon the government (‘a mob of bloody galahs’), the economy (‘this country rides on the sheep’s back’), and the youth of today (‘don’t know your arse from your elbow, that’s your trouble’). With Sandy Campbell, she presented a different side: girlish, flirtatious, delighted alike by his mock grace before the meal(‘Two-four-six-eight – bog in, don’t wait’), his bellowed jokes (many concerning poofters), and the disquisitions he sandwiched between them on dog racing, hot rods, two-up games (good); war protestors, abos, pop singers (bad); and his dead wife, whom he described variously as beautiful, a cow, or – if he was drunk enough – a fucking bitch. This was his third visit since the girls arrived. Only coach trips to Adelaide kept him away.
    Marlo rose, scraping back her chair. ‘We’d better go, Skip.’
    ‘Go?’ cried Auntie Noreen. ‘Yous haven’t had your cherry cobbler.’
    ‘There’ll be snacks at Novaks’.’
    ‘Novaks’!’ said Sandy Campbell. ‘Some wog muck that bloke cooks? What yous want to go round there for?’
    ‘Cul-cha! Sunday swah-ray,’ brayed Auntie Noreen. ‘I’ve a mind not to let them go, but I suppose they’ve got to see for themselves what a stuck-up cow Deirdre Novak is. No later than ten, though – Baby Helen’s got school in the morning, and as for you, Miss High-and-Mighty, I’m not having you yawning your way through a day at Puce Hardware.’
    ‘Give over, love,’