Free Rock n Roll Babes from Outer Space by Linda Jaivin

through his system, something told Jake that what he was recalling was not just a hallucination. All right, he conceded, it was real. Ithappened. I’ll deal with it in the morning. Afternoon. Now can I get some sleep?
    Why yes, replied the frankly relieved Sleep Fairy who’d been hovering impatiently over his bed. All you ever had to do was ask. Looking at her watch and shaking her head, she sprinkled sleep dust in his eyes and flew out the window to her next appointment, for which she was already late. Beans. Why did they make this such a complicated business? And then, she thought huffily, you get people like that guy on the street earlier. Doesn’t believe in fairies. Hmph. Just see if
he
ever gets to sleep again.
    In Jake’s dreams, he reclined in a verdant field under an emerald sky. Baby’s soft mouth hovered in the air like a daytime moon and her sexy drawl floated in a dewy mist around his head. As much as he strained to understand what she was saying, he couldn’t make out the words. He reached out and caught one of her feet in his hand. It was exquisitely small, plump, pink and seven-toed. Jake stiffened, moaned, and came in his sheets.

    About two-thirty that afternoon, Jake, his head feeling like one of Iggy’s well-masticated tennis balls and his gut like it had found the Missing Banana, wrapped a towel around himself and hirpled down the hallway and into the toilet. He sat down on the seat and reached automatically for the copy of
War and Peace
that lived on the toiletries shelf. He put it down again as soon as he noticed a copy of the zine
Skills of Defensive Driving
under the sink. He still hadn’t made it past page two of
W&P.
Never mind. He’d read it when he was old. For now, he was content to lose himself in the
SODD
editor’s ruminations on why hewas a dud root. Jake was beginning to feel slightly better now. Without removing his eyes from the page, he groped at the wall and pinched a cardboard tube between his fingers. ‘Guys!’ he bellowed. ‘Cooee! Anyone home?’ He paused and sighed. ‘Why’re there never any shit tickets when it’s
my
turn to have a crap?’
    ‘Whinge, whinge, whinge,’ commented Tristram, who happened to be passing by the toilet door at that moment. ‘Keep yer pants off. I’ll see if we’ve got any spare cobs in the closet.’ Tristram wandered off, walking straight into the wall and bouncing off it, walking into another wall and careening off it in turn, thus angling his way towards the closet. He was pretending to be inside a pinball machine.
    This was not unusual behaviour for Tristram. He and his identical twin Torquil were what you might call Self-Amusing Units. The progeny of a Scottish mother and Egyptian father, they were phara’onic of eye, proud of nose, and slight of build. Their skin had a latte hue and their hair was the colour of the week. This week, Tristram’s was purple and Torquil’s was blue. He was wearing a salmon-coloured frock with a lace collar that he’d found in an op-shop. Tristram’s personal hero was Kwong José Abdul Foo of the Brisbane band Chunderer. Kwong José was another multiculti rock n roll lad who liked wearing frocks. Tristram thought Kwong José was cool as.
    Eventually, Tristram returned with a roll of loo paper. Just as he was about to open the door, Tristram noticed that Iggy appeared to be standing guard. ‘What’s up, Iggy?’ said Tristram. Iggy acknowledged Tristram’s presence with a wag of his tail and a throaty little sigh. His pink piggie eyes were fixed on a spot about halfway up the door. Tristram now saw that Iggy was eyeballing a largecockroach that was slowly scaling the door. He wondered how long Jake had been in there. Tristram smiled and patted Iggy on the head. In his weird bullie way, Iggy smiled back, showing teeth.
    Careful not to disturb the cockroach, Tristram opened the door a crack and tossed in the toilet paper.
    ‘Torq! My man!’ cried Jake gratefully from his porcelain