The Glass Kingdom (13 page)

Speak fucken Australian.

Damn, what's a gangsta s'posed to do? The revolution hasn't yet penetrated the heart of this country and in the absence of Google Translate I was forced to dumb it down for the ageing motherfucker.

I'll give you the Datsun, plus two grand.

That wasn't even worth a thousand when it was new.

Datsun plus two-five. Come on, you're breaking my heart here. I've had that car since I was a teenager.

Yeah? I've got a violin out the back somewhere.

Fucking hell, it's worth two-fifty at least.

Crazy old coot licks the underside of his moustache with a rank tongue I never want to see again but the deal is done, biatches, an' I rolls on out of there behind the wheel of My First Commodore. Beast.
Got me ninety-nine problems but
a Holden ain't one.

Snoop-a-loop, I can't tell if I'm listing to port or starboard here. I'm all over da joint. It's like the end of
2001
up in my dome. Just what do you think you're doing, Dave?
Daisy,
Daisy, give me your answer, do. I'm half crazy, all for the love
of you.
Don't get high on your own supply. That's what the man said. Son, you do not want to meet Tony Montana's little friend. That glass highway is one slippery road to perdition an' I be trippin' right the way along that particular stretch of the light fantastic. Alakazam brother, alakazam.

I shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have done it. But I done it. Just a little sample of the goods Freddy ever so kindly served up for me. A tiny, teensy-weensy taste, just a wafer-thin mint, monsieur, hardly a trifle
.
And then bam! The back of a hand across my cheek to rattle the fillings. Bam! But I did floss, I did, just like you told me! Bam! Do you have the faintest fucken idea how expensive Listerine is? That shit's like ten dollars, man. Bam! The dilithium crystals cannae take much more of this, captain, I might have to eject the warp core.

Now you listen to me, mister, and you listen good: you are not ejecting any core of mine and the only tunnel I be going down is track nine to Cooch Central. All aboard, have your tix an' dix in hand, please, gentlemen. Those of you with smaller appendages may assemble in the front carriage. Please be advised there is no dining car so I hope you are prepared to eat out. Holy Jesus fucken Christ our Lord and saviour Allah Buddha Krishna L. Ron Hubbard and Odin as played by Sir Anthony motherfucking Hopkins a little help over here dawg, think I'm drowning I'm waving I'm dying I'm dying and hold your breath and…

Stop.

Exhale.

Open. Your. Eyes.

Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated. And I clearly should not do crystal meth when I'm on meds. No. Definitely not. Mos Def. Talib Kweli. Now I know. At least I know. It's not even a question of getting high on my own supply. I just cannot do that shit. Evidently. Indubitably. Holy fuck, that was intense. No wonder the rubes are snatching it up. But it ain't for me, dawg. No sirree, Bob. Or Freddy. Sorry, brother. Freddy. You got a bathroom somewheres I could use? Oh, and I'll take seven grand's worth. Yup. Seven. Three zeros, homie. Ain't my money. That belongs to Emperor Ming. One and the same. Don't ask, don't tell, don't die foolish. Hey, nice pool!

On top of everything else I gots me a bad case of wit delay. You know, the tendency to think of something abso-fucken-lutely hilarious to say about half an hour after it matters? Yeah, I got that shit like swine flu.

So there's me, hanging in someone's crib at a bangin' party with a bunch of hotties an' maybe we seen each other around but we ain't been properly introduced and every motherfucker with a nut sack is trying to give the impression he's the most suave and sophisticated Homo sapien who ever walked the earth by spouting witticisms at an increasingly frenetic fucken rate. The hilarity level gets raised to giddying heights and then, finally, all eyes fall upon yours motherfucking truly to blow everyone else away with the ultimate, conversation-ending, piss yo' pants gem of pure unbridled flow.

That's when I come undone, that's when the rhymes come up short and I mutter something banal and obvious under my breath and all the beautiful people eyeball each other in sympathy for the sad little goon in the corner who just couldn't raise his game to compete at the highest level of intellectual jocularity an' sink that three-pointer.

Me, I think of that shit thirty minutes later when I's washing my hands or sitting in the back of a taxi.

Way I heard it, your father is your uncle, yo' rhyme's
from the era of Simon and Garfunkel
. Which, y'know, when taken out of context makes no fucken sense whatsoever. All I gets for my trouble is a cautious look in the rear-view by the driver, instead of the outpouring of accolades from the crowd, the coy looks from hotties with their skirts hanging so low on their hips you can practically see the crizatch of the snizatch, and the slaps on the back by handsome cavaliers, motherfuckers shaking their heads as they assure everyone that Mikey Dempster is indeed a total fucken crack-up.

It's a debilitating condition. I probs should've had my own stand-up gig or reality show by now. Instead here I is in the back seat of what is admittedly a badass set of wheels, wishing I had a blanket an' hoping no Five-O come moseying along to see what I's doing. Found me a spot off the highway to bunk down for the night but you never know who comes a sniffing. Fucken
Wolf Creek
shit keeping me awake. That an' the meds. I's back on the Risperidone again since ‘the incident' at Freddy's place. I don't like taking that shit 'cos it dampens my flow, stops me from coming up with mad rhymes. But the longer I'm clean, the worse it gets up in my dome. Freakaloid detritus strewn all over my brain pan, man. You got your delusions, your psychosis, your disordered thoughts and speech, an' that's just for starters. Word salad, the doc said I had, residual schizophrenia, which ain't as bad as the worse kind but still, monkey be on my back like I'm Charlton Heston.
Get yo' damn dirty paws off me, simian
motherfucker.

I gots me so much crystal in the trunk that I'm going down for thirty years if the Five-O collars me. Personal use ain't gonna cut this particular brand of mustard. Won't be no tearful scenes in the visitor's room at Barwon for me, neither. I'll end up being the bitch for some big muscly Corporal Wallace motherfucker.

Speaking of which, that cat ain't such a mewling little kitty after all. Bitch got
claws
. Probs not the smartest move buying glass from one of his crew but think I parlayed the deal without raising suspicion. Seven large in cash might be nuff for him to zip it but even so, that solja boy got peeps all over, much more'n I figured. Motherfucker be running half the damn labs on the east coast an' now here's me stuck with a fucken Coles bag full of his product. How'm I supposed to sell this to the rubes and tweakers without him hearing 'bout it? Thinking of driving all the way back to Freo and offloading it there but it be a long, lonely road to the Rinehart,
mein Führer
, and the C-dore ain't exactly easy on the go-go juice.

Go north, young man, go north. That Morgan Freeman in my head always knows what to do. Brisvegas it is, then—the glitz and glamour, the sandflies, the hollow-eyed and desperate. Gots to be the perfect market for a gentleman such as myself looking to offload several kilos of the finest crystal methamphetamine dollars can buy. Wrinkled squinters be lining up to sample my wares, fo' shiz. Camp out in the Valley and that shit be gone in a week or three, way 'fore the freaks on the Kingdom roll into town.

I be a phantom by then, ghosting back on down to Melbourne high over their heads, leaving on a Jetstar, best seat money can buy, extra legroom an' all that shit. All those motherfuckers will ever hear of me will be my legend.

There's only two places that matter in this world—inside and outside. I'm inside. Everybody else is outside. That's what my moms done told me and damn if she didn't drive that stake right the fuck through the pale, frigid chest of Edward Cullen. You is on your own in this life, dawg. People drift in an' drift out but when you close your eyes at night, it's just you in there. My moms learned that the hard way. She had me real young an' she weren't supposed to have no bambinos at all the doctors said, on account of her being epileptic. That's some scary motherfucking shit right there, homes.

Never forget the first time I seen her fit. Must've only been four or something an' we was having a picnic on the grass near some old stone bridge. Forgot the time an' she didn't have her shades on when the sun was going down. Light come in real low from the horizon and zapped her in the eyes and next thing you know, bam, she hits the dirt like she's been shot by a sniper and goes all stiff, her back archin' and blood coming out her ear 'cos she whacked her head. Lucky my pops knew what to do an' held me back from going to her. You just gotta wait till it passes, ain't nothing else to do 'cept make sure she's not in danger like if she fell in the water or the road or somethin'.

Asswipe weren't my pops after all, I just didn't know it at the time. Weren't till he run out on her that she told me he was just my stepdad and that she didn't know who my real daddy was. She had a fit one day coming home from high school and some rat-fuck piece of shit must've seen his chance and dragged her in the alley to have his way with her. When she come out of it one half her uniform was up round her ears and the other round her ankles. She knew what'd happened but couldn't remember none of it. A blessing of sorts, maybes, just like me.

Dude got no idea. Or maybe he does. Probs some boy from F-Town who knowed her an' just kept his trap shut when he seen her belly bulging. Always figured that even though I don't know the prick, he probs knows me. Just ain't never said shit about it. Fucken coward. He comes forward some day he better be packing a gat or I'll be chroming that dome, fo' realz.

Anyways, nuff of that serious shit. Sorry, dawg, this grass makes me maudlin. Is this a party or what, homes? Pass me up one of those Bundy an' Cokes an' change the channel. It's elimination night, yo. Wanna take a bet on the colour of Matty Preston's cravat? I say purple. If I's wrong, I'll give you a point, FOC. What? Free of charge, motherfucker. Shit. An' if I'm right, I get to bust a nut on your clock. Ah, now chill man, chill, I'm only joshing ya, serious, serious, I'd never do such a thing, swear on that Gideon Bible in the drawer there. No, honestly, it was just a joke, sit down will ya, I already paid for the night an' this weed ain't smokin' itself. I just wants some company and you seem like an okay dude. Real purty mouth, too. Nah, nah, hold on, sit the fuck down, will ya, it's only—aha ha, ha ha ha, you should've seen the look on your face, you'd of done it for two points though, right? Aha ha, ha ha ha.

Come on, put on Ten, you'll know it's the right one 'cos of all the flames. Hey, I tell you 'bout the show I'm gonna pitch to these guys? It's like a cross between
Masterchef
and
Survivor
, I call it
Cook for Your Life!
Yeah, now just imagine me up on the screen there instead of Gary, wearing a real dope suit, Armani maybes, an' cue the title music, written by me, natch, an' the camera comes swooping down to a close up of my face just as the beats tail off.

Yo yo Australia, and welcome to
Cook for Your Life!
the show where gourmet cooking really is a matter of life or death! I'm your host, Michael Mekong Delta Dempster, your friendly neighbourhood chart-topping lyricist with a mad flow. For those of you who missed last night's episode, here's the scoop. Our panel of judges decided to really up the stakes for our death-row inmates and challenge them to a taste test of their very own maximum-security-prison beef stroganoff.

Sound easy? Far from it, ladies. With only nine contestants remaining out of the original dozen murderers, paedos and West Coast supporters, the trick is to name all thirty-six of the ingredients in the prison stew. The first person to get one wrong will be eliminated from the competition immediately, and eliminated from life itself shortly after.

Yes, that's right, folks—straight from the kitchen to the electric chair! Out of the frying pan and into the fire! Who will guess wrong? Will it be viewer favourite Tricia Q who finally meets the grim reaper? Tricia's notorious of course for going postal at the DFO in Essendon and trying to gun down a dozen of her fellow bargain hunters. Or will it be not-so-gentle giant Bubba Tanning, the cop killer we all love to hate, despite the awesome juniper-crusted beef carpaccio with fig and chilli vinegar that he wowed our judges with last week? All will be revealed on tonight's sizzling episode of
Cook for Your Life!
sponsored by Handee Ultra towels, absorbing even the toughest bloodstains after you've shivved someone in the showers.

Oh, and the last chef standing gets a cookbook deal, a hunnerd large and a pardon from the judge. Dude, the ratings will be
intergalactic.