The suburban bomber squad fuelled on grog and greasy kebabs careens along Barkly St, like a flock of unruly plaster ducks on a suburban lounge room wall. Talking shit, feeling no pain, they encounter an early morning obstacle. ‘Happy New Year my boys!’ The pack splits.
Terry pisses unsteadily against the giant palm tree on Blessington. Frank lurches on to some unknown, unworthy goal. AJ stops in his tracks as the shiny new unhinged hipster plaything starts rapping in the most unlikely - yet highly fluent - fashion.
From my perch on high I watch rapper man let loose his words, a snatch of “pussy” and “dick” drifting up in the cool, piss tainted breeze. AJ stands flapping his arms by his side in sheer delight. A baby magpie about to get the worm, while his bomber crew stumbles into the night oblivious to the new world order.
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