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Bagman's Gazette - Punctuation is Optional

Bullamakanka is a bent and twisted old man who does not have a cat. He does have five goannas though and a possum who lives in the wall. None of them help with the writing, the lazy buggers.

The Beginning

It all started when Da'Wayne was born. His mother looked down at the
small bundle the nurse had put in her arms and said `Oh dear! Don't worry
my little man I am sure you will become important one day.'

As Da'Wayne grew up he dreamed of greatness. When he got his first
job he just knew that he was on the path to fame and riches. Standing at the
sink, up to his elbows in dish water, scrubbing pots and pans he would plan
his future. He could see it all...

...He steps out of his Hummer ready for work. He is the
best known trouble shooter for BP Solar. Today's job is a cinch. The worlds largest

solar installation has gone off line and Da'Wayne must find the problem before
the
President's ice cream melts. He opens the back door of his vehicle and puts on
the Solar Power Technicians tool belt, the one that was guaranteed to be just
like the one used by all the top notch tradesmen, slips on the special Solar
Power Gloves and grabs his Wattsup Meter. Walking over to the nearest rack of
panels, he plugs in his metre and... A slap to the head and the angry voice of
his employer saying `Wake up ya dopy bastard, you're fired.'

A New Beginning

As Da'Wayne pushed his broom along he just knew that he was on the
right track for promotion. It was only a matter of time...

...Da'Wayne was proud that his country had called on him for this job. After all he was the best dozer driver anywhere. The army was relying on his skills to get this road through the desert. He would not let them down. Riding the bucking beast
across the trackless waste was just his cup of tea. He was right on schedule,
it had been rough though. He wasted at least an hour when he had to stop and

rebuild the head on the engine with nothing more than a bit of wire and his
trusty Leatherman all purpose tool. He made up the lost time by driving all night
despite the sand storm.

At last, he could see his destination in the distance. Just twelve
more hours and he could rest for ten minutes before he started on the air
strip. He set his square jaw and with a glint in his steel blue eyes he rammed
the throttle full on and... With a slap to the back of his head, the boss
said. `Asleep again you fuzz brained drongo. You're fired.'

Another New Beginning

First day on the job and already Da'Wayne had his own plunger. As he
was plunging away at a blocked toilet he was thinking that the could do
anything. After all if you get your own plunger on the first day you must be
slated for bigger and better things. Yessirie, you don't often get a chance to
learn hydraulics from the ground up every day. Why I bet that
I...

Da'Wayne climbed into his Dodge Ram and set out for an emergency
job in the desert. The call had just come in as he was about to leave for his
vacation. He wanted to say no but the call was from the Governor himself.
`There was nothing for it, the states cactus plucker was broken. Two of the
workers were trapped under a thousand tons of prickly pear. It seems that
there was no pilot operated check valve. Heads would roll,' the Governor said.
At the scene of the catastrophe Da'Wayne grabbed his hydraulic tool
belt (the one that Abercrombie and Fitch guaranteed to be just
like the one used by all the top notch tradesmen) from the back of his truck
and calmly assessed the carnage. `Why lookee there', he said to no one in
particular, `Who would have thought... ' Alas when the boss showed up it was
too late, for Da'Wayne had fallen head first into the toilet and drowned.

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Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Tales

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Beginnings

January 21st 2008 04:30

‘Mr Inigo Charles Jones’.
‘That’s right’.
‘I am your late grandfathers solicitor and pursuant to his wishes I am to deliver this letter to you by hand’.

‘One look inside the suitcase and I shut it real quick. Going to the door I had a look up and down the street. Nobody there.
I stepped out to the car and grabbed my white stick and dark glasses. Going back inside the laundry I set about the stage management. Two minutes later and I am as blind as I was three years ago before surgery.
After twenty years or so I can put it on like a suit. I have a load in the washer and one in the dryer and a pile of clothes on the table. As I stood there behind my dark glasses, my white stick leaning against the table, I slowly and methodically felt my way through the clothes. Folding them with the precise and practiced motions of the blind, my eyes never leaving the door.
A short man sauntered by on the other side of the street giving the laundromat a good look. I fumble with the clothes a bit for effect. A minute later the same man appears at the door of the laundry. He stuck his head in the door and asked if I had the time. I said, 'sure', and lifted the bezel on my watch to feel the hands and told him it was about ten past six never taking my eyes off him.
Short, dark, and needing a shave. He looked so much like a B grade movie gangster I nearly laughed. He said thanks, picked up the case and walked off up the street.
I went to the door and called after him. ‘Excuse me sir. Could you show me to the door of the milk bar on your way.’ He agreed and came back. I put my hand on his shoulder and we proceeded up the street with me on the street side of him.
God people are so gullible.
As we passed the end of the lane way, that I knew like the back of my hand, I gave him a shove into the dark opening, the weight of the case helping to throw him off balance, and pulled the sword from my stick. Running him through I picked up the case and hurried to the other end of the lane way and back to my car. Dropping the case and my white stick on the floor in the back seat of my car I went back to folding my clothes.
Twenty minutes later I’m folding the last load hot out of the dryer when a cop car flies past with lights and siren. As it screeches to a halt just down the road another one stops just out side the laundromat. One of those eager young cops comes into the laundry, you know the type, short military haircut and a brusk manner. First question out of his mouth is, ‘What are you doing here?’ Honest that’s just what he said.
I looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Getting a hair cut.’ The look on his face was one of the best comic moments in my life. He tried again. ‘There has been a murder in the lane down the street. How long have you been here?’
‘Well, three loads of laundry. About an hour give or take ten minutes.’
‘Have you seen anyone in the street in that time?’
‘No. But then I read while the machines are running.’
He then took my name, address and phone number and left the laundry.
I finished folding my things, put them the bag and dropped it on top of the other stuff in the back of my car. Any way, to cut a long story short, I posted the money to my mothers address in San Diego. That gave me a month to arrange a trip back to California. I got there a week before the package showed up. I spent a couple of weeks there then hired a car and drove to Mexico where I got a boat to Rio.
One day I got home to find this guy pointing a gun at me. I asked him, ‘How did you find me after these three years?’
‘It wouldn’t have happened except that the guy you killed was the Dons idiot nephew. His sister wouldn’t let him forget it. Let’s go.’
Well he had the gun so I had no choice. On the way out I stopped to pick up my cane. He grabbed it from my grasp and checked to see if it had a sword in it before giving it back. I leaned heavily on my cane as we made our way down to his car. He took me down to the docks where he had a boat waiting. He kept his gun on me and told me to get aboard then motioned me into the cabin which he locked.
As I sat in the cabin thinking that it had to come to an end sometime the engines started. Well it had been a good life. Three million dollars goes a long way in South America. After about forty minutes the engines were cut and I could hear my captor making his arrangements for my demise. Chain rattled across the deck. A large thump, presumably the weight, reverberated through the deck. The key rattled in the door. As the door opened I pointed my stick. My captor dropped with a 44 Magnum through the chest. People are so gullible. J.T. Jones

‘And this letter is from my Grandfather?’
‘That is correct Mr. Jones.’
‘You know, my parents told me he was dead.’
‘I have no knowledge as to that Mr. Jones. I was your grandfathers solicitor. I did not know your parents. You are the sole heir to his estate.’
‘Estate? This letter?’
‘Oh no Mr. Jones, there is also sixty million dollars and the villa in Rio. It seems that your grandfather made some wise investments.’

This story gave me a character who will feature in a novel that is just about half done. This story? Well, lets face it, it's not that great is it.

I wrote this years ago. Everybody starts someplace.

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Can't Bury the Tales, The Drover's Tale

November 17th 2007 20:25

He found himself, scarce knowing where, nor, even why,
A pilgrim upon a road of red dust near the town of Gundagai
It was a long road for the drovers quest
And longer still ere he could rest.
For it was a solemn oath that brought him here
Given to the love of his life, whom he held most dear.
The oath was given and love was troth
With a passion that burned bright in both
But the road that stretched between their passion
Held dangers of many and diverse fashion
Her green eyes and red hair at times, a few
Grew hazy, in memory, after a brew or two
But in the morn, dry of mouth with aching head
He would drag himself from guilty bed
And swear to God that never again
Would he mix beer with gin, nor sin
And promised to his love anew
That what she wanted, he would do
But under the relentless sun he did swoon
Only to find himself in another saloon
A beer between him and duty
Chatting to a dark haired beauty
Out of his true loves sight and hearing
Spent all his money and took a job shearing
Hard work it was but he did his best
Collected his wage and renewed his quest
Jobs he took when he could
Milking cows and chopping wood
All the time he was aware
Of his loves green eyes and red hair
And though it had been awhile
He thought he could remember her smile
Our pilgrim walked the road though weary he might be
Overland and on to the wide blue sea
Where he spent at least a month fishing
All the time fervently wishing
He could remember just one thing
His true loves first name
And when he reached the holy shrine
He knew it was surely time
Turned his feet in the direction of home did he
And left behind his Saints and the MCG
The drovers tale does not end here
For to get home took near a year
First was the massage and a rub
And every corner seemed to have a pub
Took a job droving goannas
From Geelong to Roseanna
Jobs he had from woe to go
And one took him to Bendigo
He arrived in a flash Volvo wagon
Then did a stint as legs for a dragon
All the while he did try
To return to his love in Gundagai
Finally one day his weary feet
Turned down his true loves street
And his heart was wont to soar
He gently knocked upon her door
His true love looked him up and down
Upon her face was a surly frown
Finally she uttered those fateful words `Jesus'
`Two bloody years and you still forgot the pizzas'

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Can’t Bury the Tales - The Politicians Tale

November 6th 2007 11:53

The politicians tale is one of woe and
A litany of promises written in sand
He journeys upon the election trail
To be leader of the party is the holy grail
Just one more term is his catch cry
Just one more, he says, before I die
His Disciple, Peter, sharpens his knife
After all, it’s just another political life
Two terms, you said, and the job was mine
So why are you now wasting my time
But the party, it says, comes first
So Peter must wait to slake his thirst
For the voters remember the GST rake
Peter’s tax of Grab, Steal and Take
Besides the voters might bellow
If we try to run Abbott and Costello
It won’t matter how we coat it in honey
The people just won’t think it’s funny
And so Never Ever Johnny flies hither and yon
Georgies sheriff, the saviour of everyone
Except, perhaps, small children overboard
And those who find drugs in with their surfboard
Refugees receive his most tender attention
And are offered the best, five star, detention
While citizens overseas are deported
And this fact is never reported
If we should ever be found out
It was Labour’s fault, is what we will shout
After all it was they that wrote the act
We only mention it with great tact
Visitors to our shores we would never detain
But our hands are tied, we can’t refrain
We beg you, please, look at the good we do
Our neighbours love us, really it’s true
Timor to the north we saved from slaves toil
For the amazingly small sum of half their oil
A share in this bounty the poor might think
But first they must answer to centrelink
Made to jump hoops by Johnny’s minister
It all smacks of something far more sinister
All the disabled who are surely shirking
On the streets they should be working
Lazy, he says, poor management and greedy too
Cut the wages of the poor, that’s what we’ll do
It’ll create jobs, just mark my words, you’ll see
The greatest thing for them is what it will be
And those whose crime is to be fifty years old
Will do their penance by working for the dole
Single mothers their children will have to sell
To appease Johnny’s vision of Dante’s hell
Where your children wait as hopes for a job fade
As with China John sells our future for free trade
John and George the same deal did agree
So you have the joy of more Yankee TV
For a price that just can’t be beat
When the shooting starts, a front row seat
As well as a health plan that is real fine
And if you should need it, a box of pine
The politician’s vision has spread far and wide
To the point where academics want torture applied
But only when the end it seems,
At least to someone, justifies the means
And when at home the politician goes about
Telling farmers there is no drought
The proof of this is there to be seen
Just come and look, my lawn is still green

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Magic III

October 30th 2007 23:05

The full moon has been a time of great magic for thousands of years of mankind’s existence. Every month it is born, grows, fades and dies. It marks time, seasons, tides, fertility.

The moon symbolises the life cycle of man. The Celtic calendars were originally lunar.

The moon, in many cultures, is the symbol of the female deity.

And then there is the lunatic. Yes the full moon is wont to drive men mad.

Magic dwells in the moon.

All this in a lump of rock that can’t even produce its own light.

Magic dwells in the moon. Despite the well known scientific fact that magic is not real.

The moon is for lovers and the magic that it has, lends itself to the magic of lovers entwined.

Being in love and making love under a full moon is a magic that defies all science.

The moons pale light, reflection of the sun that it is, shames the light of day with its gentleness, its soft caress. The light of the moon, stolen from the sun, reflects the moon’s magic.

Do you believe in magic? Or, is it all just chance and coincidence?

I bought my wife a telescope for Christmas some years ago. She likes to look at the night sky.

While I was setting it up for her one night, I focused on the moon. Well, it was a full moon that night and it was a crystal clear winters night. Why pass up the chance, eh.

No sooner than I had the moon in focus, the Russian space station slid across the field of vision, almost dead centre of the moon.

I ask you, is that magic or what?

What are the chances?

Magic, or, just coincidence.

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Magic II

October 28th 2007 02:39

Love is a form of magic. The first meeting, the first fleeting touch, the first kiss. These all are magical moments. But being in love can lead to other magic in the natural world.

There was a girl. I met her at the beach. Love is such an easy thing to fall into at seventeen. It’s the magic, you see. We had good times together

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November 5th 2006 11:45

This is one strange damn pub. Or should that be one damn strange pub? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. This is the third time I’ve came here and the Chinese bar tender asked me to look after the bar for a while, said his mother was ill and he had to visit her. I gottta tell ya, I’m not surprised his mother is feeling a bit under the weather, I mean he looks like he is a thousand and one years old himself.

Anyway, that was three days ago, maybe, shit, it could be three weeks ago for all I know. There is a clock, it’s hanging over the back of the bar. The damn thing says the same time as when I came through the door. It’s not stopped, I can hear it ticking. Hell it even chimes occasionally. I’ve tried to count the chimes, but, well, I mean, I count but when it stops chiming I can’t quite recall how many times it actually chimed

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