Hedonism ver. 4.3.11

It is ten in the morning and Nathan Bolt wants to try a Shave and a Haircut. Dan Murphy's recommends Sailor Jerry, but a shot of Captain Morgans will have to suffice. The coke was opened yesterday, add two shots, then crack a Coopers Best Extra Stout, four shots. Nathan props himself up in the hammock with two pillows, ash tray on the floor to his right.

Initial impressions: not bad, kind of like fruit-and-nut dark chocolate, definite stout aftertaste. About two standard drinks so Nathan can have a second, then finish the stout and sober up before work. George had recommended him for the delivery driver/kitchen hand position and dole required him to apply for jobs, so he passed his resume along, was surprised to breeze through the interview. He entered the workforce, with reticence.

$13 an hour, no tax, at least eleven hours chewing into his hedonism and dole requirements that fund it. That said, the looming spectre of the cashless welfare card and its limit of 10% discretionary spending* can be circumvented by this cash-in-hand work. Furthermore, Nathan has found that he enjoys the work - the camaraderie, the adrenalin at go time, opening an envelope of 50's and 20's. Sticking it to big business and big government.

With twenty minutes of alcohol in his system, Nathan judges it time to light a Winnie Blue - it is utterly unsatisfying. The first smoke, with coffee, had provided a hit, not this one. Merely sating the addiction, well before the bitches of cravings. He had hoped that the nicotine would accentuate the cocktail but, in hindsight, he should have known better.

Last week's payday led to a couple of pints at George's local, a smoke habitually joining each. The pints became louder and six or seven when girls arrived. This did not happen at this pub, not women under 40 - for this reason alone, George and Nathan made moves.

George: 'Nice shoes. Where did you grab that bargain?'

Amy: 'What cunt?'

Nathan: 'They're knock-offs. We know all the Italian brands - prosciutto, pancetta, Caravaggio.'

Amy: 'Aha. OK, get me Strongbow.'

Four of them left for George's, where Jack Daniels waited. (The coke's sugar hit Nathan's endorphins hard but the nicotine follow-up was weak.) Amy was plain-faced, naturally skinny, pixie cut and chocolate-milk skin excepting the growing left-sleeve tattoo of hawks and monkshood. Nathan grinded into her joylessly, having developed whiskey dick.

The cigarette after eventual orgasm enhanced, only, Nathan's breathlessness. Amy felt otherwise - a misdiagnosis had landed her a cocktail of medication, taken to appease her parents, that inhibited her libido, at least until alcohol circumvented one of the pill's effects. This had been her first lay in four months. Her smoke continued the deep inner warmth for another ten minutes, lying relieved on the rumpus room couch.

Now, Amy drives over a rock in the dirt road and drops a low 'moootherfuuucker'. She is smiling, knows what she needs to do to extend her tattoo. There are ten metre gums on both sides of the road and a cigar in the glove box. Her crossbow is in the boot and she is searching for a koala.

* 10% of $469 means, weekly, a six pack or smokes but not both, let alone any cocktail ingredients.