Gay Marriage and Free Speech and Stew

The wine cracked to breath, Paul had just begun to roll a smoke when a long screech of tires rose above the evening's first bird songs. Licking the paper, Paul waits for the sound of acceleration but there is none and he sighs. He pops to the gun safe for the Adler, to the second safe for ammunition, throws both into the Holden VP Commodore. The driveway is pretty with white-gold sun striking the mallee.

Through the gate, onto the freeway: a Mazda hybrid, front windscreen thoroughly cracked, roo dangling off the left bonnet and occupants still seated. Well, that decides what's for dinner. Paul pulls in behind them, leaves the engine running as he taps on the passenger window:

'You guys OK?'

A nod from the young woman and Paul inspects the kangaroo: a big male, dead already, no need for the gun. It slides easily off the bonnet into Paul's arms - carrying it is hard. On the way to the ute, he notices the petrol, fireworks, water pistols and hoses in the Mazda's back. Paul runs a hand through hair, fuck it, returns to the young couple:

'Do you want me to call the RAA?'

The young man in the passenger seat looks to the woman, back to Paul, back to the woman, brief conversation, back again to Paul with a shake of the head. Paul also shakes his head, albeit hung lower:

'Do you want to pull into my place, maybe stay the night?'

Another glance amongst the couple. Paul cannot see the man's mouth, but the woman visibly says 'fuck it'. The man returns face to Paul and lowers the window:

'Yeah? Uh, crash at your place? It wouldn't be an inconvenience?'

Paul smiles: 'Crash might not be the best way to put it.'

The Mazda's engine has not been damaged so, once the freeway is clear of headlights, they slowly marshal the car into Paul's property. A powerful porch light illuminates the fifty metres between cabin and garage. Three fire starters, a dozen twigs and two logs begin the fire pit. Paul waves to the man:

'Hey. What was your name?'

'Michael.'

'I'm Paul, Michael. Do you mind helping me with this roo?'

'Not at all.'

But Michael does mind the Adler shotgun, still in the ute, becomes noticeably tenser when they pass the car window.

Paul: 'It's not loaded.'

They carry the dead kangaroo to the garage workbench. Paul holds the tail down and saws the skin with a knife. Michael's blank-faced nervousness turns to low-browed disgust:

'Are you going to eat that?'

Paul shrugs: 'It was dead already. Nobody's fault.'

'It's road kill.'

'It's organic.'

About half a kilo of meat is cleaved from the kangaroo's tail and Paul leaves Michael to dice it. An onion is quartered and sliced perpendicularly, thrown into a pot with garlic and oil. The woman is standing by the fire, turning now and then to warm her colder side, when Paul places a wire grill and then the pot over the established flames.

'I'm Paul. I didn't catch your name.'

'Kristy.'

Paul offers a wooden spoon: 'Hey Kristy. I don't mean to stereotype the fairer sex, but you seem to like the heat.'

A closed smile is conceded: 'Sure.'

The men finish dicing the roo tail and it lands in the pot with a sizzle, followed by salt and pepper. Paul takes a crank-torch to the garden and selects four jalapenos based on ripeness, how red they have turned. Michael has his hand on Kristy's back and mouth in her ear until he notices Paul's return. The host slides sliced peppers into the half-browned meat:

'Yes, I have a shotgun. No, I'm not going to hurt you. Probably.'

Kristy: 'Shotgun?'

Michael: 'Probably?'

Paul warms his hands: 'Adler. Lever action. You can't legally buy the seven-shot but you can buy the five-shot and legally modify the tube to seven shots. Except in NSW. I just keep it round in case of snakes.'

Michael: 'Sooo?'

Paul, in petty spite: 'Well that depends on what's in your car.'

The couple are silent and Paul realizes that he is craving, due to this hour-and-a-half distraction from the smoke left on the balcony table. He only allows himself two or three over the day: one with morning coffee, one with afternoon wine, one after dinner, maybe one with a night cap. Paul returns to the cabin, downs half a shiraz for a the charisma bonus and lights the smoke - ah, tobacco. Back to the fire pit, adding a longneck of Coopers Dark and four diced potatoes into the pot:

'Sorry about that, but someone has been destroying mail boxes. Also, the safety is on. Is it even loaded?'

Kristy, with the Adler at the waist, gives away a fuck shit fuck in her eyes. Eyes shoot between the couple before Kristy presses the lever down to an empty echo. Michael laughs a dark told you so and Kristy lobs the shotgun to Paul, who catches it with a chuckle:

'My guess is the plebiscite. You're young, left wing, want marriage rights for your queer mates. A good chunk of the No vote are, stereotypically, rural, conservative, Christian, very little surveillance around their mail boxes. So you burn some of the first votes, sparse enough to seem connected. Later, more votes focus into fewer boxes and you soak them, different method. Here and Victoria.'

Michael finally smiles, open: 'Woah, how did you - '

Kristy interjects venom: 'Yeah, and what? It was Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve, right?'

Paul rolls eyes: 'I reckon Steve can't do any worse than Original Sin. You guys want a drink?'

Kristy shrugs bemused and so Michael waves down the offer. The meat softens, the beer thickens. Stray cats walk in view without getting too close. Alcohol eases the couple's regaling of their cross-country vandalism - the first two mail boxes overkilled in flames, water-pistol duels to cover trespass, a potential cat-and-mouse game around paranoid midnight dirt roads after a close call.

Paul eventually prompts: 'My only issue is that you, um ummm, threatened free speech.'

Kristy is a couple of drinks ahead: 'Everyone cries free speech when their right to bigotry is threatened. Fuckem.'

Paul lights another smoke: 'Let bigots be bigots. I know they're wrong, you know they're wrong. But by figuring out how they're wrong, we aaaah become more right.'

Michael burps, eyes closed and reclining in camp chair: 'Dig, man, but we don't get paid for dialogue.'

Oh.

Paul sips: 'And, uh, who was paying you?'

Kristy backhands Michael's chest, glances leftwards, finishes her glass before continuing sourly: 'Don't know. Internet. Bitcoin.'

Paul throws arms open: 'I might know a guy. A car guy. For a finder's fee.'