The Beanie of Surprising Warmth

 

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$43 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$20 Democracy Honey
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$20 Level Up Fig
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$87 D.C. Datura
₵$12 Black Meat (g)	₵$79 Sex Doll Goon Sack
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$50 START HERE
₵$15 Marital Aid Potion	₵$229 Fireball Thrower
₵$50 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$153 Blue Angel Mushroom
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$144 Bux. Semp X Cannabis (One Plant)
₵$29 Mythril (oz.)	₵$7 Shiraz of Maybe Electrical Damage
₵$4 BZTCN	₵$180 The Safe of What You Want for Dinner

This Week's Special:

Emily is house-sitting, again, a cold home. The shower is pleasant at full-hot and the coffee machine provides lukewarm beverage. Emily's hands sting with cold on morning dog walk, which eases ten minutes away from and resumes ten minutes before house-sittings. The dog sleeps in guest bed alongside her and said snuggling has already nudged Emily onto floor once.

'Cunt.'

Emily pairs dart with Hidden Ridge 2024 Coonawarra 2024 Cabernet Sauvignon, pacing to stay warm. The dog places ball on back patio, for throwing obligated in house-sitting, which dog knows. Before Emily can step into automatic light's range, the ball has rolled off and downhill. This ritual has been thus frustrated dozen times tonight and Emily wants to sit inside but the blankets are mid. Somebody must offer a solution.

That somebody is Frankie.

Frankie was looking for something she stashed in her parents' garage when she heard a 'quack' with no visible source. Well: Move Fast and Break Things. Frankie moved fast, Cyclone metre-cube garden bag always just short of quacking's panicky source. She broke things, as did the invisible duck - an Aurora AFX Thunderloop Thriller fell off top shelf.

The quarry escaped and Frankie catches breath whilst starfished on concrete. Dust wafts to cover floor and, settling alongside it, Invisible Duck Feathers. It is only the airborne grime, landing in strange transparent architecture, that alerts Frankie to her loot. She boxes them and labels the box, lest it be mistaken for empty.

The price of Invisible Duck Feathers tends to hike because people forget where they left them. On the demand side:

·         Fletching arrows with Invisible Duck Feathers makes them invisible, sacrificing accuracy for sake of fun.

·         Filling transparent quilt cover with I.D.F. (did not think acronym through) allows one to appear hardy whilst passed out.

·         When arranging fascinators, I.D.F. hide all the little tricks the prop the big, showy feathers up.

But which market pays the best price?

That market is Emily.

Frankie and Emily have a contract drawn.

This stipulates, for the illiterate:

1.    Frankie will supply Emily with adequate Invisible Duck Feathers.

2.    Emily will knit sufficient feathers in a plain black wool beanie.
(She sneezes whilst doing so and, whilst she cannot see them, knows half the pile is scattered. 'Uh oh'.

3.    Emily will be in possession of the Beanie of Surprising Warmth for the Winter of 2025.

4.    On 30/8/2025, or before if involved parties agree, possession of said Beanie will pass to Frankie.

So Frankie will own-then-sell the Beanie of Surprising Warmth. The market for this headgear hopes to look a bit brandless working-class at the next ANZAC Dawn Service. A touch here I am braving cold in hoodie and beanie, whilst you snobs wear coats. Said market does feel the cold and probably wears coats when coats are arrogant.

That market is Esmeralda.

You can sometimes find Esmeralda at the dive (shopping) centre of up-market Eastern suburbs. She is recognised by silk coat billowing transparent red and blue behind her pace. Otherwise she will be reading R. F. Kuang's Yellowface in the Chinese restaurant's Al Fresco. She works in, uh, business or government, but her hobby of making wands has become side hustle.

The Wand of Projected Lead channel's the user's magical energy into one particular spell. In this case that particular spell is launching, as if by gunpowder, pieces of lead about 7.82 mm in diameter.  It is not rigid wood- the innovation of the 2020's is to encase wand core in flexible thermoplastic elastomers. They can be used by any magic user or, more likely, rogue with sufficient Use Magic Device. A knob at wand's end can be grasped for aiming and it can be fired from between hips.

The market for the Wand of Projected Lead, can use wands and may want to project lead. Said want to project lead implies a certain want of preservation beyond what the State offers. Esmeralda designed the wand to dangle out of fly, two thermoplastic elastomer knobs holding it in place. Ideally, dangling want out of fly will become fashionable amongst a certain subset of women.

That market is Renee.

Renee likes scooters and getting high. Renee works as a lawyer and side hustles, whilst high, as a lawyer. She drew, in crayon, the above contract, which half paid for the Wand of Projected Lead. The other half was paid by drawing the contract below:

 

This contract legally binds the purchaser, of Salad Gremlin, to the ethical care of said Salad Gremlin.  A Salad Gremlin is a small hominid that lives behind the fridge, for heat and ozone. Once a day, it will creep into fridge and fiddle greens, carrot, mushroom, capsicum, chevre, olive oil and something else. By doing so it extracts the chlorophyll that provides its green hue and, relevantly, produces a salad. In winter months it makes vegetable soup.

Elise learnt about Salad Gremlins whilst skimming her boyfriend's cryptozoology books and formed a hypothesis. To test it, she travelled to an urban food-desert and taxied around, window watching until seeing dumped fridge in alley or gutter. She would stop and leave salad ingredients in possum trap. One of seventeen traps captured a creature which was difficult convincing quarantine is a Chiaotzu.

Elise opted to sell the Salad Gremlin but her boyfriend insisted it be done ethically. Hence the contract. Still, a market: the person who wants to be the person who eats vegetables and light lunches. The type to work until hungry and go to fridge and eat what is first available.

That market is Frankie.

 

* This one got complicated but I wrote a story about women's side hustles where clothes stay on.

Kumquat Weed

 

When Fika's sister visited her dealer for a half, she gave said dealer a bag of unwanted lemons and was given, in return, a small bag of potent hydroponic marijuana dubbed 'lemon weed'. Fika was fascinated - citrus goes in, special dope comes out. Fika waited until Wednesday midnight before replacing her neighbour's grapefruit with gift basket of artisanal small goods. 'Grapefruit weed' provided a different high, with a touch of paranoid giggles that was just short of a bad time.

Fika spent her evenings strolling through suburbia, a discrete side-eye out for front yard kumquat trees. Five homes woke to jars of baked beans (home made with ham hock and molasses) on their welcome mats. Fika bobbed smiling in her chair near front door, awaiting her sister's return from dealer. The sister was not impressed to find Fika in this state:

'Fika, I say this as someone who loves you. Get out. Meet people. Find your own dealer.'

'Did you get the Kumquat Weed?'

The sister gives Fika half of the half of regular dope: 'No deal. You need to get out of your comfort zone.'

Bopping stops: 'What? Why don't you get out of your comfort zone.'

'I go to parties all the time.'

'That is your comfort zone. But tell you what.' Fika waves upturned hand over the worn copy of Gravity's Rainbow next to the bong. 'I'll get out of my comfort zone if you get out of yours.'

'That looks too much like work.'

'Yeah and? It provides a kick. People work for money to spend some money playing drunk dress-up at Water World. At least this work isn't taxed.'

Shooting back: 'Hey. Selfies are how our generation displays status.'

'As you say, some books are "only read because people want to say that they've read them" so think of that status.'

Bitch: 'Fine. I'll do it.'

'Ah.' Fika raises halting hand. 'I want some collateral in case you don't hold up your end of the bargain. The Kumquat Weed, entrusted to an uninterested third party. I'll have a contract drawn.'

'Who the fuck would even bother?'

 

Renee thinks this shit is hilarious. They had been friendly acquaintances during high school, not quite friends but they had other girls to bitch about behind respective backs. Fika had discerned that Renee's ambitions for a career in law (not necessarily a legal career) landed Renee at Soden & Underlings because Renee's current occupation was absent from LinkedIn. Renee finished inking unrelated pre-nup* before striking quill's end on wall - it lights and Renee applies flame to joint of her own dope:

'All right, I'll draw you a contract for free. One condition. If you don't meet new people, and your sister, well, I get the Kumquat Weed.'

'Deal.' Nobody else has stayed late at the office, so Fika takes the offered joint. 'How'd you, you, kaarrf, this is good stuff. How'd you do that with thaaat quill?'

'You always were a bit shy.' Renee takes the joint back. 'The weed is El Dorado Green. It comes from El Dorado.'

'Oh pull the other -' THC's second wave hits and Fika's eyes widen. 'You're not fucking with me.'

‘You’re going to enjoy meeting new people.’ Renee smirks and pulls out her crayons. ‘Have you considered dealing?’

 

 

 

*... if affair with fuckwit is cited as reason(s) for divorce, the offending party must don horse mask and walk Waymouth street between 08:00 and 18:00...

On the Price of El Dorado Green

 
Apply lighter to the lamest drug that the streets can provide, if they bother - catnip and tobacco. Cover the irrelevant taste with edgier substance such as a glass of Peter Lehman 'Margaret' 2015 Sémillon or tea. In the twenty minutes before drink passes through intestinal walls, rumours wisp into brain from the week's detritus. As of 4/10/23:
₵$32    Ghost Tobacco ( 20)
₵$15    Bloody Mary
₵$10    Bug Powder (p/g)
₵$70    Eldorado Green (qt.)
₵$1      Slut Root (p/kg)
₵$30    Marital Aid Potion
₵$25    Quetzlcoatl Feathers (doz.)
₵$5      Blue Roses
₵$33    Mythril (p/g)
₵$4      BZTCN
The rumour influencing the price of El Dorado Green is watercooler conversation at Soden and Underlings.
Somebody says: 'Did you know that contracts can be written in comic book form?'
Renee says 'Neat' and resumes her day, works late until nobody is around to realise that said work is not for Soden and/or Underlings. She writes contracts with the Fire Chicken Ink Quill until said writing generates enough kinetic energy within said quill that its tip lights flame applied to joint of El Dorado Green.
The usual good practice of opening the window. Tonight, however, Renee straps the Parachute-Which-Doesn't-Actually-Have-A-Parachute-But-Deploys-A-Pink-Dragon-Themed-Bouncy-Castle-Beneath-You to her back and leaps out the window. Tumbling ten stories, she takes another drag between lips grinning dumb and pulls the rip-cord.
She rolls her ankle and goes 'cunt'. Renee crawls out from the bouncy castle. Fists in air, she shouts at stalled traffic:
'I write contracts in order to get high. Now I can draw contracts whilst high. Proooductivity gaaains.  Now, where crayons at?'
The first contract that Renee writes, in exchange for a Four Pack of Beer which becomes Dirty Granny cider:
 

This contract stipulates that the signatory may use this (ladies) bathroom if they agree to be filmed in there. This is not a porn thing because, voyeuristic footage of unknowing women passing waste is, unfortunately, readily available. These bathrooms are the brainchild of Malcolm, straight white misogynist who always wanted to know, what do they talk about in there? The most direct way of getting this information was to establish a chain (thirteen around Australia and expanding into New Zealand) of privately owned female toilets which are cleaner than those provided by shopping centres or councils. (Professionals were hired via rumour passed around the de facto cleaner's guild. These veterans have seen some literal shit and are down with Malcolm's bathrooms because they always wanted to know how does it get on the walls? Like, diarrhea happens, sure, and we've all seen the footprints that people leave of toilet seats because they squat. But, come on, the walls?)
Malcolm's bathrooms prove successful - people similarly sacrifice their privacy for the convenience of Google or Facebook. Early adopters produce insightful footage i.e. three women stand in a loose circle. One holds palms apart at shoulder's length:
'I once caught one that was this big.'
The second woman, hands apart at 50cm: 'Yeah, well I caught one thiiiis big.'
The third woman stretches her arms out fully out and smirks.
They are not talking about fish.
Another example: two women look into their reflections in the wall-long mirror whilst applying their tampons. One says to the other:
'The small industrials accumulation index is down around 10 per cent from February 2020. In contrast, mining stocks, small resources accumulation, are up 45 per cent, so there are attractively priced opportunities in the small industrials space where the emerging opportunities fund invests.'
Malcolm has proved his start-up model but is not sure what to do with it now and so wants to sell out like that MySpace guy. This is not a Big Data deal but Small Data and thus Malcolm begins a back and forth that leads to a wine bar.
Malcolm: 'Jessica. Cab sav?'
Jessica: 'I prefer shiraz. A bit more fruit-forward.'
'Fruit forward?' He thinks he understands. 'When in Rome, drink pinot noir.'
'Grenache is a more fruit-forward light red.'
'Light red?' Malcolm blinks. 'Chardonnay it is.'
' Sémillon.'
'Sauvignon blanc?'
 'Pinot grigio.'
'But when I said pinot grigio you said grenache.'
Hospitality staff pours them both a GSM and backs away.
'So.' Jessica does not taste the wine. 'Your toilet data. What do you want for it?'
Malcolm stands, clasps hands behind back and begins pacing: 'You understand computers. Data, algorithms and the like. You are ahead of your field yet you, even you, do not make the leaps and bounds of your predecessors. I seek to crack the Queer Code. To do so, I want the Turing Machine.'
'You know, you know, you know, you know what? Sure.'

Renee Resumes Getting High

 

Renee Hodge eight-to-fives as a paralegal for Soden & Underlings. Her mornings are spent reiterating to clients that 'insanity is a defence, stupidity is not' and that they should plead guilty because deportation seems to be the only way to get a flight home, these days. At twelve, her boss will kick open his door, with whiskey in hand, to rant about 'kids these days', by which he means the baby-boomer generation because said boss is stuck in the fifties, suspenders and all. The boss will be unconscious between two and four o'clock, granting Renee two hours in which to side hustle.

Renee begrudges her job because it pays the bills and affords her collection of scooters: a Kymco People GTi, a Suzuki Address 110, the Eagle-Wing Cino 125 and the Manhattan 150G. She rides each one on a different occasion - work, social, family and errands. She derives the most enjoyment, however, just by contemplating them, bong in hand. Renee does not drive under the influence, once bitten, because the wide choice prompts stoned indecision.

Renee's dope of choice is El Dorado Green because it is really, really good. El Dorado Green is named after the provincial town which patented the strain, diversifying into cash crops and gambling because conquistadors persisted in drowning in the Amazon, scattering bus-loads of blunder for children to find.*

El Dorado Green's exclusivity means that it cannot be purchased from your humble dope peddler, but must instead be bartered for. Fortunately, in the two hours when her boss is passed out between whiskeys ventidue and ventitré, Renee does some under-the-table, off-the-books work writing illegal contracts. These contracts, written atop her desk, form the basis of laws consented to by parties involved and may one day grow in number sufficient to make a book.

Word on the street (rather: underground robot battles that tend to not involve many robots) is that Renee will write a contract in exchange for a quart of El Dorado Green. To consult with her, one must take the stairs to the roof of her building and abseil down to her window, which is what the Knights of the Galaxy Klaxon do. Ignatius, Rasmus and Poppery all hang from abseil rope by one straining belay device and Renee hoiks them in before all parties involved discover why such sharing is strongly not recommended.

'Fuck, fuck's sake, better have Dirty Granny.' Renee scrambles out of man pile. 'Ahem, I mean, how are you? How may I assist you?'

Ignatius lobs a quart onto the desk: 'Verily, we three seek to meld names, become one.'

Renee nods: 'Polygamous gay marriage. Not recognised by the state but by your people and your gods.'

Poppery: 'No, we want to be one person. Dude can't marry himself. That'd be weird.'

Diplomatic: 'Agreed.'

Ignatius: 'One mind in three brains. One identity in three persons. One name to put on the paperwork. Kieran.'

Rasmus: 'Yet we shall be referred to by our surname, like families of yore and in those Harry Potter movies. The-Knights-of-the-Galaxy-Klaxon.'

Renee takes out quill: 'Is this a tax thing?'

Poppery snorts: 'Tax?'

'Fair enough. And, uh, when was Kieran The-Knights-of-the-Galaxy-Klaxon birthed?'

Rasmus: 'Yesterday.'

Renee pauses: 'Is Kieran, uh, old enough to consent to this?'

 

* Get it? Blunder-buss?

The Fire Chicken Ink Quill

 

Australia, the 80's: every man and his dog (tax purposes) releasing a new model of vacuum cleaner, each requiring an operating manual and willing to pay generously for such. There were only about three dozen individuals with the requisite ambition and dull personality for this technical writing, bashing out a few each day in pursuit of big bucks - cowboys with mullets and pre-fashionable thick-rimmed glasses, fuelled by black tea and cocaine and, suitably, ACDC. It was in this milieu that Paul, gung-ho and then 20, made his money before deaths of rivals and friends in this scene prompted him to rethink his priorities. He dipped into the stock market, getting out before bubbles burst and his fingers got pruney. Paul took early retirement and bought a bush-block four hours from town because social interaction is not his thing, where he receives plenty of unannounced visitors.

The latest visitors to Paul's bush-block has been Australia's flock of 14 Fire Chickens. The Fire Chicken is the sterile crossbreed of the Phoenix and Zhūqué, respectively introduced to Australia by migrants from Greece and China but far more interested in each other. The Fire Chicken inherited the parents' form of immortality via fiery rebirth upon death, which has a tendency to cause bushfires and technically classes the Fire Chicken outside of the egg laying Aves taxon. However, because the feathery Greek's yellow fever is a uniquely Australian phenomenon, the Department of Very Bad Ideas classed the Fire Chicken as a protected native species. Furthermore, Paul discovered that unleashing shotgun fire on the pests triggered cuckoo-swarm-come-firestorm. He decided to treat the Fire Chickens like possums, a nuisance to begrudgingly nudge into better habits, so he built a fireproof chicken coop where they could safely incinerate.

A bale of barley straw makes for expensive nightly tinder, so Paul sought to monetise the Fire Chickens. He took a bright blue feather dropped after the birds scuffled for a worm. He crafted the feather into an ink quill. Lo, the Fire Chicken Ink Quill was made, an ink quill with residual fiery properties: ink dries upon touching paper and, once enough friction is accrued by writing, the feather may be struck on any surface to light like a match.

Felicity came into ownership of the Fire Chicken Ink Quill during one of her wine tasting parties.

Felicity: 'Heeeey cuuuuz. Enjoying the cab sav?'

Paul: 'I thought this was a merlot.'

'Yeah, Cabernet-merlot. Restricted Bordeaux, hne hne hne.'

'Do you need a spittoon?'

'Aaaaaah been up to much lately?'

'I've made something. Something unique.'

'Oh, and what would you like to barter for?'

'You know those Bulla ice cream ads? Where there's a guy in the paddock with cows, on a quad bike, eating ice cream? I want that.'

'The, uh, the quad bike? The ice cream?'

'I want whatever is keeping the ice cream cold. He's been out there for a few hours at least, the ice cream hasn't melted, he doesn't have an esky and if he left the ice cream in a freezer he would have eaten said ice cream inside.'

'Hm. Ok, I might know someone.'

Indeed, Felicity works as a sommelier but side hustles as someone who knows someone, the middle (wo)man in exchanges of goods who, due to price differences, is able to take a cut of CatScript (₵$) in the form of Slut Root, El Dorado Green or Dirty Granny. She got into this magical black market due to her enthusiasm for wine - she enjoys the adventure of never-the-same tipples, the hunt for ~$25 bottles on par with those from prestige regions, also booze. Furthermore, the ranking of grape types by global acreage (into: popular, common, uncommon, rare) gives wine collecting some of the appeal of Yu-Gi-Oh cards.

Wine operates more akin to the markets of the Yu-Gi-Oh anime than the local hobby store - 'Toon World', for example, was in the Pegasus starter deck released during primary school, but in the anime was illegal and the only copy carried by the franchise's owner. Certain wines are esoteric in rarity, rumoured or in fiction - these are the vintages that Felicity seeks out amongst peddlers of zombie scalps, get-out-of-jail-free cards and colossal nossies. She is currently searching for a Colchagua Valley 'Rex Stanton' País*, Fernando Delgado's last wine before his son's overdose prompted his window-sill dive. So the newspapers say.

Felicity has other plans for the Fire Chicken Ink Quill: trading it for Renee's services. Renee is specialised in contract law but works as a defence lawyer, because run-of-the-mill contract writing is mostly performed by automated computers and her boss perpetually drinks himself into an alternate 1950's with elements of Marvel's New York. However, this magical black market has egoistic-anarchist elements which respect no laws save for those entered into by the individual by contract - specifically, contracts which invocate myriad Daedra, Shoggoth and Maia to acquire a property unseen in the merely-real world, contracts which can magically enforce themselves. Renee works on these contracts, on the side and tax free, where her expertise is required because machines are so far unable to print the relevant glyphs neatly enough and the aforementioned lesser deities, racist, prefer the human touch.

Felicity takes a taxi to Renee's office building, rides the elevator to the roof and abseils down to her window.

Felicity, dangling: 'Is your boss conscious?'

Renee helps her in: 'He usually gets his second wind in about half an hour.'

'Good. I have the means and payment for the divorce.'

Felicity has never particularly respected the government's recognition of anything, instead marrying 'the fuckwit' solely in front of her community and her dark gods. Because of the abnormal marriage contract they signed, said gods will not recognise Felicity's single status despite multiple affairs on behalf of 'the fuckwit' and his death,. Renee can prepare the divorce papers but these papers must be written in the blood of Pholcus Erectus, a species of humanoid arachnid. This writing must be done very carefully - a misspelling or a smudge would give Felicity's divorce unintended content with unforseen consequences - which is tricky because Pholcus Erectus blood has a habit of scurrying, like a swarm of baby spiders, when wet. The Fire Chick Ink Quill will solve this wet-blood problem and, furthermore, only allow Renee to light a joint after requisite writing is completed.

 

*Said to pair congruently with cocaine.

'Dear Kelsie' Cleanskin Ramato 2017

The label on the wine bottle says:

Dear Kelsie

I should explain this gift. This is a bottle of orange wine. As I have ranted, my small patch of vines produce a mediocre sauvignon blanc with negligible terroir - I drank the second bottle to double-check this fact. I therefore decided to do something a bit niche with my modest harvest.

Orange wine is made using ancient, natural processes without preservatives. The grape skins and seeds are kept in contact with the fermenting juice, a technique usually reserved for red wines. Tasting notes:  this is some weird fuck. This wine is so far from the norm that I do not expect you to drink it, let alone enjoy it. This is a gift so utterly useless that you HAVE to regift it. Ta da!

Gift this wine to the person who has everything, so that they may regift it once again. Bring it to your next dinner party to leave your hosts a totem they dare not open, but must pass on. I have put a dozen of these bottle into circulation. Sooner or later, one may land into the hands of someone sauvignon enough to appreciate them.

Love,

John

Renee had to read the label three times before she grokked as to the nature of this wine gifted by Secret Santa. She brought it with her when meeting the parents, who were quite lovely, of her then-girlfriend, who turned out to be a wanker. The novel orange wine came up in conversation between the parents and their neighbours, who took the bottle down, along with a crowd pleaser cab sav, to a piss up with friends. These friends, who did not get the joke and were slightly insulted, regifted the bottle to their niece and her husband, Alex and George, who in turn bequeathed the bottle to Ezekiel 'Easy' Bones on his 30th birthday.

George had said: 'We're hosting a dinner party on the 25th. Now you have something to bring.'

Caveat: at the bottom of the wine's label, in thin red biro, someone has added And Bring A Date. Well, yeah, Easy has been dwelling on the big three-oh and has come to think: shit, that was my youth? A smattering of wild oats were spread but not very far. There had been no great debauchery, no Bacchanalia that swept him unconsciously into crowd-sourced ecstasy, or into fist fights. The post-modern esotericist Amelia Gerhardt, one of Easy's influences and personal heroes, published her second grimoire when she was 29.

But there is no point wallowing in this not-quite-mid-life crisis (it will be cancer at 62, childless but content after a life of good times and meaningful work). Easy has begun habits more suited to this new stage of life, such as really getting into wine - decanting, swirling, smelling blackberry notes and tasting hints of chocolate. Not quaffing.

To prove that he can adult as the best of them, not only will Easy bring a date, but his date will be a woman ten years his senior. How's that for maturity? (Answer: not great.) On the 25th, with the late noon's bending of the light, Easy knocks on the door of a parish church repurposed into a residence. Felicity answers the door with eyebrow cocked at this interruption to her second glass of GSM.

Easy: 'Hello. I need a date.'

Felicity recognises the 'Dear Kelsie' Ramato in Easy's hand: 'I'll trade you.'

The church is open plan and pragmatically furnished - kitchen, couch, television, round table for six - with a small bedroom and study table on the mezzanine. Felicity leads Easy to the bookshelf and tilts The Secret Garden 45° towards her. The middle third of the bookshelf swings slightly leftwards, a secret door, to reveal a narrow spiral staircase to the wine cellar.

Felicity has organised her wines on racks that stretch along the two long walls, using a convoluted system of style, vintage and the tension between letting the wine age or just drinking it now. Hanging off the far wall is a pressed vinyl of an anime OST and a taxidermied werewolf's head, down here because the head returns to its human state every new moon. Next to the work bench is a pile of bent nails and split baseball bats.

Felicity mutters: 'Can never get past 12.'

'Uhhh?'

'Nothing.' Felicity points to the corner. 'And there's your date. Her name is Sascha.'

'That's an inflatable sex doll.'¹

'It's what on the inside that counts.'² Felicity tisk-tisks. 'And what's on the inside is Grant Burge 2017 Merlot.'

Easy agrees: 'Good value drop.'

So Easy leaves with his arm around Sascha's waist and Felicity decants the 'Dear Kelsie' Ramato for 20 minutes. One the nose: rancid fruit. Similar on the tongue, sour with hints of wood varnish, but at least Felicity was expecting it this time and the taste brings associations:

She met her dark stranger at the front bar when a drunk accosted him, accusing him of 'drinking glorified fruit juice' and taking a swing provoked by polite ignorance. He had ducked and retaliated with jab to chin, knocking the drunk over backwards before resuming drinking:

'This is a 2016 Henschke Apple Tree Bench. Pairs well with kick-ass.'

Security thought this was hilarious but had to ask him to leave, as the drunk was one-fifth owner of the establishment. Felicity thought this unjust and so invited this man to peruse her wine. In the cellar, the top of her evening gown fell away when she tugged its string like a parachute cord. She cracked the nearest bottle, another 'Dear Kelsie' Ramato, pouring a dribbling line across her collarbone:

'This is rare. Shame to waste it.'

They did it lotus position in bed. Eventually. First she clutched the wine rack whilst he took her from behind and a white zinfandel smashed on the floor - worth it. UberEats worked hard over three weeks. They only left the house to replace linen stained with wine and body fluids.

He had sensed the global mood and returned to parents in the UK while he could. International travel was locked down before Felicity could chase him, so she consoles herself with this nostalgia.

1. 'Sex Doll Goon Sack' would make a great name for a punk band.

2. Title of the debut album

Richter vs. The Commonwealth of Australia

The minute and hour hands jointly tick onto twelve and Edward Soden, white shirt under suspenders, kicks open his office door, left hand holding Jamesons and right with tumbler of ice: 'Johannes White. Wants to plead guilty but his daddy's the heir to the Flat-White fortune, takes half of every cup ordered.' Pouring whiskey uno. 'Makes coffee damned expensive but I never touch the stuff, and the father is coked to the gills courtesy of Flat-White money. We need a defence. Who wants front row seats?'

Renee the paralegal stands from her desk: 'Me! Me me me me!'

Finishing whiskey uno: 'You? The only thing your stoner ass can do is pass piss tests.'

Renee slams hands on desk: 'CUUUUUUNT.'

Edward nods with clenched lips, pours whiskey dos: 'I like your moxie. Ok, find a precedent for tomorrow's not-guilty or you're out of here.'

Whiskey dos is flung over carpet as Edward spins towards the intern: 'Get. Me. Pictures. Of. Spiderman.'

Tomorrow. Huh. Renee scoops files into her arms and sprints through the door. A grandfather of seven toddles to the open door of the only taxi on rank. Renee sweeps the walking frame from beneath the elderly gentleman as she runs for and lands into the taxi with a shoulder-roll.

In the police station visitation room, Renee searches through the unrelated documents with which she has covered the table: 'So, uh, what did you do exactly?'

Johannes slouches with arm over chair back: 'I brought the lols. Lawman couldn't handle my lols.'

Renee actually finds the relevant police transcript: 'You, ah, this says you drove a bulldozer through the Mount Pleasant country show. They, aaah, found the produce pavilion in Springton.'

'I took shortcuts.'

A newspaper clipping is attached: 'Yes. Through quite a few farms. Quite a few fences. They're expecting quite a few lambs of mixed breed in five months.'

Johannes leans forward and points: 'That's racist.'

Renee throws a hand open: 'That's bad husbandry. And on your, um, getaway, you shouted, to the angry mob and police in slow pursuit, your name and, um, YouTube profile?'

'I livestreamed it.'

'I see.'

Soden & Underlings deals in contract law, not criminal. When Renee returns fruitless to the firm to make this point, two hours later, she finds Edward unconscious in his office, facedown in regurgitated whiskeys undici, dodici and tredici. The intern cosplays as Spiderman, sitting on the desk with right foot on left knee and taking a selfie. The intern sees Renee and shrugs.

Fuck. Renee clocks off and, in a city side-lane, shrieks with fists in the air. Woe betide the ambitious, for the whims of fortune dangle opportunity. I bit the bait and, now, may or may not struggle against this doom reeling me in.

Ok, ok, Renee knows someone who deals in last resorts. The cat cafe shuts at five but the remaining girl lets Renee in through the fire escape - $100. A table shared with Midnight the ragdoll, with ten minutes of privacy and the fire alarm removed - $50. Blueberry muffin and flat white - $25. For everything else, there is theft, murder, blackmail, extortion and the exchange of the aforementioned. MasterCard leaves a trail.

Renee downs overpriced coffee and removes plastic wrapping from a tube (length 10cm, diameter 1.4 cm). The latest Catnip Page is unrolled from around a brandless cigarette and unfolded, once vertically, once horizontally. Renee lights the cigarette and Midnight yowls long and happy.

Renee disapproves: 'Don't drop your game, cat. You're a professional.'

Tom, in orange puff hoody and discarding half a muffin, enters from the kitchen: 'Reneeeeee. Dee-tee-eff?'

Another drag on the catnip: 'You know I'm gay, right?'

'Didn't stop you last time.'

'I thought you were flat-chested and playing at butch.' Renee, straight faced. 'I was high off my tits.'

Tom spins on stool: 'And I got high on them.'

Renee points at the Catnip Page, at item 17#: 'Richter vs. The Commonwealth of Australia.'

'So you are going to get someone off.' Tom steeples fingers. 'A legal precedent capable of defending anyone for anything. At least once, because they will close this loophole once it is cited. Nobody has yet, because I hold the original transcript. A get out of jail free card, if you will.'

Sceptical: 'High court?'

A wide smile: 'The highest. It involved two kilos of El Dorado Green, back when they first diversified away from precious metals. Shit's so potent, the entire bench got buzzed just by being in the same room. Then they decided to sample Exhibit B. You think you were high during our sloppy fuck? That was nothing compared to this.'

Renee has thoughts: So El Dorado exists? How do I score their weed? Cunt calling me sloppy? Too many questions. Tom slides off the stool, left hand cradling his chin:

'In exchange, I need you to acquire the Paifurōtā, one of the Hakujin No Tabemono, forged in the bowels of Mount Chōkai by mercenary heretics that broke away from the Shugendō. An electric guitar that chews the player's soul and spits it back out a jazz, math-rock fusion that is an affront to all that is holy. Not that I mind, being something of a affront myself, but it's good marketing.'

So, for those of you playing at home, here is Renee's plan:

1.      Steal the 'pay fury, ta' or whatever.

2.      Exchange the guitar for Richter vs. Australia

3.      Use the legal precedent to defend Johannes from multiple counts of trespass, property damage and reckless endangerment of lives.

4.      Career progression? (Contingent on Edwards BAC.)

The Paifurōtā is in the possession of Adrian Albert, touring the country with his self-titled trio. The local venue hosting tonight's gig is a tucked away, heritage listed bar with empty vases in window sills. Two-to-four around tables with wine or craft beer, the patrons either have established careers in social sciences and niche media or aspire to such jobs via rubbed elbows. As such, the ambition to fit in, to imitate, is parallel to the ambition to stand out, to appear independent, so that the dictates of fashion are blurred and nobody knows who exactly is trend-setting. Five patrons have already imitated Renee's style by removing their left stocking and slipping it over their head.

The trio consists of a drummer, a pianist and Adrian on guitar. Two thirds through their set, the drummer notices Renee's beeline to the stage and smirks to the pianist:

'Hey man. Groupies.'

The pianist snap-freezes: 'We play jazz, math-rock fusion. We don't get groupies.'

The pianist knows to duck the first bar stool, aimed at Adrian but instead flying into the piano, to back up to the wall with hands in the air. Renee steps onto the stage, ready to swing another bar stool but, come to think of it, unsure as to where to strike Adrian without damaging the guitar. The audience is struck by Renee's modish panache and begins throwing furniture. The drummer continues his understated tisk-ta-ta-tisk.

Renee: 'I am a paralegal and that guitar  is a breach of the Quarantine Act 2015 subsection, uh, two.'

Adrian clutches the guitar to his chest: 'It's mine.'

'Gimme.'

Backing away: 'Damn it, what are you two waiting for?'

The pianist shrugs: 'Your comeuppance, mostly.'

Tisk-ta-ta-tisk: 'Same. Been six months.'

A magazine rack is thrown into the stage and Adrian falls. Renee grabs the guitar and attempts to wrest it from Adrian, on his back and pleading:

'You can't take this from me.'

Renee removes her right shoe, reckons she can drive the heel into Adrian's left eye. In those eyes: Woe betide the ambitious, for the whims of fortune dangle opportunity. I bit the bait and, now, may or may not struggle against this doom reeling me in. Renee lowers the shoe at her side, sighs:

'OK, I get it, you took one step too - '

'What else can I do as a straight white male with no soul?'

So that is how Johannes White accrued the legal representation of Renee Hodge, Edward Soden, Adrian Albert and a narcissistic Spiderman.

The judge: 'How do you plead?'

Johannes stands: 'Yeah, I'm going to plead guilty so you guys deport me to New Zealand.'

Renee slams hands on desk: 'CUUUUUUNT.'

Edward pours whiskey ventisai: 'Moxie.'