Happiness right?  As dedicated thrill-seekers, my girlfriend and I can list a large number of situations and experiences that will conjure the necessary emotions to unlock absolute pleasure and excitement. We’ve gone fishing for killer whales, bungee jumping into an active volcano, deep-sea skinny dipping in the Bermuda triangle, prepared and ate our own fugu dish, snowboarding on a glacier, driving golf balls onto an old landmine field… we’ve even had sex on top of the sphinx in Egypt.

Before we met, Kaitlin and I used to seek thrills on our own. I was hiking through the Andes one day to see if I could find a wild bear and dance with it. While scaling a cliff I pulled myself up to find a beautiful woman riding a wild mountain lion in the sunset. The mountain lion was hardly amused and was going berserk trying to get rid of her but I knew this woman was the one for me and it was destiny that I spend the rest of my adrenalin fueled life with her.

Today Kaitlin and I will be attempting what is said to be the closet possible way to achieve true bliss… swimming into the tentacles of a giant South Atlantic Jellyfish.

This particular species of jellyfish is said to grow as large as an elephant and only dwells offshore from the south coast of South America. Despite its amazing size, the true wonder of the jellyfish actually lies with the tips of its tentacles and their effect on the human body once contact is made. These particular tentacles apparently send shocks through your entire body causing every single nerve ending to produce an orgasm like sensation before semi-paralysing you into pure relaxation. Once your body is numbed the tentacles then shoot toxins and chemicals into your blood stream that give you the most intense euphoric and blissful experience the human mind is capable of handling.

In short; swimming into this jelly fish was going to be better than sex and heroin times 1000.

“I’m going in babe” smiled Kaitlin as she fixes her scuba mask and falls backwards off the boat. As I prepare for my own decent into the Southern Atlantic Ocean I can’t help but wonder… Will this be the most amazing thing I’ll ever experience in my life? The closest I think I’ve ever felt to absolute bliss was getting high as fuck at the 311 festival when they closed with “You Wouldn’t Believe”… FUCK I love that band!

Once I’m underwater I quickly catch up with Kaitlin who is already in search for this giant gelatinous creature. It doesn’t take us long to spot one of the beasts, I mean they are the size of a fucking elephant right? Kaitlin grabs my hand tightly as we both swim into the forest of pulsating tentacles.

The incredible feeling overwhelms my body instantly; it’s like all five of my senses are being satisfied simultaneously to their full potential, it’s like my soul is floating through the universe at Lightspeed but in a calmed meditative state, it’s like I’m cumming from every single pore in my body. While engaged in this oscillation of euphoria the 311 tune “Champagne” plays through my head… “Just verses, she curses as blood vessels burst in defiance…”

Suddenly I snap out of my trance as the tentacles loosen the grip of my body. I immediately glance over to Kaitlin in a groggy state… Her entire body is twitching and shooting blood from multiple holes in her scuba suit. I quickly grab her hand and try to shake it but notice there is also blood leaking from her finger tips. I search for signs of life in her eyes but her Scooba mask is too full of blood to see anything. My next observation notes there is also no bubbles omitting from her snorkel… only red liquid. I try to scream to her but I can’t seem to open my mouth… in fact it doesn’t even feel like I’m breathing myself.

I realise the only way to escape this horrific nightmare is to once again surrender myself to the jellyfish’s tentacles and join the love of my life in a horribly blissful death. Once the amazing sensation rushes over my body for a second time I forget all about the horror I just witnessed and smile happily as “Down” by 311 plays through my mind. Red water slowly fills my own Scooba mask as I sing the tune in my head…

“Keep my feet on the ground, keep my head in the clouds, Electrified by the sound, comes from the down and…”

For a moment, the question confounded me. My mind jumped to a third option, wholegrain, for that was my preference when eating bread. I hate the dryness of wholemeal, and I’ve relegated white bread to an unsavoury category fit only for children and idiotic, uncultured adults.

I chose white. What does that say about me?

As she bent down to fetch the pre-prepared, neatly packaged curried egg and lettuce sandwich – from which I would remove the curry powder, were such an option available – I cast my eyes across her compact workspace.

As food and beverage attendant on a Tilt Train, space was at a premium. Everything she required to perform her job was within reach, within a few metres, and securely sealed behind an impressive array of doors, cupboards and drawers. Briefly, I admired whichever nameless designer had determined how to fit it all in.

I noticed a sign which read ’3POC’. This, too, confounded me. An advertisement for 2pac’s long-lost rapper cousin, perhaps? Then I saw more words that helped to decode those four characters.

’3 points of contact at all times’, the sign demanded. I immediately realised that my points of contact numbered just two. A dangerously low number of points, I thought.

As if on cue, the carriage gave a violent jolt, propelling my upper body forwards. I instinctively raised my hands, so as to avoid falling into this woman’s already space-restricted workspace. The two rings on my fingers simultaneously tapped against the plastic wall. I glanced at her to see if she’d noticed. She hadn’t, but she was returning my way.

“Anything else, darl?” she queried, while she entered the sandwich purchase into her touchscreen console. I looked to my left at the menu, though I already knew what I wanted. I was stalling.

I wanted a sausage roll, inexplicably, but I’ve long harboured the opinion that this choice is perceived to be far less masculine than a meat pie.

I recall my addiction to the sausage roll – the ‘safe option’ – throughout my childhood, even after my older brother had discovered meat pies. I did not want this woman to judge me as anything less than a complete, fully-functioning man, as I had hopefully appeared to her up until this moment.

Throwing caution to the wind, I replied: “A sausage roll, thanks.”

She did not judge my decision; if she did, she hid it well.

The next question concerned the choice of accompanying sauce. Again, there were just two options: tomato or barbecue. This reply required no deliberation at all.

“What kind of a faggot would pick BBQ?” I wondered, as I chose tomato. Even the ordering of her question hinted at this outcome. Tomato in first place, for winners; BBQ dead last, for losers.

The total cost of this 30 second transaction was $8. As I handed over a $20 note and waited for my change, I realised that this woman appeared to have comped me the sauce. This elated me, as every other food outlet in this country charges 20, 30, or even – heaven forbid – 50 cents for the simple pleasure of a sauce to accompany one’s baked good.

This has always struck me as cuntish behaviour of the worst kind, as the concept of eating a sausage roll – or, for the more masculine among us, a meat pie – without sauce is obscene. A freakish anomaly. The very thought turns my stomach, as does the national concept of charging extra for such a base necessity.

I was thankful for her gesture. I took my change, smiled at her, and returned to my seat. Perhaps the gesture came from on high. Perhaps it was a company-wide policy to comp squeeze-on sauce packets. Maybe the Queensland Rail CEO, like me, abhorred the practice of charging for sauce.

This thought thrilled me. A shared interest with the head of QR? Perhaps I could secure an interview with him on this basis alone. Still, upon consuming both items – edible, certainly, though neither snack was memorable beyond the minutes I spent consuming them – I had to know: had she charged me, or not?

With a sense of trepidation, I took out the menu from the seat pocket before me. The sandwich cost $4.50; the sausage roll, $3.50.

This equalled eight dollars. This made me smile.

Me? I seduce runners.

Perhaps ‘seduce’ isn’t the right word. More accurately, I proposition male runners for sex, mid-workout.

I live in a trendy waterfront apartment across from the city. All day, every day, men and women jog past my apartment. Each locked in their own private, silent battle against themselves, with the goal of losing – or maintaining – weight. Most of their motives, I’ve learned, are rooted in a desire to appeal to the opposite sex.

So, for the men, I came up with my own way of validating their dedication to their bodies. I began offering free fucks. Think of it as a karmic gift, paid in advance.

My favourite part is the introduction. I sit on a bench a few metres from the running path, wearing tight lycra. To observers, it probably looks like I’m taking a rest from my own workout. As men jog by, their eyes are inevitably drawn to me: my big tits, my tight legs, my plump lips. My blonde hair. If we share eye contact, I smile and stand up. Nine times out of ten, the men nearly fall over from the shock of being engaged by someone like me.

I greet them each in the same manner: like I’m meeting an old friend. Big smile – lots of teeth. Hand outstretched. An excited “Hi!”. I skip the pleasantries though; I’m there for a reason. I gesture for them to come closer, and then I cut to the chase. “Can I fuck you?”, I whisper in their right ear.

That’s my second favourite part. Again, the near-universal reaction is one of disbelief. They request confirmation: Pardon me?”. Or: “Are you serious?”. I either repeat the question, or nod my head, while still wearing a wide smile, and looking every bit the dirty slut.

I only ever approach men exercising alone. I’ve never been turned down. My youngest proposition was a mature-looking 12-year-old; when I was done with him, he nearly passed out from the sensation of experiencing his first orgasm while five inches deep inside me. The oldest man I’ve approached had just celebrated his sixty-first birthday. He didn’t last long, but throughout our brief intercourse, I was preoccupied with how I’d go and explaining the situation to the police if he died in my apartment, mid-coitus.

Once they accept my offer – and they always do – I immediately turn and start walking to my apartment block. We share the lift to the eighth floor. I make no small talk; rarely do they. My guess is that they’re still processing their apparent lucky break. The elevator goes “ding!” and the door opens. I lead them into my one bedroom apartment, and shut the door behind us.

I utter a command: “Strip.” They do.

Twelve hundred and fifty-three pairs of sweaty shorts have hit that same spot in my living room over the past ten months. Some of them are already sporting boners at this point. It’s cute.

I often need to encourage them: “The underwear, too.”

And then, without warning, I bend down and start sucking their cocks.

The taste and scent of male sweat turns me on like nothing else.

A few of my partners have blown their loads within seconds. They each replaced their shorts and left in a hurry, embarrassed, never to be seen again.

But the vast majority of them make it to my bed, where – after the hottest fuck of their lives – they’re soon made aware of the real reason I’m so willing to suck and fuck a sweaty stranger.

I stroll down the street of the townhouse complex wearing my best pair of sneakers and bouncing the very basketball that will seal the deal of my impending victory. Neighboring residents look on as I make my way into the complex’s basketball court. It’s only half a court, but that’s all we need.

On one side of the court stands my Vietnamese competitor Huynh who holds his own ball. Next to him are two older Asian men who are both wearing suits; I take it these are his father and uncle who have come to give him much needed moral support. On my side of the court sit three of my mates drinking beers from an esky cooler that they’ve dragged from my townhouse garage. The alcohol fueled boisterousness of my rowdy bros will surely intimidate Huynh and his Asian family, giving me an extra edge in the competition. Last of all, near the front centre of the court stands the very prize of the showdown; Huynh’s delicious, virgin teenage sister, Trinh. After I beat Huynh and win the game, this girl is going to be sucking on my balls for dessert tonight!

This whole competition started exactly one month ago. The boys and I had spent the entire day drinking beers and cooking snags on my townhouse veranda. It was the afternoon and we decided it’d be awesome to do some laps around the complex in my mates V8 while cranking some Metallica. During the laps I noticed a bunch of Asians moving furniture around one of the townhouses and another pair near the basketball court. My mates and I decided to jump out of the car and see what all the fuss was about.

That’s when I first saw Trinh, the pretty Asian daughter of the family. My mates all knew how badly I wanted to nail a hot Asian chick and Trinh would be perfect. I noticed she was watching her brother Huynh shooting hoops on the basketball court and I decided to stumble over to them with beer in hand. Huynh immediately stopped shooting on my arrival and both he and his sister greeted me kindly. In my completely shitfaced state, I challenged Huynh to a basketball shootout and if I won I would get to fuck his teenage sister. Huynh explained that his sister was still only a virgin and that he would like at least one month to prepare for the basketball showdown. We shook hands in agreement before I downed the last of my beer. I threw Trinh a sly wink and wandered back over to tell the boys how this shit will go down. In one month’s time Huynh and I would take turns at shooting hoops until he misses and then I would get to take his sister’s sweet virginity.

The following weeks I spent all of my time thinking about how I’m going to plow the fuck out of this girl. Although she’s a virgin I had no plan on being gentle; I wanted her to scream and cry like the Asian girls do in porn. I gave up masturbation for the month and adopted a special diet in order to maximize my sperm count. This would fuel me with an intense sex drive that I would use to ravage her harder, boosted testosterone to win the game and an enormous load of cum to unleash all over her cute little face. I spent days watching Asian porn and planning all of the different ways I could defile this girl for when the time finally came.

I almost feel sympathetic for Huynh and his family. They’ve probably just escaped the horrible living conditions of some war stricken Vietnamese slums. Huynh probably had to fight tooth and nail everyday to protect his sister from being raped by thieves and murderers. Their family may feel safer in our great country but their daughter isn’t safe from me and I’m sure Huynh knows it. I’ve seen the way Trinh admires her older brother and when he loses to me and lets her down it’s going to be sweet… sweet like her lips, sucking on my balls for dessert.

So here I stand beside the half court, today is the day. I watch Huynh prepare to take his first shot and my drunken bros behind me start throwing out a mixture of laughter, racial slurs and the word “cunt”. To my surprise, Huynh lines up the shot carefully and launches the ball straight through the hoop. His father and uncle both nod approvingly and his sister Trinh jumps around happily while doing a bunch of cute little Asian gestures… my fucking god I’m going to slay her. My mates notify Huynh that his shot was “fucking bullshit cunt” and that he should “get fucked ya dirty chink”. Cheers lads.

It’s my turn now and I walk into the centre of the court to take my position. As I line up the ball I notice Trinh in the corner of my eye. She’s holding her innocent little hands tightly over the front of her skirt. She knows that her delicious oriental hymen is now in great danger, along with her precious virginity. Before I crouch down to execute my shot I realise something. I’ve been so obsessed with the idea of fucking Trihn that I haven’t practiced any basketball shots for the entire fucking month!

I take the shot. The ball completely misses. Fuck.

Oh well, shit happens. I decide I’ll just shrug it off and join my bros for some beers to drown my sorrows. As I attempt to walk off Huynh stands in front of me with his arms folded and speaks to me in a serious tone, “You remember our deal right?” I look at him slightly puzzled and reply, “Yeah… If I won I would’ve got to fuck your sister and since I lose I simply don’t… right?”

Huynh shakes his head slowly.

Apparently there was more to the deal than I remember. I was simply too drunk at the time to recall it and I only remembered the awesome part about fucking his sister if I win the basketball showdown. Huynh explains to me that his family is from a remote village in Vietnam where they have quite a unique tradition. Apparently the family cuts off the genitals of their defeated enemies and eats them with dinner that very night. The enemy’s devoured genitals bless the winner’s family with great power, fertility and luck.

I was fucked.

Huynh’s father and uncle grab me from behind and drag me over to their side of the court. I kick and scream wildly for help but my mates are too drunk to give a shit and they simply laugh and chug beers. I struggle to free myself but it’s no use, the uncle and father remove my pants and place a rubber band tightly around my cock and balls. I glance over at Trihn for pity and sympathy but she simply stares back at me with a blank expression on her face. I’m nothing but meat for her family’s sick tradition just as she was nothing but meat for my sick fantasies. The father and uncle force me down so hard that I can no longer struggle. As Huynh pulls out the razor blade and places it against my ensnared genitalia, I stare back at Trihn and I smile.

She’ll still be sucking on my balls for dessert tonight.

I’m thinking about the music and the bus being late and the traffic nearby and the twilight when a man walks up to the seat, speaking at me. I remove an earphone and ask him to repeat it.

“Was that the 470?” he asks, gesturing at the bus that just passed.
“No, that was the 475. The 470 is running late.”
“There’s one coming at 5.38.”
“Yeah, but the 5.18 bus hasn’t shown up.”
“Oh, the bastard sometime doesn’t show.”

I’m amused by his thick Scottish accent. My affection for that accent is second only to a strong, masculine Irish voice. He barely misses a beat in the conversation, and gestures to my shirt-and-jeans attire.

“So what are you, a student, I guess?”
“No, not any more.”
“Full-time work?”
“Yeah, more or less.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a freelance journalist.”
“Oh, is that like investigative journalism?”
“Kind of. I come up with story ideas and throw them at editors of various publications, and they give me a yes or no in response.”
“If they like it, they send you off to get that story.”
“Yeah, that’s how it works.”

By this point I’ve removed both earphones. The music continues playing, uncaring toward whether it has an audience or not. I’m intrigued by this stranger having a strong concept of what it means to be a journalist, and that he’s pursuing a strong line of questioning not out of courtesy, but genuine interest. It’s at this point when he begins surprising me even more.

He launches into a description of his job as a mineral engineer who inspects holes in the ground for big businesses, to determine whether they’re suitable for mining. I miss a few words due to his thick accent and the nearby traffic noise, but that’s how I understand it. He reveals that he’s 36 years old, single, earns a ‘considerable’ salary for his work, and that he’s done this job all around the world. My city is his favourite. I believe him. He suggests that I don’t know exactly how fortunate I am to be living here, and while he continues talking, I decide that he’s right.

The bus is totally late, and showing no sign of showing up. We both agree that I’m fucked in terms of my appointment, and that I’d be lucky to make it to the venue by half-six. I’m not too concerned, though this stranger seems to be. Perhaps he’s misread how important it is for me to be there in time. I’d like to be there by six – which is why I set out nearly an hour ahead of time to ensure I was there – but although I don’t tell him this, I’m starting to think that this conversation is more valuable to my life experience than missing the opening of a songwriting forum.

He’s still talking. I couldn’t stop him even if I wanted him to – which I don’t. He reveals that he’s about to tell me a story wherein he found happiness while experiencing sadness. I’m staring at him, listening, wondering what’s compelling him to speak so frankly. He tells me that his mother died two weeks ago, in his hometown of Barrhead, Scotland. Last weekend he flew to a southern capital city in an attempt to travel overseas directly, to try and make it to her funeral. As he arrived at the airport, he received notice that all international flights were cancelled, owing to the volcanic activity in Iceland. Dejected, he was flying home and began talking to the woman seated next to him, who he describes as “quite attractive”. He doesn’t describe their conversation mid-flight, but fast forwards to a phone call he received a few days ago. It was from the woman, who’d accessed the airline’s database – I’ve no idea how, and he doesn’t elaborate – in order to find this guy’s personal details. She was calling to ask him on a date.

“No way,” I reply, shocked at this unlikely string of events being related to me by a total stranger. “When are you seeing her?”
“This weekend. We’re having coffee at [the venue I'm intending to visit tonight]. A nice neutral venue, lots of people.. just a coffee.”

He relates little emotion when describing this story, though he is clearly fond of the woman despite her stalker-like tendencies. He acknowledges how odd it is for him to be elaborating on his “life story in five minutes”, though he simply states in response that it’s “just the kind of person I am”. I’m impressed. I realise that he’s only telling me this because he’s lonely. But not a desperate, needy kind of lonely. Instead, it’s a frank, honest exchange – at least on his part. I’ve said hardly anything in the time we’ve been sitting on this bench. He turns the topic once again to my appointment.

“Look, do you want me to pay for your taxi fare there?”
I stare blankly. “You’re serious?” I’m only asking to be polite; I know that he’s serious. He doesn’t seem the kind of man to make such an offer without an intention to follow through.
“Sure.”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t want to put you out.”

He accepts my dismissive response. He probably expected as much. But while we sit in momentary silence, staring in the same direction toward a bus that isn’t arriving, a taxi appears directly across from our seat. Its light is on. It’s vacant, and it’s stationary at traffic lights. He gestures toward it. I stand up. I get the taxi driver’s attention by acting out the question: “Can we jump in?” The driver nods, so we hurry over.

I can’t believe this is happening. I’m simply going with the flow, wondering where this will take me. I consider that this guy could be fucking insane and taking me back to his lair with untold acts in mind. Right now I’m like a child lured into a vehicle by the promise of candy, yet I’m entering into this situation as a mature adult with full awareness of what might perspire. This shit does not happen every day, so I’m just going with it.

As it turns out, the taxi ride is largely uneventful. The driver’s presence and my location in the backseat seem to kill the conversational chemistry that we had clocked up in the fifteen minutes we’d spent in each others’ presence. The driver is an immigrant, and a quiet one at that, so there’s little interest there. During the story about the woman on the plane, he mentioned the name Jerry. I take a stab.

“Your name’s Jerry, isn’t it?
“Yep.”
“What are you up to tonight, Jerry?”
“Well, besides meeting up with a friend at my place, nothing.”
“Cool.”
“Do you think I should just tell him to come to the venue?”
I’m initially flummoxed that he’d rely on my input for such a complex question – I don’t know anything about his friend, their likes or dislikes, or their previous plan – before I realise that hey, this is just the kind of guy that Jerry is.
“Sure,” I reply.

He calls his friend and tells him of the change in plans. There’s no problem. I get the feeling that Jerry doesn’t have many problems. And I don’t mean that facetiously; he clearly has his head screwed on straight. He’s an engineer, so he’s very logical. It seems that to him, things are black or white. Grey areas don’t figure into his calculations.

Despite the traffic, we make it to the venue with one minute to spare, no shit. According to the taxi’s clock, it’s 5.59. He’s enquiring whether I’m ready to make a quick exit into the venue; I respond, “Dude, I’m not in that big of a hurry. I’ll wait to walk with you.”

He pays the fare – $20.70 – and we walk together.

“Well, I did my best to get you here in time.”
“Jerry, your best is amazing.”

We walk into the venue. I point out the section of the building where I’m headed. He wishes me a good night. I offer my hand while thanking him sincerely. Without breaking stride, he shakes my hand and states it’s no problem. We part ways, strangers once more. It’s unlikely we’ll meet again, yet I’ve nothing but respect and admiration for Jerry. He’s a real man.

I get most turds out, but not all. There’s no time to hang around waiting for round two, however, so I wipe, wash hands, and head for the door. We kiss goodbye out on the pavement, she heading for the bus, while I head for home a couple of blocks down.

Just before we left, she returned to me a knife borrowed last week, to cut an orange while working her job at a bottle shop. Turns out it wasn’t a necessary loan, as she bought a mandarine. So once we part company, I cross the road and I realise I’m holding a knife outwards. Suggestively.

As I pass a couple of garbage truck operators rummaging through bins, I consider gutting the one who’s bent over head-first into a bin. Just a quick slice down his ribcage would be enough to put him off guard. I’d turn his wounded, screaming mass over and cut directly through the high-visibility vest, ignoring his intestines and going straight for the delicious kidneys.

I keep walking. The bloodlust passes. I rearrange the knife so that I hold its handle while the serrated blade rests against my inner wrist. Look up “concealed weapon” in any dictionary and you’d find a picture of me, at 8.15am in the morning, walking proud and daydreaming of cutting bitches.

A man appears before me on the footpath. He seems disadvantaged in terms of his stature and weight. The dude looks severely undernourished; the width of his calves are comparable to my forearms. Yet, observing his hunched-over shuffle, I consider that he might be homeless. He shoulders a bag that could contain his life’s possessions.

This one would be piss-easy. The guy seems so far down on his luck already that he’d welcome my maniacal thrusts into his chestal region. He’d forego the drama usually associated with cold-blooded murder – howls of pain, screams of protest, cries for help – and look up into my eyes, silently thanking me for ending his aimless journey across earth’s surface. A few good jabs later, I’d remove the knife from his heart, wipe it on his jacket and continue walking. Given how little people care for the plight of the homeless, I imagine his body would stay there for weeks until devoured by the local possum population. Suited businessmen on the way to work would step over his worthless body while on the phone to their slutty call-girls, barely acknowledging this man’s once-existence.

The daydream’s over by the time I’m standing outside my house. I press the electronic device that controls my garage door. A couple of middle-aged women standing nearby make surprised noises. I think they’re new to my building. I’ve never really made the effort to get to know my neighbours.

One of the women – the plumper, less attractive one – says something about how their garage door isn’t connected to an electronic opener. Whatever. Me, all I’m thinking about his heading upstairs and taking care of defecation 2.0. She asks to take a quick look inside my garage to compare to hers. Again – whatever.

She steps inside my garage, peering up at the ceiling. In that moment, I realise what I must do. I must remove her throat. In one foul swoop, I disconceal the blade and introduce it to the women’s sizeable windpipe. From this distance, I can see how heavily made-up she is, in an effort to cover her unattractive, ageing physical features. As I cut through the trachea, I’m ignoring her friend’s screaming and thinking about how much time she wasted this morning applying chemicals and colours to her face, only to be murdered a few metres away from where she sleeps.

She’s stopped struggling by now, as I reach the front of her neck. Rivers of blood run across my garage floor out into the common area, yet strangely, I’m completely untouched by the red liquid. Man, my housemates are not going to be happy with this mess. Or the dead fat woman. I press the button that closes the garage door, and calmly head for the toilet to evacuate my bowels for the second time in ten minutes.

You know what’s fucked up? She was on my property, and since I can afford a hot-shot lawyer, he successfully argues that my heinous act was in self-defense. We pay off the only witness, the fatty’s best friend of 25 years; I end up boning her upstairs, while her friend lies dead as fuck on my garage floor. Good times.

It’s a diverse crowd. He’s a comedian, so he has friends across the city. Around 50 of them are here today, adults and children.

I’m mostly shitfaced when we sit down at Danny’s enormous outdoor table to eat. All afternoon, between slugging down stubbies of Victoria’s finest, I’ve had my eye on one apparently-single blonde. She’s wearing a pink sundress that shows too much leg and not enough snatch, and fuuuck I would slay that.

We’re sitting across from each other at the table. We haven’t spoken yet. I pass her the salad, and she smiles a sweet little cocksucking smile. Or at least, in my arseholed state, that’s how I interpret it.

The kids are at the far end of the table babbling about some bullshit. She makes some comment to the guy next to me – the one who’s been playing hide-and-seek and drawing pictures for the little fuckers all afternoon – about how great he is with kids.

A great joke comes to mind. In an instant, I’m on my feet, before I know what I’m doing. I belch.

“So am I!” I declare. “I’m fucking great with kids!”

I accidentally lurch forward, splashing beer all over my plate. I compose myself, and pause for maximum comedic effect.

“I can make most of them cum within five minutes!”

And I wonder why my friends stop inviting me to their barbeques.

I notice two girls standing on the other side also waiting for the same set of lights I am. Both girls are pretty cute and I can tell they find me attractive because they’re smiling at me and giggling with each other. It’s no surprise really; I’m a pretty attractive guy with great confidence and I’m wearing some pretty fresh shit. As we all wait for the lights, the girls continue to chat about how hot I am in the distance and I begin to plan out my confrontation with them when we finally cross the road.

My plan is solid; as the lights go green I’ll rip off my shirt and begin a confident strut towards the girls. They will see my amazing body and fall into a frenzied trance of lust. When this happens I’ll whip out my cock while standing in the middle of the street and force the girls to beg for it on their hands and knees. As they crawl up to me along the dirty, hot road I’ll command them to sit on their knees while stroking my dick slowly in front of them as they drool with anticipation. I’ll then grab the hair of one of the girls and jam my cock down her throat, she’ll continue to swallow it while her friend begins sucking on my nuts below. I’ll begin alternating between the two girls, making them gag on my rock hard shaft while surrounding traffic of the city builds up and watches my performance in amazement. After a while I’ll feel myself ready to burst so I’ll pull out from the girl’s mouth and unleash an impressive load all over their faces without spilling a drop. The girls will then lick my slop off each others faces and swallow every last bit while the surrounding traffic honks and cheers in my glory. The situation will be so fucking hot that all the nearby fire hydrants will explode simultaneously and shower upon the two chicks as they make out passionately under a giant fucking rainbow.

The only thing now separating this fantasy from becoming reality is a fucking green light. I slap the traffic button a few more times in a useless attempt to trigger that glorious moment of colour transition. Suddenly some douchebag and his girlfriend walk straight passed me. They clearly ignore the traffic lights which remain  red and continue to walk hand in hand across the empty street. The two girls on the other side notice this, shrug their shoulders and also begin crossing the street without the traffic light’s confirmation.

Great… thanks a lot asshole, Now I look like a fucking idiot standing at the lights for no reason. The two girls that once found me badass and attractive are now looking at me like a fucking pussy since I’m obeying the rules when everybody else isn’t. The other thing is if I walk across the road now I’ll look like a jackass following the actions of that douchebag which would make him the alpha male. If that happens the two cute girls will go home with the douchebag and his girlfriend where they’ll all have amazing, wild sex while I’m still standing on this curb like a fucking dipshit.

Confidence shattered and ego deflated, I stand around uncomfortably and awkwardly while praying for a car, bus or ANYTHING to swing around the corner and take out everyone crossing the fucking road.

Fuck the traffic lights.

Damned if the kid – who can’t be older than two, dressed in a striped shirt and denim shorts – doesn’t light up at the sight of his father. “Daddy!” he yells with joy.

He starts running at the man. Tiny little legs wearing tiny little shoes pound across the brightly-lit supermarket, while the people all around me go about their business. I’m the only one witnessing this interaction, the only one paying it any mind. It’s not important at all, but then, why the fuck am I smiling like an idiot?

By now the kid’s in his father’s arms, perched on his right forearm, wiggling and giggling excitedly. The female clerk is smiling at the boy, and still I stare, lips curled upwards. I question myself: why? The answer comes immediately.

It’s because this child, right now, is entirely happy with his life. He’s with his mother and his father and he’s away from home and there are strange people and bright lights and curious beeping sounds and colourful fruit nearby and love and admiration all around him.

I’m smiling because I know there’s no way I – a grown human with thoughts, feelings, responsibilities, concerns, priorities, preconceptions, beliefs, assumptions and prejudices – will ever be able to again feel that kind of unquestioning, all-encompassing happiness.

At any other time of day I’d likely not have noticed this interaction, with a preoccupied mind turning like a rat in a wheel. Or I’d have at once realised the inherent sadness that one’s happiness tends to trend downwards once we hit double digits. But now, after the lunch rush and having spent several hours conversing both in person and online, I’m temporarily at ease with the world around me, and able to dedicate a few minutes’ reflection on the gift of life.

Which is why, standing in a supermarket queue with a bottle of sugar-water in hand, I’m smiling my ass off at this kid who, if only for a moment, is wholly content with himself and his environment. He’s the centre of attention and he’s loved, and that’s all he needs.

I ripped open my door and charged across the road. I was about to break their window with my elbow when I stopped myself. It looked fearfully at me while continuing to bark without pause. And despite my smoldering rage, I smiled.

Usually my laptop and speakers were the last to be unplugged, but since I was moving cross-state, I had to ship them ahead so that my girl would be set up for my arrival. Which wouldn’t have been a problem; I’m happy to converse with myself in-mind and out-loud. What should’ve been an enjoyable day of self-reflection was instead hijacked by a restless, imprisoned canine.

I know how childish it was. To allow myself to be affected by a lonely animal who knows no right nor wrong. I turned my anger over in my head time and again. I rationalised that my feelings were those of a less intelligent being, responding emotionally to a stimulus. I tried closing the doors and windows while I packed, before berating myself for letting another being dictate my actions.

See, the dog barked throughout each weekday, while its owners were at work. I knew this because I worked from home. Ordinarily, I drowned out its noise with music at high volumes. But since my aural arsenal was disarmed, I was left to rely on a soundtrack of incessant, senseless barking.

I’ve never understood: why do people who aren’t around to care for animals accept ownership? Worse still, why don’t they invest time in training the animal to cope with their absence?

Amid an encompassing sea of rage, that thought floated to the surface: what if they didn’t know? I lowered my elbow. What if the owners didn’t know that their dog barks all day? When they were home, there was no problem. The problem was that no-one told them what happens when they’re not.

Which is why I smiled. Someone had to tell them. And since I was moving out tomorrow, I could be as malicious as I wanted, without bearing witness to the aftermath.

I returned home and took out a notebook. A threat was required. As a screenwriter, I’d always found comedy in having my characters maintain an air of courtesy while delivering hurtful remarks, so I adopted that affectation in my letter.

Pen in hand, I began.

“Dear Sir/Madam: your dog barks all day while you are out.” Straight to the point. Nice.

“This may be of little to consequence to you working-class swine. But for folk who work from home – such as myself – its choice to repeatedly shatter one’s concentration is abhorrent. Respectfully, I request that you teach your animal how to remain quiet or I shall remove its ability to make noise.“

I paused. Fuck it. No time for subtlety. “Just so we’re clear. If you don’t shut your dog up, I’m going to break its legs one-by-one, then stab its throat with a screwdriver.”

Threat delivered. A name was required. “Signed, Mr Fuck.“

I placed the letter in their mailbox and returned to my packing while whistling the Looney Tunes theme, over and over.