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A novel by R.J. Gil’Lean

(Gilleathain na Tuaighe)


This Novel is a work of fiction and should be read as one. Whereas it is true that the author
smokes Cannabis, it is not the intention of this Novel to encourage anyone to do so. If, however the
reader chooses to smoke Cannabis either for medical use or recreation that is their choice.
The author has been smoking Cannabis for relief of Chronic Sleep Apnoea for years, and has
found that when Cannabis is used Sleep Apnoea does not occur. This is anecdotal, but is
supported by the medical professions in countries where medical Cannabis is being used legally,
may this happen here soon!
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This Manuscript in its entirety is the Copyright Property of R.J. Gil’Lean

"How many murders, suicides, robberies, criminal

assaults, holdups, burglaries and deeds of
maniacal insanity it causes each year, especially
among the young, can only be conjectured...No
one knows, when he places a marijuana cigarette
to his lips, whether he will become a joyous
reveller in a musical heaven, a mad insensate, a
calm philosopher, or a murderer..."

Commissioner of the US Bureau of Narcotics 1930-


Complimentary Chapter 2

2. The Miracle

Hoe Hoe Hoe (some years later)

They were about 2 hours into the days’ work when Pete leaned on his hoe and took his

hat off. He got that far away look in his eyes like Jenny, his last girlfriend was stroking

his feet on the sloppy couch in front of the telly. Pete was a sucker for any girl who’d tickle his

feet. His friends all thought that was the best part of his and Jennys’ relationship. They’d

met surfing. She was small, compact and sexy as. She was a fighter. She loved to argue and fight

with Pete about anything. He liked it too for a while,


he used to say with pride about her. Until the novelty wore off and he just wanted quiet

nights watching Trek. She was in England for a few months travelling with her sister, they’d actually

split before she left which everyone thought was for the best.
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Pete was out cotton chipping with two mates, the other Pete, and Quiet Terry, as he was now known.

It was six weeks since they’d hit the surf at Boulders. Six long hot grimy weeks of cotton

chipping near Gravesend, sixty clicks from Moree. The sound of crows crying was their

alarm in the morning greyness, as the heat squeezed into the workers hut and infiltrated

their dreams. The morning sounds of other workers and predawn clatter lifted them

out of bed long before work time. The work wasn’t hard, just monotonous and fucking

hot. (If you’ve never been out to Moree you have no fucking concept of what hot really

means. Think I’m joking. Well fuck you. Get in your car, leave off the a/c and drive out there

in summer. You’ll think you’ve sprung a leak.) The surfing withdrawals started after a week,

lasted as long as they could hold out.

Cotton chipping attracts weirdos, let’s face it. Anyone willing to stand in the sun removing

weeds from between one of the most heavily sprayed crops on the planet, had to be fucked in the

head. However, Pete loved the assortment of characters that congregated each season on the fields.

One guy, Ted Amore had used his cotton chipping seasons to hone his staff fighting skills during

the day with the hoe and the hot nights to perfect his Arnis stick fighting with the tough shearer

lads from the next mega property. He went on to compete in the world stick fighting titles and

came fourth. All the visiting boys wanted Ted on their side when a fight broke out at the

Royal Hotel in Warialda or the other pubs in the area where generally regular fights occurred.

Ted could snap a pool cue like nobodys business and swing it like a helicopter

propeller. He was awe inspiring, and egg inspiring on the heads of any challenger. He had a

secret weapon as well. He drank water all night and pissed idiots were easy targets. It’s a funny

thing but no one ever got really damaged, I mean… dead. Ted always pulled his blows, ‘cause he

knew his awesome power. When the cops arrived no one said a thing, and no

charges were ever laid.

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Ted copped a beating however from two girls from Sweden one night. Ted had wrapped

his sticks around the noggin’ of a good friend of theirs at the Imperial in Moree one

night and so the girls in true revenge form, waited three months and then seduced Ted back to a

motel room in Moree on the grounds that they were both going to fuck him sore. Ted saw most

things coming, fists, bottles, pool cues and the like. He didn’t see this. The girls assured him of

some truly kinky goings on, and tied him to the bed securely. They then proceeded to flog him

with an assortment of belts with cowboy buckles, and whips, but not in a kinky sexual kind of

way. When they had completed their revenge Ted was jelly. He woke up in a pool of his own

blood some days later, dehydrated and near death. It seems the girls booked and paid for the

room for a week. By the time Ted was being rushed to Moree hospital, they were in the south of

France somewhere, laughing in Swedish over croissants and mocha coffee with Iko their big

blond mate.

Ted recovered of course and was back chipping the next season after his near win in Germany at

the titles. He came home via Stockholm and said he’d managed to catch up with Iko and the girls for a

bit of a party. He never elaborated, and no one asked any questions. It was only when the Federal

Police turned up with an Interpol agent and Ted was arrested and sent to Sweden for the murder trial

that everyone found out what had really happened. Ted was gaoled for life for the triple murder and was

last seen on late night TV on the news. Word was heard the next year that Ted had managed to work his

way quickly to a non secure prison under the lax Swedish prison regulations. From there he escaped and

was never seen again, until much later.........

Pete, the one leaning on the hoe, was a drummer. A fucking good one too. He’d been at it

since he was seven. After two years of lessons he got a place in a military band, and by
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twelve, used to hammer away in triplets to the standards on Australia day in the

Turramurra Pipe Band. His first real band at Uni was called the Toothbrush Family and played a

mix of Pop/Reggae/Ambient sounds a little too far ahead of their time. They’re still gigging.

The other Pete, “Piercing Pete” is a body piercer extraordinaire. His favourite is

his “initiation” pierces. No clamps, no pain relief, on a log in the bush somewhere, like an

ancient ritual, except for the gloves and hospital lances. He pierced Terrys’ left nipple and Michael

Ashmore as well on a mens camp out in the river wilds of the Macquarie -Turon basin. Nine men for

six days, hunting, fishing and music. A wild tribal thing to do. Michael and Terry had submerged

themselves in the icy waters of the Macquarie for half an hour prior to their piercing so there wasn’t

much blood. The photos of Terry taken by Frenchie Marco show him spitting and writhing in agony.

The photos of Michael Ashmore have him the calm meditative genius.

“Pierce me deep “he’d said to piercing Pete (PeteP), and PeteP obliged. Weird fucker.

Piercing Petes’ skills were in demand in those days before you had to have a licence to pierce. He

always said the best part about clitoral and labial piercing wasn’t the piercing itself, but his

fortnight after checkup that all was well at the jade gates. And that was how the rule of three started,

but….for later.

PeteP is originally from the Blue Mountains and he doesn’t play music but he

dances like a bastard when he fills up on disco bikkies and does this jittery Afro

Cuban variation on a theme all night and way after the band at the Moree Pub

has finished.
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“You know Pete, there’s a shop in Nimbin that sell all kinds of alternative legal herbal highs. You don’t

have to keep putting that shit in your body you know. Like they’ve got this stuff called Cherry Pop and

it’s a bit like MDMA. Also BUZZ….a bit like Coke. Why don’t you give it a try?” drummer Pete

(PeteD) asked one night after PeteP came off a two hour dancing frenzy at the pub.

“You know Pete, I really love you and the way you care so much about me …in fact I think you need a

big Petey hug right now.” Replied PeteP and proceeded to hug the other Pete and affirm his mately love

for him about a thousand times.

Terry is the odd one out, or more consistently the odd one in the threesome. Short,

stocky and quiet. He only speaks about 5 times a day, but when he does people

listen. It is like he is channelling some ethereal radio station; sometimes

he just sings these loopy, intelligent verses that have you thinking about them

for hours. And sometimes it’s just one word…. like SENSITIVITY, or

COURAGE, like his mind has dipped randomly into some great cosmic bowl of Positive

Affirmations or Angel Cards. Some people can’t look Terry in the eyes. One girl they met last season

said the reason was that people, (like her), were frightened of the immediate reflection of

themselves that they see. Terry has done some major drugging also in his time and paid the price.

Everyone thinks he is really weird, out on the fields. Not so in Byron or Nimbin where he

is seen as a bit of a guru, mainly because when he can he removes snakes from peoples

houses. George the Snakeman taught him and it is like he has come to his rightful place in life. At

the pubs the three frequent in Moree, where admittedly things are real country conservative, he

is seen as a nutter. But none of the shearers, cowboys, or other chippers ever picks him for a fight.

Even Ted Amore said he was happy Terry was a friend and not a foe.
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The only time it happened was on their first cotton season. A big fella, six foot four called Dame,

eyeballed Terry after he had just transfixed the whole bar at the Royal in Warialda with one of his song


“I saw the sun rise over the city orange like a fire, smell of rotting carcass taking my senses higher

Why would you want to be there it’s the belly of the beast?

Waiting for the birds and animals to eat you in the feast…yeah yeah yeah

I saw a sign drawn so clearly like writing on the wall all the indications of an empire about to fall

Why would you want to be there it’s the belly of the beast waiting for the spirit in a place where

The spirit has ceased…oh oh oh

Kumbundjala, Kumbundjala, Bundjalung woman

Kumbundjala, Kumbundjala, Bundjalung way…” etc. etc.

It was obvious that Dame wanted trouble and it was obvious that Terry was only half this monsters’

size, but something in Terry’s’ eyes, something in his intonation and the way he said forcefully

through bared teeth….


made the big fella back right off and leave the pub. He crashed into a creek bed about twenty minutes

later and died before anyone found him. Terry was left alone after that. Even out west they recognise


It wasn’t the first or last time that Terry had concerned his mates with his strangeness. He regularly

had dreams that came true. Before India he was always telling the others about his psycho

dreaming when he’d have a break from smoking dope. And lo and behold, many of the dreams
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actually happened. It was freaky. Julie was shit scared of his dreaming. The others just hoped he

never had a bad dream about them. Terry said the dreaming came from his Maternal great

grandmother who was a gypsy, and from his paternal grandmother who was struck twice by

lightning. Wherever the source it was real and used to freak the person dreamed about out like

nothing else.

They knew where the look in drummerPetes’ eyes would take them. It was

Friday, eight a.m. If they drove straight there with only one stop for fuel at Woodenbong, they

would be in the surf by 2 o’clock. PeteD just dropped his hoe in the dirt and headed like a

magnet for the van. The other two looked at each other with nearly a hint of “fuck him, let

him go” and then dropped their hoes too and ran after him. The foreman heard the van

start and just shrugged. He knew they’d be back within a week, there was no work in the

Lennox area for three surf bums and they wouldn’t work for $15 an hour in a

Café…… if you paid them…….

They always kept a spare bag each in the van for such inevitably spontaneous departures and

decisions. Their boards were strapped on top all the time like a defining signature to the

people on the cotton farms of who they were, and their stash was in the glove box for

lunchtime festivities. The pot they grew last year was killer weed. Seeds traded with a

surfer called Rob some years earlier were a cross strain of Durban Poison and Maui

Wowee, the legacy of Robs’ time on the World Pro Surfing Circuit; a potent little

combination that yields a euphoric, mildly tripping experience that has left many

wishing they’d not dared and others gladly seeing god. Each year they devoted one plant

to seed and with great joy spread it around for the enlightenment of the
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This stash was some of the dregs of about a pound of heads kept for emergencies.

It was all hair and bite. Pungent and smoky and feral like the armpits of some of those

unshaven Nimbin girls with dreads they sexed last year at the Nimbin Mardi Grass.

The 2008 Mardi Grass was a cracker, in spite of the ridiculous and over the top police presence.

It had started with the April Fool’s Day Raid on the Nimbin Hemp Embassy, Hemp Bar next door, and

The Nimbin Hemp Museum across the road. Over seventy heavily armed police, some in full riot gear,

had descended on the peaceful town and terrorised it. It just got worse from there on.

A good friend of the Pete’s said he sold more pot during MG 2008 than he had the year before

even with the paramilitary dressed cops in toe. Terry saw a cookie fairy selling mull cookies for three

dollars or two for five and she said she sold a thousand cookies on Saturday and Sunday. There were

some awfully stoned punters walking around evading capture that weekend.

Thousands turned out in support of the Law Reform Rally on the Sunday and everyone who wanted to

was still able to sneak off somewhere the cops weren’t for a joint or pipe. Terry saw three cops wrestle a

fella to the ground and then subdue him with capsicum spray and then cuff him so he couldn’t wipe his

eyes. Just when he and everyone standing around thought that his eyes were going to fully

melt, an angel called Rainbow wafted through the crowd and started splashing water in his eyes.

A cop stepped forward to restrain her. As she turned and looked at him it was like the cop got stabbed

in the chest. He just stopped in his tracks with his hand outstretched and the other one loosening his top

button. Terry saw the look in her eyes and she saw him. Later that night after a few pots of Sassafras

tea Terry and Rainbow Kama Sutra’ed the night away in the back of the Beddy. This is also where the
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rule of three commenced…..but for later.

PeteP and PeteD met a couple of really feral girls that night, it was dreadful…ha-ha….both girls

had really wild and long dreads, hairy armpits and unshaved legs and bushes. They went back

to Lillyfield community where the girls shared a cabin and fucked the night away. A fly on

the wall would have noticed both Pete’s obscured by large amounts of hair.

“Well that did me the world of good” PeteP said as they hitched back into town in the morning.

“Yes me too, and the funny thing is that Parvati was actually forty years old.”

“No shit Sherlock. You must have been stoned to not have known that. Or maybe you need your eyes


“What so you knew she was ten years older….why didn’t you say something?”

“Look mate, did you have fun?”


“Was the sex good?”

“It was awesome.”

“Then shut up and get that finger working, I want to get another one of those dark chocolate filled

organic donuts”.

Terry is the only one prone to bouts of paranoia, so he drove home, while the other two

climbed into the rear of the Bedford and started packing cones. PeteP had fitted a really hip

CD player to the rear bench with a Terry-invented bump dampener made out of recording

studio sound insulation and so there were never any scratchy tunes. Terry said forcefully

“ARMADA”. They knew what he meant and soon, Sex and The City remix on an old
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Groove Armada CD is crackling over their respective skins and helping the THC to

pull the 2 Pete’s into a trippy kind of lethargy out on the road to Inverell. The Bedford

whined loudly up through 120kmph and Terry got that look on his face like he was staring into

the face of Hell and just planted his foot and motored on. No one can sense it, but Terry feels the subtle

changes in the land as he is whizzing along deep in thought…or feel. Someone once told him that what

he was feeling were the changes in spirit as he crossed old borders between aboriginal nations’ land.

Really Ripped

The 2 Pete’s are known for their ability to pack away the mull. Even the nasty boonda

weed that is known as Mullumbimby Madness didn’t deter them. Billy’s’ Creek Bite Back,

Robs’ Revenge and Saul’s Outdoor Japonica did not produce a flinch.

Some people like to get just stoned. Others like to be a little more gone but still in

control, and hate stepping over the line where reality warps a bit. But both the Pete’s loved

to just fuck themselves completely on the wildest shit that was available……..

”As long as it isn’t hydro”.

Pete who loves to pierce, in spite of his occasional love of dancing on

eckies, was dead against hydro due to the chemical and nutrient saturation that gives it a

definite heavy drug feel. Drummer Pete just loved anything organic and only smoked “real bud”

as he calls it.

“Maybe after the shit goes down and we’re livin’ underground, “he said. But in any case

these two lads can out smoke the most dedicated pothead. They talked about it a lot… The
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inevitable breakdown of modern society. PeteD was working in Sydney in 1993 when the

combined Transport Workers, Oil Refinery Workers, Public Transport Workers strikes occurred. He

saw how quickly the supermarket shelves emptied (four days), and he saw the army trucks

dispensing S-26 milk formula to nursing mothers. He packed up the following week, when petrol

was again available and left the city for good. PeteD now said…

“Two days mates, two days. It’s fifteen years later and there’s only ever two days food on the

shelves in Sydney. That means five million people are only six meals away from total anarchy. I

will never go back there. And I don’t want to be where those people have to go to get food when

they inevitably do. It will happen; you know it will, Terry dreamed it”

Terry nodded……..”SYNAPTIC” he said.

“Yeah, real synaptic” PeteD replied.

PeteP had read everything he could on climate change and peak oil over the last two years and was

convinced that trouble, big fucking trouble was looming just over the horizon.

So here they were in the back of the Beddy totally fuckin’ gone when Drummer Pete

(PeteD) said to Pete the Piercer (PeteP) “I’m going to shave all my hair off”. PeteP looked up

out of his navel fascination and saw PeteD pulling on a swimming cap they had accidentally

found on the road to Moree some days back. It made him look bald. “What do you REALLY

think?” PeteP giggled a bit and then went back to his navel. So PeteD pulled out his

shaving kit, and started cutting his short dreads off with a pair of scissors.

“Time for a change....”

Terry looked in the rear vision mirror and smiled his BIG smile.
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PeteD was going for broke with his tube of No Soap Shave and his Mach 3 until he

looked like a fucking Hare Krishna in a car accident. Blood oozed out of 20 odd nicks

and made him look like a scene from the Crucifixion. The Mel Gibson version.

“Hosanna in the vannest, Fuck mate, you look sick….give me the razor and shit” other Pete said.

By the time the trio were pulling into the BP at Woodenbong, PeteD was driving and PeteP

and Terry were looking like Nazi Skins in the back. Terry had rolled a cigar sized joint and

was puffing away like there was no tomorrow, while singing a high octave version of a song he made up

in the Gravesend Pub a week before…..

“I believe in Vudu…tell u I’ve seen magic…..

faces changing constantly….remedy is tragic…..”.

“Got to get petrol…..shit I’m really ripped…” said PeteD.

“All in your mind “Said PeteP.

And it was. This particular pot put you in touch with every subtle nuance in the short term mind.

You could not escape it, you had to just hang on for the ride and assure yourself that

schizophrenia was not setting in. It was just a very mentally active form of THC. Some smoko was

like that. You wouldn’t give it to any of your bi-polar friends as it could see them needing some

serious psychological re-evaluation… in a strait jacket on lithium! The big mistake that a lot

of the population make is in thinking that pot is just a herb. It’s not. It is a magical herb that can take

you out of this realm of reality and plant you in the realm of your greatest fear. They call it

paranoia. It hits every smoker at times, usually when you least expect it, and can last for hours. It is
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the worst of the smoking mirrors, but it can be a great therapeutic tool if you know how to

approach it and can separate the fear in the short term mind from the peace in the long term mind.

Then it just doesn’t matter and you can observe the process of your own fear. This is easy to say

and harder to do, and even harder to master. The boys had all tried and not succeeded. But they

were willing to give it another go. They called it woomphing. The paranoia. That was the way they could

discretely ask each other for assistance if they weren’t coping.

“I’m woomphing” one would say to the other, reaching out for support.

“Don’t bring me down you cunt” would reply the other, intensifying the firsts’ fear.

The remedy was easy, albeit possibly a placebo. Get as much orange juice or fresh oranges into the

victim as quickly as possible to settle the mental state. Many hard core potheads know this age

old remedy for paranoia, but if you are reading this and don’t, well there you go, something for

free. Also another weird thing that they all knew. If you were prone to depression, it wasn’t good to

smoke pot. But if you had a one off bout, pot could help you immensely. The dual nature of things. As

with Schizophrenia. If you were genetically disposed to it, pot could trigger it. If you had it, pot could

help with it. Strange medicine.

The Miracle Begins

The old bloke who came out to driveway service them looked about 90 in the shade. He had

apparently owned the servo for 60 years. The BP was locally known as Woody’s’ Garage.

His name was Dennis Wood. He’d been in the Navy in the second war and was 80 not 90,

but he must have had a real hard life because he looked like shit. Woody just did that tut (or
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Cluck) sound with his tongue and roof of mouth when he saw the three escapees. They

always made this petrol stop when running away for a surf.

“Joined a fuckin’ cult have yas?” Woody quipped.

“Yeah, the run away from work cult” PeteP replied.

“G’day Woody” PeteD said,

“Yeah how are ya mate? Got the sand itch again have ya?” Woody joked with a big smile.

“Ah you know Woody, got to get me fix every few weeks”

“Smells like you’ve already had that young fella” he said screwing up his nose.

“You know Woody, it’s like……me beer if you know what I mean”

“Would you like a beer son….got some home brew inside….it’s a bloody hot day…?”

“Hey you two, Woody’s invited us for a coldie!” PeteP said.

The three boys followed the old man inside after he’d refilled the tank and paid him cash and

then waited while he shuffled off to get some ale and glasses out of an ancient fridge

parked in the corner of the shop. While he was doing this Terry started to look

around at the odd assortment of stuff for sale on the eye level shelving that went almost

all the way around the four walls. His Hell View eyes stopped on the nicest looking bong

he’s seen in ages.

“ ANGELIC” he said and the two Pete’s followed his gaze to the Bong.

There were actually about a dozen of them. They were made out of a really finely sanded

pale coloured wood and had been partially wrapped in copper wire. The stem and bowls

shone like gold.

“Hey Woody, when did ya start selling this shit?” PeteD asked.
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“Oh…that,..well this new fella in town asked me if I would and well I just though I’d

help him out….he had a couple of young kids and he’s weird but kinda nice…


“How much?” PeteD asked.

“How much’ll you give me for one?” Woody replied.

”Shit not this again Woody…I just want to pay what they’re worth”

”Well whaddaya reckon they’re worth?” Woody sang.

“Shit…I feel like I’m back in India….Okay I’ll give you $30.00 for one or $50 for two.”

“Righto mate, pick the ones you want.” Woody said quickly.

“Is that it Woody?”

“The bloke said to take the offer people gave and that anyone who saw them would know

their value, so I guess you”

The beer was a Coopers brew and was as cold as charity and as cleansing on a hot day as

alpine creek water,…. almost. They had too many of course…, except Terry who had two and stopped.

Before leaving, PeteP filled one of the new bongs with tap water and filled up the spare

radiator bottle as well from a tap at the side of the servo.

Terry drove and the other two pulled cones and then slept on the double bed in the back.

At two thirty they arrived at Boulders and got off the rocks into the water. The swell was not

big but they caught waves and then sat out the back just soaking in the salty beauty until

fried and rooted. Dolphins were jumping waves near them and large rays were bottom scooting

under them.
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The boys loved to surf. They were a bit adventurous, but only PeteD was up for really big waves. He’d

tackle anything the coast could throw. Other Pete and Terry had seen him in fifteen footers over the

headland at the northern break. He’d wipe out a bit but usually got a couple. He’d drown a bit and then

usually get a couple more.

Survey Street looked out towards Boulders Beach and after the Ballina traffic died down you

could hear the ocean as an aural sounds cape, except when the backdrop of kitchen sounds &

Terry playing opera on the stereo, smashing about the kitchen in time to the orchestra, blocked it out.

That night he brewed up the hottest fucking chilli chicken dish this side of Pattaya. The house

was a settlers cottage kit home and after dinner is cooked they headed upstairs to the

loft to veg’ out on Trek DVDs, to get more stoned and drink a couple of good reds

from the “cellar”, an old tin garden shed in the backyard that was covered by rainforest

trees and vines.

Just as dinner was surfacing from the steam and burn around Terry, and as Fourplays Gypsy

tirade belted from a CD, PeteP entered the kitchen with a 1994 St. Henri Shiraz and a

Green Valley Cabernet Sauvignon with half the labels ripped off. “Can’t fucking work

this one out….but I think I delabelled it so I would have to guess its’ vintage. Fuck

knows…..” he said.

The boys loved their red wine. They put up a fair bit of their wages to shop online for wine deals and

they were in an exclusive wine club. All together they had ended up with a collection of terrific popular

and rarer wines that they loved to get pissed on.

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“And why the fuck shouldn’t we?” PeteP said as he popped a crisp cork out of the beautiful Penfolds St.

Henri Shiraz and sniffed it lovingly. “We should enjoy the fruit of our labour…or the fruit of the

vine….or someone else’s labour or that…..nice wine anyway.”

After Dinner Mint

They drooled over the Chilli Chicken, “as hot as Elle” as they are wont to say and

pulled cones in the new bongs until PeteD’s eyes rolled back in his head…a sure sign

that he was in the Wowie euphoria that he loved and PeteP ended up in foetal wunderland

under the coffee table. The Coffee table was ringed with stains and the carpet stunk. It

was the only place in the house that was outside the jurisdiction of Terry’s’ cleaning

frenzies, and both Pete’s’ had threatened him with certain death by Punji if he tried to

liberate the battle scars of the area around “ground zero” as it had been called for years.

The house is co-owned by the three mates. Terry and PeteD grew up in Deni together and they met

PeteP on really good cookies at Village Fair at CSU Mitchell in Bathurst about six years before and

when they finished Uni they all moved to Lennox together. Houses in Lennox were expensive

to rent then & buying any kind of real estate up north near the beach out of the

grasp of all three separately, so they decided to buy one together. PeteD’s grandfather had

died and left him $30,000 in inheritance, so they signed a mutual contract in front of

a solicitor and hit the Moree cotton fields. With two years employment records each and a

letter from the Union of Cotton Farmers of guaranteed employment each season, they purchased

47 Survey St. from another surfer called PeteH…..and moved in twelve weeks later. Terry had actually

met PeteH many years before.

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PeteH was Julies’ ex-boyfriends’ brother. Terry and Julie had stayed with him a few years before on a

holiday to the Byron area and had witnessed PeteH’s marriage breakup. Terry had said then that he’d

love to buy the house if it was ever on the market. He had no idea how he’d have done that, and no

idea that he’d eventually purchase it with the other two. It’s funny what you put out there in the

ether. It was five years until it happened, just perfectly timed. PeteH had been forced into selling by

the ex, the three boys were ready and it was a match made in heaven, even more so because no fucking

real estate agents were required, thankyou very much.

At 2am PeteD woke with a start and kicked the coffee table. Both bongs’ water capacity

was way above your average; “to assist cooling water & to give you an afternoon sea

breeze feeling” the blurb with the bong said. The water from the now lying down

bongs dribbled off the coffee table on to the carpet. PeteD didn’t notice, he would have

but he got distracted by the piercing eyes of Terry that were locked on him. “Fuck Terry

don’t do that, “he said. Terry then moved as if he is coming out of a deep trance and

shifted his gaze to the water on the carpet…..”TRANSLUSCENT”: is all he said.

To purchase a copy of the novel “Woodenbong Bongwater” – The New Marijuana novel 2010 by R.J.

Gil’Lean simply got to – You will LOVE it!