“The evolution of the human race will not be accomplished in the ten thousand years of tame animals, but in the million years of wild animals, because man is, and will always be, a wild animal.” -Charles Darwin

Age - Early thirties
Accessories - Jailhouse tattoos and "The Look"

"Money makes the world go around." I can't remember who said it, but I'm pretty certain he had invested in Microsoft Corporation before Bill Gates decided to take control of the modern free world. During the break between my third and fourth years of Uni, I was forced to ponder the merits contained in such a train of capitalist thought.

This logic would in turn have a bearing on the predicament that I faced: Do the student thing of enjoying four months of drunken late night cum early afternoon sleep-ins, or do four months of drunken sleepless nights "not" to be greeted at 6 AM by an alarm clock that had been stuck between stations the previous eve, in a half pissed attempt at setting the correct time. Either intentionally or through some accident, I decided that more Guinness would flow on the weekends if I had a pocket full of money, and the only way to obtain such money was to join the ranks of the common everyday working slob. My choice of profession? Antique removalist. It sounds like an easy job when your mind creates a scenario of carrying very expensive fine china around for some decrepit old granny, but the reality of lugging four hundred pound garden fountains is quite a different and shocking reality entirely.

Through a friend of a friend of a friend, I ended up working for a near psychotic black South African who had five other men of colour and myself lugging this gear around in-between copious amounts of coffee, swearing and the bosses philosophy on the entire Aryan race that ran pretty much to the effect "You know what the trouble is with you white cunts......". On this particular Tuesday morning, at a few ticks after seven, it was "The trouble with you white cunts is that you're all lazy... that's why I can't figure out what your story is. You're one of the few white people I've met who isn't afraid of work.... you're probably something like the missing link or an albino black man. Anyway getting back to your lazy white mates...you see, all you lazy white bastards sleep eight hours every night. I sleep six hours every night. That means by the time you're sixty you've been asleep for twenty years while I've only slept fifteen years. Do you see what I mean?" Strangely I did, and these days it's pretty rare to see this man slumbering more than three hundred and sixty minutes on any given day. This piece of antique removalist philosophy was followed with "You and The Thug are doing a delivery this morning to Brighton (a very exclusive area near the beach, where seagulls don't dare shit on the pristinely clean terracotta roofs) of those two stone lions". I looked in the general direction of the two crates, whose contents would eventually find their home at the entrance to a long and winding driveway. These creatures were meant to convey the impression of strength, wealth and affluence while putting the shivers into Jehovah Witness' that would consider it wise to ring doorbells at day's break on a Sunday. I wasn't scared of them, but the concept of being alone with The Thug had me feeling more than a touch apprehensive.

The Thug was a six foot four black South African in his early thirties whose arms were covered in jail-house tattoos which resembled crayon drawings on brown paper. He virtually never spoke (unless it was to the boss in hushed tones) and carried with him the fear potential of a cross between Idi Amin and Mike Tyson...and believe me when I tell you that I'm not overstating it. We both watched the forklift slide the crates into the back of the truck. Up, tilt, forward, down, slam, thud, slide, thud, slide, slam, withdraw. The rear doors were locked and the key slid into the truck's ignition.

The fifteen minute journey was soon over and The Thug backed the truck up outside a palatial residence complete with twelve foot wrought iron gates, higher white walls and a security camera perched above the entrance like some bird of doom watching its prospective prey pass beneath it. Passenger doors were opened and slammed shut, the tailgate dropped and after much grunting and cussing on my part, and calm power shifting on his, we realized that the two lions were going nowhere without the assistance of an industrial strength pallet jack, which happened to be on the other truck.

Mobile calls were made, the assistance was requested and the owner of the would be Taj Mahal that we were delivering to, offered to make us coffee while we waited for the equipment to arrive. Sitting in the bright morning sun and feeling my body warm, while doing my best attempt at staring into the blackness that was the bottom of my long black, isn't a bad way to spend a November morning. Just relaxing and enjoying the calm, peace and tranquility before the storm. "So what do you do when you're not here slaving for the boss?" That was what I hadn't expected. I expected The Thug to maintain his stoic silence, but here he was on this beautiful Summer morning initiating conversation with me, asking me a question that I didn't want to answer incorrectly (although there was no right answer) or in a manner that would give the impression that I was little more than a pet chimp with a high level of spasticity. "Not much....the pub....my mates....you know how it is" I answered, without looking him directly in the eye. He nodded and I assumed that he did.

"What about you?" I asked. He gave me a funny look, considered whether or not to give me a monosyllabic reply and then recounted the most hardcore two day action span that I'd ever heard. The Thug got home from work on a Thursday night at seven-thirty, after a day of lugging rich people's antiquities to find that someone had done his flat over. The kitchen window fly wire had been ripped off, the window jimmied and the would be master criminals had taken all small electrical equipment that wasn't bolted to the floor.

"There I am standing in the middle of the lounge, with no video, playstation or stereo. They even went into the bathroom and knocked off my mum's hair dryer. Can you believe it..a fucking hair dryer? What could I do? I cracked a lager and headed for the pub". Sitting in the front bar and drinking a few quiet beers while playing pool with mates, he was approached by an acquaintance who went by the moniker of The Weasel. The Weasel is a fringe dweller with no real friends within The Thug's inner circle, but tries to be hard by association. He is tolerated solely because he comes across quantities of stolen gear that he sells through the pub at severely discounted prices (or in The Thug's case, at a next to nothing price when he's fixed with "the look").

More beers were consumed as 8 ball's slammed off cushions and men shouted "Nice shot you fucken rat" to each other across a green felted and liquor stained pool table, that was illuminated by an overhanging "Jim Beam" light. The Weasel, with a few beers in his system to give him courage, approaches one of The Thug's crew with details of a possible transaction of electrical goods. The Thug catches a few words and casually walks over and announces "So what you got for me little bro?". The Weasel smiled, confident in the knowledge that he's now the point of attention of several of the heads who were sitting around, staring at nothing in particular while listening to working class drinking tunes. The Weasel leans in close and informs The Thug "I've got a cheap stereo and video that you can have on the cheapish side of cheap." The Thug presses for more, to which the thief replies "I had a Sony Playstation too, but I already sold it this afternoon for seventy bucks". The Thug stands back, and as cool as the cucumber of the proverb, eyes the little fellow and without a hint of malice or emotion says "What about my hairdryer you little cunt?". The Weasel misinterpreting it as a joke smiles back at him and winks, as if to say "Nice one". They always say that in the middle of a tornado there is total calm and quiet. No movement, no sound and no trace of the extreme destruction that is happening only a few meters away...no movement....no sound....no nothing...and then as it moves, the forces that be, tear up everything in it's path that have had the lack of sense or ability to move themselves. We never really know what causes such disturbances (at this point let me state that I put no weight in what weathermen say, as no other occupation pays that much money to be wrong seventy-five percent of the time...although that said, I excuse Helen Hunt in that waste of special effects called Twister). It could be isometric pressure, the snoring of Zeus as he sleeps atop Mount Olympus or just something as small and trivial as an unfortunate little man trying to play hard in a big boy's league.

That smile sparked the Thug into action. He bitch slaps The Weasel in the back of the head, grabs him by the throat and drags him outside. "Show me the shit dickhead" was all he had to say. The Weasel, still confused and fearing for his safety runs to the boot of his car and fumbles with the key in the lock, wanting to get it open before the Thug could have any further provocation in regards to laying more violence and punishment on him. The Weasel found a big rough hand on back of his neck as the boot popped, and heard the words "So you ripped me off". It was uttered in such a way that there would be no confusing it with a question. He was being told. He quickly stammered "n.n.no..no.no" with the following story that he had bought the gear from a pair of dyke junkers who'd ripped off someone who lived downstairs from them in their block of commission flats. "How much?" The Thug had resorted to his short sharp speech patterns that I'd witnessed during brief conversations that involved coffee breaks and stories about the size of "the set of tits on that rich bitch" who had just had some shiny bauble delivered to her home. "I got it all for one fifty" ventured The Weasel in a tone that illustrated severe caution coupled with the sound of a man carefully constructing meaningful sentences. "What about my mum's fucking hair dryer?" Silence and a look of total helplessness from The Weasel. "Are you some type of deaf cunt or what?" followed by a slap to the head, that was aimed more as a clarifying memory jogger than an act of specific brutality. Whether it was from frustration or the fear of what might be, The Weasel began to cry. Seeing this, The Thug realized that The Weasel had no knowledge of what it was that he was talking about, and thought it wise to explain the seriousness of the hair dryer dilemma. "That hair dryer belonged to my mum. It got knocked off and probably ended up with the rest of this shit. I finish work on Friday at six and will be at my dad's place... you know where that is don't you?". The conversation is at an end, The Weasel flees into the night and The Thug returns to a half empty glass of beer. For some, having a couple of beers is a way of passing time with friends. For others it's a pair of knitting needles that poke and prod the rage that hides just beneath a calm exterior. The Thug was one of the later, and with his mates pointing out "that these two bitches are trying to fuck you over.....showing much disrespect," by eleven he was at the point of thinking that these two "pussy eating junkie slags" had to pay for what they'd done. "Do you think I was going to let them get away with it bro? Do you think I should have?.......Do you?". He wasn't asking me to condone his actions, or take on the part of one of Caesar's seven senators. He was testing me to see my reaction. Would I be a man's man and say "Give them a hiding," or would I be a weakling and say "Let them be." I was thinking about a response when The Thug said "Well?" What could I say? What was it that was I risking? Where would this lead? "We're both different men, and I'm not sure what I would or could have done. I'd need to be in your shoes....but I wasn't so it's too tough to answer". Secretly I wanted to say, "You should let them be," but I recall being in a similar situation and what I'd felt and thought when I walked into the house to find my space violated and my possessions stolen. I had fantasized for days about coming home in the middle of the burglary and catching the thief in the act. My Christian good will and compassion would have disappeared in an instant to be replaced by the violence of wrath. The Thug seemed happy with my answer and continued his story.

"By the time I left the pub it was like eleven thirty, but I wasn't pissed. I spoke to a few of the boys and they agreed to help with what I was going to do." He had slowed his speech to the point where he was making statements, having a drink of coffee, looking into the sun or at the clouds and then continuing. "We got a few travelers for the journey and headed to my place.................................we sat around and drank a few more beers and watched the first thirty minutes of that movie 'Once Were Warriors.' Do you know that movie? Have you seen it?" I kept sipping my coffee and nodded that I had. "It's a fucking good flick, eh? Fucking magic ..we go upstairs, real quiet....to the second story, all four of us............................. we reached the front door and I just kicked the fuck out of it. Kicked the thing of its fucking hinges. Sent the bastard flying...we caught them both running out of the bedroom...............they weren't going anywhere. I got a few of the boys to hold their hands down on the table. I put a piece of wood over the back of their hands, and then beat the shit out of it with a carpenter's hammer.............. they're lying there crying, and I felt absolutely nothing for them. I stood over them and said 'try shooting smack with broken hands'..............fuck em, they got what they deserved for fucking with me............they didn't call the cops, and can you believe I couldn't find my mum's hairdryer anywhere? Fuck." I couldn't believe what I'd just heard and had no comeback. All I could do was sit there with coffee cup in hand, both eyebrow's raised with a "what the ?" look on my face. "So what would you have done?" he asked me again. "Probably not that." was all I could utter as I tried hard to focus on an ant crawling along the ground. Run away little man. Run far away.

The following day, on returning from work and walking into his flat with a half dozen beers tucked under his arm, The Thug found an envelope that had been very carefully maneuvered through the tight space between the bottom of the door and the floor. It had his name penned on the front in thick black marker, and neatly folded inside was the exact amount of money that he had told The Weasel to recover on his behalf. All in all it wasn't a bad finish to a crazy week. In his mind, a few people had got the bashing that they deserved, and The Thug had both regained full "respect" from the boys and elevated his legend a few more notches on the urban myth totem pole. He turned towards me with "the look" on his face, and in an monotone voice, sedately stated "It's fucked up the way the world treats people sometimes." I wasn't sure if he was referring to himself as a victim of robbery, men who get slapped around for fencing stolen goods or thieves who have their fingers and hands broken as a form of swift justice for being caught committing petty crimes. "You know what the worst part about the whole thing was?" I shrugged. At this point there was no way I could even begin to formulate a guess based on his logic and perception of the way in which the world worked. "The worst part was that I had to waste half my Saturday shopping around for a hair dryer for my mum. I eventually did the K-Mart thing and had to pay just over thirty-five bucks on a model that didn't even have one of those styling wand things that my mum's had. Not a big deal, but...." and he trailed off in mid spoken thought due to the sight of the truck carrying the pallet jack heading towards us.

I emptied the remaining contents of my cup in one mouthful, unfolded myself and stretched. Those huge stone lions would present no problem now. The Thug and I were caffeineated, charged to the gills with testosterone and armed with a pallet jack. Looking around me at all the outward signs of security, paranoia and opulence I came to the realization that the lions weren't to be stationed at the driveway's entrance as signs of wealth, affluence and strength or as a deterrent to Jehovah Witness' who felt compelled to call with their "Watchtower" magazines and promises of salvation at ungodly hours of Sunday morning. They were there with their fierce outward countenance to guard against, and deter men like The Thug. The lions and their owners didn't stand a chance.

What did I care. For me there were only three more months of hungover 6 A.M.'s. Three more months of picturing a man the size of The Thug shopping for hair dryers. Three more months of being a 'white cunt' .....only three more months and I was back at school.