Short Tempered Stereotype

What am I doing with my life? I questioned as the dishwasher was burning up my naked back.

My name is Chester and I have been a dwarf ‘entertainer’ for 6 years… it was supposed to be a stepping stone but like so many before me I’d been lured in by the easy money. The financial security came with a price however; dignity. How many more pies to the face would I have to endure? How much more forced laughter would I have to put on?

Stuck inside the darkness of the kitchen appliance a hatred burned deep inside me, hotter than the scalding water. The drunk customers were the worst, hence his current predicament.

What would I do when I was finally released from this watery prison? Kick their shins and waddle off in a temper!
Brilliant, that’ll show them.

But a sudden feeling of dread filled me. I pictured the scene it would create. What a stereotype that would be, something out of those stupid fucking films, I doubt they would ever think I was legitimately angry just part of the act.

Act. I had wanted to be an actor, but where would that lead a remake of Wizard of Oz or a part as an Oompa-Loompa. Even if I could find some serious gig as an actor, like that Game of Thrones prick I’ll just be known as “the serious dwarf actor”, actually no I would be “the second serious dwarf actor” part of an overall movement which would be broadcast by Fox News, CNN and fuck knows who else.
Screw that.

I was born just to be a jester.  A laughing stock to the Lords and Ladies all through history and for all eternity.

What was the point of living like this? Chester was too angry to go out without a bang. I remembered the hunting shotgun hanging on the wall as I was being swung around by the feet. Could climb up the cabinet, and blow them all away with that big fucking gun.

Big fuckin’ gun. A dwarf with a big fuckin’ gun…
Shit shit shit, it would look ridiculous. Another stereotype. I would kill them with laughter long before I had fired the shotgun. The world treated me as a laughing stock just because of my size.
“I am still human,” I would say to myself over and over during the tumultuous time in school.

“Make lemonade when the world gives you lemons, Chester” his mother would tell him.
So that’s what I did and highschool wasn’t as bad, I played along. They were still laughing, but laughing with me not at me.
The feeling of animosity and hatred were still present.

The world had done him a wrong. What did I owe anybody?
“People only respect power,” I thought to himself.

“I take this world and destroy it. I know I’m smart enough, I’ve been called a genius even!”

A dwarf a evil genius with a plan to take over the world. What the fuck, that sounds like a Mike Myers movie.

I’m a stereotype whatever I do. I take up professional poker I’ll be that “dwarf poker player”  or if I take up ball room dancing I’ll be the “dwarf dancer”. And people will fawn, ooo and ahhh, “Oh good for him, he’s really trying even though…”

Even though fucking what? I don’t know… I need to just-

Then it came to me, a beautiful idea. You know the feeling when you get that perfect thought unique, utterly yours, entertaining and growing as you add more and more to it.
They didn’t have to know that I was a dwarf. It wasn’t hiding who I was, it was the opposite it was a way to truly express myself.

It was writing. When had there been a comedy film about a dwarf writer? Never. It’s perfect. No stereotypes.
Chester Ross was going to show the world what he was truly capable of. I’d need a pen name first.

Beep. Beep. Beep. It looked like the eco-wash cycle was finished. The doors opened and I stepped out a new man, laughter greeted  me but I just continued walking, and walked straight out of the house.

I laughed as well, but not with them.

Hi guys, this story is actually very personal for me. It’s not strictly true but it comes from very similar experiences and a special place within me. I was born with achondroplasia dwarfism and have had to deal and live with the lifestyle that has come with it, if I didn’t have writing novels in my life I wouldn’t be able to express myself. To be completely honest I hated the world for a long period in my life. I was angry… really angry, I had been dealt a bad hand in this universal game of life, but writing novels and short stories allowed me to change this. Without you guys, and I mean YOU reading this and my other books I would still feel alone and I am eternally grateful for this.

And for the record, I have never been in a dishwasher (a washing machine is another story though!).

P.S. No offence to Peter Dinklage, he’s a bloody legend!


Thanks for everything guys!
Chester Ross

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Shouting. Was it close? It was close, I could feel the breath hitting my face.

Didn’t understand it. Could hear ringing. Were my ear drums busted? No, it was Arabic. Fuck was I captured?
Tried to move my hands, cable tied.

I managed the strength to look up at my surroundings. I was trapped. Shit there was a camera, it the red LED light was piercing.

I looked behind me, Taliban flag. A hand slapped me my face back to facing the front. Fuck Fuck Fuck, I didn’t want to go like this.

We had all seen the videos when we were shipped over to this shit hole. Give us an idea of the consequences if we were captured, but it was more to build hatred.
I had tried to imagine what it would be like… Now I knew.

Only Arabic echoed around interrupted by a crying moan.
More like deep sobbing trying to be choked down in the distance. Risking another boot in the face I looked up to see a boy, can’t have been more than 10 years old. The AK-47 weighed his thin shoulders down, an oversized toy.

I too felt like crying. I choked back a sniff.

“Hold it together, Kant” someone said in the background.

Holy shit, did I just hear English?

Another voice stated “Shut up. Your time will come Colonel Richards…”

Richards, my CO. I was filled with joy that I wasn’t alone, but that was soon replaced with dread as I realised he in the same position.

The front of my collar choked me as the back of my shirt was yanked up, bringing me up to an upright kneel.

The full scene became apparent to me. There was Richards, strapped to a chair, his blood stained stubble twisted as he gave a toothy grin.

“We are in deep shit, Kant.”

I remember asking him when I was maggot, what being in deep shit was. He told me I better pray never to find out.
Should’ve prayed harder.

“Allah Akbar!” A synchronized chant called out.

A lone man talked to the camera in Arabic.
The ranting seemed to be over, a machete was produced.

Mom. Ah shit Mom, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Would she see the video?

A hand ripped at my hair.
A whispering voice emitted from a hooded Taliban.
“Lower your head, it will be easier, american dog.”

“Don’t you do it Private, keep eye contact with me that an order.”

The arab swung around and hit the colonel with the butt of the machete in the mouth.

“Fucken’ Pigs” he murmured as he flexed his injured jaw.

“That’s it” the Head Taliban gestured to Richards “Him first”

They started lifting me.  An anger arose in me, those fucken amateurs.
“Fuck you. I’m first. YOU FUCKING PIGS, I’M FIRST.” I shouted.

The colonel let out a brief laugh and clapped his shoes together in a lonely applause rocking his rickety chair as we swapped positions.
“A commendable effort young Kant, but we can’t spend all day playing musical chairs. I am first. You can thank me in hell for your extra time on this miserable earth.”

“Are you ready to die Colonel Richards?”

“DIE!?” outburst Richards from the rear.
“I’ll never die,”  laughing with a tremendous roar, the seat buckling to and fro from his great mass.
A butt of a rifle collided into the side of his face, “Isn’t that right boy?” he shouted to the frightened kid.

“He’s your son isn’t he?” Richards said to his executioner. The Taliban turned to his son and murmured something in Arabic.

“I’ll be in your nightmares forever, kid”

“Shut up dog” the boy muttered in a meek voice.

“So the little sand nigger can talk english? I’m never going to die, you’ll wake up in a cold sweat to my screams for the rest of your life.”

“Be quiet!” the taliban raged as he smashed a end of a rifle into his forehead so hard it split the skin.

Richards just laughed, spluttering blood on the rug at his feet.

“Traumatized… just like me. You never forget the horrors you see, I’ll be glad for rest.” He relaxed his neck.

The machete fell down. He swung his head to the side, the blade clipped his ear.

“Ow fuck that tickled!” he shouted, “Okay, Okay get it over with” He lowered his head in defeat.

I tried to turn my head look away but a boot stamped on my head.

“SCUM” the taliban shouted as he swung again. This time he rose his to meet it.

At the impact of the blade a blend of the Colonel’s teeth and blood exploded as it sunk into the back of the mouth splitting the cheeks.

A silence smothered the room, with only a slow gurgling sound coming from Richards collapsed throat, laughing even in death?

The executioner groaned as he struggled to pull the machete out of the wound, his jaw tightened on to it.

Using both hands he wrenched the blade upwards, in a motion similar to opening a tin can swinging the skull backwards like a grotesque pez container. Richards was dead.

Cursing as he spat on the mutilated body.

I closed my eyes but couldn’t ignore the smell.

The man at the camera shouted in frustration and there was an overall

“You are lucky, your turn is tomorrow” The Head Taliban left me and tried to comfort his son.

He kept vomiting till he was dry gagging.
He would never forget what he saw and neither would I.


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Canis Lupus

Mankind has been fascinated with the wolf since the dawn of civilisation. This is evident in cultural mythology such as the traditional children’s fable Little Red Riding Hood and the long told tales of horrifying werewolves. Perhaps this obsession stems from the wolf being an ancestor of the modern dog. Wolves share the characteristics of modern dogs with their keen sense of smell, strong jaws, and acute hearing. Another reason wolves are such a topic of interest to mankind is their similarities in social conventions and behaviour to us humans.

Wolves belong to packs much in the same way we belong to our families or a group of friends. These packs (usually in groups of 6 to 20) are organised into a dominance hierarchy with an Alpha pair acting as leaders of the packs (much like a father of a family) dominating over the Beta or second in command as well as the Omega the lowest standing member. Further similarities are shown in body language such as the tensing of muscles and baring of teeth conveying aggression for both wolves and humans. However without the use of language the wolves make up for the lack of communication with amazingly accurate sense of smell. This sense of smell can be used to receive messages from other wolves which excrete pheromones from glands in their tail. The tail can also be used as visual communication with the tail rising again for aggression and the tail being tucked between the hind legs to communicate submission. This communicative nature also allows the wolves to hunt as a pack intelligently which has unfortunately affected farmer’s livestock, as a result wolves have been intentionally exterminated from many countries.

Wolves have thrived all over the planet, including North America, Europe, and Asia. This is largely due to their adaptations to cold climates such as their thick coat consisting of an outer layer of bristles and a waterproof inner layer that conserves body heat. Their paws and pads also conserve heat against harsh winter conditions with their special blood vessels which allowed them to survive in central Europe and North America until they were hunted to extermination. Although their diet (in North America) is 97% undomesticated animals they were hunted for their coats and 25kg-40kg of edible meat.

Conservation efforts have been made to reintroduce the wolves back in those areas with the stigma against the infamous wolves having dissipated through re-education on the species. The wolf is often represented as man’s link to his primal origins in the animal kingdom, perhaps this is the symbolism that has made the werewolf such a long lasting myth. Reflecting on this it would be a shame for this beautiful animal to become nothing but a myth, but with these positive conservation efforts being made the future of the wolf is looking hopeful.

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Fashion Misery Inc

Over the last decade the fashion industry has developed a controversial reputation and for good reason. This industry has placed impossible standards on our young people of today who can’t live up to the appearances of these so called ‘models’. They certainly are not role models for several key reasons. The current advancement of technology has developed highly advanced photo editing software such as Photoshop which fabricates images. Other factors include the impossible dieting that the models undertake as well as the completely unreachable goal of the genetic lottery which these super models have evidently won.


Firstly, every photo shoot you have seen of a beautiful woman or man has be ‘retouched’ in order to improve her features. These alterations include the slimming of the waist and belly, the inflation of the glutious maximus and of course the expansion of the bosom! these features are not impossible for the poor people who aspire to these models it is also physically impossible for any human body! This fantasy beauty is causing a rift to tear between fiction and reality creating a pitfall which many of this generation’s youth have fallen into. This coupled with the expensive and health risking dieting creates even more impossible standards.

Supermodels will go to almost impossible lengths to calculate the exact calories and the exact nutrition they receive. I am a plus sized mother of two and even though my love handles may stick out more then when I was twenty (if only we could turn back the clock! Am I right ladies?) , I still find myself beautiful without resorting to eating celery for two months. Furthermore these models have supremely more resources than your average female teenager who doesn’t possess a personal trainer and a a team of nutritionists either. It is absolutely ridiculous that I am expected to keep my belly flat when I have to feed two other people.  I can’t afford to buy blue ring octopus or whatever the newest food fad the fashion industry has invented! This links to the biggest act of cruelty and exclusion by the fashion industry which is the judgement on the impossible standards of your genetics.

Everyone on the planet will either be born beautiful or they won’t. The fashion industry has created an impossible standard for all of us ladies who weren’t born with the lips of Angelina Jolie or the breast of Scarlett Johanson! For the some there is the expensive option of plastic surgery but this is still a pale appearance to those who are lucky enough to be born with the right genetics. It isn’t fair that these ‘idols’ are paraded around in our faces like we are supposed to aspire to them. My daughter asked me last night why she doesn’t look like Miley Cyrus and I had to explain to her that mono-brows have run in our family since Great-Grandfather Clarence married his cousin Great-Grandmother Bernice.

Isn’t true beauty within? Outward appearances can be fraudulent and deceptive; with the use of Photoshop, excessive and expensive dieting and the impossible goal of changing your genetics. All of these are unreachable to the 99% of us, however simply changing your attitude and mindset is achievable. This is the message I wish to give to my one brow daughter and thousands of young people; you don’t need aesthetics to be a beautiful person.

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The Prince retrieved his phone again and looked through the messages from Ron Jeremy.

[Make $800 a day from your house!]

“Yes, THANK YOU INTERNET GOD,” he shouted as he spammed the button.

Nothing happened.

“I am not making $800!” the Prince shouted

He frantically checked his pockets and ripped off his clothes but found no cash.

The driver looked at him condescendingly, “You know that not going to work right? It’s just a sc-”

The Prince laughed “Of course it won’t work… I need to be in a house”

Running to the nearest shack he kicked the door down.

A nearby woman screamed as she lay witness to the man wearing only a burgundy cape and briefs.

Suddenly, money materilzed in his underwear. The Prince laughed as cash poured down his legs.

He continued to hoard the money, piling it into his cape with one hand.

The woman was in hysterics.

“Get out you wizard!” she screeched.

“If you wish m’lady”

They left the shack. The Prince breathed in the air feeling again like a man and checked his buzzing phone.

[What is the first letter of the alphabet? A, B, or C]

“This is easy!” he exclaimed.

The driver scoffed, “Of course it is. It’s so that idiots like you think your smart by knowing the answe-”

A wad of cash appeared from the sky and knocked the driver out.

“Look who’s the smart guy now” he retorted who pocketed the money but then had a change of heart and tucked the money into the drivers jacket.

The Prince then deposited his money at the Bank and walked back to the Palace where we promptly bought Nigeria.

Jeffria as it was now called prospered with their main export being… money.

King Jeffrey felt sorry for his dethroned Father and newly adopted son/mugger so sometimes he forwarded them some
of his money sources, such as the [Work for Google at home, make $827 a day] but he received no reply.

The King was also forced to send them a story of
[A little girl with no eyes that will kill you if you don't send this to 20 of your friends].

He also closed his eHarmoney and blog, he was far to busy running the country (by which I mean creating money).

Soon the value of the Nigeria Naria ($) was driven into the ground as international authority’s realised the massive fraud.

These days the King spends his days with Queen Candy and their son Ron Jeremy, as most of his friends were mysteriously murdered by a little girl with no eyes…

He has made an effort to keep Jeffria’s imports and exports running through secret emails of smuggling his money out of Nigeria which he has cleverly disguised in broken English to trick government authorities.

This is entire story of King Jeffrey of Jeffria. Thank you reading what was an entirely truthful and fact filled account of history.

Oh and another thing;
Another attempt to hold the economy together was to create a blog telling a story of his rise to power and if someone ‘happened’ comment  their Account details, BSP number and PIN and on this blog (wink)
he would receive millions of dollars for his services (WINK WINK)…



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“What a magical evening,” the Prince exclaimed.

Candy still lay on the bed suitability ravished, that is thanks to the secret ‘Ron Jeremy’ trick.
He checked his phone for the time, more offers from Ron Jeremy. Who was this illusive benefactor?
This would have to wait however.

“I must be off, I have my favourite tunic in the wash”

She simply moaned in reply as the Prince swung his cape on his shoulder and strutted out.

“I truly am a man now!” he reflected stepping out into the cold dark street.

A shadow of a man jumped from the darkness.

“TAKE EVERYTHING!” the Prince squealed.

“Uh okay. I just wanted your wallet but-” the man said blankly as he was hit with credits cards and jewellery.

“JUST DON’T STAB ME YOU FIEND!” he shouted his voice muffled as he hid behind his royal gown.

“I wasn’t going to umm Your Highness but thanks.” he walked up stairs clutching the treasure.

Running back to the park Mercedes crying he thought to himself, “My life is worth more than all the treasures in the world”

“I am lucky to be a alive! Quick back to the palace I need a hot bath…” the Prince commanded to his driver.

The Driver was talking on the phone.

“Unbelievable rudeness I am firing you!”

The driver put down the phone and turned around, “Well I am afraid I don’t work for you any more”

Without warning the same man that had mugged him appeared at the car.

“This is the new Prince of Nigeria.” the driver got out of the car.

“This is the man who mugged me!”

The mugger hopped into the drivers seat, “You did say take everything.”

“I didn’t mean tha-”

The New Prince turned to the driver “Actually the former Prince was correct you are fired. I can drive my own cars.”

“Oh… well that is unfortunate.” the driver said solemnly

“THAT’S UNFORTUNATE!?!? I HAVE BEEN USURPED BY THIS PEASANT” shouted the ex-Prince theatrically.

The driver wrung his cap in his hands, “How am I going to feed my children…?”

“Get out of my car please,” commanded the mugger as he plucked the crown from the Princes head.

The ex-Prince was in shock, he hopped out the Mercedes and watched it drive off.

“My mother is sick, she needs medicine.” the driver looked down to the gutter.

“Oh piss off you whinger, always thinking of yourself aren’t you!
That imposter is probably bathing in MY juzacuzzi as we speak…”

Now with tears streaming down his face, “I owe my landlord money, he’s going to evict my fam-”

“Family! That’s it. My father will sort this out.”

The monotone drones of the driver faded into the distance as the disgraced Prince ran to the palace.

He tried to get through the royal gate and looked up to his horror to see his Father and that dirty mugger sharing martinis
on the balcony.

“Father that isn’t me!”

The King of Nigeria chuckled, “Of course it isn’t Jeffrey. I like this Prince much more, he has got guts you know?
He stabbed an old man for bread once!” he slapped the impostor on the back and laughed some more.

“That’s terrible Dad! Let me in so we can sort this out.”

“Oh go away” the mugger snorted. They both retreated back into the palace.

Now the prince began to cry as he sat on the gutter watching the cars go past.

“Look at them they have homes and money and family. I have nothing.”

Not before too long the driver appeared on the distance still sobbing his tie hanging loosely off his neck.

“Please can you help me I need money my house is goin-”

“Shut up” the Prince dismmised him, “Wait… Money… house”

Suddenly a brilliant idea entered his head.


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The Mercedes or the Lamborghini? Life presented the Prince of Nigeria with hard alternatives often.

Deciding not to be appear to boastful he wisely choose the Mercedes.

Needless to say the Prince didn’t know how to drive, but his driver was more than pleased to drive his cars for him.

He hopped into the passenger seat and off they went to the Cafe.

“Will she be there?” he wondered gazing out the window.

They arrived quickly and quickly checked himself in the mirror

Clinching his eyes and covering his for the photographer flashes and paparazzi, he walked out in the street.
To the Prince’s dismay the street was empty. No one was here to find out the story why he had left his room.

The cafe was small and there was one table with a beautiful woman sitting at it.

He walked over with a smile, “H-Hello there, Candy?”
She stood up as if in fright, “Oh wow are you a prince or something?”

The prince reflected on the royal burgundy cape and gold trimmed crown he had chosen for the event.

“Yes” he sat down.

Candy held a confused look on her face, “Wait. You’re that prince who sends everybody emails aren’t you?”

“Um, well yes I used to. Now I mainly stick to Facebook and eHarmo- well it doesn’t matter. My name is Jeffery”

“I’m Candy”

“So you live l-locally right?”

“Yep I’m just round the corner. Do you want to come see my place?”

“I thought we were having coff-”

“Oh we can have coffee at my place, the stuff here is trash!” she smiled innocently.

They got up and left out the back of the building.

The Prince looked down the dark alley, this looked like a place you might get mugged.

He uneasily followed the woman feeling like he was being watched.

“Hey don’t be scared I’ll protect you,” she rubbed his velvet clad arm seductively.

“I’ll go get that coffee okay my King?”

“Prince” he corrected her.

Candy’s apartment was shabby, “I should send my cleaner over here. Your apartment is terrible.”
But before he could phone, Candy had appeared back at the doorway… wearing nothing at all.

“Ah gosh woman you’ve lost your clothes! Cover yourself!”

She laughed and ran towards him.

“Away!” the Prince commanded as he scampered into a closet and locked it.

He wasn’t afraid to give himself to this woman it was just that he didn’t exactly possess a ‘royal staff’.

In his moment of stress all he could think of was writing his thoughts, he retrieved his phone.

The white light illuminated the darkness of the closet. The woman was banging on the door, “MAKE ME ROYALTY MY KING!” she shouted.

“PRINCE!” he shouted back.

He opened his blog and started to write but was interrupted.
Someone had actually commented on his blog a Mr ‘Ron Jeremy’…

[Have a pinner? Get a 10 incher with this one simple trick!]

“Oh God thank you!” he exclaimed he clicked it without hesitation.

“It’s that simple!”

Candy pressed her ear to the door as she heard the strange sounds.

“I’m READY!” he shouted as Candy backed up.

Suddenly the Prince busted out of the closet, did a back flip, and landing perfecting on all three legs


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“Money can buy anything,” thought the Prince of Nigeria, “Why can’t I find love?”

He stared blankly at his eHarmoney profile; ‘Prince of Nigeria looking for love and to share his wealth’.
0 hits, several messages though.

[You're a joke mate] from an Sydney.

The second from Vienna [This is just sad...].

Confused, he refused to open any more.
Placing his face in his palms he remembered the words of his uncle.

‘Expand your horizons nephew, the whole world waits for you’

His worldly uncle could not provide wisdom to the Prince now, he was hiking the Himaylan range bordering India…
hunting Himalayan vultures.

Closing eHarmoney he revealed his web diary and blog ‘In Need of a Princess’.


\\ I could fly to Sydney or Vienna in seconds…


he wrote.

He calculated that it would actually be 3 hours and 47 minutes in the jet, he continued writing


\\ But who would be there for me. The world is not waiting for me.


“Argh, what to write next in this self pitying slop?” he wondered.

Closing the blog he decided to indulge in slightly more pleasurable form of self pitying.

A quick click later and [] filled the display.

The Prince glossed his eyes over each scandalising video when for some reason he was attracted to the sidebar.

[Local Sluts NEAR YOU!]

It was like a lighting bolt hit his head. “Why didn’t I think of this earlier? I will compress my horizons uncle!”

He clicked cautiously, but his suspicions were cast aside. A woman was already messaging him.

[Hey Sexy, I live near you at AREA CODE: 3493. I'm lonely...]

“Wow thats my area code. I needn’t travel around the globe, I can tame myself a common women right here”

He entered his name and credit card and began

Pr1nc3 [This is amazing thats where I live]

Candy[What the hell? someone actually replied]

Pr1nc3 [I can't see a reason how someone could resist ur beauty?]

Candy[Your cute :) um this has never happened before... but do you wanna meet up, we do live nearby]

And just like that he had found his woman.
They were going to meet at a cafe round the corner, he had seen it from his limousine once or twice.

With glee he reopened his blog and finished the post as he went out the door.


\\ The world may not be waiting for me, but AREA CODE: 3493 is!


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A Long Awaited Meal

The food arrived on a silver platter covered by a traditional dome cover. The Major lightly tapped the surface with his rings but made no move to begin eating.
So there it stood shining like a reflective beacon in this rusty shelter.

“You are a liar. You are hungry for the journalist as well.”

“Yes, that is my purpose here.”

He didn’t move at all, he seemed to hardly breath.

Succumbing to the silence I continued “I work with the Black Swan Rescue.”

He finally become reanimated with a smile. I could almost see the gears click into place as he analysed this new information.

“Cup of tea? You are English no?” Again he gestured to the boy who left us.


He erupted from his chair to study a globe in the corner of the room.

“Hungry for knowledge?” I inquired.

Gripping the globe smothering North Pole and Russia with his massive palm, he brought it to my face.

“This is mine” he proclaimed,
“my father gave it to me”

He pointed to Scotland.
“Yes that is it” I nodded.

“I was close enough, and yes I have a hunger for knowledge when I was a boy, I wanted to go to Cambridge.”

The boy returned with tea. I took the cup.

“So you are here for Harrison Tur-lock?”

“His safe return and delivery to his family.”

He went still again and stared at the tea in my hand.

I raised it to my mouth to sip when but nothing but the taste of gasoline filled my mouth.
I spluttered as the fumes filled my sinus.

“Boy!” the Major shouted.
Obediently the lad ran to him only to receive a backhand across the face that flung him to the floor.
The cup was wrenched from my hand.
“You call this a cup of tea?” he splashed the remaining bile into the servants face that was punched by the major’s sharp rings.
“I-I’m sorry sir” He grabbed him by the neck and squeezed “I didn’t meanee-” his words came out in a high pitched wheeze.

“So Ben-jah-mon.” the Major turned to me, “You are here to save a life, because I would very much like to kill that liar Harrison.”

“Stop this Bosco, I’ll have none of these games, I am here to do a job.”

“No games. Your job is to save a life. I have one in my hands.”

“I am here for Harry.”

“I’ll tell you what, you can take this boy right now and hop on your plane.”

“I know this wasn’t an accident.”

He smiled and squeezed tighter I needed to keep him calm.
“That is uncertain, what is certain is I will kill this boy.” The boy squealed like a pig at the realisation.

“Put him down, please…”

“I will if you agree to leave, is his life not equal to another?”

“I’m here for Harrison.”

“This gentlemen’s name is…” he squeezed for an answer. “Georgehhh” he winced.

“George or Harry” he used nickname vindictively, it was what his family called him.
“Time is ticking…”

I took a step towards the major but the butt of a rifle collied into my stomach.
Falling to the floor, I reflected.

I looked up to see the boy having the life strangled out of him, his eyes were turning from terror to a acceptive glassy stare.

Impossible choice, I can’t do this, I am weak. The Click – Click – Click of the fan taunted me with each passing second.

“STOP, I’LL TAKE THE BOY!” I shouted with a crack in my voice.

That devil smiled and dropped the limp body which spasmed as the lad came to.

“A very wise choice, now let us eat.”
The major raised silver dome was raised from the dish and there lay the severed head of Harrison Turlock, a pear shoved in his mouth.

Oh god…” I heard myself groan.

I flinched from the head as it was thrown to my feet.

Bent over I dry retched as the Major put a hand on my shoulder.

“Was that not worth the wait? Or do you not feel like eating now?” he exclaimed with ecstasy.

I shook my head.

“Good… Stay hungry Ben-jah-mon.”

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The Global Scam of Charity


Local man Bill Shorten here.

I’m 42 like most men my age and I take a great interest in the happenings of the world. It has occurred to me that we are all being afflicted with a terrible disease. This is a disease of the mind and is commonly called charity. Let me explain further; Africans aren’t really human.

Don’t get all uppity, lets be honest with ourselves; they couldn’t be. Sure the more weak minded members of our community might donate a goat or two to Africa, but in reality this is nothing compared to our resources. Large portions of the African continent have been destroyed and damaged by conflict and civil wars and it is clear that the western world has no intention of helping those situations, as one human would help another. They’re not human and I don’t see any other possible scenarios in which the our actions as fellow human beings would be rational. After all what do they expect from me, to sell my Jacuzzi or my third car? I worked hard to be born white, male, straight, and in a first world country. I’m not giving away my piece of the pie so that Timon and Pumba can eat for a week! Yes at Christmas time we decide to donate and then for the rest of the year we feel good about our selves. Its unfortunate that the starving and impoverished can’t fill up their stomachs for the year like the western world’s moral conscious.


This bugger looks like he’s had a full Christmas roast!

It wasn’t always like this however, this affliction of charity. Somehow the public have been bamboozled by dirty liberals into this ideology. This filthy lie provided by the 1% of poverty sympathizers over the 99% hard honest workers. There’s a name for this situation, where the few rule over the many without any empathy; fascism.

Enough of that trickster Africa though, and to the more urgent threat of “boat people.” I used to watch cartoons on Saturday morning before soccer practise and my favourite show was Transformers or as I called it “car people” . But don’t get these scoundrels mixed up with the Auto-bots (as I did at first, and I was severely disappointed) these Arab buggers are Decepticons through and through! Instead of welcoming them to our beautiful country as our national anthem would suggest (For those who’ve come across the seas // We’ve boundless plains to share ) we put them on Christmas island (Merry fucken’ Islamabombboom to ya) and forget about them. Are we filming some sort of reality tv version of Lord of the Flies except with bombs!? No more half measures Canberra, only full measures can be used in an invasion such as this. How about we bomb the boats, that’ll be a clear message. If they try and sink their own boat or any other dodgy indian trick we’ll shoot them right there and them, save them the trouble of drowning. Man the fuck up Australia.

If Australia had one of these those fucken' indonesians would think twice!

If Australia had one of these those fucken’ indonesians would think twice!

This situation is much bigger than just Australia however, the entire humankind is on the fence.
We can’t have it both ways, being charitable and well off.
It is either one or the other, and I say screw Africa!

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