Meanwhile back in the Blokesverse, at some stage in the timeline on Primordial Earth…

  The yellow monkey schei?e Kingswood HZ was parked on the gravel in front of the acreage. The moon was high, lighting up the darkness in turquoise blue. The scent of burning grey gum from a bonfire tickled the warm and humid air.

  Wolfgang sat in the driver’s seat with the window down, smoking his third Winfield Red cigarette. He looked up at the grassy hill towards the large white Queenslander. From the back left hand side of the house, he could see party lights strung from an old poinciana tree.

  One might mistake the ominous shadows that danced across the trunk and branches for she-trolls and ogresses. However, they were housewives burned out from decades of enduring the mining life. The monotony of lamb roasts. The polytheistic religion of rugby. Their fat, bald, drunk and limp husbands who originally discarded their mothers for a mother they could marry.

  Husbands who worked, drank, passed out and then soiled themselves due to incontinence and the rest of the mess they left in their wake. They never lifted a damn finger unless to barbecue while drinking beer or mow the lawn with the ride-on while drinking beer, riding over snakes and cane toads as they laughed, snorted and sharted themselves. All while wearing their Bintang singlets or ‘Falcons crap on Holdens’ t-shirts, exposing their flabby pink guts.

  Worst of all were the Stubbies they wore…

  Some things should not be seen. Some terrors cannot be unseen. Some horrors burn themselves deep into your long-term memory. As such you carry them around like a haunted burden. Like , or some twisted cover of rhyming something similar but unmentionable. Redlining the engine of vulgarity. Perpetually flashing the world with their profane sense of sheer and absolute obscenity. The horror, the panic, the sheer terror of simian oysters, roasting in the Queensland summer sun.

  Wolfgang glanced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. In the darkness, for a split second he thought he resembled an attraktive Asian Frau, possibly Thai, no, Japanese?

  Alarmed, he flicked on the light. In an instant she was gone, and his reflection returned … yah, big young man, plain and rugged looks with a strong jaw and blonde curly locks. He flicked off the light and the darkness returned.

  He took in a deep drag. The smoke cut through his chest like gremlins with razor blades. It was satisfying. All men sort the simplicity of returning to the elements. All had an instinctive lust for their own self-destruction. All men craved the warm womb of the crematorium oven. Wolfgang listened to the distant cries of laughter, cackling, howls and . His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he breathed out the smoke.

  “Yah Wally,” he said to his passenger in the front seat, “yah vatch das cartoon X-Men?”

  “Yeah, I watched it a few years ago, back in high school,” Wally replied, looking out of his open window, with a worried expression towards the house.

  “I read some schei?e about a live action movie, some dummkopfs in Hollywood are making.”

  “Oh yeah?” asked Wally, it was a lame, uninterested kind of response. He clearly wasn’t interested.

  “Yah and some ballet prancing Australisch dummkopf ist to play Voolvarine,” Wolfgang scoffed before taking a long deep drag on his fag, “a ballet dancer to play Voolvarine, vwat a pile of crap.”

  “Well, someone’s got to play Wolverine,” Wally rebutted, “and why not a ballet dancer? He’s got to be really fit.”

  “Ah bull crap,” replied Wolfgang, taking another drag, “get fit schei?e ist a scam, lift weights und aerobics schei?e, veal men keep vit drinking beer and vorking.”

  “Well Wolfgang,” sighed Wally, “that’s just your opinion man.”

  Wolfgang leaned in towards Wally, as if preparing to share some ground breaking truth, “You know who vud make a great Volverine.”

  “Nope,” replied Wally.

  “Danny DeVito.”

  “What? So, you don’t like the idea of an Aussie ballet dancer playing Wolverine but you think Danny DeVito should?”

  “Yah,” smiled Wolfgang as he nodded, he leaned back in his seat and looked out of the windscreen towards the stars in the night sky.

  “Why?” now Wally was somewhat intrigued.

  “Because Volverines are little, ah, how would you say … agro buggers Wally. They are nein big. So why ist Volverine in X-Men big then?” he gestured with open hands, “Volverine should be an angry little guy, like a … vhat you call it?” Wolfgang clicked his fingers, trying to remember, “Ah, Tassie Dugong? Ah, no, Tassie Demon?”

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  “Tassie Devil,” corrected Wally.

  “Yes! Tassie Devil. Tassie Devil, dats dat angry little Danny DeVito.”

  “So, you think Danny DeVito would make a great Wolverine?” asked Wally, he looked a bit puzzled, trying to keep up with Wolfgang’s poo poo train of thoughts.

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Wolfgang, lighting up another cigarette before taking a deep drag, breathing it out in necrotic ecstasy, “yah, he should definitely play Voolvarine.”

  Wally laughed, “You shouldn’t put thoughts like that out into the aether.”

  “No and vy not?”

  “Because you give whatever creative force drives reality, ideas. Know that somewhere, out there, on a parallel Earth in some other universe, there’s a real-life Wolverine that looks like Danny DeVito.”

  “Gut,” Wolfgang replied, “den I vant to live on dat Earth den.”

  Wolfgang looked over towards the Queenslander homestead. His attention returned to the here and now, “Vuat kinda name ist Richard Lewd? Sounds a bit, what’s you say … dodgy, yah?”

  “Don’t call him Richard,” replied Wally, “he prefers Ricardo.”

  “Yah Ricardo,” chuckled Wolfgang, “his heritage ist Irish und ‘Lewwwd’ ist Nein his real surname,” he took a long drag of his cigarette, “der Angeber, running from hist past, running from vhat? Und running to vhere?”

  Wally sighed. If it wasn’t so dark inside the Kingswood, he would appear somewhere between bored and annoyed. He reclined the cream leather seat, placing his Volleys on the dashboard.

  Wolfgang gave him a side glance as he took another draw, “You put marks on the dash lanky idiot, I wipe your face with meine arsch, yah? Open the glove box, hand me das Falco.”

  Wally removed his Volleys from the dash and sighed again. He turned on the light and opened the glove box. Beneath a questionable magazine and half a carton of cigarettes was the cassettes case. He pulled it out, opened it up and scanned the cassettes. There were blank tapes with handwritten titles on the spines, Bronski Beat, Kraftwerk and Alphaville. It was a broad selection of German new wave.

  “Here, Falco.”

  “Yah gut,” Wolfgang grabbed the cassette and put it in the tape player. He pushed play. began to play. “Falco,” smiled Wolfgang as he tapped the steering wheel, “an übermensch legend.”

  Wally looked across through the driver’s window. He appeared puzzled, before he turned the music down.

  “Hey, I’m listening to dat yah Australisch Boofhead.”

  “Shoosh … listen.”

  Wolfgang turned and looked through the open window. His eyes narrowed as he switched off the stereo. The distant cries and cackles were louder than before, the hoots and hysterical laughter merged into one ungodly howling moan, like running vinyl of Black Sabbath backwards.

  From around the corner of the house sprinted a small athletic figure. Wolfgang’s eyes widened as ‘Ricardo’ ran into view. He was naked … as in he had no clothes … as in he looked like a hairless, greased up werewolf, like a freshly waxed wolverine rubbed down from his neck to his ankles in Vicks VapoRub.

  He was chased by a horde of randy fifty something housewives. They drove across the dry yellow lawn like an unstoppable menopausal tsunami.

  One of the women brandished a pair of scissors while another twirled a red string of ‘clothing’ in triumph. This horde was relentless, high on herd mentality, homing in on banana, hellbent for some young coastal, beach boy sausage roll.

  “Holy crap,” stated Wolfgang in shock.

  Wally smirked and let out a mild laugh.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Ricardo shouted before diving through the rear passenger window.

  After several attempts to start the Kingswood the straight six 3.3 roared into life. With Ricardo’s legs, rear end and Irish baggage still hanging out of the window, Wolfgang slid the column shift auto into drive and stomped on the accelerator.

  “Yah schwein hunde!” Wolfgang roared from his window as his yellow, monkey schei?e Kingswood fish tailed across the gravel and onto the cracked bitumen. Waves of loud and portly, middle-aged banshees lined the edge of the front yard. They blew kisses and collectively waved at Ricardo’s glistening peach which was stunningly iridescent in the moonlight.

  The trio shot down the road faster than a jet powered fart leaving a fan factory. In no time at all they achieved the velocity of a chocolate starfish evacuating an extra spicy vindaloo. A roaring flash of monkey vomit tearing up the road. An Aussie made Millennium Falcon. They overtook a rampaging rhinoceros with some kind of metallic butt plug, flashing blue like a cop car. It was pursued by an angry mob of … Mongolians? They rode dirt bikes.

  “What…the…fudge?” Wally questioned. He looked back at the highway spectacle as they disappeared in the fog.

  “Vhat you expect?” assessed Wolfgang, “dis ist a crazy crap country … und Mad Max ist a documentary.”

  “No,” reaffirmed Wally, “whatever that was, wasn’t normal.”

  “Ah bull-schei?e,” rebutted Wolfgang, “vy, vhat about das time, on da vay to Blackvater, we were on das highway between Clairview und Saint Lawrence … midnight, full moon just like tonight and vee vent by a spaceship crashed in a paddock, yah? Vith a giant purple budgie arguving vith a monkey?”

  “I thought you said it was a gorilla?”

  “Yah, yah, gorvilla.”

  “You were seeing things Wolfgang, like I’ve told you repeatedly before…”

  “Ah bull-schei?e!” barked Wolfgang.

  “Like I’ve said,” continued Wally, holding on to his patience by a thread, “that was just a car with some guy sorting out what was clearly a naked handicapped man who soiled himself.”

  Wolfgang began to huff and puff, “Finger painting himself yah? Just ‘sum guy’ und a dummy covered in excrement yah?” He glanced briefly at Wally before looking ahead, “Bull-schei?e!” he stomped on the accelerator in some crazed attempt to break the land speed record.

  “Just agree to disagree guys,” said Ricardo, “I’m sick of hearing this argument.”

  “Well, I’m not the one who becomes ‘Wolfgang’ every flaming time we’re in the Kingswood.”

  “Vat’s that mean?” asked Wolfgang in puzzlement, he felt the need to look at himself in the mirror again … long blonde locks, all gut.

  “Wally’s just rambling crap,” affirmed Ricardo, “isn’t that right Wally?”

  “Yeah,” Wally snuffed, “just rambling crap, this whole situation, life, the universe and everything, it’s all crap.”

  Wolfgang looked in the rear-view mirror at Ricardo, “Again?”

  “Yeah,” replied Ricardo as he finally managed to pull himself into the backseat. He shivered as he rolled up the window.

  Wally just laughed as he attempted to place his right foot on the dashboard. However, a quick and menacing glance from Wolfgang put an end to that involuntary attempt.

  “Vhat kind of job is this yah? I drive you for two, maybe three hours to some schei?e mining town and you get molested by packs of schwein hunde! This ist nicht a good job.”

  “I know mate,” said Ricardo as he looked out of the window and shivered.

  “I’m done … I quit.”

  “Gut.”

  The Kingswood sped along the country road. The three were too preoccupied to notice a green and purple shooting star as it flew overhead towards the direction of the coast.