#and MAN does it feel SO FUCKN NICE TO SEE FUCKN CALL OF DUTY GIVING FAN SERVICE TO THE GIRL

[godowoken]

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[jacktempletonknight-blog]

Matt is a Small Business Owner

Matt is a big man. You’ll see his poorly goateed grin pasted half-heartedly outside the small supermarket running off Princess Avenue in Nedlands. As well as being poorly, he’s also portly. He’ll often be seen indiscriminately tucking his sizeable dome behind and underneath the cashier to his local and definitely profitable supermarket. If there is one thing that Matt has perfected it is the authentic local business owner look. Adorned with faded jeans, picked up exquisitely from Target (pronounced Targé), Matt will often go home and go to sleep in these practical and pungent jeans. By the end of the day’s hard work, these jeans will stick to Matt’s legs like glad wrap sticking to leg sized perfetta rolls, and he’ll make one lazy attempt to squeeze them off before collapsing indulgently on his bed. He basks daily behind his chicken-fat smeared counter, exuding an air of staleness and self-importance. Comments fly from his horsey mouth like pellets of shrapnel. Barbing jibes will often strike a customers face, causing them to wince, as if sand has just been thrown in their eyes. “Nother’ bloody boatful trying to get to these fine shores again, when will they bloody learn eh?” Matt’s addressing the paper and nobody in particular. Matt, being a Greek immigrant himself, has a favourite and much indulged pastime of throwing popular Newscorp invective in irritated customers faces. Sickly rancid sweat and misinformed political knowledge pore out of his pores at such a rate, that at the end of the day he’s selling more snorkels than fruit and veg. The regal and reverent store owner. The washed up nobody who made it big. The man who had nothing and turned it into something. Matt found his cliché in life, and he wears it more proudly than his self-made nametag, which glistens with the words, “Matt- Owner.” Surrounding his doomed belly behind the cashier, is a giant tin of Chuppa-Chup lollypops, with all the cola flavour’s taken out and consumed, and a rack of cigarettes, reserved mainly for his faithful group of 15 year old regulars who audaciously and nonchalantly come in with their school uniform on. Profit earned is profit justified, Matt’ll say in response to his wife’s logical misgivings on the sale of tobacco to kids.

Matt has gorged enough advertisements in his life to know the true value of things. He also knows that bargains are bad business. He has fourteen signs around his store warning shoplifters and 12 signs warning of security cameras, which aren’t actually present. When Matt suffers through another profitless quarter he’ll blame his only other staff member, 14 year-old family-friend, Sally, and deduct 25% off of her meager $8.45/hour. Sidesaddle to Matt’s cashier pedestal, is the giant human sized furtive brow that is Matt’s wife. You’ll often find her tucked away in some hidden aisle, like the off jar of pickles stuffed at the bottom left-hand side of aisle three. There, she’ll be shiftily putting stock away on the shelf, whilst pocketing loose dregs of sleeping pills, to help her doze off over the top of Matt’s barking breath.

One day, when spouting wisdom university students pay for, he realized that he had spent a life shucking priceless jewels of economic information to a herd of consumer sheep for no price except time. So now, in the evenings, when Matt has returned from a 13-hour shift worth $112, he’ll sit, cask wine by his side and write his pre-eminent manifesto, in fits of inspiration. He’ll sit there huddled over his keyboard, tap-tapping away as his index fingers tremble with pre-excitement of his assured fame within the economic community. After hours of erratic writing, he’ll pour and recline and sit smug in the certainty that his seminal text on the role he has played in the success of neoliberal economics, will change the small business community forever. In his text he has chapters dedicated to his heroes, Thatcher and Reagan, as well as a lengthy 145-page chapter dedicated to his life’s work.

In the mornings, Matt’ll finish his personal literary jerk-off, and catch 2 hours of erect sleep before sliding off to open the shop at 5am. Every morning as dawn pierces the sky and slashes the clouds open, Matt opens the unlocked front door and glances round his shop. “Fair dinkum” he’ll say to himself with curling satisfied lips and a professional nod. “Fair bloody dinkum Matt.” Unironically, he’ll say it again, as if once wasn’t enough to sate the amount of absolute pride he feels in himself.

6am and the doors are open. Matt’s potent odour lingers on the checkout bench. Kate, his wife, is somewhere round the back, rat-like, sniffing dust off the top of a 2-month expired can of Roma tomatoes. An indiscriminate customer fatefully walks through the open door. They bring with them the loneliness of a Tuesday 1pm visit and a stench of the dole. Matt, being the profit driven neoliberal expert that he is, demands to see some proof of monetary means. The customer, obviously taken aback, fails to brandish his means of purchasing power quick enough and is duly escorted out of the shop, with Matt’s self righteous doughy fingers prodding his back to hurry his poor pong out of the door.

A cockroach scurries through the open door just as the health inspector dials the number to Matt’s store. “Fuckn’ filthy bastard, come er’ you” Matt stomps around after the roach, like he’s putting on the worst culturally appropriated African tribal dance ever performed. The phone rings. “Kate! Get that will ya?!” “Kate! Kaaa-te!” “Ah ya fuckn’ yoosless woman.” “Gooday, this is Matt here, owner. Proceed.” “Hi Matt, it’s Reg here, the health inspector. I’m just ringing to remind you that I’ll be dropping in this afternoon as part of our annual checkup. You all good to go?” “You bet Reg.” Matts’ voice quavers as he sees the cockroach slip indulgently into a bath of month-old deli coleslaw. “What time will you be round Reg?” “About 3 I’d say.” Matt looks at his watch. 1:15. “Fuck” “What was that?” “Oh nothing Reg, I’ll see you at 3.” Matt hangs up the phone, looks around the store and surveys the battlefield. Matt crunches his teeth together, tenses his buttocks and screams an almighty, “Kaaaaaaatteeeee” “Get er’ right bloody now!” “Where are ya? Right there you are. So. We have Reg coming in at 3, you know, Reg. REG! Yes the health inspector. Yes, I know we already have 2 strikes, yes I know this place will be the death of you. But. But just listen to me here. I have a plan. Oh boy, does old Matt have a plan. Kate. Kate! Does your sister in law still have that high-pressure hose? Right. Oh, you bloody beaut. Right go get it. Now. Now!”

Matt looks around. I’m gonna’ high-pressure hose the absolute shit out of this place. Matt scuttles to the back room office, pulls out the closed sign and sticks it roughly on the mouldy front door. Time for action. Matt is so impressed with his problem solving skills that he scribbles a quick reminder on his foresty forearm to start a new chapter on the necessity for good problem solving skills in a neoliberal environment, using himself as a case study. Kate returns, and bustles through the door, with the high pressure hose and her mascara dripping down her face like giant tears etched onto her cheek with permanent markers. Matt snatches the hose off of her. “This is a mans job!” Kate creeps back into the shadows. Matt plugs in the electric generator, hooks up the hose to the tap and tests the power of the beast on his small businessman boots. The 2-week-old crusted dog shit comes off immediately. Matt grins disgustingly, as if he’s just had a stroke. Kate re-appears from the shadows, “um, Matthewww, will not the h-h-health inspecttttor s-s-s-suspect something when he seeeees all the w-w-water?” Matt snorts. Obviously only a man could figure this out. His master plan. A plan for masters. “ya see, Kate, you bloody moron, ya see here. Kate. Kate! Look on over here. Ya see that giant stack of 10litre water bottles. What I want you ta do is take em’ out the back, punch holes in em’, an’ empty the lot of em’ out. Quick smart, woman. Atta’ girl. Then when ya dun all of that, stack em’ right back where ya found em’. Makin’ sure you can see the oles’ nice and good.” “I don’t get it.” “course ya don’t, I wouldn’t expect ya’ to. Just do as I bloody say. And when our dear old friend Reg comes in just play ya part well an’ shove off.”

Matt begins. He fires up the hose and starts with the counter. He blasts and sprays and peels back decades of hardened mould and sweat. Rinds of gunk rip off the countertop like sheets off skin after toasting in the sun. He moves into the aisles and manically waves the hose around like he’s performing an elaborate vanishing magic trick. The green residue boldly clings on but Matt sprays with more venom. Pools of pulpy dirt gather and sit in the natural declines of the store and Matt turns over to the building pond of putrid purée and blasts it towards the open back door. In his mind, Matt is hooked on suppressed anger. The fiery cannon of the destructive force of water and the satisfying feel as clumps of filth flit in the air like snowflakes give Matt shivers of pleasure. He closes his eyes and imagines he’s in a video game. In his hands is an AK47, the ones you use on Call of Duty. He’s walking around an old Western saloon, mowing down everything and everyone he’s ever known, and therefore hated. Moving between thrown over chairs and tables he reloads his gun and cocks it in absolute pleasure. He looks over and sees his miserable parents- two succinct bullets in their crusty lamentable foreheads. Bang, Bang. Won’t be seeing you anytime soon. Brittle flecks of years old pastry cascade over Matt’s face as he imagines the blood and guts of his parents flying and splatting on his manic grin, turning it into a Joker mask. He turns over to the bar. The surly bitch is sitting there, innocuously sipping a can of roma tomatoes. Matt feeds her full of lead, and mushy red goo spews out of her side like the contents of her vegetable drink. Matt laughs hysterically like a cartoon villain, but there’s nothing fictitious about his anger. Purging every living soul he knows, he goes to the back and looks out across the room. Bang Bang Bang, The group of bullies in school. Bang Bang, His first landlord. Bang Bang, He closes his eyes, shutting them tightly, sprays wildly. And then he opens, and sees Reg, he’s behind the bar-the barman. He points the gun in his direction. Then the gun disappears and Matt wakes up. The hose has been switched off and Matt stands panting in aisle three. Kate is by the tap. “Enough!” Matt barely hears her. He just looks out at the repercussions of his superb plan and takes a bow. The store is soaked but devoid of blight. Matt tells Kate to bring in the water bottles just as Reg pulls up.

���Reg! Reg! Thank fuck ya here mate. I canna believe I’ma sayin’ this but we just got robbed. Yeah! Robbed! At gunpoint. At bloody gunpoint! Can ya even believe it? What has this bloody country come ta? Christ mate. Neva ave’ I seen it with me own eyes beefore. I was over ere’ by the checkout and some big ol’ burly fella come rushin’ in with a great big gun in his hands. I’ma lookin’ at im’ and he’s tellin’ me to empty out the till. And ya know what I’m like don’ya Reg. I tell im’ to get stuffed. And so what does this fella’ do? Empties a great big pile a’ lead into those water bottles over there by the door, causin’ this fuckn’ great big mess, right on the day of your visit ere’. I tell ya Reg, if it wasn for this pile o’ warta ova the store, you’d be already tickin’ your list and be getting’ on ya way.”

Reg is tired. As a man who works as a health inspector, he can be lumped in alongside the taxman- doing a job that people despise, despite his work being to their benefit. He’s known Matt for seven years now. Each year and each inspection has brought new filth and new lies. Reg knows nobody really shops here except for Alzheimer elderlies and people new to the neighbourhood, so each year Reg has turned a bored blind eye to the sewerage supermarket and the swamp rat that owns it. Except this year, Reg vowed to come in and close this place for good. To once and for all purge the dump of its garbage and its hoarder. What spurred Reg to take this action was Kate, Matt’s wife. Reg hadn’t caught a glimpse of Kate till last year when he came in to do his annual inspection. In the seven years since he’s been coming to the store it was the first time he’d seen Matt’s wife, over in the shadows, lingering like a thick piece of dust. That day last year, before departing the store, after Reg had given Matt his second warning, Kate had rushed up to Reg and thrust a piece of paper in his hand. Uncrumpling the paper wet with sweat, it had said one thing; “help.” After that day Reg decided that closing this place down was more than doing the right thing for the public, it was now a matter of saving a poor wife’s sanity. So no, Reg didn’t buy Matt’s sorry story for a second. But he also couldn’t give Matt his third and final warning for some spilt water, however drenched the store was.

As Matt told his story, Reg looked over at Kate and gave her a ‘don’t worry’ look. She responded by looking unsure. “Did you catch any of the robbery on cctv?” Reg says, turning to address Matt. “Mate I bloody wish I coulda’ but see I don’t ave’ enough money ta buy a bloody camera, coz the taxman keeps stealin’ it all from me.” Reg rolls his eyes. “I see. Well guess I’d better take a look around. In the meantime can you take some measures to getting this floor nice and dry?” As soon as Reg said it he regretted doing so. “Kaaattteee? Kaaaaaattteee!? Christ where are ya? Ah. There ya are. Get this floor dry as my granny’s fanny, for Mister Reg over here. Quick smart. Atta’ gurl.” Matt looks smugly at Reg, “what else are woman good fa’ if not fa cleanin’ eh Reg?” Reg suppresses some vomit and moves quickly to the first aisle.

Down and through all six aisles, Reg still hasn’t found what he’s looking for. Dragging his feet through the sodden grey tiles he enters into the deli. It’s his last chance to find something to sink the inflated belly of Matt. He searches under the countertop, inspects the blade of the meat slicer, tests the quality of the homemade quiche and finally decides that this might not be his year. That is, until his ballpoint pen descends on the salad section. Scanning through the assortment of quinoa grains and fruity assortments, Reg’s eyes rest on a bowl that reflects back up at him from the glistening coleslaw sauce. As Reg’s eyes rest, so does his foreboding anxiety as a fat juicy mocha brown roach rolls and frolics in the hardened sugar slaw. Reg sighs, looks up at Matt and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Matt is back in video game mode. Except this time he has no gun. He’s unarmed and vulnerable. Reg is behind the bar now and advancing on him. He holds a James Bond style ballpoint pen, armed viciously with a spy device that could incapacitate him. Matt looks around the saloon and grabs at anything he can in self-defense. He starts throwing things wildly at Reg; old trophies, cowboy hats, holsters, shoes, bottles, cutlery. It’s blind panic. Back in the store Matt is going wild. His head is jerking around side to side like a tassel on a walking pair of shoes. He’s picking up items now and throwing them at Reg. Cans of beans fly past him, as do cans of olives and pickles. A raining shopping list of items descend on Reg but all miss his body. Reg has called the police. He’s also signaled for Kate to get out. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Matt knows this is the end. He’s been trapped in his own base. He’s in the corner of the saloon now, just by the ladder to the upstairs attic. As the sheriff enters the saloon, Matt knows there’s only one way out of this mess- up and through the attic and onto the roof. Matt begins to climb. The ladder wobbles. It’s hard to grip. His hands feel like a melting block of ice as his skin excretes more and more sweat. His feet slip and his body contorts as he falls back and down and his body slams hard into the cold floor. He opens his eyes to see the ladder following his lead and flattening his body.

Reg cannot believe what he’s just seen. He stood aghast and witness to the big bulldozing owner getting flattened by the shelf of aisle one. All present hadn’t moved for 30 seconds. Eyes darted around confusingly and blankly. Limbs tensed and forgot how to work. That is, all except Kate, who emerged from the shadows of the dust, to go behind the counter, take her car keys of the hook, and walk out of the front door, never to return.