Wednesday, April 13, 2011

9) A Rebel Without Claws.

These stories, that have been available on Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing, writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.

Below are introductory paragraphs and some pictures that I still retain to illustrate this story, hopefully to give you a come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.

Arthur came to realize that money was the one true God of the adult world and had to be gotten hook or by crook. Brainwashed by his family with a heavy dose of the Protestant work ethic, and hankering for independence from parental economic tyranny, he got a job as a newspaper boy at the Heidelberg Repatriation Hospital. He had to get up at five a.m. with his father, who drove him to the hospital to deliver the morning round, then return after school to hand out the late edition. From the age of fifteen on he earned and filched enough money to pay for his own clothes and entertainment and was loath to ever have to ask his parents for a buck again.
The old returned-soldiers recuperating at the hospital taunted him mercilessly about being a virgin boy until he shut them up one day by yelling, “I’ve had more fucks than you’ve had roast dinners, ya senile old dicks!” It was cruel of him, symptomatic of the mild Tourette’s syndrome that would wreck many of his relationships with the world. They replied with hangdog looks, peeved at being pooped out and unable to compete in the sexual marathon which youth excels at; little did they realize he was referring to his homo activities.
It both saddened and excited him to hear the story told by one of his fellow newspaper boys about an old war-torn digger who often paid the teenager and his mate to suck them off. When the desperate old bugger had run out of money and offered them his war medals instead, they knocked them back as worthless. Though he thought them callow Artie fancied both these boys himself and wished he could pay them for their services. Yet it somehow consoled him that even war-heroes had homosexual leanings, and that being so he could rise to be a hero himself.
His father Frank spent much time at the Repat getting one operation after another on his ulcers, or taking respite in the psyche ward after one too many violent temper-explosions, and Arthur dreaded him hearing of the sexual misadventures of the newspaper boys. Suspect of his sexuality, he would surely accuse Artie as well, but such devious activity was anathema to him, he could give it away to those he fancied, he couldn’t sell it to someone he didn’t like, and though he was cheeky, he respected the old diggers, shocked that in their slow dying sex could rear its wily head.

Aerial View of Northlands 1965.