Three

Rob was Dylan’s oldest brother. At 24, he was lean, broad shouldered and tanned with blonde hair and a full bushy cropped beard. The sort of bloke women would pick out in a crowd.

His piercing blue eyes reflected the street light as he stumbled down the street.
Percy saw him coming; his shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing his solid brown forearms, one cradling the remainder of a case and the other gripping a long bottle.


“Faaaarrrkkiinnn’ boooongggaarrr…!” slurred Rob tossing the long neck at Percy with the finesse and aim that only a drunk can master.

Percy didn’t really need to dodge it; he just sat cross legged and smiled sadly.


“G’day Robby. Need a lift home mate; you looking like you’ve had a few eh?”


“With you Perccci-pusssss…? I think not… I do not… ride with… black barrstards.”


“Okay Robby, but at least try and stay off the road, eh brother.”


“Booooonggggaaarrr… Percipusss…” Rob trailed off into the night, new beer in hand, staying generally between the centre lines and the gutter, taking an occasional detour to sprawl onto the dry grass verge.


Percy shook his head sadly and pushed himself up from where he was sitting to throw the empty bottle in the bin. What a waste, he thought. Black fellas, white fellas; destroyin’ ‘emselves. A bloody waste.

He trudged up the front steps and pulled open the stiff screen door of his pale blue cottage and closed the door for the night, asking a blessing for Rob as he went.

He put the kettle on the stove and sat down at the kitchen table and waited. He’s a good kid, just needs some direction, I reckon, rubbing his tired eyes.

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