Part of my sister's christmas present. So far unfinished....'A Special History'.

In the rude suburban depths of the wild colonial outpost of Maggot Upon D’Entracasteaux, a vile stinking pot hissed and spat upon a small flame in a dew dampened tent. The beads of moisture slid down the walls of the mildew scented tent, forming in tiny rivulets and running towards the tent pegs. A strange contraption had been established over a high school issue (or in this case stolen) Bunsen Burner. This hastily and shoddily soldered contraption was the scaffolding for the grand pot hard at work atop it. This was no ordinary tent, or even a tent as you may imagine a backyard tent to be. This tent was a laboratory, most scientific in nature. Whilst it sat at the side of the house, only metres from the gas cylinders, and with a view onto the kitchen table, it was, in the mind of its owner, very far from home. This was the laboratory of a young genius, a scientific renegade.

On this humble Sunday, the scientist herself had not yet entered her laboratory to begin her day’s work, yet her eager cousin had been lying awake in bed waiting to hear the sound of the scientist’s alarm in the next room. She would not really have described herself as the laboratory assistant, nor as a participant in the miracle being performed in the tent. Rather, she was the poor relative, whose parents were never, and quite without explanation, part of this story. This poor relative, poor cousin, Dorothy, sat before her mirror, combing her greasy tresses, teasing out the tiny particles of white matter which had accumulated around her ears and the base of her skull.

At the sound of the alarm, the scientist awoke and removed herself from bed. She found her glasses in her bed and was thankful that she had not broken them. She wore a patch made of koala patterned contact over one lens of her glasses, and often would proclaim emphatically “its purpose is to Correct my Lazy Eye”.


Dorothy was always upset by the disquieting clang of the alarm in the next room, as it was the whinging cry of the D’Entracasteaux mud flat cane toad. The body of the toad, which held the clock face gently in its stiff arms shook and rocked itself across the bedside table. Dorothy, whilst appreciating her cousin’s scientific endeavour, had never understood her fascination (or some might say obsession) with toads.


The scientist’s eye was ablaze as she entered the room.
“Dung” said Dorothy.
“Dog breath,” said Dung “it is time for us to begin our work.”
“But we haven’t had any breakfast” Dorothy complained.
“BREAKFAST!” cried Dung “is for bourgeois swine and capitalist whores. We, on the other hand, have important work to do, and not enough hours of daylight to do it in. We must go first to find our specimens, and then begin our Great Project.”
“Can I just have a banana or something?” asked Dorothy bravely.
“Take whatever you want from the kitchen, but know that one day you will have to give back all that you have taken, from society, and from the universe.” Declared Dung triumphantly.

“Doggy, where are you?” The voice of the scientist arrived at last. The door flew open, and there in all her morning dressing gowned glory stood the scientist herself, Dr D Beetle, dean of the faculty, manager extrordinaire, professorial in her solemnity. As well as conducting her own research, Dr Beetle taught in the Department of Diatronics at the University of Tasmania. It was a department established after the implementation of her Diatronic Scale. The scale is thus: a-atronic b-atronic, c-atronic, diatronic, e-atronic.


Poor Mick, small and scaly and nearly always referred to simply as Hippie, spent much of his childhood in ‘care’. It was a care of sorts, but certainly not the kind of care you or I would consider. Mick was the last of the eight Hopson children, all of which (unfortunately) lived well into their eighties and nineties. The Hopsons were a family of miserable bastards, who complained so long and so bitterly that they were punished by being abjectly poor, and abjectly dirty. Each Hopson child had his or her share of unsightly boils, welts, pustules and ingrown toenails, but none so much as poor Hippie. The eldest child, Elsie, an old horse of a girl, with a puckered, blistered face and a creased leathered neck, was old and disgruntled before she even reached the age of ten. She had what in those days was described as ‘shit on the liver’ (which is now known as Fecalised Hepatic Syndrome). Sadly though, this was not diagnosed and dealt with until she was 21, by which stage it was too late for her to meet a nice man and settle down. Instead, quite determinedly, she became and Angry Lesbian, and refused to have any communication with men. Hippie only ever knew Elsie as the angry portrait hanging in the hallway at home. It had to be said, that the portrait was an example of exquisite artistry, masterfully capturing Elsie’s anger and hatred of the world. It was painted after a particularly violent rally against the existence of men, in which Elsie’s hands had become stained from the violent bloodshed.

The Derangement of Hippie

How many times is it possible to see a doctor in a week, or a day, you might ask. If a doctor works from 9-5 with a 1 hour lunch break, and each appointment lasts approximately 15 minutes, then potentially you could have 28 appointments with a doctor in one day. Unfortunately, this was not a question the Hopsons asked themselves. It is a question the nurses and receptionists asked each other at the Sandy Bay Clinic where Hippie spent from 9.00am until 4.30pm from Monday to Friday (and even during school holidays). However, they never received an answer.

Frequently Hippie was ill, with a green river flowing from his nostrils that stained and crusted on his already filthy clothes. At first the doctors, nurses and receptionists felt sorry for him, but became aggrieved by the pervasive odour of ancient feet and incorrectly wiped bottom. But Hippie was content with his appearance and personal hygiene, as it often gave him an opening for conversation with the kindly elderly patients. He would turn his boggled eyes upon a kind Mrs and say “do you mind if I sit beside you? I know I smell awful, but I am suffering from Parental Neglect, so I am not properly cared for”. Any elderly Mrs with any kind of warm and beating heart would cry out and her eyes would become misted and watery. Often the nurses offered Hippie the use of the shower in the clinic, but mostly, he politely declined.

One kind Mrs, Mrs Lydia Smelter, would offer Hippie money and other riches. She was a wealthy widow with no natural benefactors. Her fortune lay in wait to be bestowed on someone as terrible as Hippie. Mrs Smelter was a philanthropist of the highest order, seeing her purpose in life to Help the Poor, and bring the word of the Lord to the uncivilized world. Later in life, Hippie would embark on a world tour of religious fervour with Mrs Smelter, spreading the word of the Lord to the uncivilized masses. But for now, Mrs Smelter would offer Hippie exotic treats and sensual experiences. Lydia Smelter bought Hippie clothes, books, chocolates, shoes, soaps and other delights he was not interested in. Often Hippie would hope (in vain) that Mrs Smelter would just give him cold hard cash that he could go and spend on his first love in life: toads.


Culinary Adventures at Toadthwart Cottage.

At the tender ages of 10 and 12, the young cousins, Dung and Dorothy, decided it was high time they found themselves part time employment to support their scientific work. It was Dung who suggested they work in the restaurant owned by their aunt and uncle, Bob and Molly Greaso.
“Doggy, we need money, we need to work, we need jobs”
“But Dung, we’re too young to work, it’s illegal” replied Dorothy.
“Bugger that Doggy! We need to start a fund to be able to buy toads to dissect.”

And so the hapless cousins undertook employment at Greaso’s Restaurant, at the rate of $3.55 an hour, a pittance really, but sufficient to purchase the requisite number of toads for Dung’s scientific project.

The restaurant was shrouded by scented plumes of ripe fruit and flowers, hanging delicately from ancient trees. It was housed in a beautiful old sandstone cottage, called Toadthwart, and was bedecked with dusty chandeliers and horned balustrades.

“Craigy boy, where the fuck are ya?” screamed Molly down the phone at her eldest son, who as she knew was forging a career for himself in the music industry, following a most successful stink on the television drama ‘Neighbours’. But music was his true passion, and despite Molly’s protestations and pleading that he should come to work in the restaurant (and even offered to pay him $5.50 an hour), Craig (who had changed his name from Greaso to McLaughlin) refused, and released his first hit single ‘Hey Mona’.

“Tell that boy to get himself back here and take some bloody responsibility for himself” bellowed Bob Greaso from the stinking cool room.
But there was no way Craig would ever return to that festering, greasy stink hole. This phone call was the first that Dung and Dorothy had heard of this Craig.
“He’s your cousin sillies” said Molly.
But the young cousins had no idea that there was another Greaso child.


The restaurant was in some respects quite spectacular, yet customers were few and far between. Occasionally a tourist or eve blind person would happen upon the restaurant and experience a rude and disgusting sensorial awakening. “Oh, the stench” customers would wail. “Putrefaction” the propietors would sniggeringly retort, alluding to the state of the food gently stewing in the kitchen.

As restauranteurs, the owners of Greaso’s Restaurant were particularly unskilled. They ran a tight family business, employing even the youngest children, who were 9 and 10, as waitresses. The food was lovingly prepared by Massive Molly Greaso, and sent through the food chute by Big Bob Greaso. This was a job Bob did with a mighty gusto and a sleazy grin. While the rest of the family worked until they were damp with sweat, Bob Greaso stood like a sentry at the mouth of the chute barking orders. He did however have the occasional jaunt into the dining area to assess customer satisfaction and assess any ladies present.

Back in the kitchen, Molly spread a thick layer of butter onto a slightly floor ditied slice of white bread. She stretched an overcooked egg over the bread, placed another layer over the top and brought the eggy sandwich up to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Oh yeah….that’s a good sandwich” she declared and placed the sandwich on a plate and passed it to Bob, who eyed it with suspicion and pushed it through the chute. Next in the chain of service was Vung Greasy, the eldest girl in the family. Vung worked evenings and weekends in the restaurant and went to school during the day.

Vung delivered the egg sandwich to the far table closest to the grease smeared window that looked onto the street. Sitting at the table was a tall young man with a faded green fedora and a moustache grown at a jaunty angle. At first glance Vung thought he was an angel sent from heaven, but quickly became aware of the wicked odour emitted by his person. Still, she gracefully delivered the egg sandwich to the young man in the corner.

The tall young man giggled as Vung retreated to the kitchen, and artlessly picked up the egg sandwich and ate it with imprecision. Vung watched him through the kitchen chute until her father shouted at her to get back to work. When the young man had finished his sandwich, he paid and left the restaurant. Soon after he had left, Vung’s younger brother Shung handed her a note. Most of the words were misspelt, but the message was clear: ‘meat me at dog and kart fuctury on coner ov tha rode done ther you gurl.’ Vung had no idea of the young man’s name, but realized that she must find an excuse to leave the restaurant to meet the man at the Dog and Cart Factory on the corner.

“yoou got Dung Beetle?”
“Do you mean my cousin Dung?” asked Vung, bitterly disappointed when she realized that the young man wanted to discuss her cousin and not her.
“Is she alright?”
“Yes, she’s fine, she’s working”
“What ‘bout them frogs she does? Does she make yous eat them or what?”
“We don’t serve toad or frog in our restaurant. It is against health regulations”
“What about Dung?”
“Do we serve Dung?”
“No, Dung, do she serve frog?”
“No, why would she do that?”
“Cos I hear she wants to turn people into frogs”
“that’s ridiculous you fool. Who are you anyway huh?” Vung was becoming irritated by this young man’s attempt to besmirch her family’s good name.
“Cos that’s what I heared”.
“And who are you?”
“Dick”
“Dick? What, Dick Head?”
“No mate, Dick Hopson”.
“My god!”
“Private Detective. Here’s me card.”
And after handing the shocked Vung his business card, Dick disappeared, as mysteriously as he had arrived.
Vung slowly walked back to the restaurant, where she was greeted with a torrent of abuse from her father who was very angry that she had been ‘slacking off as usual’. But Vung was despondent and didn’t seem to hear her father’s guttural bellows. She was too annoyed, and too intrigued by the rude and sleazy Dick Hopson.

Incest and Buggery

As Dung retrieved the rejuvenated toad from the incubator, she noticed the cheeky glint in its eye, and the string of toadslime hanging from its lips. It grinned and drew in the string of slime with an almighty slurp. Dung peered into the dimly lit incubator and screeched. Dorothy trotted into the tent to find out what had perturbed Dung so. Dung was aghast, and shaking like a rocket bottomed toddler.
“They’ve bloody gone and done it…” she cried
“what have they done?” asked Dorothy.
“Bred” shrieked Dung, her eyes bulging out of her head like a firmly squeezed fish.
“Oh. I guess that means we have to get rid of them then?” said Dorothy.
“Get rid of them?! Are you bloody insane woman? It is perfect! A scientific serendipity my girl.”
“But won’t they be retarded”
“Do not cast aspersions on my beautiful babies Dogg breath. They are perfect for my purposes”
“They look weird though Dung”
“And so do you Doggy, so do you” whispered Dung, clearly in the throes of scientific ecstasy.

The first toad to be presented at the annual Diatronics in Contemporary Desexualisatory Practice conference, was a bearded fellow with a faulty Mucus Release Valve. Rather than releasing mucus onto food prior to eating to soften it, this poor bearded bastard simply released mucus without end, at times nearly drowning himself in a sticky pool, and causing himself injury with his mucus stiffened beard. At the podium, before her peers in the scientific community, Dr Beetle decreed “he has lain with his kin, and has mutated to the point of becoming another species. Before you now, I shall demonstrate the fervour with which these toads attempt to reproduce” and with that she placed several toads on the large glass table before her and aimed the microphone in their direction. Suddenly there bellowed throughout the auditorium, a strange cacophony of toady cries. Dung grinned with glee and watched, as her specimens began to move toward one another.

As Dung rubbed and wrung her hands with glee and excitement, she failed to notice the strange heaving and bilious expression on the face of one of her toads, called Festoon.

Suddenly there was an enormous popping sound, much like the sound a tyre makes when it explodes, and a warm rain of fetid stinking toady mucus covered Dung, Dorothy and everyone in the first two rows of the audience. A deathly silence came over the auditorium as everyone present attempted to gain some understanding of the events that had just transpired. Dung however, stood triumphantly, if a little maniacally before the audience and guffawing declared “well shhhiiiiiiiiit, I didn’t see that one coming”.

“Fuck!” screamed Dorothy, struggling to wipe the putrid mucous from her face.

“Let the desexing begin” roared Dung, as Dorothy scampered in to provide her cousin with clean instruments.


The Return of Dick

Because Greaso’s served, undeniably, the best egg sandwich in town, Dick realized that he would need to go back to the restaurant, despite not really wanting to see Vung again. He had sensed her disappointment at his lack of interest, and it irritated him. But back he went all the same, with a carnation in his buttonhole and a feather in his bird’s nest hat. Vung, who was in the kitchen, did not see Dick enter. She was sweating profusely over the washing up, and had a covering of stain up to her elbows, as her father would not let her change the dish water until it was practically solid. On the stove an enormous pot heaved and plopped as its contents became like tar that would never be removed from the interior of the pot. The condensation on the black and green blotched ceiling hung low, and dripped into the pot on the stove, allowing Molly to add water to the pot less frequently. The kitchen incinerator was on at full blast, belching black smoke and a stench sufficient to seriously wound most people. The Greasos, of course, were immune to the smell. They burnt all their waste, including used toilet paper and feminine hygiene products, to save money on runs to the tip. As shrewd business people, Molly and Bob had the incinerator installed despite it being absolutely against health regulations. But the health inspector was a faithful patron of the restaurant, and so kindly turned a blind eye.

Dick seated himself by the window looking onto the street, and while waiting for someone to take his order examined the stains on the table cloth, and took notes about the activities of the staff and other patrons. Just when Dick had become utterly absorbed in his mis-spelt notes, he was approached by one of the fine waiting staff. Tung, who was rarely noticed by his parents except when he failed to work as hard as they would like, was of Chinese descent, although no one could explain, or even understood why. He had not looked at all Chinese when he was born, but had developed in a very Asiatic manner. He even had a Chinese accent and seemed to possess intuitive knowledge of Martial Arts and spring rolls. At the age of ten, Tung had adopted the name Tung Bok Lo, and refused to be identified as anything else.