Black Sunday - Fiction - Part 7 of 7

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This is a monologue. You need to imagine an Aussie bloke standing in front of you telling you his story. The photo has nothing to do with the story. Black Sunday - part 7 For some reason the towies are squaring off. The bigger guy has a chick tattooed on his biceps and she’s moving and grooving with every flex. With great good taste, the police choose to ignore them and take statements from all and sundry. The ambulance trundles off. People wander back to Macca. The police get a few more details from me then I get a broom and start sweeping up the glass. And just when I start making my own list which goes: bucket, lounge, carpet, bins, Hyundai, vet bill, garage - a red ute comes up the road. I can’t believe it. It isn’t even lunchtime. I rush to stop it turning into the driveway but it’s too late. It swings right, up to the front of the garage. As the front tyre deflates with a hiss, I hear the hand-brake being wrenched on and out steps Karen. Sometimes you oughta just stay in bed. The End