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                  l   o  n  g  d  a  r  k  t  u  n  n  e  l
                                productions


#089 - [ Big Ears ]
       [ petrol boy ]


Scott was 30 years old.
All his life he had spent trying to find silence.
There was none.
He lived in the city because he was poor.
the dirt under his fingernails, such as they were, showed a life of 
physical labour.
His ruddy complexion and flame red hair made him look older and angrier 
than he was at times, the cracks in the corners of his eyes, likewise.
No one could be told or would believe him when he complained about how 
noisy things were.
It's amazing how intelligent people that build houses and office blocks 
with just a picture and some classroom memories could be so 
mind-bogglingly thick when it came to such a simple proposition. 
Scott could not adjust his hearing; simple as that!
The toilet paper or whatever was plugging up his ears that day was just 
a tiny hint that he may not have been fooling.
"I'm not shitting you, I really can't stand the racket and I can't do 
much about it" he would moan.
Tension headaches and migraines would attack him like a swarm of lead 
lined killer bees, ramming the shell of his skull from the inside.
Bouts of anxiety and depression would wrestle each other for a round or 
two with him and the winner would gnaw away at his sanity 'til he was at 
his wits' end.

It's easy to sit back as a spectator and say "well why doesn't he just 
move to the country?" and think that such is an easy solution.
But there are people who just aren't made for the country and Scott was 
one of them.
The infections in his ears from contaminated objects he would stuff in 
them were getting worse and more frequent.
He would wake up with a piercing pain in one or both of his eardrums and 
would sob himself to sleep.
It couldn't go on this way.
The companies that made the protective earmuffs had gone out of business 
years ago, now that they were no longer needed.
Dr.Rabenthrop's revolutionary 'ear drum resonation control insert' 
operation had seen such companies go out of business within a couple of 
years.
The operation was so simple these days it was as dangerous as getting a 
swab.
Stress levels were down in the general population.
The good doctor was hailed as a hero by police and emergency room staff, 
so much so that he was made an honorary paramedic, police sergeant and 
general all round good guy; except to Scott.
The police were so grateful because it more than halved the amount of 
domestic disturbances they had to deal with where Jose had his guns and 
roses album playing at full bore at three in the morning and Albert next 
door to him decided to play critic with a hunting rifle. The E.R. staff 
were chuffed to the eyeballs because they didn't have to reinstall the 
ripped out organs of the loser of Jose and Alberts amateur rendition of 
wrestlemania.
The neighbour would simply adjust his hearing range to end at the front 
door and Jose could labamba himself into a latin lather without the 
slightest complaint.
Sleeping pill sales had fallen.
Folk found that at very low volume or none at all they became placid as 
chickens under a chalk line.
Not a worry in the world.
Life started to slow down because more was getting done properly the 
first time.
Bliss.
Emotional fairy floss and sunshine.
Scott had a misshapen ear drum that was inoperable without making him 
permanently deaf.
Ironically, his hearing was extra sensitive.
He could hear grass rustling from one hundred metres away in a 3 knot 
breeze.
Interesting.
Unusual.
Bloody annoying!
Scott liked ambient music; the kind made with windchimes and 
synthesisers with the odd pan flute thrown in for good measure.
Hardly surprising really, when you consider how relaxing music like that 
can be.
No woman could stay in a relationship with Scott for long.
For exactly the same reason as his problems with the rest of the world
He would have fight after fight with his chosen partner and it would end 
in tears and screams; usually his; she would have turned off the volume.
Noise.
Some people can stand a lot of noise without much bother.
Others could kill you for flossing too loudly.
Scott was .... you guessed it ..... the latter category.
He was so lonely.
He couldn't relate to deaf people as he was at the other end of the 
spectrum and anyway, there weren't many of them left after the good 
doctor worked his magic.
The day came when Scott had just had as much as he was ever going to 
stomach.
There was a concrete slab that needed ripping up and it was in a 
confined space so the thermal lance was out of the question.
There would have been too much risk of rattling the foundations of the 
surrounding buildings.
It was back to the old fashioned jackhammer method was brought back.
The foreman, showing his legendary compassion for his staff, thrust the 
job at Scott.
The ritual of the plasticine blobs in the ear was played out in the 
toilet to the tune of Scott's tear ridden whimpering. 
The audience of ceramic tiles echoed his feeble puppy noises, mocking 
him with their repetition as he forced the alien substance  into the 
cavities.
He winced and grimaced as the trapped air forced pressure into his pus 
filled ear drums.
Stunned by the pain for one time too many, Scott fainted on the floor of 
the portable toilet.
He didn't think he'd been out for all that long, but when he woke up and 
made his way back to the site someone else was hammering away at the 
slab, happily oblivious to the chattering din the tool was making.
Jeff, the foreman, didn't look like the happiest man in the world; far 
from it; he looked as though he could easily lose the top of his scalp 
to an erupting brain. 
"thar she blows" thought Scott to himself.
" I don't think I'm the most popular man 'round here at the moment".
"Where in the fuck have you been!!?", asked Jeff percussively.
"In the dunny fixing my ears", replied Scott.
"That was over an hour ago, we've lost fifteen minutes of that waiting 
for you to finish having a wank and get back here. Congratulations 
idiot, you've just cost the contract a couple of thousand for quick 
completion bonuses".
"If you hadn't put me up for the jackhammer it would never have 
happened" Scott protested. "You bloody well know about my ears and you 
put me on that stupid thing any way. I passed out in the bloody toilet 
from the pain". 
Scott turned his head and showed the foreman his angry red ear holes.
A drop of sticky white pus hung from the bottom rim of his left ear, 
rocking back and forth on its perch in slow motion like a diver getting 
ready for the triple pike.
"I don't want to see that; I'm sick of your bloody excuses anyway. Get 
your pay and piss off, you're more trouble than you're worth."
Scott wished he were a smarter person, then he could work as a 
librarian, not that libraries were all that quiet since the auditory 
revolution. Still, it would be quieter than a construction site.
Dumb as he was, Scott wasn't as stupid as Jeff. 
For after Jeff had finished giving Scott his marching orders he did the 
stupidest thing in the world.
He pushed Scotts head away by shoving his open hand in his ear.
The agony of the shove combined with the anguish of years of sonic 
torture took the cap off his volcano.
Krakatoa revisited.
Scott spun around and planted his feet on the ground without thinking.
In the fatal ballet that followed, Scott's right arm shot 'round like a 
King Cobra and struck home on the point of Jeff's chin.
The speed of the punch, half roundhouse and half uppercut, snapped 
Jeff's head back like a bullwhip.
You could hear the crack of the burly foreman's neck snapping if you 
were on Mars as the lethal force transferred itself from the engine of 
Scotts arm into the skull of its foolish target.
Jeff hung motionless in the air, head back in position, tongue drooping 
forward in the mouth, eyes rolled back heavenward; seeing nothing. 
Transmitting pictures to a brain that was already dead.
For what seemed like an ice age the body that used to be Jeff was held 
aloft by a sliver of time.
Then the reality/gravity/shockwave.
The bear like body of the foreman dropped straight down to the ground. 
It was as if it were trying to fold itself up, accordionically, Ikea 
furniture exobikewise so it could be slipped behind the paint cupboard 
in the garage.
He wobbled and sagged as the thighbones refused to give way and slammed 
back into his hips in surly protest.
The big man fell forward, nose first into the concrete dust of the 
construction site as a devilish gurgle forced the air from his lungs for 
the last time.

Scott looked at the cadaver.
Trevor on the jackhammer kept on working, he was side on to the action 
and was deeply focussed on his task.
The young apprentice emptied his stomach onto the slab.
Up on the frame of some other work cigarettes fell out of mouths and 
wiry men in flannel shirts pointed his way.
"Did you see that?" five stories up queried the level above him.
"I think he's killed him, did you hear that snap? It was louder than the 
fuckin' jackhammer" was the reply.
Not one person on the site could have seen this coming, as incredulous 
as that probably sounds to you.
There was a generally accepted philosopyhy about Scott.
He would put up with being ragged 'til Satan took up ice skating rather 
than have a go at someone.
Sure he'd get shirty every now and then but you could have heard a pin 
drop underwater when he exploded the way he did.
No one knew what to do.
It was too soon.
Scott was just as surprised himself.
A burst of adrenaline hit him like a lightning strike and before the 
other workers could get near him (not that anyone was in a hurry to 
after that) he could be seen disappearing across the lot with a plume of 
grey dust trailing off behind him.
Scott had never been so alive and on the ball.
He launched himself into his car and headed screaming off in the 
direction of the Western suburbs of Melbourne. 
He crossed the westgate and caught himself looking at the speedometer.  
"Shit!" he reproached himself "better drop it back or I'll get pinched 
before I make it to Sunbury".
He figured that he had about half an hour to three quarters of an hour 
before he was in real trouble from the police.
Part of him thought he should stop and go back.
It was an accident after all.
He was defending himself; Jeff had struck first.
Trouble with that was, he didn't know whether anyone witnessed it; Jeff 
hitting him first. He was positive the whole world saw his killer blow.
Part of him was sure that he would go down for this.
He was an unlucky sod and the others on the worksite would stick up for 
Jeff rather than him for a variety of reasons.
Sticking up for Jeff because he's the dead one.
Sucking up to management so they don't get a bad reputation at other 
sites; that can translate to a long time in the wilderness and these men 
had families to feed.
A new part of Scott was proud.
A proud warrior that faced a demon bigger than himself and won.
Scott was finally realising how little self respect he'd had over the 
years and what he really could have been.
Scott started to cry.

Senior Sergeant Porter had to get the facts straight and then send the 
cop cars after their 'bunny'.
He always called them bunnies.
They reminded him of the startled fluffy vermin when you caught them in 
the headlights; all innocence and gentility.
Butter wouldn't melt in their sweet little mouths if you could believe 
those eyes but you could see the evidence all around of the changing 
landscape as they chewed Australia into a new shape.
Criminals had the same 'who, me?' look about them as you got them in the 
spotlight on their way home from a burglary, or stopped them in their 
cars as they slurred their innocence, stinking like a stale distillery.
He'd slam the rabbits with his car and swore he could feel their little 
skulls whallop the grille on his divvy van.
He'd slam the drunk driver with the 'needle and pipe of honesty' as they 
blew 'til their drunken eyes bulged and the needle went west.
If you drink, then drive, you're a fucking idiot.
Slam would go the handcuffs when he'd twist the arms of a home invader 
behind their backs.  It was his favourite moment of intimacy with the 
accused. He loved it even more when they resisted.
His favourite of all though was the typical drunken, drug using, violent 
wife and child abusing piece of shit that was as guilty as sin and would 
sook all the way back to the station.
They'd whine about their broken home and how their dad did it to them 
and the usual sympathy chasing, right after leaving the scene they'd 
just created.
Wife beaten purple.
Child shivering in shock and incapable of speech.
He loved getting these turds back to the station and getting the others 
under his command to all go out at the same time and get him some 
Chinese.
They all knew what that meant.
Sarge was going to have another 'attempted escape'; you know; the ones 
where the guy they brought in half an hour ago without a scratch on him 
all of a sudden has all his front teeth missing, top and bottom. 
Sarge would look all sweaty and satisfied, all tired out from errr ... 
chasing the suspect. 
One time they came back too early.
The Sarge hadn't yet extracted his police issue baton from the suspect's 
anus. 
There was much embarrassment.
Sarge had an erection pushing the cloth of his pants out like a dorsal 
fin.
There's one thing you can say though.
Sarge's charges never came back.
He certainly put the repeat offender notion out of their minds.
Porter surveyed the body.
As well as they could put things together, the witnesses tried to map 
out the events of the past few minutes.
"Well, he had it coming" said one, matter of after the factly.
"None of us knew he had it in him" stated another.
It looked like a fairly straight forward situation.
Porter had his underlings checking out other witnesses.
Floors five and six gave their account and it tallied tight as a drum 
with the story on the ground.
The western division nick got the job done with a minimum of fuss.
Porter and his boys had known each other for  a while and everything 
followed its proper rhythm.
There was some good hearted competition and jealousy from some of the 
other stations and talk of 'Porter's pups' about his men.
After the word had escaped about truncheon number two making a guest 
appearance that infamous night he became known (behind his back) as 
'Snorter Porter' ; a reference to the similarity between the incident 
and that famous line from the movie 'Deliverance'.
You know the one I mean.
" I want you to squeal like a pig, boy".
You get my drift.
The junior officers at west knew about the Porter's pups thing but were 
kept in the dark about 'Snorter Porter'. 
A good officer always has a little nut saved up in his nest for later 
use, when the time is right.

Once he'd passed the Citylink speed camera paranoia zone, Scott gave the 
accelerator a hammering.
The Commodore shot forward like a dark grey torpedo, aimed at the 
Madedon Ranges. He weaved in and out of lanes and past cars so fast they 
bacame ribbons of paint in his vision.

Senior Sergeant Porter decided it was time to send the hounds after the 
fox and put out the intercept call to all available units.

Scott Wesson's father was a hopeless alcoholic.
Scott Wesson's father was a hopeless husband.
Scott Wesson's father was a hopeless father.
Scott Wesson's father was simply hopeless.
jack Daniel's for breakfast if he could keep it down.
If not it was Mylanta and serapax.
He'd been shitting and vomiting blood for a couple of years now but he 
still wouldn't go to the hospital.
He knew exactly what they'd tell him and he didn't want to hear it.
He couldn't stop drinking.
He was too bloody old to stop something he'd been doing almost non-stop 
for most of his life.
Anyway, what would he do with his time?
Take up macrame?
Sit around in those stupid meetings swapping war stories and bleeting 
about gratitude between feuds with 'members' who looked at him the wrong 
way once too often?
Naaaaah!
You can stick that up your arse.
He had the occasional visit from the district nurse.
She mothered and nagged him and he pretended he didn't like it.
But in a secret corner of his mind he longed for her visits.
She was a taut, wiry woman of thirty seven with arms like rope and a 
stomach like a new ironing board.
She would sometimes bend over him and tuck his blanket into the sides of 
his armchair, her breasts darting forward then back again, like two 
tempting fleshy pistons. They certainly got his motor running, or what 
was left of it. The intrigue of it all kept him a little young, though 
the pain of his malady made sure the clock was put back on old time in a 
hurry.
More than once he had been near the point of bursting with desire for 
her, though he'd never given in to it.
That little bit of pride was all he had left and he wasn't going to lose 
it. It was too important.
"while you've got a hand you're never lonely" he would sometimes chortle 
to himself.
In reality it was a thin, shallow statement.
There were times when he just wanted to hold a woman again; nothing 
more; just hold a woman and stroke her hair.
To feel her warm skin pressed against him through her clothes.
A woman's smell.
Nurse Jane had that smell.
His little slice of heaven she was.
Still, to act on it would have met with rejection.
He was, after all, nearly sixty. 
That would make him a dirty old perv if he acted.
Parts of him didn't feel sixty.
He still felt like an innocent young lamb in some ways.
All those years frozen in a whisky bottle.
Emotionally he was barely fifteen.
The door slammed open and slammed shut again.
Nurse Jane had left ten minutes or so ago.
"Janie?" he always called her that. She didn't mind.
"Janie is that you?".
"No, it's Jack the Ripper" Scott thundered from the hallway, feebly 
attempting to joke his way into the lounge room.
"Jesus; Scott?". Scott Wessons father was stunned.
Scott rarely came to see him and when he did it was a tense time.
Scott had struggled through childhood with his problem and Scott 
Wesson's father had been less help than the invisible man in a police 
line up when the tension was tearing his young son apart.
Until that point Scott Wesson's father had made an effort at being Mike 
Brady for his family.
He'd only drink every now and then and it was usually as a reward for a 
hard month or two picking grapes in Mildura or tying down the vines in 
Rochester or Apples in the Harcourt Orchards.
The season would run 'til the season was finished.
It went as long as the vines and the weather said it would.
It was hard work but it was good, honest work.
Sometimes Scott would help him on the holidays and he would be alright 
for a while. 
His young son would blossom amongst the fresh air, the sound of the 
birds and sheep and the rustling of the leaves and grasses of the 
hillside. 
The mountain slopes were a divine oil painting and it was comforting for 
all the workers to silently work along together, sharing mute company 
for hours on end.
"What's up, Scottie?"
"I'm in trouble, Dad"
"What sort of trouble?"
Scott hesitated.
"Come on Son, don't fuck around, this is serious, isn't it?"
Scott Wesson's father could feel his ancient heart thudding away in his 
chest, knowing something reall bad was happening".
"I killed a guy ... it was an accident", Scott spat the words out as 
fast as he could so they all went together as a package. 
You can't say 'I killed a guy' and leave it at that.
It's just not right.
"How'd it happen Scottie?" the gorge rising in his throat, Scott 
Wesson's father tried to sound as reassuring as possible.
For once he wanted to feel like he was of some use to his son.
There was so much he wanted to say and do to make up for all the wasted 
years and now he realised that he was never going to see his son again.
Tears welled in his saddlebag eyes.
"What can I do to help?"
Voice quavering, saddlebags overflowing.
Scott felt like a shit sandwich minus the bread.
"Great!", thought Scott "I've destroyed my life now I'm going to take 
the old man down with me. What a hero" 
If only the two men could see each other from the other's point of view 
they would have felt much better about themselves.
But it would never happen.
Scott Wesson's father had missed the boat.
Scott had headed to the city with the stubborn determination to make it. 

No door was going to be closed to him.
That wasn't the problem.
Too many doors were opening.
And slamming shut.
And cars with their horns.
And people with their loud music.
and babies with their crying.
All too loud.
All too much.
Him too proud.
Him lost touch.
Now a man was dead.
Scott Wesson's father saw the shadow of his son disappearing out of the 
back door of the farmhouse. 
He hoped he hadn't seen what he thought Scott was carrying.

"He's got a father at Vaughan Springs", chirped the radio dispatch 
operator.
"Vaughan Springs Road".
"Plot 31 by the looks of things".
"Apparently there's an old milk can painted red on the gate, you can't 
miss it according to the neighbours".
"Thanks VKC, out". 
Snorter Porter was on the trail.
He didn't get a stiffie about jobs like this.
He felt sad.
This poor bastard had real problems.
You could see the pattern.
You could see the buildup.
Stevie Wonder could have seen what was going to happen if that foreman 
had kept driving the poor bugger mad.
Jeff Brooks sounded like the kind of bloke that he would have snared in 
his net one night and presented with the mystery truncheon.
Prick!
Porter couldn't understand why he got so horny dishing out to these 
maggots.
One of these days he'd have to see a shrink and find out what it was.
Still, as long as he was able to keep it a secret he could weather it 
out, although lately it was starting to do his head in; especially when 
he nearly got caught swapping truncheons (the suspect was usually so out 
of it or battered from the police issue truncheon that they didn't 
realise phase two was Porter's flesh covered trouser model.)
The locals were leaving this suspect to him.
They would assist if required but seeing as Porter had seniority and an 
understanding of the case (as well as nothing else to do) he might as 
well choof out there and hunt the bunny himself.
He kept the double bubble lights flashing but gave the siren a miss 
unless some tool was blocking his way and needed a wake up call.
The siren can get fairly irritating if it's left on for long enough.

Beads of sweat formed in jagged rows on Scott's forehead as he half ran, 
half stumbled and half fell to the tool shed.
In his right hand he clutched his father's twelve guage shotgun.
There were always shells in both the chambers.
The gun was for snakes.
Scott Wesson's father was pathologically terrified of snakes.
He saw them in his dreams.
He saw them in his delerium tremens.
He saw them for real and had never got used to them.
Scott had lived on this farm all his life.
He was happy it was going to be the last thing he ever saw.
It was sadly ironic that this place was so peaceful and quiet.
That was all he wanted.
Peace and quiet.
His father had the operation like everybody else, but he didn't need it 
out here.
He only got it because he thought one day he may be stuck in some home 
in the big smoke and may need to shut out the other inmates.
He wished more than anything he could have done something for his son.
Scott kicked off his right boot and slipped off his sock.

Snorter Porter was making good time but he had a foreboding now that he 
was in for a bad time of it.
Something was definitely wrong.
He could radio through and rouse up the locals.
They might get there before him and deal with it.
Trouble is, he didn't know them at all well.
They might be trigger happy cowboys.
They could be pumped up beyond the point of reason and see guns that 
aren't even there and shoot on that basis.
None of this was fiction.
He had seen it all happen before.
By the time he hit Malmsbury he knew it was all over.
He had to keep the speed up though, in case he was wrong.

Scott Wesson's father was ill and frail.
Years of alcoholism and poor diet had torn his insides to bits.
He was thin as string and light as paper.
Nurse Jane suspected bowel cancer and an ulcer or three.
He didn't care.
He had to get to his son.
He HAD seen what he didn't want to see.
The shotgun was missing.
The shotgun had been in the same place since before Scott was born.
Paper light and rope thin.
Struggling and gasping.
Gotta get to the shed.
Got to stop the boy.
Got to stop him.
<<<<BANG!!!!>>>>
Scott Wesson's father was Scott Wesson's father no more.
There was no more Scott Wesson.

Senior Sergeant Porter of the Victoria Police entered the property at 
approximately 2pm.
He threw the vehicle around the back of the farmstead and killed the 
motor.
He leapt out of the vehicle as fast as he could and raced around to the 
old man on the ground.
"My son", he pleaded, pointing to the shed with what was left of his 
strength.
"My son", he repeated for the last time.
Scott Wesson's father died in the policeman's arms.
Porter let go of him and made his way to the shed.
He could smell the blood before he got there.
After dealing with these sorts of cases for years, especially if you're 
a non smoker, you can smell the blook even if you don't know theres a 
death.
It's just something you know.
He called 'round the door of the shed "You there, Scott?"
"Got both of them", came a feeble reply.
"Got both of them". 
Laughter.
"Got both of them".
"Got both of them".
Porter rounded the final obstacle to his view, a stack of pea straw 
bales tied up with string.
"It's O.K. son, you just stay there."
A smoking double barrelled shotgun lay parallel to the mortally wounded 
figure.
Scott was smiling at the policeman.
"Just stay still, I've called for an ambulance".
"Don't move, we may be able to save you".
To Scott, the policeman's voice sounded like a tuba full of wet cement 
playing underwater.
"Sorry officer, I'm pleased to say, I can't hear a word you're saying".
Scott had placed his toe through the trigger housing of the gun.
he had placed the business end to his forehead.
At the last minute he had heard his father calling him.
He was torn between going ahead with it or working it out with the 
police.
Maybe he could get psychiatric help.
Maybe they could give him tablets.
The gun had a hair trigger.
It made the decision for him.
<<<BANG!!!!>>>>
In through the right ear; out through the left ear.
Half his head went missing as the shot pellets fanned out in his skull 
and exited through his left ear hole.
He knew his father was dead.
Now they were going to be together again.
The tuba was still playing its underwater song as the house lights 
faded.
The curtain came down on the man who heard too much.


karl beesley

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      Long Dark Tunnel 2001. - http://ldt.aguk.co.uk - ldt@hushmail.com 
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