**Headline:** Aerial Spraying Nightmare: Farmers Allege Biological Warfare in Queensland

Stephen was a regular bloke.

He didn't look out of place in a bar with waitresses with big hooters.

He had the cash and didn't mind spending.

'I bought the town a new fucking tennis court, now the cunts want me to fund a library.'

I knew his public persona was different from his private one.

'Fucking love Trump, man, but I can't afford to lose my Democrat readers.'

Ms. Hooter was hooting around us with her hooters.

'Have you considered writing, son,' asked Stephen.

I told him I dabbled here and there.

'Like this,' he said and started prodding Mary's boobies, 'just to see if they were made in America.'

He cussed like a cow.

Every second word was 'fuck this and fuck that'.

Did he have a ghostwriter?

'Wrote the best stuff fucked up on cocaine and Jim Beam.'

So you had a good editor?

'Ken Fucking Kasey wrote most of my books. I paid him with LSD trips. He was cheap that way.'

It was all making sense.

'Don't suppose we can crash at your place tonight,' asked Max.

We were getting blotto faced and Steve's house was only a block away.