Road Kill.

Hanging off my radiator was an owl, or was it an eagle? I really don’t know. What I do remember, was a bird heading straight for headlights. It didn’t fair well.

It didn’t fair well, I thought, as I gunned it down the road. The road was going into the heart of the continent. It was a road made for speeding.Speeding into the desert, with only my thoughts, I was going to see the big rock and climb another rock. That was my resolution. I wasn’t going to drive all this way just to say, ‘Oh, isn’t that a big rock.’ We are creatures of the senses. I didn’t want to just see the rock, I wanted to climb it.
Then take a piss on it. Mark it. My fucking territory. Every dog who sniffed their way up the rock would know who had climbed it. It was me. It was fucking me. Born and bread, to climb the fucking rock.
Who let the fucking dogs out. The ugly fucking Australian did, that’s who.


‘Not on my shift,’ sad the Park Ranger, after she took forty bucks from my account. A fucking steep entrance fee. I was definitely going to climb the rock.
‘Not on my shift,’ she said again, then radioed out to all the Park Rangers, ‘We have a climber, repeat, we have a climber, and his registration is...’
Fuck, they take things pretty serious around here.
I paid for the ticket and I was going to to take the fucking ride