true

The room might only be rented for a week.

They want me gone so they can happily rent next door without me opening my mouth.

That's it.

I spoke.

That's the real reason.

But they were ooooo so nice about it.

They didn't want to hurt my feelings.

They have pretensions to maintain and uphold that they are a reputable business.

In some ways, they are.

They even offer little bars of soap.

I got two when I checked in, and no more.  

Nearly two months later, I've been cleaning my own room.

Nothing, no bog paper, nada enchilada.

Don't become a victim.

That’s my advice.

Caravan Parks are local meeting points for hardened mother fuckers.

They infiltrate the poor and terrorise them.

The poor against the poor.

You have no chance that way.

Carry a baseball bat.

Lock your caravan door.

Make it hard for them to enter.

Find an exit.  

Make one.

Make an exit that only you know about.

And fucking run. Run, Forrest, fucking Run.......

Mention Dave, the homeless guy who aves Coles from Crackhead Killer

Walking stick, they aren't afraid to sort things out with violence

And lastly, Bob's Bicycles, how mushrooms grow...

And break in, ladder out back, this morning, and police barriers, 'areally good look for your shop.'

Fatality...find

The place reminds me of Girrawheen.

You aren't safe.

Like cancer, they are breeding.

Safe doesn't exist anymore.

Police can only do so much.

Homeowners have a better shot of the limited resources.

Caravan dwellers, guilty by association.

Even the guy working at Bob's Cycles was surprised at how the poor are trashed in this town.

Pushed to the margins, they are running out of space.

I noticed how the swap of information at Bob's was very one-sided.

I was the weirdo updating them.

They were putting their bikes inside.

It was knockoff time.

They almost seemed scared to talk.

That the police made their crime scene outside Bob's showed their contempt to the public.

I called Crime Stoppers and told them the car had its windows unlocked.  

I said there could be more evidence to cull from the car.

Five days later, someone thought the same and broke the back window; it could easily have been opened by pressing the knob.

And the front driver and passenger's windows were smashed.

I'm sure if they checked, the door would have been unlocked.

The locals are angry.

Mob rules.

Tow the car away.

Everyone would be happier.

No one wants to be reminded of what went down.

The high season arrives tomorrow.  

The police are at least being honest; the barriers and crime tape say, 'Coffs is dangerous; get used to it.'

When did this happen? I asked.

This morning.

At last, information was surrendered, reluctantly.  

If I didn't ask, I would never have known, right?

A pillow with a pillowcase with designs of fish.

And Finding Nemo was hard; well, four months later, the manhunt ended. Nemo is going home. Back to Sydney, 'where he belongs,' says the Manager who picks up the pillow for forensics to investigate.

Kevin Howard's life of 'enjoying a quiet life that includes fishing' ended when the Manager of a supposed halfway house refused to give up on pressing charges against him for his gut feeling that a paedophile was hiding in one of his rooms.

'I checked his name on the guest list,' he says, following his hunch and glaring evidence, 'and there it was; Kevin wanted to spend his remaining years praying on the children of Coffs Harbour.'

It’s late now.

The news has yet to be broken.

And I’m outside, tracing where the drama unfolded over the last 24 hours.

The only clue that all was not right is the dustpan and brush and a container for syringes on top of a Styrofoam cooler box that still has the graphite on it from the brush strokes of the forensic police.

CSI Coffs Harbour.

They don't show you this on the reality tv programs. And for good reason. It's a dangerous world out there. And even in God's Country, evil sometimes goes down.

In this case, not unnoticed.

The caretaker says that the guy who helped him was a colourful character himself.

'He just went to court today for bashing up his wife.'

The more you dig, the deeper the hole becomes.

'And a few more colourful tenets robbed the guy's car from room 14.'

Do go on.

'They were dumb enough to bring the tools in on a Woolworths trolly. The police were here investigating the guy from room 14, and they were caught red-handed.'

I have landed here. It was a toss-up, get the are fixed up in Canberra or at Coffs Harbour, the land of the Big Banana, multimillion-dollar homes perched on hills with views to match and a run-down hotel within 600 metres of malls, upscale neighbourhoods, and home to the worst criminals of NSW.

But if you belong, they leave you alone.

'Never shit on your own doorstep,' he advises. 'And thieves have no codes,' he adds, 'so lock up your door, windows, get content insurance and have a baseball hat handy.'

I go for a walk to check if the car is still where the police chase ended.

'He was a creepy-looking skinny old man,' I overheard a lady buying something at the petrol station across the road.

The creep’s car is still there, A white Ute with a cab attachment on the back.

The crime tape has been torn off. Where it was knotted is all that remains and reminds anyone who cares to look that this was the car of a pedophile who was arrested at gunpoint on Sunday.

The car is parked outside BWC. If you don’t look carefully, you won’t notice the cement that’s fallen on the ground at the back of the Hatchback. You won’t notice footprints.

All clues to his trade, if indeed he had one.

Also, the windows are tinted.

We already know he was newer at the hotel.

So, if anything unsavoury went down, it would have been in his car, which seemed geared towards concealing a kidnapped child.

Just this morning, the animals out the back were playing up.

‘You fucking cunt, the tools were mine.’

Then a chase ensued. They ran past my room. One guy screening for his life, ‘I’ll fucking kill you.’

The other guy, holding a very large kitchen knife, replied, 'fucking dumb cunt, I'm the one holding the knife, and there won't be a next time.'

No police turned up. So until that next time, I’ll try and get my car fixed up and fuck off.

That is if they left me.

Such a wonderful place.

Welcome to Coffs Harbour’s equivalent to Hotel California.

‘We’ll check you in,’ said the owner, who didn’t give a fuck how I paid.

I couldn’t check into any hotel in Western Australia.

Only credit card holders could.

The owner handed me some towels.

‘I can’t guarantee you ever leave this place, though.’

What the fuck did he mean by that.

'Let me clarify, you can leave this place, but it will be out of an ambulance; at best, at worst, we'll throw your body and dispose of it with the other guests at the local tip.'

At least he didn’t mince his words.

‘Three months max is all you got,’ he says and looks at the guest list, ‘so I suggest in two weeks’ time, piss off while you can.’

Piss off while you can.

What if I stayed, I asked, sick of running from trouble.

‘Become that monster that is residing in your bosom, feed him milk and release the beast inside you.’

A bit new age.

'Take it or leave it,' he says, and that's the end of our little chat.

Then I hear someone whistling that famous Eagles song.

The bastard taught his birds to whistle.

I start to clap as I slowly walk out of the reception area.

'What the fuck is that for,' the Manager asked, alarmed.

‘I guess you aren’t a real fan of the Eagles, after all.’

Then I left.

I could speak in tongues too.

The owner, a dodgy fuck from Ipswitch, is away, attending to some more work at another hotel in the next town.

He manages them. The guy who owns them gets his smaller partners, his lackeys, to launder his money. They own seven hotels in total. And Mr Spiritual has a harem of Asians. At 64, why fucking not.

‘Jim is John’s son,’ said Ian.

Jim said he wished.

But he agreed anyway.

John, though you wouldn't know it from seeing him, he looks like a doughnut that has been baked too long and came out overcooked, cracking at the seams. He's got the money, 'rolls of it,' said Rebecca, who works across the street at Shell, pumping gas.

So he likes to show it off, hay?

He didn’t impress me, said Rebecca.

Because he didn’t hand you a few from the wad of cash.

Exactly, she said.

Women can’t live on fresh air alone, she added.

What is your price, I’m thinking?

She’s got a boyfriend, who was a bike. The only xX-bike is a dead bike.

And she’s got a few days off.

I get a knock on my door.

I opened it.

Yes.

She puts her ear close to mine.

What? I said. I had a chain on the door, so it only opened a few inches.

She wanted to crack.

And I wanted to open her crack, with some crack.

Huh, was my acting that convincing?

‘My boyfriend said d if I could get him some gear, he’d fuck me senseless.’

She pushes out her breasts; they are fucking massive and always get my attention, even when they are being restrained by a tank top.

She hands me cash. Hard-earned cash from the Shell pump station across the road.

I can’t take it.

Besides, I don’t have any crack.

I make her up a punch.

Fruit, Phentermine and Vyvanse are basically another variant of crack but in lower doses.

She doesn’t blow me off.

I never expected it.

She is blown off by her boyfriend and spends the remainder of the night in her room, nursing a 750 mm of Vodka.

She’s a troubled girl.

And pulling her emotional strings would have even made her even more troubled.

She used to be a hooker.

Now she pumps gas for a living.

And her boyfriend won't fuck her unless she can come up with powder, the stuff that doesn't only tap into your Dopamine supplies but opens the floodgates, triggering a tsunami of the chemical that rewards you for good deeds.

‘And I’m rewarding you for yours,’ I said, as I handed her a Red Tupperware with the cocktail, wishing her wild and unrestrained sex with the boyfriend. I closed the door, sealing off the madness out on the Pacific Highway. It was always mine to engage with. But tonight, I had other things to do.

Japanese Porn.

A Walkathon.

Nicotine.

Vaping.

That took up the remainder of the night.

According to the literature of official drug peddlers, "there are 2 main categories of ADD or ADHD medication..."

My choice was dexamphetamine, branded as Vyvanse.

‘You just get cum showers all the fucking time,’ I told my psychiatrist.

I was immediately discharged.

Well fuck putting a tourniquet around your neck, I added.

Doubly discharged.

If only I could have reached out to Robin Willaims and Michael Hutchinson, I might have added seconds to their orgasm.

"Doing it all wrong, guys, you need some good old-fashioned ADHD medication."

Rubbish, I told my doctor; my focus got worse and became more scattered, but boy, it really expanded the orgasm from a nanosecond to at least three seconds.

Admitted, this time.

Had I read the signals wrong?

Did she want to give this old but not quite burnt-out writer a fuck?

I couldn’t be sure.

I didn’t want to risk it.

A visit was more than enough.

I had street creds in the hood.

I was accepted.

‘Gross.’

That's me, Rosie. And you better believe it.

She’s dozed off again.

Until next time Rosie.

I love you dearly.

Please let me know if you notice any remaining errors or have any other feedback on my full proofreading and revision of the text! I'm happy to go through it again if needed.