The Human Zoo - Mr Kalamunda



Deklyn is a simple man, he likes dirt bikes, cones and paying his sister’s mates for gobbies down by Lesmurdie Falls. Modern fashion confuses and angers him, so he sticks to the basics: Fox Racing shirt, Metal Mulisha hoodie, Rusty jeans and a pair of Globe moonboots that are holding on for dear life. His underwear game is also pretty fucked, as he never saw a need to evolve past the pre-cummy sheen of a pair of silk boxers. To top it off, he sports the official goatee of the reckless furniture removalist who most definitely look through your shit.

Morning breaks and Deklyn rolls out of his fitted-sheetless bed. He takes a dribbly swig of the remains of last nights Wild Turkey can in a desperate bid to rid his mouth from the taste of the Pickering Brook slurry he rooted last night. In addition to the myriad of STD’s brewing inside of him, he feels rougher than Kim Duthie after a night in Ricky Nixon’s sleaze filled waterbed.

No stranger to life threatening hangovers, Deklyn has the remedy. He shuffles his hobbit-feet towards his laundry that has a permanent bucket bong set up. He sucks down a cone and proceeds to serenade his household with the song of his people: donkey-coughing with elements of spluttering and cursing. Feeling stoned as a woman trying to vote in Saudi Arabia, he goes about the business of cooking up some breakfast: a handful of his youngest brother’s dexies washed down with a fresh can of Beam Devil’s Cut.

He jumps on his 250cc Atomik Fury and catches up with his mates for a session in the back country. The smell of petrol mixes with the thick green haze that the boys spend their life in. Being men of few words, the banter is drier than Dawn Fraser on multicultural day. Nevertheless, Deklyn has something to contribute, “me old boy called, apparently theres some girls willing to put out down at the pub, reckon I’ll check that out ay”.

Deklyn liberally douses himself in Lynx Africa and chooses to be wilfully ignorant of that fact it has not masked his pig-hunter’s body odour. He walks into the High Wycombe Tav while rolling a cigarette and spots his dad slumped at the bar. “Where these sluzzas dad?” His dad mumbles out incoherencies like a piss-stained cobber in the depths of a booze bus. Deklyn’s dad point at the unimpressed bar-chick, “bahh, son, this ones up for it”. Deklyn turns his bloodshot eyes to the young philly behind the bar, “yeh? This true?”

Unwilling to participate in an episode of Family Feud - Sexual Harassment Edition, the young girl politely requests Deklyn remove his inebriated father from the bar. The reasonable request causes the men to share a touching bonding moment, as they chuck pint glasses against walls and bust into enraged outbursts about being the kings of Kalamunda or someshit.

Outside the bar, Deklyn suggests the pair head to his dads place for a few drinks, “aw shit son, the old lady kicked me out, i’m sleeping in a swag in a hole done dug”. Deklyn fails to comprehend the problem, “yeh orright, can we drink in the hole?”. His dad grins, “sure, boy, would love to have ya”.

Whether it’s your sister’s mate, or your dad’s swag, home is where the hole is.

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