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Bill Reed
Bill Reed, author
up. Nodding, yes. We can leave the Watch now. He was so good at Serious Matters, but the trouble was people kept dying around him. It didn’t help that the precocious teenager who claimed she was the rightful owner of his body kept nagging him even while they floated, locked in each other, along the shipping lanes of the Indian Ocean. Shissakes, he couldn’t even gag on life without someone complaining! He shouldn’t have shouted ‘Left!’ instead of that wrong ‘Right!’ to send his Humvee into an Afghani roadside bomb. He shouldn’t have left his darling wife and bubba-to-be alone in their Queenslander while he tried correcting the whole of Sydney legal woes. He should’ve honoured his Sri Lankan heritage and becoming Australian more. He should’ve popped something to rid himself of the Bard. He shouldn’t have married himself to the problem of the Australian Aborigines in its sexier form and its sweeter siren songs, only to find there are no words left, but only the shuffle within the dandruff drifts of mounting dagginess. His Petey-the-clown’s plaffy shoes didn’t help any, either. In fact, he wasn’t embedded in anything at all. He had merely become awash with it all. And very splutteringly too.