I gazed down from the tenth floor balcony onto the grey shabby street far below. This is it I'm out of this fucken world for good. I moved to the railing and looked over. It would be easy I thought. Maybe I could land on that old shit box Torana down there. Some good could come out of my demise, the poor bastard who owns it could probably claim the damage on insurance, they might even write it off. At least he'll have a decent car to drive around in. Better than that crappie old Sigma that's waiting for me down in the car park of this poor excuse for a hotel.

The room was so small that if you stood in the middle of it and cracked a fat you would wear your knob off on the facing wall. I hate being back in this shitty city. Do it now, jump off the fucken balcony, get it over with. The bathroom door opened and my wife, still wet from the shower came out. She's a beautiful looking brunette in her mid twenties. Her hair was clinging to her shoulders accentuating her milky white complexion. Her slim well defined figure was extremely inviting under the bath towel, tied just above her breasts.

Fuck it, I can't kill myself she'll have to come down and identify my remains, I can't do this to her. How the hell did I end up here in this slum. Two days ago I was living in Millionaires row surrounded by beautiful people with expensive toys. I was driving a $200,000 boat. If only I could have knocked that last deal over, desperation killed it for me. Now I have to go back to where I was ten years ago. An aircraft mechanic getting my hands filthy and mixing with average types. Fuck it jump man! No I can't she needs me.

How the hell am I going to work for some public servant type with as much motivation as a cow pat? We looked at a flat in Hurstville it was the only thing we could afford. The agent seemed very enthusiastic. Every window looked out on to another flat. Fuck I hate brown! Brown carpet brown kitchen cupboards brown verandah. Well at least the cockroaches were well camouflaged in the brown shag pile. The walls were a pale green and we got more light in the place when we opened the fridge door than came in through the windows.

How the fuck am I going to live in this dark suburban cave. We move in Friday and I start the new job Monday. Where's the justice in life? I suppose it's like what my Dad says. "One day a rooster. The next day a feather duster." He's proud of me at last, mainly because I have a real job. He's Greek he came out after the war to re populate this great land. He is of the old school.

" Sell your labour," he would yell as he thumped his fist down on the table. He could never see that my expertise in the Nightclub business could be real work.

But I made a fortune partying till dawn seven days a week in my own club. It was hard work. Try telling that to people though. They would just go "Oh yeah," and smirk. I ended up selling my club to a drug dealer who is now cracking rocks in some prison in the land of the long white cloud. Mind you I didn't know he was a dealer at the time. His offer was very generous $800,000 cash. I took it Here I was 28 with over a million dollars in the bank, three houses, a Mercedes sports car a luxury boat and no debts.

I spent most of my days having lunch. Lunch used to take me up to three to four hours a day. I remember a day when lunch took ten hours and I was asked to leave the restaurant because they didn't appreciate my alcohol induced animal calls. I grew fat and bored I had more money than I could spend. I had been nearly everywhere on earth, so I had no desire to travel. I spent most of my life just having lunch. Cavil Avenue was the place to be when you were successful. I got to meet many wealthy people there, we had nothing better to do!

I met Con there. He built the beach end of Cavil Av. It started many years earlier, when Surfers Paradise was still young. Con had a hamburger stand overlooking the beach. His hamburgers weren't as successful as the imported variety from the USA. It was his choice of real estate that made him rich. Con spent most of his time playing backgammon in the endless sun of the Gold Coast. I could never beat him, but what the hell it took my mind off the boredom of wealth. Con was Greek, he came out to re-populate this great land after the war. Con always told me to relax and enjoy life. Con died from melanoma. I don't play backgammon any more.

"It isn't how much you have but what you do with it that counts. "I was told this by a wise wealthy man. I don't seem to have the ability to listen to anyone even the successful. Don't put all your eggs in one basket etc. etc. . I had heard all the clichés and wasn't about to start taking notice of them now. After all I was a millionaire and I had done it on my own with no help from anyone. The friends I had always let me shout. Lunch, dinner, a day out in the boat it was always on me.

What the hell I was in a position where the money didn't mean much and the bottom line is, I enjoyed having those freeloaders around me. I met Robby in an acting class. I saw myself as a bit of a thespian and so did Robby. He was an ex heroine addict, I hate to say it, my friend Robby was a lost cause. Finding out he was, was a journey of disappointment after disappointment. I used my connections to get him a job. I set him up with one of my friends and she gave him herpes. My pet poodle Bijoux was very fond of him. Every time Robby came upstairs Bijoux would try to fuck his leg.

Actually the dog gave me the idea of getting Robby and Kerry together. Bijoux would always try to fuck her leg too. They would race each other off and deny it. After all Kerry felt her station in life required someone a little more well healed, than Robby, the kitchen hand. I could never understand why he didn't give her the flick after the herpes. But Robby was that kind of guy. See no evil in anyone. When I saw the way she treated him, I decided to get rid of the dog, after all it was the dog who brought them together . He had to go.

Come to think of it I'm not sure how Kerry managed to do the deed with my buddy Robby. He had a pair of bib and brace overalls he wore every day in the steamy kitchen at work. I can still remember the smell. It was a mix of rotten food, urine, body odour and dog shit. The dog shit smell came from the incontinent German shepherd he shared his flat with. The dog had a habit of licking Robby fair on the mouth. One day I remember watching it licking its cock. Robby came out from his flat and the dog jumped up and licked him full on on the mouth. Robby didn't even wipe the spit off. I could never understand this bond some people have with their animals, it's sickening.

I suppose my life now as rotten as it seems is better than Robby's. I still miss him. We saw life in such similar ways. He was creative and so was I. I wanted to opt out and act for a living. Robby was my best supporter, apart from my acting teacher. She said I was a natural and I belonged on stage. She said one of her greatest students was Jamie Dunn of Agro fame and I was running a close second. The difference between Jamie and myself is, he has a puppet as his alter ego but I live with mine. I am my own alter ego.

I auditioned for NIDA along with about two hundred others. Robby came to watch. He said I was shithouse I felt I was too. After the endless hours of auditions the judges came to a decision. Obviously they were smarter than Robby and me because I was accepted. Why? I wasn't like the others, they were good. Robby was happy for me on the outside and jealous on the inside. We went home to tell my wife the good news and celebrate with champagne but Robby's mood became dark.

We went to a beach side restaurant but the celebrations ended early when Robby drank too much and became violent with jealousy. He was asked to leave . I was worried about him but I was the cause of his pain. His friend his partner in this world of the non artistic, as he would say. I let him leave alone. I watched him disappear south along the beach toward my beach house. He lived in a room downstairs, we called it a flat but it was just a room. I decided to follow him along the beach.

It was high tide there was no moon and the stars were reflecting off the water. The smell of the ocean and the sound of the waves crashing to the shore always invigorated me. It felt great to be alive, except for Robby's problem. I got home but there was no sign of life. I knocked on Robby's door but there was no answer except for the dog. I figured Robby had kept walking along the dark beach as he so often did when he felt low. I went back to my wife waiting for me at the restaurant.

We went on to a nightclub, called JB's. It was dark smelly and noisy but the service was great, the owner always shouted. After all, he said he owed it to me because when I sold my club his business doubled. We danced and drank and danced a little more. My ears were at the point of total destruction when my wife decided it was time to go home if I wanted my conjugals. I never argued with this type of suggestion so we left. We walked home along the beach, the mist was thick and there was a bit of a chill in the air.

My ears were still ringing when we got to the house. I was talking to my wife about how famous I was going to be after NIDA when she stopped me in mid sentence.

"Don't say any more. Robby might hear," she whispered covering my mouth with her hand. I noticed a strange pulsating golden light emanating from Robby's flat. It wasn't bright enough to be a fire but I still didn't like it I decided to investigate.

Thank God Robby never locked his door I thought as it opened. I told Leanne to wait outside. The flickering light was caused by a candle almost totally melted in a saucer. The wax had covered the syringe and the spoon in a surreal and horrifying sculpture. I was scared , I went into the bathroom Robby was laying face down on the floor in his own vomit. Conan, the dog was still licking it up so it was obvious to me he hadn't been there long. Robby had overdosed, if I had been any later he would be like Kon, dead.

He moved out when he got out of hospital later that week. I opted out of the NIDA opportunity I couldn't pursue it knowing it had caused such pain to someone I cared about. I saw Robby a couple of years later, one Christmas morning. He arrived at our marina apartment in a light blue 1968 Falcon station wagon. He was dressed as Santa Clause, that was his job. He made it as an actor after all. My life is probably better than his.

I looked out over the smoggy city dreading my new future. I finally realised what my rich old friend meant about not putting all your eggs in one basket. I had bought into a luxury boat brokerage, the smallest boat was 25 foot and the cheapest was $85,000, they went up to over $8,000,000.I also tied up most of my cash in the stock market. I made some good profits and kept re-investing in the market. I must admit I never really understood the way it worked. I put all my trust in Brad. Six foot four, broad shoulders a mind like a steel trap. He was a self proclaimed expert in the stock market, till October 1987. Not long after that his brokerage went bust.

I remember the day of the crash very well. I had just taken delivery of a shiny new Mariner 43 foot sports fishing boat with every conceivable extra. I handed over the final payment of $280,000 in cash the total value of the boat was $530,000. I remember thinking at the time, if this thing doesn't sell we are up shit creek. What a fuckwit I was I leveraged a lone on my share portfolio for the total value.

I had plenty of buyers so I didn't really have to worry too much, I thought.

The trip up the coast from Sydney was an omen. We hit absolutely shit weather, storms, gales and lightning. The sea was huge, so huge I lost sight of land behind the massive swells. Unfortunately the boat didn't sink in the storm and we made it to Surfers Paradise in one piece. The welcoming committee was waiting at the marina for us. My beautiful wife was there. My efficient secretary was there. My drunken mates from the yacht club were there. I was happy to see them and they were happy to see me and David.

We tied off the boat and the celebrations began. Somewhere between the first and third bottle of Dom, I heard the unmistakable roar of a Porsche Carrea being thrashed and then screeching to a halt. It was Brad, he had a serious look on his face. I thought he was looking like that to impress a couple of girls who ended up joining the party. He took giant strides down the Marina toward us.

" You heard the news?" He said with his private school inflection.

"What news? I've been at sea for three days," I said. Something inside me said this was not a social call.

"You're fucking broke, the market crashed. You can't even sell what's left. Even if you could you wouldn't get zip for it." Brad drank from a half empty bottle of Dom.

I was shocked by the news but a bit too pissed for it to sink in. Fuck it lets party, I thought and I did.

The days that followed helped the realisation of the extent of the crash to set in. The marina, usually a bustling hive of activity, was like a ghost town. All the prospective buyers for the boat had disappeared. The phones stopped ringing except for the blood sucking bank manager. He needed me to settle on the $500,000 loan for the boat as soon as possible. There was no sign of any buyers, all the people I dealt with played the market, so they were financially fucked like me.

The only business I seemed to be doing was listing second hand boats. This involved going to some clients houses because the boats were moored on their own private jetties. After the appraisals were given and the paperwork signed the clients would all seem to ask,

"Do you know anyone who wants to buy a house or maybe a Porsche? Do you list businesses?"

I had to resist the temptation to run out of the places, it was dismal. There were so many people suffering the huge losses that my only hope of selling a boat would probably have been if I had ran into a person who had just won lotto. There weren't to many of those around. My empire was fading around me and there was no way of stopping it.

One of my neighbours who was in a similar predicament to me was having a dreadful time coming to terms with being almost broke. He had lost a major amount on the stock exchange, so much so he couldn't keep the payments up on his apartment. Mick was a bit hyper active, he was skinny and wore a beard. He was always trying to come up with money making schemes, his last idea was a doosey.

When things were bad for me they were twice as bad for Mick, his patisserie and coffee shop was failing rapidly his wife was threatening to leave him and he was about to have his apartment re-possessed. Mick come up with the penultimate scheme to get out of his financial dilemma. One afternoon he left his wife at the coffee shop. She was on her own there and was concerned that Mick had been away for some time. Unable to contact him she rang a mutual friend of theirs to see if he had seen Mick.

George had heard from Mick about an hour before, he said that he was going over to their apartment, Mick wanted to see him. Jan was feeling better, so she carried on with the normal daily routine. George arrived at the apartment, he knocked on the door there was no answer. He noticed that Micks' car was out front so he must have been in there. George tried the lock it was open so he went in. He saw Mick sitting on the couch asleep. So he went to wake him and he saw a huge hoarse needle sticking out of Micks' neck, in the vicinity of the juggler vein.

George told me he had never seen so much blood. Mick bled himself too death to claim insurance, so his wife and kids could stay in the apartment and pay off their debts. The insurance were reluctant to pay and the police tried to pin the death on poor old George.

I gazed out onto the grey smoggy city and thought as bad as my life is now it's not as bad as Micks'. I lost four friends because of the crash of 87. Thank God I survived it!

ends.

Closing date 16-10-95.

Winner announced March / April 1996 HQ magazine on sale Feb 16 1996.

word count to here 4868.