Seizure

In the club where the cleaners work smashing out shifts with massive arms and are routinely flirted with. The punters take the mops and girate with them. They take bags of substances off the ground and have to throw them out. They find all sorts of stuff in the toilet - a colonoscopy bag and prostitution going on. After cleaning 20 vomits for the night. The girl with the mod haircut who they see with dozens of men. Brushing past. The violence after a drink - the severe look in the eyes as another punch is thrown. The music rattling round - panic sets in as another toilet smoking incident evacuates the club. The people come back and the place rocks again. Some people stay all night, the sun rising in the summer times. The gangs and fighters parade around and the punches are thrown - when the blood splurts out from a punch on someone’s nose. The cleaner has to go through the dance floor and there is a writhing body, one cleaner has to yell out “get a cardboard box and run!” The cardboard box is used to keep the leg straight of the broken leg. The guards take the body and nothing is known. The body of another person writhing - the whole place is shut down and the guards hold back the crowd as the pulse of the music churns the crowd on. They keep dancing - breaking the ice on the ground from their drinks resembling a swamp. The man is never seen again. The one time there is a pile on for minutes and no guards break it up.

Some of the cleaners can’t work because the place is hoachin. The amount of people I have seen go through is the entire young population. The steps that these people take, the cleaners take is like going on an adventure. 23 kilometres. Easy.

The road is long and narrow at the walk home. People roam and fight in the shops. I was in one and the man asked me if I was here to hold the place up. “No, I am after some chips.”

The breakfast is warm and satisfying at six in the morning. You go and sleep for 8 hours then you get called in again. No pay rise for 4 years.

The music is pish. A body builder in the toilet asks, what I do. I am a journalist. What like paparazzi? No, everything. Writing about depravity. Seen the worst of humanity and got no hope in you. I walk around in designer clothing and look down on people. The most critical person to ever live.

Boycott this and boycott that. The cleaner goes into the club one day. Takes a match and burns the place to the ground. But it sprouts up.

The hardest consequences were the fact that the owner tracked them down. When they were out and shot them with a gun and drove off.

The rotten underbelly of businesses and crime. The seething terror of the pressure to make money.

The man chose one thing. To give it up and revolution. The owner could not live with the guilt for years of murdering his worker. He thought he was made of steel.

He died of a fucking heart attack.

The country rejoiced for one night and the next day back to usual grind of a 7:30 start. Getting pissed off about a 5 minute wait and telling someone they were going to choke on their own vomit. The cutthroat game of business that never falters just once, maybe.