I took a beautiful stroll last week on a sunny afternoon listening to some Deep House. As I walked along the highway, a Ford RustBucket pulled up on the T-junction ahead, and opening the door was a complete psychopath pointing at me and screaming. He was a lanky skinhead with less teeth than fingers and a t-shirt covered in filth. His apparent rage for me was blocking access to the highway and angry drivers were riding their horns. Red with fury, he finally took off. What the hell was that about? Just another bogan, I thought. Thank God it was no one I knew.
After I crossed and entered the next block, I heard behind me the revving of an engine. A car ground to a halt on the other sidewalk. It was him again, and this time he was getting out. Preparing for the worst, I took out my earphones. He was at it again – cussing his lungs out, flailing his arms and heading my way. His walk turned into a run. He threw a punch, but to my surprise and relief, a second bogan behind me caught the blow. It turns out there was a couple there all along, or so it seemed, and here they were having it out with a creature straight out of Borderlands. The girl screamed in terror as the psycho beat her boyfriend’s face open. It wasn’t pretty. Somebody had overdosed on a drug by the sound of things, and this nut case wasn’t having the responsibility. I just continued my walk home, this time with my ears open.
Firearms in Australia is a subject for which I have mixed feelings. In situations like this, I wouldn’t turn down the capacity to carry a small gun. That goes double if I was a father on a walk with my children. These rednecks were out of their minds and could have involved me in their affair. But if getting a piece was easy for me, so it would be for the animals of society, and this situation might not have ended as smoothly for me.