The Amber Affliction: A Lachlan McKnight Adventure

By B.T. Middleton

For soldier of fortune and Aussie knockabout Lachlan McKnight, his new contract with Great White Global Risk Consulting was supposed to be an easy way to make some sweet cash, catch up with old mates and hang out with hot European chicks.
Unfortunately, when you're a drunken womaniser, your best mate is a lying, sexual deviant and your contract is in Afghanistan, life doesn't always go according to plan. In fact, for Big Lachy, trouble always seems to be just around the corner, whether it's a professional Rugby League player with a score to settle, an Amazonian Marine trying to seduce him, or an online troll trying to destroy him.
In this first of many 'Lachlan McKnight Adventures', the action never ceases, as Lachy mixes it with the Green Berets, takes it to the Taliban and makes it home in time for medals and movie night.
If you don't mind a good yarn, a good laugh, a good old-fashioned fistfight or two and a few gunfights thrown in for good measure, then join Lachy McKnight as he shoots, roots, drinks, fights, laughs and loves his way from the pubs of Cronulla to the Badlands of Afghanistan and back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.T. Middleton
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781912643103

Book preview

15

Chapter 1

Lachlan McKnight was a twenty-six-year-old, former enlisted Commando and now former Intelligence Officer. Just days ago, he’d discharged as a Captain from the Australian Army in pursuit of more money, adventure and pussy, figuring he could secure these goals more readily as a contractor in Afghanistan. A country lad, McKnight was raised on a horse stud in Scone in the New South Wales Hunter Region before joining the Army at age eighteen. Standing 185 cm tall and weighing ninety kilograms, Lachlan, or ‘Lachy’ to his mates, was tall and handsome and he knew it. Clean-shaven, his jaw was defined, his chin masculine and his slightly dimpled cheeks shielded a near flawless set of white teeth, the only imperfection being the crowns he wore to compensate for the two he’d foolishly lost in a New Year’s Eve dust-up in 2009. McKnight’s sun-kissed, dark blond hair was full and voluminous and he now looked forward to growing it beyond the limits of acceptable military standards. He had a rough and bronzed complexion born from years of exposure to the Australian sun and often, as he would narcissistically stare into the mirror, he would reflect that Chris Hemsworth would be most appropriate to play him in a movie about his life.

Below the neck, McKnight was muscular, his own vanity driving him to spend hours each day sculpting himself in a gym. He wore half a sleeve of cliched and generally bogan-themed tattoos from his shoulder to his right elbow and, like many other features of his physical appearance, this brought him great pride. Unlike the rest of humanity who have to work for it, McKnight was one of those annoying natural athletes for whom sporting prowess came effortlessly. His abilities saw him frequently gain selection in both the Army’s boxing and rugby teams, despite the fact that he never turned up to training and was renowned for hitting the piss so hard on road trips that he was usually too hungover to even compete.

Unfortunately for his already swollen ego, and in stark contrast to his generally boorish behaviour, McKnight was actually quite intelligent and, when he wanted to be, even charming. He was outgoing and his fondness for a joke, a drink and a good yarn endeared McKnight to most people. He was a renowned larrikin, and a highly successful, if not notorious, womaniser, a fact he shamelessly self-promoted amongst his peers.

In the workplace, McKnight was an alpha-male who used his physical presence and bravado to gain the approval of his peers and bosses. He’d completed officer training after serving two years as a Commando with the Commando Regiment, however McKnight’s career as an officer had been less than stellar, a factor which played no small role in his decision to discharge. McKnight gave life to the saying that ‘credibility was built up by the teaspoon and taken away by the dump truck’ as it was not uncommon for him to throw away months of hard-won reputation and trust in either a single alcohol- or sex-related incident. In his first performance appraisal as an officer, McKnight’s boss described him as ‘potentially the best officer under my command, however, unfortunately he is also the most ill-disciplined. For an intelligent man, he is partial to doing very unintelligent things’. The final nail in the coffin of McKnight’s career as an officer came when he found himself posted back to the Commando Regiment as the current Intelligence Officer. Unable to resist the lure of his old mates and their buffoonery, McKnight’s transition from digger to officer to civilian was complete.

Despite his immaturity, vanity and being frequently labelled a ‘wanker and man-whore’ by the females he left in his wake, deep down, McKnight was actually a good bloke. He was a loyal mate, generous with his time, possessions and his abilities and, if you were someone he didn’t want to sleep with, he was even pretty honest and reliable.

‘Southies Hotel’, Cronulla Beach, Sydney, Australia, 18 June 2017

For a Sunday night, ‘Southies Hotel’ at Cronulla Beach in Sydney was doing a roaring trade. The dance floor was packed, the music was pumping and the drinks were flowing. The Cronulla Stingrays National Rugby League team was present, celebrating their round fifteen win over the North Queensland Stallions, as was the usual crowd of hangers-on, wannabes and loose women that professional footballers attract. In the opposite corner of the pub, the dance floor dividing them, was another equally large group of passive-aggressive, overtly muscular and tattooed men from the Army’s Commando Regiment. While the boys wanted to see off McKnight before he departed for his new contract in Afghanistan, the real reason they were there, like their counterparts from the Stingrays, was to get pissed and hopefully pick up a chick for the night. Though the Commandos had brains on their side, the Stingrays players had fame and cash and, at this stage of the night, it could be said that they were leading in the competition for female attention.

This is bullshit, a drunken McKnight said as he slammed his thirteenth or fourteenth schooner down. Don’t these chicks know I’m leaving the country tomorrow? The last bloody night I’ve got on the piss in civilisation and the Stingrays decide to show up! I’ve never had to wait more than a few hours to pick up here. Time to switch to guns!

His mates erupted in laughter at McKnight’s frustration and now highly visible state of intoxication. He’d been drinking since three o’clock in the afternoon, his sole purpose being to party hard because he’d have to be sober and, no doubt, celibate for the duration of his six-month contract in Afghanistan. Unfortunately for McKnight, the drunker and hornier he grew, the less endearing he became to the female clientele.

Anyone want a drink? McKnight asked the table. I’m going to the bar, it’s my shout.

Those that hadn’t already finished the current round drained their glasses and McKnight received nods all round. We’re going Jager Bombs now, yeah? he said.

The exact response from the table was indiscernible through the music and general incoherence of those that bothered putting a response into words, but McKnight gathered that the answer was in the affirmative. As he made his way to the bar, he spied a table of three women, all straight from the Shire’s clone factory. All were probably in their early forties, but a life of Cronulla sun had left their skin weathered and leathery beyond their years. Two wore classic 90s barbed-wire tattoos, while all had bleached blonde hair and fake boobs. Unable to help himself, McKnight instinctively took a seat at their table.

Hello, ladies, he busted out confidently. I’m Lachy. Do you mind if I join you? There’s just simply too much testosterone and immaturity at my table and I think I need a break.

McKnight received tipsy giggles in response and little resistance. I guess we don’t have much choice now, one responded. This is Janelle, Deb, and I’m Shea.

Well, Janelle, Deb and Shea, he replied, I’m going to the bar, and I would love to buy all three of you a drink in exchange for your company.

The ladies exchanged sly glances and Shea spoke on their behalf once again, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Lachy, she said, nodding towards his rear.

Well, I am sure he rebutted, and I won’t take no for an answer. As McKnight stood up to leave the table, he was confronted by two Stingrays players, Tim Taufa and Dan Darner, who were standing right behind him, watching everything.

You heard the ladies, Army Jerk, said Taufa.

I think you will take no for an answer mate, added Darner. We’ve been tuning these chicks for the last hour and we aren’t about to let you just step in and start cuttin’ our grass.

Gentlemen, gentlemen, McKnight responded. There’s no need for trouble. There’s plenty here for all of us. Now, how about you go and bash your missus again, Tim, and you go back to the pokies where an addict like you belongs, Dan.

As Taufa reached for McKnight’s throat, the Stingrays captain, Ben Gallow, stepped in and grabbed his arm from behind. Are you serious, Tim? said the Stingrays captain. We’re not even halfway through the season and you want to get suspended over some Shire scrubbers? You want to be charged for assault? You want to join that idiot bubbler in France?

But this bloke was––, Taufa tried to respond.

The skipper cut him off. I don’t care what this bloke was doing, mate. Now, either go back to the bar and enjoy the night, or go home.

Think you better listen to your captain, boys, said McKnight, turning towards Gallow and patting him patronisingly on the shoulder. Stirling job, mate. If only you showed half as much leadership on the paddock, your club wouldn’t suck so bad. I’ll see you ladies later.

McKnight dipped his black baseball cap towards the ladies and shot them a wink as he headed for the bar to fulfil his original order, returning to his own table a few minutes later with a tray full of Jager Bombs.

What took so bloody long? asked Smithy, one of the section commanders from Charlie Company and a Cronulla local.

Ahh, nothing fellas, said McKnight. Some of the Stingrays boys just trying to piss and mark their territory is all.

As the night progressed, so too did McKnight’s level of intoxication, sexual frustration and pent-up aggression. At nine pm he realised that he probably should have just rolled the dice with a Tinder date because his chances of sex would have been better. At ten pm he realised that his mates were now a hindrance to his ultimate goal of getting laid before departing and, at eleven pm, he realised there was only an hour before closing and he would soon have to go to sleep only to wake up and face six months of celibacy and sobriety.

Well, gentlemen, said McKnight. It’s been a pleasure, but it’s time to go nuclear.

What are you talking about? said Jonesy. You need to cut your losses and go to bed, mate. You’ve got an eleven-hour flight and they won’t let you on the plane if you turn up shit-faced. You want to lose your new job before you even start it?

Fuck ’em, replied McKnight. This is my jam. I’m dancing!

McKnight left his mates shaking their heads and made his way to the dance floor, slowly pushing through the crowd in search of a suitable female victim to grind against, all the while being careful not to spill his rum and Coke as he bopped along to Ariana Grande’s Side to Side. Working in McKnight’s favour was the fact that most of the Stingrays players, including Gallow, Taufa and Darner, had gone home, yet Janelle, Shea and Deb were still grooving away, obviously unable to hook up yet. Spotting his opening, McKnight awkwardly lurched his way towards them with what he was convinced was rhythm and style. With his rum and Coke in one hand, he grabbed Shea’s hip with his other and began swaying in synch with her.

Leaning in towards her, McKnight drooled sloppily through rum-soaked breath, How’s your night going?

Better now that you’re here, handsome, Shea responded.

McKnight smiled and threw down the rest of his rum. I’m heading overseas tomorrow, he said. How about you come back to my apartment with me? I only live across the road.

Shea smiled flirtatiously in response. Truth be known, she was just as drunk and desperate as McKnight. Tell you what, she slurred, Janelle and Deb are all set to go home with a couple of Stingrays players in the next few minutes and they think I’m going to go home with one too.

Which one? questioned McKnight.

Shea motioned towards the co-captain and hooker, Dennis Reardon, who was drunkenly stomping all over the dance floor, spilling bourbon and clearing everything in his path.

I’m not going to, though, Shea continued. Why don’t you go and wait for me at the bar and I’ll let the girls know I’m leaving. I’ll tell Rapey McRapist that I’m just going to the bathroom and sneak off.

Yes, Ma’am, said McKnight.

What was I ever worried about? McKnight rules!

Proud as punch and wearing a smile from ear to ear, McKnight moved more politely than he had all night through the crowd towards the bar. As he passed the Stingrays hooker and the man he had just outplayed for Shea’s affections, the no-necked Reardon stepped in his path and placed a palm on McKnight’s chest.

What’s going on with you and Shea, mate? he growled at McKnight.

Nothing that you need to worry your thick head about, Tarzan, McKnight responded. Now why don’t you go back to doing your dinosaur stomp and I’ll be on my way.

Reardon continued to block McKnight’s path and he slurred angrily in response, You better watch your mouth smart-arse, or I’ll shut it for you.

McKnight simply laughed in his face. Filled with rum, an inflated sense of his own masculinity and a confidence that no Rugby League player would be stupid enough to start a fight in the day of mobile phone cameras, McKnight pulled out his phone and started filming. Why don’t you smile for the camera, Denno? Why don’t you tell the viewers at home what you just told me?

Presented with the choice of losing face in front of his team, or losing his job and fronting the media and his wife the next day, Reardon did what any Rugby League player would have done in the same situation. Staring straight into the phone, Reardon skolled the rest of his bourbon and proceeded to spit it all in McKnight’s face, while simultaneously lunging for his phone, ripping it from McKnight’s grasp and stepping on it in one motion.

How’s that for a dinosaur stomp, dickhead? said Reardon. Now bugger off home, AJ, before you get hurt.

McKnight stood there dumbfounded, dripping in bourbon and spit. He wiped his eyes and looked down at his phone, now smashed into a thousand matchstick-sized pieces and gazed at his provocateur who was looking quite pleased with himself. McKnight clocked the scene around him, weighing up his next move. Unsure if it was lucky or not, McKnight noted that no one seemed to have noticed the incident, not the bouncers, not the ladies, not the other Stingrays players and not McKnight’s mates. In his alcohol-soaked brain, this gave McKnight two options: one, he could leave the scene a little bit wet, with a bruised ego, but still get the girl; or two, he could punch Reardon square in the face, regain his pride and leave with the girl before anyone noticed. To a man of McKnight’s ego, the choice was simple. Taking advantage of Reardon’s open stance and over-confidence, McKnight stepped in towards him and led with a left rip to the ribs. As Reardon reacted to the force of the blow, doubling over and covering his side, McKnight followed with two right straights to the face which sent Reardon to the floor out cold before he even hit the dance floor. As he flew backwards, Reardon collected about four or five dancers with him, his 100-kg frame knocking them all off their feet and clearing an empty circle around McKnight who was left standing in the middle of the dancefloor holding clenched fists.

Ohh, shit.

McKnight was caught like a deer in the headlights. The music stopped, and every bouncer and Stingrays player left in the place looked towards the dance floor to see what had happened. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run and no way to talk himself out of the trouble he was in. To his left, there were half a dozen professional footballers steaming towards him baying for his blood, while to his right, the Commandos had realised what had happened and were charging towards the footballers. To his immediate front, three ginormous Maori bouncers had also decided they wanted a piece of the action and were stampeding towards the melee. It was at this instant, his new career, his life and his hard-won sex all on the line, that it dawned upon McKnight that perhaps hitting Reardon had not been the smartest course of action after all.

Chapter 2

McKnight’s Apartment, Cronulla Beach, Sydney, Australia, 19 June, 07:00

Wake up you cheating fucker, wake the fuck up!

In the state of alcohol-induced unconsciousness McKnight was currently in, he figured he was dreaming that someone was standing over the top of him and berating him, that was until he received a glass of chilled water to the face. He sat bolt upright and tried to wipe away the water from his eyes. His head was thumping, his mouth tasted like the bundy bear and Jack Daniels had personally shat in it, and he had no idea where he was. To say McKnight was confused would have been an understatement. As he dried his eyes, the identity of his assailant became apparent.

Regan? What the hell are you doing here? How did you get into my bloody apartment? said a bewildered and wet McKnight.

You asked me to come here, you cheating piece of shit. You said you loved me and that we should get back together before you went to Afghanistan. You asked me here to drive you to the airport this morning, shrieked Regan.

What are you talking about, woman? asked McKnight We’re not getting back together. We were never even together in the first place! We had like three Tinder dates and haven’t spoken for a month!

You texted me last night at about eleven o’clock, you prick! Take a look! Regan hissed, throwing her phone at McKnight.

He picked the phone up from where it had landed on the bed and began to scroll through the chain of texts on the screen. As he did so, a ray of memory poked through the fuzzy cloud of stale alcohol that currently encased his brain and he realised that she was telling the truth. His stomach began to turn as he read the messages.

Regan George was a local Shire girl from Gymea that McKnight had slept with a few times over the course of three dates about a month ago. She was young, dumb and annoying, but she had great tits and was about nineteen, so McKnight didn’t care. As the relationship had progressed, it became obvious that Regan was looking for a McKnight in shining armour to marry her and live a fairytale with. All the warning signs were there – the constant texts, the insecurity, the jealousy – but he’d cut her away only after she’d stolen his apartment keys and had her own set cut. McKnight remembered sending the texts last night as a last-ditch effort to secure sex before he picked up Shea. He recalled thinking to himself that he’d feel guilty about being such a blatant liar in the morning, but at the time he actually thought himself ingenious and pretty funny, to the point that he’d shown all his mates at the table the texts he was now reading and laid bets on whether Regan would be desperate enough to respond. Right now, however, guilt was not the primary emotion confronting McKnight. As he read the texts and flicked his eyes towards the rabid Regan, then back to the naked woman lying in his bed, he became gripped with a fear he had not felt in a long time. This was not going to end well and he knew it.

Who’s this wench? Regan demanded.

Shea had been groggily awaking for the past ten seconds and she sat upright to join McKnight, the duvet falling to reveal a Cronulla Stingrays tattoo low on her right breast.

Wench! Shea croaked back. Who the fuck are you? Lachy, who the fuck is this and why is she here?

For the second time in his life, McKnight was lost for words. The first time occurred twelve months ago in this very room in this very bed, when his latest conquest awoke to discover that the man who had been claiming to be an American film producer all evening had actually woken up and said G’day in the thickest Paul Hogan accent ever recorded. Using every bit of mental dexterity available to him, McKnight cast his mind back to that event to draw upon what he had learnt. On that occasion he was chased naked from his apartment and had to call the police to regain access after several embarrassing hours. Desperate to avoid the same situation on a day he was due to fly to Afghanistan and start a new job, McKnight acted without hesitation or shame, springing from the bed completely naked and restraining Regan while simultaneously ducking the empty glass of water she’d just hurled at his face. The glass bounced off the bed and smashed against the wall, sending a thousand shards of glass all over the apartment, while McKnight ducked behind her and gripped her right arm in a stress position.

Arrrggghhh. Let me go you prick! Regan howled as she writhed in pain, attempting to break free.

After a few seconds she realised the futility of her efforts and stopped struggling, but continued with the verbal abuse as McKnight frogmarched her towards the door of the apartment.

I’ll fucking get you, Lachlan McKnight. Don’t you worry, you cheating bastard, you’re fucken gone!

Thanks, Regan. I’ll see you when I get back, he replied as he opened the door and thrust her outside in one movement, slamming it just before she snapped round 180 degrees and threw her fist into it.

McKnight locked the door and leant against it for a few seconds in an attempt to drown out the thuds from Regan’s fists and feet as she kicked and punched, livid and totally oblivious to everyone else in the building.

"Usually, they give up after thirty