The Punter

By Nick Timms and Joey Rowlands

The Punter is the story of Brad Puntworthy, a rural Aussie battler whose supernatural gambling ability gets him headhunted to work at a prestigious investment banking firm in Sydney. 

Brad sets foot out of Boolanyabba for the first time in his life and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bushpig Publishers
• Release date: Jul 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645184112

Book preview

The Punter

Nick Timms & Joey Rowlands

Bushpig Publishers

Copyright © 2021 by Nick Timms and Joey Rowlands

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2021

Contents

Three Flavours of Dolmio

Since Jesus was playing fullback for Bethlehem

Meat tray or 1996 Commodore?

Navy Suit, Brown RMs, Quirky Socks

The Kraken’s Konundrum

DVD Box Set of Bourke’s Backyard

Slip me ya notes, would ya?

Goanna Wrestling in the Conference Room

Specifically, Lee Harding’s Wasabi

Gandalf standing on the back of The Incredible Hulk and firing off magic beams

Makes Bet364 look like a bunch of virgins

The Ides of March

Seasoned veteran on the piss

The Spitting Image of Kim Jong Il

Reeking of VB and Jockey Sweat

The Spray of a Lifetime

Mondays Am I Right? Right?! Guys?!

Foot Fetishes and Dinosaurs

The Big Train Chapter

Bonathan’s Hairy Chest

A Schooner Matata

Three Flavours of Dolmio

Stories about heroes are nothing new.

In fact, tales of heroic deeds have been around as long as storytelling itself. They have been told throughout the millennia at the local inn, around the campfire, or by that homeless guy in the wizard’s robe outside the Byron Bay Woolies.

For what is a story without a central figure to inspire hope through their strength, courage, wit, or charm?

Achilles’ mighty battle prowess earned him a reputation as an invincible warrior, favoured by the gods. 

Odysseus’ sharp wit and tactical ingenuity allowed him to conquer Troy, the sirens, and a terrifying cyclops. 

Beowulf slayed not one horrid monster, but three, saving his local pub in the process.

Now, when you picture one of these heroes, you might see the typical visage. Rippling muscles hidden beneath ornate plate armour. Blonde locks flowing from beneath their helm. A mighty greatsword slung across their back, ready to wreak havoc upon whoever was bold enough, foolish enough, or just plain unfortunate enough to cross paths with this beacon of bravery.

The hero you are about to read about looks EXACTLY like that.

Well, sort of.

Replace ornate plate armour with a stained blue singlet, rugby shorts, and worn down thongs. Replace those blonde locks flowing out from under the helm with a dirty mullet poking out the back of a Hahn SuperDry trucker cap. Keep the jacked rig and statuesque jawline. And there you have it. 

Brad Puntworthy. 

What are his heroic deeds you ask? Why has Brad earned this flowery introduction all about heroes and warriors?

First of all, calm down with the questions. I feel like I’m getting interrogated. Second, you’re about to find out.  But let me just give you a little teaser. Brad travels across arid plains to one of the largest cities in the world, has his abilities put to the test in strange new realms, falls victim to vicious schemes and sabotage, becomes a suspect for murder, and races against time to save a loved one.

Sounds pretty saucy right? Well enough talk then. Let’s get to it.

Interior. Day. A pub in the rural Aussie town of Boolanyabba. 

***

For the first time that day, the bar patrons fell silent. 

White knuckles gripped schooners. Feet nervously tapped. The 1998 Hisense TV hanging from the ceiling blared a tinny announcer’s voice. 

I think I might finally have you here Puntworthy, Howard Moorecroft said. The 40 or so grizzled patrons of the Royal Red Sands looked unsure. At long last I have made a better punt than the almighty Brad Puntworthy.

I dunno Howard. Puntos always wins. You know that. Magz said, to a stern glare from Howard.

Brad Puntworthy said nothing, eyes locked on to the screen. 

You got this mate, Dan said. I mean, you’ve definitely got this right? Cus, the money for our tea is kind of riding on this Violet Rumble punt. 

Brad stayed silent.

Dan turned back to the TV. Brad had never steered him wrong before. He sipped his VB and watched. 

After a few seconds, Howard broke the silence again.

Bullshit, not again!

The tinny announcer’s voice whipped up into an excited frenzy and all of the patrons leapt to their feet. Violet Rumble was catching up. 

Maso the bartender cranked the volume up to a gentleman’s 37 and the thunderous hooves could be heard even through the crackly Hisense speakers. Brad just calmly eyed the screen over the rim of his schooner.

Rumble was in the pack. For a few magical seconds she was indistinguishable from all of the rest that had significantly better odds. Next thing everyone knew, she was pulling past them all. Golden Avenger. Big Dog McGillicuddy. Starlight Express. Slippery Johnson. Rawdog Royale. My Crispy Valentine. Grizzly Gaytime Galore. Rudolph the Red Nosed Redeemer. Hotel Motel Holiday Winn. Toshiba X2000 1TB HD. Cherry the Chode. 

Then, with just a few hundred metres left, it was neck and neck. Violet Rumble was right up there with the favourite, Dustin Hoofman. 

Howard pulled up alongside Brad. He had $200 from his house painting job that day riding on Hoofman, and he wasn’t about to let Brad’s calm demeanour intimidate him. 

You’re not beating me this time Puntworthy. I’ve been studying the form guides all month. I’ve been reading up on horse metabolism. I have finally got you beat.

Brad took a sip of his schooner.

The tinny announcer’s voice reached a fevered frenzy. Rumble and Hoofman were both well ahead of the pack and neither was giving up. 

Dan looked on, tearing the corners of a damp coaster. There was a schnitty riding on this race after all. He looked over at Brad and expected to see a man consumed by stress. Biting his nails, wringing his hands, a hundred other cliches for someone whose pub feed is on the line. But Brad wasn’t even looking at the screen. He was looking through the frayed, laminated menu on the table. 

Oi Maso, he said. When did youse start serving spag bol?

Yeah nah, Maso, the longtime bartender / head chef of the Sands said. Me misso got me onto it and it’s not bad hey. It’s her recipe actually. The secret’s to use three different flavours of Dolmio.

Three different flavours? Fuck me dead.

Yeah nah it’s pretty good.

Dan looked back at the screen and there it was. Almost imperceptible. You probably wouldn’t have seen it if someone didn’t point it out to you. But it was there. Dustin Hoofman’s left front leg faltered just a bit. Out of exhaustion? Who knows. The point is, it’s all Violet Rumble needed. 

She came up alongside Hoofman and it was neck and neck.

Her hooves pounded against the turf relentlessly. Little by little, Rumble crept ahead.

By the time they crossed the finish line, it was clear.

Rumble had come out on top.

The whole bar erupted in groans and the sounds of torn up betting stubs. 

What just happened? Magz said.

Talk about some bullshit, Bolty, the town electrician said. 

Dan smiled.

Brad opened up the Sportstake app on his phone, and saw his bounty roll into his account. 

Oi Maso, he shouted. Can you wing me and Dan a jug of VB? And a spag bol as well, thanks, that sounds sick. Didn’t even know Dolmio made other flavours. 

I’ll take the schnitty and gravy, Dan said. 

Girtho, a rakishly thin brickie who just moved to the Yabba from the neighbouring town of Waggawinrop shook Brad’s hand.

You must have made a pretty penny by now Punto. Tell me you’re not blowing all these winnings on the pokies.

Nah mate, trust me. All these winnings are going to a good place.

So...the pokies?

Nah.

Brad turned back around to his table to find a red, meaty paw planted on the surface before him, veins pulsing with rage. 

The paw in question belonged to Howard Moorecroft, and he didn’t seem overly thrilled about Brad’s win. His beefy face pushed closer into Brad’s.

Right Brad, that’s about enough. I’m sick of you getting lucky with all of these bloody punts all the time.

It’s not luck mate, Dan said. It’s skill.

Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. You are either the luckiest bastard in the world or a cheater. Every day I see you come in here and win obscene amounts of money on the most foolish picks, and I’ve had enough.

The wheaty odour of Toohey’s Old drifted through the air from Howard’s hot breath. Brad stood up and towered over Howard by a full head. Howard took a step back. 

Come off it Howard. It’s easy when you pay attention.

Yeah? Really? I bet you have an in with the trainer. You know some secret about Violet Rumble. Huh? What is it, ay? Did you slip something into Hoofman’s food?

He jabbed a thick index finger into Brad’s sternum with every incrimination. Brad swatted his hand away. 

Mate, look. If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. You’ll be kicking yourself for not realising, Brad said. You must know that Hoofman’s trained in Yangabah.

Yeah, Howard said, his eyes shifting back and forth. Of course.

Yeah, nah. So you’d probably know that Yangabah has had a new fancy window cleaning firm come into town.

What?

Yeah. And obviously the Yangabah Window Cleaners Association is not having a bar of it, so they went on strike a few weeks back.

Howard stared back blankly.

And of course the Yangabah Turf Maintenance Guild got tied up into that because they’re in the same union, so they want on strike too, to show solidarity.

Puntworthy, I have no clue how that’s relevant.

Well, combining that with the unseasonal drought Yangabah experienced last month means that the ratios of the synthetic turf at Yangabah Royal Racecourse are a bit off kilter. With Hoofman training on that all month ahead of coming to the more regularly maintained Royal Randwick, it was only natural that he’d falter a bit on an unfamiliar turf texture.

Maso smiled behind the bar.

That’s a load of shit, Puntworthy, Howard said. Put another bet on. Right now. Prove to me you’re not cheating.

Brad thought for a second. 

You watch the NRL? 

Yeah.

Ok. Oi Maso! Flick on the footy would ya?

Maso ducked out of the kitchen and put down his pot, bubbling with the scent of three different kinds of Dolmio pasta sauce. He picked up the remote and changed the channel.

Brad watched the game in silence for a few moments, sipping his beer. 

Is this you proving it Puntworthy? Howard said. 

Brad took another calm sip and let the cool, refreshing lager wash down. He cleared his throat.

Righto, here’s what’s gonna happen. Jake Friend scores a try in the last minute of the game.

And if he does?

You buy me and Dan here another jug.

A crowd had gathered around Brad’s table. Those who knew Brad loved to see him in action. Howard looked around to see everybody watching. 

Ok then. Fine. You’re on, Puntworthy.

Sick. All right, here he goes.

Howard turned to the TV bewildered. Jake Friend had just intercepted the ball and was barrelling down the wing to the astonished cheers of 10,000 Roosters fans. The clock ticked into the final minute just before Jake cruised past the tryline and planted the ball. 

The whole pub cheered and Brad felt a number of congratulatory slaps on the back, wet with schooner condensation.

Fuck off. More dumb luck, Howard said. 

Nah mate. Ya just got to pay attention.

Yeah, sorry Howard, but Brad can punt anything. We told you, he’s got the gift, Dan said. 

Yeah Howard, Duggo said from within the crowd. Brad once bet me that Chaz Mostert would be two seconds later than average in his pit stop in the last V8 race, and he was right.

His pit crew manager got engaged the night before, so the whole crew looked a little hungover that day, combined with the temperature and the high possibility of sweaty hands I took a shot, Brad said. 

Punto put a bet on what shade of white the dress would be in the Royal Wedding, Baz piped up.

Meghan’s been trending towards eggshell for a while, Brad said, pouring himself another beer from the jug. 

Punty bet me a case the exact date, to the minute, that my daughter would be born, and what decibel level her crying would be, Bolty said.

I was rooting a midwife for a while, you pick these things up, Brad said. 

Fuck off, Howard said. He’s just a kid, he can’t know all that stuff.

And it’s true, Brad was only 23. But he already had all of Boolanyabba in awe of his punting ability. 

All right, what about this Howard? Brad said. "One more bet between you and me, double or nothing. And it’s simple. I bet you the next song to come on the speakers will be Back in Black."

Fine. Nobody can get this lucky this many times in a row.

The song playing at the time (Shannon Noll’s Lift - absolute ripper tune) faded off, and a hush fell over the crowd at the Royal Red. 

Brad raised his hand in the air with all the grace of a conductor (as much grace as someone can have wearing a singlet, ruggers, and thongs), and counted the next song in: 1...2...3...4.

The bar exploded with the opening chords to Back in Black, and Brad looked at Howard and shrugged. The rest of the patrons just banged their heads to the beat, as is impossible to avoid when listening to the ACDC banger. 

Howard left the bar fuming, as the crowd danced to Malcolm Young’s thumping riff.

How’d you know it’d be Acca Dacca Punty? Baz shouted.

Cued it up 10 minutes ago, boys.

The punters roared with laughter and kept dancing. Brad and Dan skulled their schooners and joined the crowd.

With so much excitement going on, it’s no wonder Brad, Dan and the other punters at the bar didn’t notice a single patron standing to the side, silent and still as a wraith.

As the man sipped his G&T, his eyes stayed locked on one thing. 

Brad Puntworthy. 

***

So how about that for a first chapter hey? Pretty curious about this Brad Puntworthy lad? Concerned about this weirdo in the corner? Well you should be. Because this isn’t just going to be about Brad winning heaps of punts. As much as I’d like it to be. No, Brad’s about to find himself in a bit of a situation. Stick around. Or don’t. Up to you I guess.

Since Jesus was playing fullback for Bethlehem

The next night at the Sands started like any other. Howard Moorecroft set up a dartboard with Brad’s face on it and tried to get people to play, to no avail. Tantalising aromas of schnitty, pizza and hot chips wafted in from Maso’s kitchen. Australian bangers blared from the jukebox in the corner. The Boolanyabba Poetry Society (now 45 members strong) sat in the corner of the main room, reciting their verses to each other. At the moment, it was Hank Brady doing a slam poetry rendition of his classic epic poem Back To The Future II is the Best One and Here’s Why (It’s Cus of the Scary Shark Hologram), accompanied by his wife Amanda on bongos. Yep. All pretty routine stuff.

Ah, but wait. Look who decided to show his face at The Sands again.

The shadowy figure from the night before.

He observed his surroundings with a scowl as his talons gripped a tall glass of G&T. 

Barkeep, he said, clinking the ice at the bottom of his drink. 

Nobody came to his aid.

Barkeep, I said!

Still no response. After a few moments, Maso came out with a steaming plate of chips and curry, placed it on the counter and rang the bell. He saw the shadowy figure sitting by the bar and walked over. 

How are ya mate? Can I help you with anything?

Yes, you can. Did you not hear me calling you from earlier? I have been sans drink for the past 10 minutes, the man said.

Ah sorry about that mate. I was in there next to the deep fryer and I couldn’t hear ya. It’s just me on tonight so we’re a bit light on deck!

Well I shall certainly be leaving a very negative review of your service on TripAdvisor!

The man seemed very pleased with himself at this declaration. Maso just shrugged. 

Another G&T then?

Yes. But this time, please cut the lime into 16ths, not 8ths. Slices that are too thick allow too much juice to seep into the water and they sting my palate.

Maso narrowed his eyes and began making the drink. The strange man spoke up again. 

I was hoping you could also give me a serving of information, the man said, pausing for a moment to see if Maso