The Whistling Butcher: An Arabian Adventure

By Robert Whyte

A whistling butcher is probably not anything particularly abnormal,
she told herself. After all there are plenty of singing butchers, butchers
who tell you jokes, butchers who tell you their life stories. But this one,
with his little striped apron and his long legs in very short shorts, big feet
with footy socks, blue singlet under the apron to match the blue denim
shorts, the muscular arms and legs shining, hairless, olive skinned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499002140

Robert Whyte

Robert Whyte is an honorary researcher in arachnology at the Queensland Museum, having developed an interest in spiders with the encouragement of arachnologist Robert Raven. He has participated in five Bush Blitz biodiscovery expeditions in remote parts of Western Australia, the Northern Territory and Queensland. He is an accomplished editor, author and journalist, with skills in photography and publication design.

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The Whistling Butcher

An Arabian Adventure

Robert Whyte

Copyright © 2014 by Robert Whyte.

Library of Congress Control Number:          2014908485

ISBN:          Hardcover              978-1-4990-0212-6

                   Softcover                978-1-4990-0213-3

                   eBook                    978-1-4990-0214-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/05/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.xlibris.com.au

[e-mail]

616773

Contents

BOOK ONE

Chapter 1     Sydney 1997

Chapter 2     Israel 1967

Chapter 3     Sydney 1997

Chapter 4     The Indian Ocean 1967

Chapter 5     Sydney 1997

Chapter 6     Sydney 1967

Chapter 7     1997

Chapter 8     Woolwich 1972

Chapter 9     1997

BOOK TWO

Chapter 11   Sydney 1988

Chapter 12   Lebanon

Chapter 13   Gaza

Chapter 14   Tel Aviv

Chapter 15   Lebanon

Chapter 16   Tel-Aviv

Chapter 17   Tel Aviv

Chapter 18   1989

Chapter 19   Beirut. 1993

Final Chapter Sydney 1997

The Whistling Butcher

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Sydney 1997

It wasn’t just the look of the man. Nor was it the fact that he had done delicious things to Elaine’s rump. Nor could it really be his fierce brown eyes that flashed at her as she came in, that had seemed to look right into her soul.

It must be the whistle. It had to be the whistle.

A whistling butcher is probably not anything particularly abnormal, she told herself. After all there are plenty of singing butchers, butchers who tell you jokes, butchers who tell you their life stories. But this one, with his little striped apron and his long legs in very short shorts, big feet with footy socks, blue singlet under the apron to match the blue denim shorts, the muscular arms and legs shining, hairless, olive skinned. No one could ignore this one. But it wasn’t the body. Oh no, she told herself. There are plenty of well built butchers. The world is full of them. Maybe not as hunky as this one but plenty around. From behind he was just another man with a neat bum, another butcher swinging away with his cleaver, working on the meat.

But the whistle. That was special.

Elaine tried not to look too hard as she placed her order, wishing that she could have been in turn for the older man, probably the whistler’s father with the same fierce eyes but greying and wrinkling and much, much slower. But fate would have it that she was next to be served by the whistler himself.

Morning Maam, he said as he gave her the power of his big smile. She tried not to hold her breath.

I’d like… I want… some rump. Your best rump please Butcher.

There, it wasn’t so bad. She had said it. And he hadn’t leapt over the counter and raped her on the spot. He did in fact nod seriously and lean forward so that his stomach, lean and fatless like his meat apparently, was on the glass-topped counter.

All our rump is the best Maam. We’re known for our rump. Have I seen you here before?

I… that is… yes. Once or twice. I’m not a regular.

Of course not. Or you would have known not to ask for our best rump. Nobody asks for our best because our customers know that it’s always the best. Understand?

She nodded, wondering why she felt so intimidated. Straightening, she cleared her throat.

Very well then. Message received and understood, ah, whatever your name is…

It’s Mark, Maam.

Very well Mark. I do remember that your meat the last time I bought it was particularly tender. That’s why I’ve come back. That’s the only reason I’ve come back, of course. She stared at him, daring him to make a remark.

Of course Maam.

Now would you cut me a thick slice? One piece of about a kilo and a half, if you would.

Certainly Maam. His smile was knowing, yet innocent if it could be possible to be knowing and innocent at the same time. Later she thought about that face, the dark olive skin, the deep set eyes, the heavy black brows hanging over the face. Some sort of European she thought. Maybe an Arab with that nose. Mediterranean blood in there somewhere. But no. More Baltic with the high cheek bones and round head. And those heavy, slightly threatening brows? She shrugged to herself as he turned his back. Who knows what he is? Who cares even?

Then it began. And this, she told herself, was why she had come back. Not for the meat. Not because she had noticed the body the first time. After all isn’t there plenty of fresh young meat in butcher shops? No, it was for this very disturbing aural sensation. The strangely haunting sound seemed to echo round the room so that the few customers stopped talking to listen, their eyes held on the strong back of this creature. As he sliced and caressed the meat into a thick lump of delicious red, the aroma of the rich beef seemed to blend in with the music, making a heady cocktail for the three women standing, transfixed, staring into some distant land, not wanting him to stop, never wanting to give up this moment.

For such a thick set man, a man who looked to be too busy building muscles, his body too self-centred, too insensitive to even register music, his whistle was surprisingly delicate. It floated along, high up, like a flute. A flute from some strange Arabian fairy tale.

What was the tune he whistled? Elaine thought about it later but couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was a folk tune from his native land. What was his native land anyway?

You’re hooked Elaine. I knew you would be, Susan said, as they sat together at a table in the street outside their favourite Italian coffee shop. Isn’t he gorgeous? Isn’t he simply the best piece of meat in the whole darn shop… in any shop… .

Elaine had tried to protest.

I didn’t notice his looks. (Liar) Apart from his eyes, those demanding black things sent shivers through me. But that sound, that haunting whistle? I’ve never heard anything like it. Do you know where he comes from?

Somewhere in the Balkans I believe. Really Elaine, you’re not saying you didn’t look at his body.

No. Oh yes of course I did. I look at every body. Male or female. And yes he was cute, if you go for that sort of thing.

Which we both do, of course.

Of course. OK. A stud then. Built like hell.

Which we both are, of course.

Of course. Built like hell. Built to trap the male, that’s us… We wish.

They sat silently for a moment, each lost in her own mire of inadequacies.

But really Susan, it wasn’t the man so much as what he did.

My god. Don’t tell me he…

Oh for god sake Susan. I’m talking about his whistle.

Aha.

Elaine leant forward. Be serious for a moment will you. What was the tune he whistled? You said you’d been a couple of times.

Susan shrugged. Haven’t a clue. Something haunting. Something from far away. Never heard it before anyway. Eastern music, you know, with all those runs of notes seeming to go nowhere.

That’s because we don’t understand eastern music. They probably go somewhere to people who grew up with it. But I’ve heard Eastern music before. Remember the Lebanese café we used to go to after school? Told our mothers we were at the library? That man who played the clarinet all the time. That was Eastern music. But this is different. This is like… Western Eastern music. You feel you know it yet you don’t.

More silence. Time for another coffee to be ordered, a few silent thoughts.

He scared me Susan. I felt threatened. Can you believe that?

Yes, I’d believe it. From what you hear you’d have something to fear if he fancies you.

What do you mean, for god sake?

Well, the rumour is… anyway be careful. Those eyes have brought many a girl undone, figuratively speaking of course.

Oh come on. He’s not some sort of Svengali or something. He’s just a butcher. An uneducated low achiever with no ambition.

Where did you get all that dribble? Uneducated he may be. Then again he could have a PHD in psychology for all we know. But low achiever I don’t believe. He looks intelligent to me. One of us really, old girl.

Elaine laughed. If we were so intelligent why are we both married and yet getting carried away over a damn butcher? Doesn’t sound too bright to me.

Yes. So what? Intelligent or not, Elaine, I fell for those eyes. Absolutely fathomless. What is it people say about Chinese? Inscrutable. Who could tell what he was thinking.

Did you notice his hands?

No. Yes. That’s right, they were very big. But for some reason most butchers’ hands are big. Large fingers almost as thick as sausages.

Susan leaned closer. They say, you know, that his, you know…

Oh come on. Enough of this stupid female gossip. The man is obviously a man. Has a penis like the rest of them. I’m not interested in that. But his meat, his steak, now that is something. My god it was delicious. Where does he get it?

Susan shrugged, disappointed that she couldn’t get into a filthy conversation with her friend. After all, what does a rich girl have to fantasize about these days? Butchers, milkmen, plumbers, they were all grist for the mill.

Some connection with the abattoirs I suppose. How did Arnold like the steak?

Wonderful. He wants me to always get it there.

There you go then. As I said, you’re hooked. As I am. John says it’s the best meat we’ve ever had. I have to go there for ever…

And?

Well, think of it. Doomed to stare at that man for ever. To stand and watch his little bum in that cute apron… imagining all sorts of extravagant situations. I mean, the other day I was waiting for him to cut up my chops and he starts that whistle and the next thing I was in some Arabian tent and he had nothing on but that apron and believe me it was a pretty sight.

For god sake, Susan. Don’t you have a sex life? Leave the poor man alone. Just enjoy his meat.

I wish.

The butcher in question, the one who liked to be called Mark, thirty something as he liked to describe himself to the many older women he seemed to attract, climbed out of his little Red Mazda, pulled down the garage door and moved into the courtyard. It was a neat bungalow. Small and compact. It sat at the end of a long drive, a battle-axe block the agent called it, running alongside a stately old home that once had gardens running down to the river. This little house itself had two bedrooms. The second bedroom was somewhere to drop his hobby stuff and computer, diving gear, men’s toys. The rest of the house was one big room facing the river, overlooking what was now his garden although there was no garden as such, just lawn and a few shrubs and some useless rock that some bloody blood-sucking landscaper had charged him five hundred dollars for.

The house was big enough for a thirty year old bachelor. Or was it thirty one? He tried to forget such details. From the plate glass windows that fronted the lawn and the Lane Cove River, he could see his pride and joy, a jet boat, upside down on the lawn, locked with a heavy chain and an alarm.

Can’t trust anyone. Not even in a posh suburb like Woolwich. Or was it Hunter’s Hill?

God she was a beauty. Lying there, flashing her body at him. Bit like a flying saucer. Bright red like his car. And enough power to satisfy any testosterone urges in his body. Well almost. There was another hunger that he had to satisfy now and then. Well frequently then. It was all testosterone he supposed. All men are driven by their dicks, they say. Who said that anyway?

Two years now he’d been living this life of the endlessly hungry male. And before that? Well when he was a teenager he got into it he supposed. The years seem to run into each other like the words on a slow computer, piling up at one end then shooting across in front of your eyes. But always, always there was that large block of nothing in the middle.

Who cares? he said, stripping off and striding to the shower to wash off all the blood.

In the shower he let himself go as he always did. Even managed to not get a mouth full of water as he whistled. It was almost instinctive now, the feel of the warmth on his body and he was away, not letting himself relive his life but yet reliving it through his music. Sometimes the neighbours could hear it, wafting over the river from the little window in his bathroom. It had the same affect on them as it did to his customers. Particularly at night, when the forces of imagination seemed to take over and you could sit on your river bank and let that sound wash over you, bringing with it strange images of far away places and peoples.

Was it Eastern, they’d say. What was that melody he whistled? Was it Arabian? It seemed to slide around notes like a snake, weaving and twining until it was holding you like a Boa Constrictor, unable to move, hardly able to breath.

In the shop, Mark was aware of the effect his whistling had on the customers. He tried to ignore it, to be himself, but he knew they were listening and eventually used it as a means of ‘enlarging his social circle’ as one woman put it. But it troubled him that even his father now worked silently, listening too.

Dad, I’m sorry if I disturb everyone with my whistling. I don’t seem to be able to stop doing it. Do you mind? Do the customers complain?

Forget it Son, his dad had said. Just be yourself. If you want to whistle just whistle. I used to sing when I was young.

I remember that. Why did you stop?

He’d laughed, Mark’s Old Man. I stopped when I heard you, my darling boy. I couldn’t compete with that.

I’m sorry Dad. I never wanted to stop you. Tomorrow I’ll stay quiet and you sing. I used to feel so good listening to you.

You were a child then Mark. Now you’re a man. You’ve been away a long time. Too long for your mother and me. Now you’ve travelled the world and grown up I’m happy to listen to you.

The old man had studied his son for a moment. Tall like himself, same shape, same eyes, but a new person, a quarter his mother, a quarter his father and fifty percent a new person… hundred percent a new person. A father needs a son to carry the line on like this, reborn through your own child. You never die when you have children. And yet… how they’d ached when he was away, how they’d waited and waited for his letters, letters that never came.

You don’t talk much about your travels. Where did you pick up those tunes?

Mark had shrugged, which was his way, grinned at his dad and given him a hug.

Who knows, Dad.

Who cares, eh? his dad had said, never game to speak the hurt, the fear that he had felt over all those years. The boy was home… to stay. His parents could relax now. Their beloved son was safely home.

Out of the shower and dressed now in smart casuals the beloved son threw a few eggs into a pan and made an omelet, heaped it onto some toast, threw it down his big mouth in his usual style and hurried out the door, a last caressing glance at the red boat on the front lawn. Into the Mazda, hood folded neatly down behind him, engine purring sweetly in front of him, down the long Right-of-way beside the house, out the gate, a slow careful turn into Point Road and on towards Hunters Hill, the city, the world. Forget the boat. Tonight would be more demanding, more exacting, more… Tonight would be one of the good ones. Tonight he would try again… to live again. Perhaps he would find her.

Arnold lay on the bed in his new pajamas feeling like a smorgasbord ready to be picked at. The covers were back, the scene set for a goodly bit of play. He was reminded of that creature in some TV show that was on a plate ready to be eaten and telling the customers which part of him would taste best. But of course the creature enjoyed being eaten. So did Arnold so what was he going on about?

Why had she bought new pajamas anyway? He had pajamas. But no, she’d made him put on these new ones, watching with half closed eyes as he slipped the short pants over his bottom.

Women! He told himself. They won’t admit it but they’re just as interested in bodies as men are. They like to purve. And he was happy to be purved on actually. Quite happy to supply any fantasy Elaine might need. And… he himself had to admit, simply must admit… that he liked to purve too. Specially on Elaine. No one else interested him. Not a single human female in this whole fucking world would attract him while he had Elaine. She was everything in a woman that he could possibly want… need… desire. Her body set him on fire every time. He could kiss it, eat it, roll and fold it like a piece of pastry, wrap himself in it like one of those steaks she got from that new butcher.

Steak Dianne, that’s me he said to himself.

Still. He rather fancied himself in the mirror. He sat up to get a better view of his top half in the dressing table mirror. Not quite as old as he thought. Figure still trim, no excess fat around the middle, not even any jowls. For a man in his late thirties, headed for the dreaded big FOUR O, he was in good shape. So was his wife.

He watched her undress. Well shaped, trim, not a sag or a wrinkle anywhere. Yes they both had youth. It would be with them for a few years yet.

Enjoy it while it’s there, his mother had said. Twenties and thirties are the best. Your most active, your most adventurous, your brightest years. After that it slows down a bit.

Nonsense Mother, he’d said. You haven’t slowed down.

Ah my dear. But I have. When I see you two I know I have. Still it’s only comparative. As Einstein said, it’s all relative.

He was grinning when his wife came to him, sliding on the bed beside him, undoing a few buttons on his top.

What are you grinning about?

Oh nothing. Just thinking. He wrapped his arms around her, pinning her to him, his face against hers. These are the good years Elaine. These years we should enjoy to the max. Make great memories for later.

I intend to, she said, getting warmer, wriggling against him, forcing the image of the whistling butcher right out of her mind.

Two days later she was there again, waiting in line, smelling the meat, watching and listening. There was only one woman in the shop this time and Elaine stood transfixed as he shaped the other woman’s meat, whistling softly, casting his magic spell, his back to them both. The old man was out of the shop so she knew she would get him. She checked herself. Get him? For god sake.

Stupid woman. He was just a butcher. A well built, run-of-the-mill butcher. Every shop had one. As if the butcher shop’s owners knew that a good bit of exposed young flesh would attract the women. But… surely this was a magic butcher.

She controlled her racing heart as she stood, the music flowing over her, trying to ignore those vines wrapping around her, the dark jungle things with glistening eyes watching silently. But there was sadness too in that music. And something else. Something… bad… evil. No, she was being ridiculous. There was nothing bad in that music. Nothing.

Then he was talking to the other woman, smiling his smile, handing her her meat, giving change.

Morning Maam, he said, his face now toward her.

Tongue-tied again, she made an effort. That steak was superb the other day Mark. Could I have some more?

Of course. Thick piece, kilo and a half?

Yes. How did you remember?

He smiled. And this time she seriously studied him, his face, his body, his charisma.

I always remember, he said, turning his back to slice a thick piece from a great lump of beef that lay on the block. But he didn’t whistle. He was back at the counter, slapping the meat on the scales with a thwack that made her think of something else, something long and fleshy and absolutely forbidden, flopping it into the white butchers’ paper, and looking at her with his dark eyes wide and shining.

Anything else?

She sighed. She had to be sensible here.

Yes. Could you get me a few cutlets? Six perhaps. Something small and, ah, delicate. I have a special recipe in mind…

Maam, it will be my pleasure. I shall carve for you the most superb cutlets, delicate as yourself, small and tender and scrumptious.

She swallowed, unable to frame a single sentence, then watched in silence as he slipped into the cool room and returned with a large hunk of ribbed meat. Then, standing side on to her as he worked she could see his Arabian nose and strong chin, which she would describe to Susan next meeting, for surely it was the sexiest chin a man could have, sexier even than Arnold’s, and her husband was no slouch when it came to body parts.

Silently she watched as his huge hands worked on the carcass, separating several small cutlets. How deft they were, those huge fingers. They really were like sausages. But with neatly trimmed nails, clean nails. How did he keep them so clean? And now he was whistling again as he worked and she was lost, truly lost. The vines wrapped around her, the dark moved in, the melody carried her away, away to some strange frightening land. Lost.

Anything else this morning Maam? he said. She hadn’t even noticed the whistling had stopped. But there were six beautiful cutlets on the paper, waiting for her approval.

No. Ah that will be all thank you Mark. What is that tune you were whistling? I seem to know it.

His smile was different as he looked into her eyes. Something passed across the back of his eyes. A dark something. She felt herself shiver.

He shrugged, a small movement lifting his thick shoulders just slightly, his eyebrows turned up at the nose in a comical way, the dark lines sliding downwards toward his ears, comical eyebrows Arnold would call them, his black eyes shining with some mysterious new light as he looked deep into her face.

I wouldn’t know Maam. I’m not aware of what I whistle. I just… whistle.

Still he held her eyes, held her there. Neither of them moved. Her stomach seemed to turn over, visions of creatures, strange beings wafted in front of her eyes, dark creatures, angry creatures. Those black eyes were telling her something, something she didn’t want to know. It was evil and bad and so… so sad.

She shuddered and made herself get out her change purse. The movement brought her out of it.

How much then Mark?

He seemed to sigh but went to the till to ring up a few numbers. Elaine was aware of a new smell. Something mixing with the meat. Something animal. Was it sex? One of us is on heat? Or was it… fear? Stupid woman, she told herself. It’s a butcher shop for god sake.

Seventeen dollars fifty, Maam.

So reasonable. For such excellent meat. And you can call me Elaine, since you remembered me.

To here surprise he shook his head. His eyes no longer shone. But there was something else there in the dark, something more like resentment? For a second he was lost in another world. An empty carcass in a butcher shop. She shivered again as he seemed to come back to her.

Thank you Maam, he said as he gave her the change. I look forward to serving you again. Have a good day, Maam.

It was her turn to shrug. So what was his hang-up? She picked up her parcels and left, giving him a last look as she opened the door. From her silver Merc coupe she looked back. He was watching her, his face a mask, his eyes inscrutable. She’d almost sprinted to her car as the shivers ran down her spine. Spooky. Positively spooky. But she would go again. She would have to go again.

That night the children seemed to sense something. Jenny was watching her mother closely as the girls set the table for dinner. The younger girls watched Jenny. They knew their older sister. She was the sensitive one. She could always pick up nuances of things they were unaware of themselves. She was the clever one. Ten eight and six years old, the girls had arrived into the world in nice timing. A decent pause between each birth, a respectable distance between children, a sign of restraint that seemed to please society. But Elaine knew that it hadn’t been planned that way. It just happened. And now they took more precautions.

Finally Jenny came up to put her arms around her mother in her usual way, always needing a cuddle.

What is it Mum? You seem distracted.

What? Do I? Can’t think why.

What happened today? Go on, tell me. You know I love to hear about your day.

Elaine smiled down at her eldest daughter, gave her a squeeze and moved to the kitchen, sensing Jenny following closely. Could a woman say to a ten year old daughter today I was totally seduced by a butcher? No, of course not.

You, Jennifer Elizabeth Benton. You just want to live the life of an idle rich woman. I can see you now, swanning round in your flash car, being ever so busy doing nothing.

That’s your life Mum. Except that you aren’t idle. How you fit it all in I don’t know. But yes, I’d like your car and your money. What’s wrong with that?

And you shall have it too my darling. Study hard and you can have what you want. Don’t…

Don’t expect someone else to give it to you? I know all about that. Don’t marry for money. What about your friend Mrs. Robinson. I bet she married for money.

Jenny. Don’t speak like that. Sometimes you worry me. You seem to pick up things…

I listen, Mum. I watch. Dad says it’s the best way to learn. And he should know. A professor at his age. Mary says most professors are old and grey.

And what would Mary know, my darling. That friend of yours is as bad as you at gossip. There are two or three young men professors at the Uni. And a couple of women.

Dad’s the youngest. You know he is. Jenny did a swirl around the kitchen and gave a little shiver. God it’s good to have such a brilliant dad. Do you think any of it will rub off on me?

Not a chance. You’re too busy enjoying yourself.

And you’re too busy being busy. Why don’t you give up some of it. Give up the counseling. It gives me the creeps.

Why should it. Helping people is the best use of your time. And all that study… I don’t want that to be wasted.

Doctor Elaine Benton, famous psychologist, sorter out of other people’s problems, but unable to sort…

Jenny stopped. Elaine had that look on her face. The one that said you’ve gone too far this time, again.

Sorry Mum. I didn’t mean to be impertinent. You just look troubled. Is Dad all right? Is everything alright… you know… with the marriage?

Elaine laughed. My god Jenny. You’re your father’s daughter alright. Have to come right out with it don’t you.

It’s just that, well, so many marriages go on the rocks these days. I couldn’t bear it if you two split up.

Elaine gave her daughter an extra strong hug. Silly girl. Ten years old and already a worrier. Our marriage is solid Darling. Rock solid. We have that magic ingredient that keeps us wanting each other. We’re here for the long haul Darling so just forget the divorce bit. You’ll be bringing your children to the old couple in this same house, coming up to us on the front verandah as we swing back and forth, hand in hand, watching the sunset together.

Boring, said Jenny, as she ran from the room, her mind already on other things. But that night, while the girls did their homework, as she sat reading, waiting for Arnold to come home late from a meeting, Elaine heard herself again. We’re here for the long haul. Are we, she thought. Is life so reliable? Is Arnold even now out there having an affair with some beautiful young professor? Are the thoughts she has about a whistling butcher a form of adultery anyway? Maybe not adultery but unfaithful. That’s what she felt. Unfaithful.

She resolved to grow up and put the damn butcher out of her mind and her life.

Rising, taking a big breath, she moved to the bedroom to remove the covers. Three nights a week they tried to make it. That’s a good batting average. Healthy, good for the muscles and the heart and the soul. They would have their pre-dinner drink in their suite, the door shut. Time for a passionate quickie before they went out and faced the kids.

You’re a good lookin bastard, Darren said, studying his friend’s profile as they sat at the bar, two beers in front of each of them. Pity about the nose though. Definitely a wog nose, mate. Never be able to hide that.

Mark gave him an elbow in the ribs and laughed, taking a huge swallow of his beer.

What would you know, you wasp bloody baby nosed Pommy throwback bloody upstart. Skin like a bloody pig’s bum. Your nose just never grew up. I bet it was the same size when you were ten. No character mate, that’s your trouble. No bloody character. Now this nose, He ran a finger down the long curved proboscis. This has character. You’re just jealous mate.

"Jealous? Fuck. Still. You do drag in the sheilas. I must admit.