Deklyn is a simple man, he likes dirt bikes, cones and paying his sister’s mates for gobbies down by Lesmurdie Falls. Modern fashion angers him, so he sticks to the basics: Fox Racing shirt, Metal Mulisha hoodie, Rusty jeans and a pair of Globe moon boots that are holding on for dear life.
His underwear game is also pretty putrid, as he never saw a need to evolve past the pre-cummy sheen of a pair of silk boxers. To top it off, he sports the official goatee of the reckless furniture removalist who most definitely looks through your shit.
Morning breaks and Deklyn rolls out of his fitted-sheetless bed. He takes a dribbly swig of the remains of last night’s Wild Turkey can in a desperate bid to rid his mouth from the taste of the Pickering Brook slurry he rooted. In addition to the myriad of STD’s brewing inside of him, he feels seedier than a stick from an open house in Ballajura.
No stranger to life-threatening hangovers, Deklyn has the remedy. He shuffles his hobbit-feet towards his laundry that has a permanent bucket bong set up. He sucks down a cone and proceeds to serenade his household with the song of his people: donkey-coughing with elements of spluttering and cursing.
Feeling stoned as a woman trying to vote in Saudi Arabia, he goes about the business of cooking up some breakfast: a handful of his youngest brother’s dexies washed down with a fresh can of Beam Devil’s Cut.
He jumps on his 250cc Atomik Fury and catches up with his mates for a session in the backcountry. The smell of petrol mixes with the thick green haze that the boys spend their lives in.
Being men of few words, the banter is slower than a 56K dial-up naughty sesh. Nevertheless, Deklyn has something to contribute, “me old boy called; apparently, a girl is willing to put out down at the pub, reckon I’ll check that out ay”.
Deklyn liberally douses himself in Lynx Africa and chooses to be willfully ignorant of that fact it has not masked his pig-hunters body odour. He walks into the High Wycombe Tav while rolling a cigarette and spots his dad slumped at the bar. “Where these sluzzas dad?”
His dad mumbles out incoherencies like a piss-stained cobber in the depths of a booze bus. He then points at the unimpressed bar-chick, “bahh, son, this ones up for it”. Deklyn turns his bloodshot eyes to the young lass behind the bar, “yeh? This true?”
Unwilling to participate in an episode of Family Feud – Cat’s in the Cradle Edition, the young girl politely requests Deklyn remove his inebriated father from the bar. The reasonable request causes the men to share a touching bonding moment, as they chuck pint glasses against walls and bust into enraged outbursts about being the kings of Kalamunda or some shit.
Outside the bar, Deklyn suggests the pair head to his dad’s place for a few drinks, “awwwwshiiiiit son, the old lady kicked me out, I’m sleeping in a swag in a hole I done dug”. Deklyn fails to comprehend the problem, “yeh orright, can we drink in the hole?”. His dad grins, “sure, boy, would love to have ya”.
Whether it’s your sister’s mate or your dad’s swag, home is where the hole is.