Ms Belmont

Belmont: come for the cheap bottleshop deals and stay because you failed to navigate the syringe-ridden obstacle course that the locals fondly refer to as “streets”. It is a bustling hive of a cretinous behaviour that will shatter your faith in humanity like the window of the car you parked there overnight.

Crystal emerges from her Belmont property looking like an Adidas-clad cave troll with all the majestic youth of a cigarette smoking Chico Roll in a bain-marie filled with blue eyeshadow and TAB bet slips.

She jumps in her rusted Ford Falcon and leaves a thick trail of pollution on her way to the Belmont Forum. She needs to pick up the essentials: ciggies, frozen food and an ice pack for her unemployed boyfriend who got into a smash at Carbon Bar because someone stood too close to him when he had a piss.

The Belmont Forum carpark is a glorious who’s who of derro BMX riders and meth-addled lunatics with no respect for payphones. Crystal parks in a disabled bay and abuses a couple of “ethnics” who had the nerve to snub their noses at her vehicular-ineptitude. “Oi, youse dogs can just fuck off orrrrrright, my back is sore!” To be fair, if being a crusty racist fuckwit was a disability, then she deserves her ACROD.

On her way to Coles, she spots her daughter causing a scene in the pharmo. It appears her baby-girl is furious her demands for Oxy are not being met. “Mum, I farking told this Chinese that I’d bring in the prescription tomorrow, dumb sluz is calling me a liar!”

Crystal feels the rage of entitlement flow through her veins and starts rambling about human rights, dog cunts and how she will be taking this matter to the courts. Her little mother-daughter bonding session has drawn a crowd, so she decides to take her leave, “no wonder me son bloody held you pricks up! Get a fucking dog up ya!

The pair charges towards the bottlo and angrily chirp like a couple of birds in a classless aviary. She attempts to purchase a 30 pack of Horizons and a 4 pack of Bulleit Bourbon; however, her plans are foiled by an astute employee who notices that she is on the wall of shame.

She still maintains that the skank she hair-pulled and stomped had it coming because she had given her boyfriend a Red Rooster-greased wristy in Rivervale last Christmas. Summer loving.

She returns to her dwelling to see the familiar sight of the door kicked in and her boyfriend too drunk to stop the thieving youths that crawl through the hood like trolley-pole wielding reverse Santa Clauses. If you can’t handle the aggravated burglary heat, then get out of the Belmont kitchen, ya prissy bitches.

We can’t call a place without demons Hell, so we call it Belmont.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?