His mother calls him David but the prison community know him more affectionately as “Screwdriver”. So it was only fitting that upon his release from Hotel Hakea Screwdriver became a tow truck driver.
Screwie awakens early and gently strokes his goatee while admiring how staunch he looks in his servo speed dealers. There was some light precipitation at 6 am so he knows it’s going to be chaos on the roads. He loves the smell of extortion in the morning.
He parks next to Kwinana Freeway near a popular merge where mouthbreathing motorists enjoy writing off their vehicles at. He peruses his favourite wank-sites for a little bit of truck cabsturbation while he waits like a meth Hyena waiting for the weak to present itself.
Suddenly, he receives a notification on Messenger, drip, drip, drip, it’s another tip from a department that has more leaks than Assange’s inbox. A police-civilian has told him that some shit-for-brains P-plater has crashed on Stirling Highway. Ah, fresh meat.
Screwie smashes his morning can of Cougar and races towards the scene. He’s going through reds like a bull at a matador reunion. He’s cutting dickheads off like it was a Brit Milah ceremony.
He’s flipping birds like a toey penguin. Amazing what playing hot crossed buns on the glass recorder can do for a man’s driving ability.
Screwie is within 100m of the crash and sees a rival shit-Hyena pull up next to him. It’s Clawie, or clawhammer or Clint, depending on how you know him. Screwie eyes off Clawie and as soon as the light turns green it’s on.
Move over RuPaul, this is a drag race. Screwie does his best to run Clawie off the road but fails and the men meet at the crash.
A bewildered P-plater on a student visa watches on in horror as the two men go tow to tow with each other for the opportunity to ream him.
Screwie stands over Clawie after landing a lucky punch to the back of his head when Clawie retreated. He unzips his pants and pisses on his foe, “mark’en me territory, dog”.
Irony aside as to who was more accurately behaving like a canine, Screwie has won and now turns his focus to the terrified P-plater.
“Roiiight, you’re next, cuntsfucked, you need a tow, you’re blocking all these dogs getting to work”, the P-plater squeaks, “I’ve called the RAC they will be 30minutes, they say it might not need a tow”.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but nah, nah, look if you don’t get this off the road NOW then the pigs will fine ya, prolly $5 g’s all up plus it’s first on the scene every shit-fa-brains knows that *points staunchly at pissed on rival*”
Now beyond terrified, the P-plater signs the blank tow authority he is handed and Screwie tells him he can pick it up in Joondalup. “Mr tow man, I live in Manning though”. Screwie assures him, it’s the law that this particular type of car needs to be towed to Joondalup.
Back at the yard, Screwie begins writing his invoice for services rendered. $800 for the tow, $50 hook fee, $150 tilt tray fee, $200 for being a dumb dog fee, all up he reckons about $1200 seems fair for the tow of a vehicle that probably would’ve made it to the mechanics on its own.
A brief consumer affairs stoush ensues with Screwie refusing to release the vehicle nor its contents to the owner until his invoice has been paid, “his grandma can go and get more medication from the fark’en doctor if it’s that urgent then can’t she?”