(DISCARDED DRAFT) DIARY OF A COFFIN DODGER CHAPTER E

AND LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION

I sat in the doorway of the Reverend's shed, not giving a fuck about the time or whether my fallacy-beguiled sisters remained in the Reverend's former house or had buggered off to whatever habitat they had infected to live and breed.

The infection in my life, however, remained the Reverend.

I did not want the devastating impact of that contamination in my life and the lives of others to be forgotten. Therefore, I was disappointed that death had stilled his lecherous heart before he was arraigned before the courts.

Despite avoiding a court hearing, I'm still pleased with the measures I took to rectify the publicity issue.

His taint was indelible, yet I wanted women and girls to know how men's public images can be a cover for misogyny and sexual abuse. I, therefore, wanted to put the Reverend's name and his degenerate deeds up in lights.

This chapter, as well as continuing discussions on the themes from previous chapters, concerns the decision I made to achieve that purpose.

Any infections, however, brewing under the plasters on my face, could, given my experiences as a nurse, be dealt with in a more straightforward manner.

When I ran my fingers over the plasters, I could not feel the warm, sticky sensation of blood. Good, I thought. The plasters were doing their job and the cuts would not require suturing.

The painkillers, too, seemed to work. The headache had stopped throbbing while I sat in the chair.

I crossed my arms and gazed into the shed. Sunlight streamed through the space once occupied by the skylight, glinting off broken glass.

A breeze slyly ruffled the pages of the Reverend's sermon on the Magnificat lying on the bench while my shock and horror at the Reverend's soul-corrupted pathway to abusing girls through the con of becoming an ordained clergyman subsided.

I uncrossed my arms, and, as they had stopped shaking, I picked up the soft drink and took several sips before returning the can to the bench.

I took the cigarette lighter out of the pocket of my jeans and idly flicked it on and off repeatedly.

Until I left the lighter on and picked up the sermon.

I held the sheaf of papers over the flame and watched, in delighted fascination, the pages turning brown while I held the lighter steady.

‘This is not the way to do it,’ I whispered as I shook my head and flicked the lighter off, ‘Destroying one piece of the Reverend's work doesn't achieve much. A bigger destruction is needed if the Reverend's name is to go up in lights.'

I threw the papers towards the shed's back wall and returned the lighter to the pocket of my jeans.

As the agitated papers, like the spirits of abused women and girls, fluttered over the child world destroying porno on the bench, I thought further about the idea of using Bonfire Night as a cover for burning down the shed.

By waiting till November 5, I had time to create a pile of fuel inside the shed that could light up the sky, drawing attention to the Reverend's property. The media would show up and recount narratives of the Reverend being found in the motel room.

Therefore, this wider destruction would ensure his name and vile deeds would be lit up by the kind of illumination that the searchlights at the opening credits of a Hollywood movie provide.   

Thus, it would not require a court appearance for the Reverend to be remembered as a paedophile. Nor for the man of God mask he wore to be revealed for what it was. A warning to women and girls that the men in their lives may not be all that they seem.

I nodded in satisfaction at this plan.

Rather than an effigy of Guy Fawkes, I could have symbolic images of the Reverend S.B. created with plastic penises of varying dimensions and colours bought from a sex shop nailed to the shed's walls.

If my younger sisters agreed to put the Reverend's furniture in with the rest of the crap, and if I sprinkled the mower fuel I found in the shed onto the pile to give the Reverend's things an appropriate fiery baptismal send-off, there could be a bonfire of genuinely awesome dimensions.

Though I had fucked up his copse and turned the wake into a grossly repellent observance, the itch to damage him remained strong. Even though I could wait until November 5 to put the Reverend's name up in lights, I couldn't resist the urge to do something, even if it was minor, to damage the Reverend now.

I could see how this could be done as I stood up, picked up the chair and carried it out of the shed.

I left the chair by the entrance and walked around the shed, avoiding the many nettles, brambles and thistles.

While undertaking this stroll, I scanned the horizon looking for houses and other buildings. Though I noticed both through the clumps of trees scattered across the surrounding areas, they were some distance from the adjourning paddocks.

When I finished scrutinising the surrounding fields and meadows, I strode across the back paddock from the shed towards the Reverend's former pit of pornography and sanctified child abuse.

I turned away from the house and walked towards the medley of scents wafting from the southern side of the house block.

A broad strip of land ran along this side of the Reverend's cornucopia of filth.

I cautiously walked to the front of the house along this strip, through vibrant flowerbeds, searching for large rocks and sharp objects.

The only objects that could be described as hazardous were the thorny branches of a dozen rose bushes.

When I reached the end of this strip, my progress was blocked by a dilapidated picket fence of an indeterminate colour running alongside the unpaved footpath on the street side of the house.

I followed the fence past the rusty iron mesh gate at the head of a flagstoned path leading to the house until I reached the gateless driveway.

The vehicles once housed in the wooden garage at one end of the driveway had been seized by law enforcement officers.

The other end of the driveway opened onto the street where I had parked my SUV.

There were no other vehicles or other signs of life on the road. No dwellings were near the Reverend's house, and a dense forest lay across the street from his sanctified premises.

While walking through the flower bed, I decided to camp out in the Reverend's back paddock simply because I could.

Therefore, I strode through the gateway to my vehicle, unlocked it, climbed in, started the engine and drove to my house.

When I reached my place, I parked the vehicle out the front, got out, locked the SUV and walked to the front door.

Having unlocked the door, I walked through and down the hallway to the kitchen redolent with the aroma of the bacon, eggs and onions I had fried for a sanger, thick with butter and layered with tomato sauce, I had for breakfast before leaving for the Reverend's property.

I picked up a backpack sprawled across the kitchen table and went to the fridge.

I opened the fridge and took out chocolate bars, pieces of fruit, bottles of sparkling mineral water and long-life cartons of fruit juice.

After I had placed the items in the backpack, I closed the fridge door.

I picked up the backpack, went to the hallway cupboard and opened the double doors. I looked over the shelves at various items of camping gear.

From the shelves, I took out two empty thermos flasks, a cluster of knives, forks and spoons, as well as a mug, a bowl, a plate, a battery-powered lantern, a torch, and extra batteries.

After loading the backpack with these items, I took a sleeping bag from the top shelf, put it beside the backpack and closed the cupboard doors.

I slung the backpack on my shoulder, grabbed the sleeping bag and a card table that leaned against the side of the cupboard and walked out of the house.

I closed and locked the door behind me and headed to the SUV.

The vehicle beeped and flashed indicator lights as I unlocked the SUV with the key fob. I opened and closed doors behind me as I loaded the gear into the vehicle and climbed into the driver's seat. I then started the engine.

There was a chill in the air, and shadows were lengthening as I drove away from my house. It would be only a couple of hours before street lights flickered on.

It had been a warm, sun-lit mid-morning when I demolished the shed door with the axe. I had not eaten since then when I polished off an energy bar. I was now frigin’ starving.

I, therefore, drove to Maccas and breathed deeply the aroma of frying food as I joined the queue at the drive-through.

When it was my turn, I stocked up on burgers, chips and five large flat whites.

Leaving Maccas, I drove back to the Reverend's property.

When I arrived, I drove slowly past the driveway entrance chewing over the options I had considered as I drove away from the Reverend's sordid premises to my place.

That is, whether to use the driveway to access the shed or the south side of the house.

I quickly discarded the idea of using the driveway.

If the garage collapsed as I drove the SUV through the back wall of the building, falling timber and tiles from the roof could damage the vehicle.

I did not want the Reverend to bring more anger and distress into my life than he had.

Therefore I continued driving until I reached the house's southern side, where I drove the SUV across the path alongside the street in front of the Reverend's place.

I stopped and activated the side mirrors by folding them alongside the right and left-hand sides of the vehicle.

I then gunned the engine, and the SUV leapt forward.

As I had checked out this side of the house block for any objects that could damage the SUV, I knew it was safe to drive the vehicle through the fence.

With chunks of timber hurtling through the air to land who knows fucking where, I drove the SUV at speed through the garden, leaving tire tracks across the flowers in bloom and flattening the rose bushes.

I side-swiped a down-pipe running along a back corner of the house with the bull bar, taking out the pipe as I drove onto the back paddock.

I chucked several beautiful, satisfying doughys. This trick I learnt when attending ute musters in Australia, where I had won awards for the Best Feral Ute.

In the Reverend's back paddock, I sent clods of earth flying in all directions before driving at speed towards the Reverend's shed.

Swerving to miss the shed, I braked hard to avoid ploughing into the boundary fence, leaving further track marks through the grass and weeds, before I parked the vehicle about three metres away from the doorway.

I got out of the vehicle, stretched, took the card table out, and laughed delightedly as I admired my tire-track handiwork etched across the back paddock before setting up the table in front of the chair from the Reverend's shed. I sighed happily as I had dealt with my itch and could now concentrate on staging a bonfire.

Feeling relaxed, I removed the backpack from the back seat and placed the backpack on the table.

I took out the thermos flasks, placed them on the table, brought out the cups of coffee and the four paper bags of Maccas delights from within the vehicle and put the lot around the thermos flasks.

Having completed this critical, tantalising task, I put the backpack on the ground beside the table.

I sat down and poured four cups of coffee into the thermos flasks, two cups each; I drank the other while savouring a grand feast, minus a couple of burgers I saved for the morning. 

Twilight settled over the landscape as I finished a bag of chips and a Big Mac. I therefore took out the lantern from the backpack.

I switched it on and placed it on the table.

I then took out the Bible that had a permanent home in the backpack.

After I unwrapped a Quarter-Pounder with Cheese, I looked up some biblical references from the Reverend's Sermon on the Magnificat. In particular, those found in Luke Chapter 1, verses 26 - 56.

While reading these verses, I ate the burger and munched on chips from a second and third packet.

After I finished the chips and burger, I started drinking another flat white poured from a thermos and reflected on those verses in light of the Reverend S.B.'s sermon. I was horrified to realise the thoroughness with which the Jesus Crew had worked over the original texts that narrated the rape of Mary.

The Jesus Crew stuck a label 'The Annunciation' on what they considered to be the start of this violent eruption into the life of Mary. The last part of this violence, unacknowledged by them, they labelled the 'Magnificat,' as I read in the Reverend's sermon.

The label, 'The Annunciation', is a title that only men with a corrupted sense of a woman's worth would use when a bloke took the initial slimy steps to take control of Mary's body.

The title, 'Magnificat', is used for a section of the narrative in which Mary's rage blazes through.

These two labels show again how the Jesus Crew were prepared to slice and dice the life of a breathing, feeling, flesh and blood woman, Mary, to serve the needs of their agenda to market the Jesus of the Christians as the Messiah to counter any attempt to claim that title for John the Baptist.

A callous indifference to the lives of women and girls by a group of men who thought it perfectly acceptable to write a narrative in which a heavily pregnant woman

sets out on a donkey to an unknown destination at night with no support from midwives.

In editing and rewriting a bunch of texts (there is no known record of how they came across these texts) narrated by and written by girls and women, the Jesus Crew saw opportunities to push their marketing agenda. They, therefore, labelled their re-writing, inclusive of what remained of those texts, ‘The Gospel According to Luke.’

According to the blurb written by the Jesus Crew at the beginning of 'Luke's Gospel', some bloke (unnamed) set out to write an account of events significant to a group of people (followers of Jesus?) in an orderly and accurate manner.

He (it has to be a 'he,' according to the Jesus Crew, for marketing reasons) addresses this account to another bloke, Theophilus, also largely unknown, according to the Jesus Crew.

However, what is known about this Gospel, as attested to by any astute, perceptive reading of it, is that original texts, narrated by and written by girls and women, glisten throughout the Gospel, despite the spin and misogyny of the Jesus Crew.

A demonstration of that misogyny and spin is revealed by the editing and rewriting of the original women's narrative by the Jesus Crew when they discarded the central connecting account between the labels, 'The Annunciation' and 'The Magnificat,' of the rape of Mary.

That central account spoke of the shocking violence leading up to, but not ended by, the bloke taking out his penis and shoving it into Mary's vagina. A searing, devastating account that, thanks to the actions of the Jesus Crew, is now lost to history.

That fanciful label, 'The Annunciation, ' glamorises Mary's awful experience as the Jesus Crew, unknowing about and uncaring of the suffering of women and girls sexually assaulted by men, think everything is just hunky-dory because, according to the Jesus Crew, the God of no name perpetrated the rape of Mary

A frightening, diabolical accusation.

Having shown men's typical lack of knowledge about the lives of girls and women and the ease with which men assume it is OK to vandalise, disrupt and trash those lives, in this case, the life of Mary, the Jesus Crew further lacerated the original account of her life.

They did this by continuing to work on the marketing aspects of their narrative in order to make it dominant rather than any accounts of John the Baptist or stories by, from and of women and girls.

In marketing their account, the Jesus Crew, gripped by a heterosexual male fantasy of sex with a young virginal woman, subsumed Elizabeth's role in the original narrative into the sugar-coated sexualised role they gave to Mary.

After all, in a heterosexual man's fantasy world, sex with a young virginal woman outclasses sex with an older woman by a country mile.

Therefore, despite Elizabeth's pregnancy, a not unusual pregnancy in older male-female couples, Elizabeth was not to be the bearer of the child the Jesus Crew determined would be the Christian's Messiah.

Instead, according to the Jesus Crew, the woman who would be the mother of that child would be a woman whom heterosexual males could feast their pornified imaginations on - the young virgin Mary.

As they lived in a world littered with stories of male deities having it off with younger women, the Jesus Crew found it easy to hype up this sexualised imagery. They did this by discarding sections of the original narrative and editing and re-writing what remained to imagine a God, a Spirit, having sex with Mary.

A spin on the original narrative that would appeal to men.

After all, it was to a male audience that the Jesus Crew were making their pitch that their man was The Man.

A pitch based on a sexual fantasy. Fantasies that are catered for in today's world by the mass production of pornography.

Therefore, before this mechanised stripping away of the right of women and girls to live their lives outside the walls of men's fantasies, needs and desires, the Jesus Crew produced a sexualised narrative of Mary designed to stimulate the hive minds of heterosexual men.

These pornified minds blank out from any comprehensive consideration of the lives of feeling, breathing girls and women. Pustule-encrusted minds that can only see women through the myopia of fantasies. This provides the basic ingredient for a sickening, lascivious feast.

A feast where that lack of consideration makes for an unquestioning, gleeful indulgence in sordid narratives of the way girls and women, particularly young, virginal women, have their souls, their spirits, their bodies, and their lives trashed by the unsought, unwanted sexual violations of men.

However, despite this pornified spin that the Jesus Crew has put on the appalling assault on Mary, the foundations of this spin will not stand up to scrutiny.

As the hive minds of men tuck into the imagery of a young, naked, virginal woman being ravished by a God (aren't all men encouraged and enabled to see themselves as Gods?), the distraction this provides can be seen for what it is because the Jesus Crew have had similar problems with their narrative of a census and, consequently, the fakery of a journey to Bethlehem.

In Luke’s Gospel, Chapter 1, verses 26 - 27 are written these words:‘Then…the Angel Gabriel was sent by God, to a city of Galilee named Nazareth…to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the name of the virgin was Mary….’

'And in Chapter 1, verse 35,‘…the Angel said to her (Mary): “The Holy Spirit will pass over you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you….’

Even though this verbal twisting and turning by the Jesus Crew attempts to distance the God of no name from being accused as the perpetrator of the sexual violation of Mary, the attempt fails.

At the very least, the God of no name is named by the Jesus Crew as the enabler, the initiator ('... the Angel Gabriel was sent by God...'), the one who set up this violent sexual intrusion into Mary's soul, spirit and body.

Further, these verses reveal yet again the Jesus Crew's demonstration of the violence men wilfully direct at women and girls.

These words from the so-called 'Luke's Gospel' are violent hideous, enigmatic verses written to obscure men's assumed entitlement to sexually abuse women and girls. As with Mary, it's always just a matter of what men want and what they can get away with.

What men want and what they hope to get away with is revealed through the continuation of violence implied by the misnomer 'The Annunciation.'

A sugar-coated title that aims to obscure that which, if the life of Mary is viewed with compassion, will not be obscured. A title that implies the God of no name had a part to play in the sexual violation of Mary. A name designed by the Jesus Crew to add an element of otherworldly mystique to this sexual assault.

This bull-shit caption, however, must be replaced with the word 'grooming.'

In grooming Mary, by using the usual mantras men have used throughout the thousands of years of human history, when a man sets out to coerce a woman or girl into having cock-focused sex, the man builds a false sense of security, and Mary is, therefore, beguiled into trusting the man.

The mantras the bloke used, the ones that were recorded in the original narrative, would have followed the usual tropes: ‘You’re so beautiful, Mary;’ ‘Joseph is lucky to have a girl like you to marry;’ ‘If only I could be so lucky;’ etc. sickening, etc.

The Jesus Crew have bastardised and minimised this grooming phase into a couple of sentences:

'Greetings, you who are highly favoured! The Lord is with you.’And‘Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favour with God.’

Suppose the bloke is with his mates, particularly if he and his mates are armed military men from whatever Commonwealth, Dominion, Empire, Federation, Republic, Union, country, company, culture, or civilisation across thousands of years of human history, employ them.

In that case, there won't be any grooming phase.

These blokes, some with wives, partners, girlfriends or fiancees, some without, but all with mothers, have a preference for vulnerable, terrorised girls and women. They will shove their dicks into girls' or women's holes with threats to use whatever weapons the age, civilisation, or culture has equipped them with.

Or if the blokes don't have weapons, they will use the sheer brute strength of a gang of men.

After a military man and his mates have showed their prowess by reducing girls and women they have violated into emotional wrecks, there is every chance those women and girls will be murdered.

After all, these military men have been trained to use weapons outside societal constraints on human life's sanctity when they are dealing with the other (whether the 'other' be a woman, a girl, an enemy combatant or a member of the society those military men are fighting).

Though it is currently unknown whether a military man, such as a Roman Legionnaire, raped Mary, she sensed, as women do, that the man who raped her brought the threat of violence with him, as all men do, whether or not they are armed military men, when they set out to sexually assault a girl or woman.

As the Jesus Crew has destroyed sections of the original narrative, there is no currently known record of Mary's shock and terror when the man makes his move.

The sexualised values men have placed upon girls and women aggravated Mary's situation. To the bloke abusing her, she is merely an object, valued because she is a virgin.

A value that casts a pall over the lives of girls and women no matter where they live or when they live.

A prized male value, virginity, is attested to by both the original texts and those written by the Jesus Crew.

Though the women's original narrative had its reasons, now unknown, for mentioning Mary was a virgin, why did the Jesus Crew do this? They had the editorial power to rewrite the story, so why not create a narrative in which Joseph and Mary were married? The obvious answer is that removing Mary's virginal status as a narrative trope for the Jesus Crew would diminish her marketing potential to a male audience.

According to the women's narrative, Mary's virginal status was a principal driver of her abuser's assault. (The women's narrative's account of where Joseph was while this was happening has been edited out). Her virginal status is why a bloke cons Mary into letting down her guard and then makes his intentions bloody obvious.

A prized value, virginity, that gives the bloke who first shoves his penis through a girl's or woman's vulva into her vagina, star billing in bragging rights with his mates.

Like millions of girls and women over thousands of years of human history, Mary feels she has two sickening options as the man makes his brutal move. She can resist, with little chance of stopping the bloke because he has come prepared for this eventuality.

She will then be overpowered and raped with the high probability of being murdered because her resistance challenged men's ego-centric assumed right to sexually abuse girls and women.

Or, the second revolting option, Mary does not offer resistance, is raped and hopefully will be physically alive after the assault has ended.

In words ascribed to Mary by the Jesus Crew, Mary's decision allegedly not to offer resistance is written as,

‘I am the Lord’s servant,’ Mary answered. ‘May your word to me be fulfilled.’

This is a horrifying, nauseating statement in the same league as the words used to groom Mary by, according to the Jesus Crew, an emissary from the God of no name.

This emissary, by grooming Mary so that she will offer little resistance to the rape of her body, soul and spirit, implicates, according to the Jesus Crew, the God of no name in this vile action.

When Mary allegedly says, 'I am the Lord's servant. May your word to me be fulfilled,' the emissary knows they have succeeded in that task.

Mary, therefore, lies back, like millions of women and girls across centuries and cultures, and cops it sweet while tears stream down her face.

There are no known first or second-hand accounts of the rape of Mary.

The only circulating statements are third-hand accounts created by the Jesus Crew.

These blokes, blind to the misogyny that darkened their souls and governed their lives, project onto Mary the submissive role they expect all women and girls to adopt when they are asked by men to undertake an activity at the direction of men.

Further, women and girls must agree to that request without question.

It was a role women and girls were forced to adopt by the culture of their day—a culturally assigned position for millions of girls and women across time and societies to obey men. Not doing so, as Mary and Joseph discovered, has dire consequences.

Therefore, the Jesus Crew, constrained by misogyny and cultural expectations of girls and women's roles, could only assign to a woman, Mary, a submissive one.

This constraint again shows the Jesus Crew's inhumanity in not knowing women and girls. They denied girls and women recognition of their right to live free of men's demands, fantasies and desires..

An inhumanity that even with rape, the Jesus Crew were willing to promote.

But then, despite the editorial violence of the Jesus Crew, the voice of women will not be stilled. Mary breaks free from that submissive role.

In a section from the original narrative, Mary speaks to the rage of millions of girls and women who, across the world for thousands of years, have been sexually violated by men.

Mary's voice of rage following an assault upon her body, soul, and spirit flames through the Magnificat.

'He (the God with no name) has accomplished powerful deeds with his arm. He has scattered the arrogant in the intentions of their heart.

He has deposed the powerful from their seat, and he has exalted the humble.

He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.

He has taken up his servant Israel, mindful of his mercy,

just as he spoke to our fathers: to Abraham and to his offspring forever.'

Mary is virtually screaming,

‘God will fix you, you bastards! He has done it in the past and will do it again.’

Screaming anger echoed by women and girls across time and the world who have suffered similar shocking sexual violations to what Mary has.

‘Scattered the arrogant (men) in the intention (the sexual predation of women and girls) of their hearts.'

Mary rages against the men in their seats of power, positions of authority from which men commit these vile deeds and these men's enablers ('him who is without sin,' John 8, verse 7), blokes whose wishful secret thoughts go where the sexual predators tread.

Mary, in effect, yells,

‘Your day is coming, mate.’

Because the God with no name has not forgotten her and will usurp these blokes' authority by raising up those seen as powerless, like herself.

‘Your wealth (good things)will be taken from you and given to those from whom you have taken it (the poor, the destitute and the hungry.)

These texts, Luke Chapter 1 verses 51 - 55, from the original narrative, given a title by the Jesus Crew designed to deflect the reader away from the rage and hurt of a woman, Mary, raped by a man, show Mary is thoroughly pissed off over what has happened to her.

Further, these texts show Mary sees the God of no name as a protector, not as an abuser. If the situation was otherwise, Mary would not have prayed in the way she did. By these verses alone, from the original manuscript, the Jesus Crew's claim that the God of no name was the perpetrator of the sexual abuse of Mary is a falsehood. That claim is a straight, blatant lie.

Therefore, their claim that Mary gave birth to the Jesus of the Christians following this sexual assault does not stand up to scrutiny.

We must admire the Jesus Crew for the slickness of the gas-lighting by which they have spun a  yarn in which their man was The Man because, for centuries, it has achieved its purpose.  

But just like the bullshitting men use when they advance any dubious claim that damages the lives of girls and women, men's failure to know anything about women and girls, particularly when they are facing the violence men deliberately, unkindly bring into their lives, the Jesus Crew's delusions can be exposed, like the king without his clothes.

The God of no name hears Mary's shock, distress, and hurt as that God, the God of Jechocobeh, Miriam, Rahab, Deborah, Tamar, Amos, Nathan, David, Joseph, Elizabeth, Mary, the women who narrated and wrote the original narrative, the pub owner’s missus, the God of Ananias of Damascus, Peter and Paul, is Mary's protector. 

The emotional turmoil she experiences is not brought on by any activity of that God. 

The God of Jesus Christ. The Jesus who broke bread with women and men in Galilee, not the confected being worshipped by the Christians, whose kindness, compassion and caring for women speaks to the nature of the God with no name.

Compassion and caring that answers Mary's cry, but not in the way she might have expected.

The God of no name calls Joseph to step up and challenge the social opprobrium that will be heaped on Mary.

Joseph does so.

He answers affirmatively, despite Mary's diminished value as a bride (because she is no longer a virgin, her bride price is decreased), the fact she is pregnant by another man, and the financial and social cost to himself. He stays with Mary, and by doing this, they face the social and financial backlash together.

I had a more prosaic call as I held the cup of coffee, long since gone cold, in my hand while I sat on the chair outside the entrance to the shed - a call of nature. The pain in my bladder was excruciating.

I finished reflecting on the rape of Mary and the way the Jesus Crew had used the distress of a woman to push their agenda.

Having placed the half-empty cup of coffee on the table, I reached into the backpack and took out the torch.

I stood up, switched on the torch, and, guided by its caring light, found a spot at the side of the shed free of thistles, brambles, and nettles.

I had a long, satisfying piss and returned to the table as a cool night breeze drifted across the paddocks and rustled the paper bags of Macca's delights.

I shivered as I grabbed a jumper from the SUV's front seat.

Having put on the jumper, I returned to the card table and drained the cup of cold coffee; it was still a flat white. I took a chocolate bar and a bottle of sparkling mineral water from the backpack.

I sat on the chair, switched off the torch and looked across the darkened paddocks around the Reverend's property as I took deep breaths and settled the turmoil in my mind created by the reflections, not only on what had happened to Mary but also by the way men so readily gang up on a woman and shred her life when she dares to tell a narrative in which a man sexually assaulted her.

In the distance, I could see flashing lights and the steadily moving crisscrossed beams of car headlights.

But apart from those intrusive reminders of the outside world and its many and varied domains occupied by women and girl-hating men, I had the night to myself and my thoughts.

I was tired when I finished the chocolate bar and the bottle of water.

Picking up the remaining Maccas with their bags and the backpack, I placed the items in the SUV.

Having opened the back of the vehicle, I folded down the passenger seats and unrolled the sleeping mat that had a permanent home, along with a pillow, in the SUV.

I then took the sleeping bag from the front passenger seat and spread the sleeping bag along the sleeping mat with the pillow at the end near the passenger seats.

I switched off the lamp, switched on the torch, and placed the lamp in the front passenger footwell. I circled the vehicle, ensuring all the side doors were shut, with the front windows slightly ajar.

After I climbed into the back of the vehicle, I closed the back door and took off my jumper, placing it beside the mat.

I locked the vehicle with the key pod, switched off the torch, kicked off my sneakers, undid my jeans and snuggled into the sleeping bag.

I dozed off as I gazed through the sunroof's glass at the moon and the stars, shimmering jewels, twinkling mystical messages across the night sky.

My only disturbance during the night was going to the side of the shed and having a piss. Apart from that event, I had a good night's rest.

I woke as dawn's first light rays chased night's watchful shadows out of the paddocks and the Reverend's property.

I missed the dawn chorus I listened to as I lay in my swag when waking up after a night camping in the Australian bush.

The relative silence around me as I climbed out of the sleeping bag in the back of the SUV, did up my jeans, and put on my sneakers was like the silence of a morning in the country areas of New Zealand.

I used the key pod to unlock the vehicle, opened the back door, climbed out, went to the side of the shed, had a piss and returned to the SUV.

I felt refreshed as I had figured out a way of pulling down the shed so that more fuel could be added to the bonfire than the shed could contain. It would also save the hassle of moving large pieces of furniture, such as a sofa, into the shed.

I was hungry, though, after the peaceful night's rest.

As well as the bag of Maccas delights, I picked up from the front passenger seat, I also took a bottle of water and a long-life carton of orange juice from the backpack.

I placed the items on the table, sat down, and consumed the drinks and the burgers. I preferred my chips hot and had devoured them all the previous night; While consuming this repast, I thought over my plans for bringing down the shed on top of its depraved contents.

I visualised looping a long, thick piece of rope through the shed doorway, through the window frame of the first broken window and out to the SUV, which I would park away from the shed.

I would attach the rope to the towing hook at the back of the vehicle. The tow bar could not withstand the stresses and loads that pulling the shed down would demand.

After stacking firewood from the heap near the back verandah onto and under the bench, I would use a chainsaw as I walked through the shed to partially cut through every second timber upright.

I would hire the chainsaw from a DIY store.

I was familiar with the mechanised joy called a chainsaw from the times when I gathered firewood while nursing and living in Australia's back blocks.

After I had finished sawing the wooden uprights, I would step out of the shed, put the chainsaw on the ground a distance from the shed, and climb into the SUV.

When I had put the vehicle into low-range four-wheel-drive and engaged the diff locks, the towing hook would take the strain as I drove the vehicle slowly forward.

I would keep driving until I felt the vehicle speeding up as the rope went slack and the most incredible, delightful noises thundered around the Reverend's back paddock.

As excellent as the long, melodic belch, I let loose when I finished the drinks and the burgers.

I felt energised as I poured a cup of coffee from one of the thermos flasks I had left on the table, stood up and turned the chair around to face the shed.

I sat down and sipped the coffee as I meditated on how good I would feel as I heard the shed crashing to the ground.

The remaining matter to be worked out was how to get fuel, at least a couple of litres of petrol, to the combustible's base once the shed was down.

I shivered excitedly at the thought of a crowd gathering outside the Reverend's palace of paedophilia on November 5.

With whatever items were mine to dispose of from the Reverend's house stacked on top of the downed shed, the flames from the pile would, hopefully, be as high as the second-story windows of the house.

The toxic fumes from burning furniture and whatever else could be added to the flaming sacrifice in commemoration of the life of my dear, departed father should create a God-all-mighty stench.

This would draw an angry mob to glare venomously at the flames lighting up the night sky while eyes stung and people choked and coughed as news vans gathered and the event sent the internet into a frenzy.

Therefore, the Reverend's name and deeds would be put up in metaphorical lights and recalled whenever there was chatter about Bonfires on November 5.

I finished the coffee and nodded in satisfaction at the beauty of this project.

I stood up, put the chair back inside the shed, and put the empty coffee cup on the bench.

Ants, I noticed, were making a purposeful trail back and forth from yesterday's unfinished open soft drink can I had left on the bench.

After stepping out of the shed, I packed up everything, put the items in the SUV, and ensured all doors were closed apart from the driver's door.

I climbed into the driver's seat, closed the door, adjusted the side mirrors, started the engine, and drove away, back through the way by which I had entered the Reverend's back padock.

It was time to go to a Macca's restaurant for coffee, a double bacon and egg McMuffin and pancakes with lashings of maple syrup from the flask I kept in the console between the front seats of the SUV.

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