Words: Nick Kachel
Image: Conrad Bizjak

“That cunt! That motherfucking fucking cunt!”

B2 stubbed out another cigarette, his fourth in the last ten minutes alone. Blue and white pyjamas were stained with booze, sweat and tears; his bloodshot eyes looked like two red suns.

“I’ll fucking kill B1 when I see him next. I swear I fucking will”.

And looking at him from across the table, I didn’t doubt it.

This was all my fault.

It was two days ago now since I had walked in on B1 and Lulu the Bear in the backroom. Rat in the Hat had lost his keys and I was helping him look. But instead of keys, I found Lulu hitched over the counter, little skirt around her waist, while B1 pounded her from behind. Sweat beaded from his yellow brow.

Lulu was B2’s girl. I had to tell him, he was my mate.
I didn’t know he would take it like this.

T-Squat Issue 4 featured poet is Ben Smith, Broadmeadows’ answer to Bukowski and editor of Horror Sleaze Trash webzine. Ben’s poetry can be found on his blog horrorsleazetrash and is currently working on a collection of works with Ryan Quinn Flanagan titled "Double Penetration"
Cover art by Chelsea Martin

Cop an eyeful Ben’s poetry and much, much more (as in, lots of naked chicks doing naughty things to each other) at
by Naomi Hart
When I was living in New York I had a friend who ran a small business dog-sitting for rich New Yorkers.
One night she arrived home to find the dog had up and died on her.  Terrified, she calls the owners who don’t seem too distressed and ask her to ‘take the dog to the vet’ - they will sort it out when they get home.

How am I going to transport a dead dog around the streets of New York? she wonders.  Selecting a suitcase, she stuffs the stiff inside, pushing his paws into the corners and curling his tail around the compartment for socks and ties.

She lugs the suitcase of demised dog down the stairs and out into the snow laden streets of NY.  Restricted to the dire income of an actor, her dead dog mission is directed from the taxi rank to the iconic New York subway.  She drags the case along the snow-slicked street, kuh-thunk ku-thunk ku-thunk down two flights of stairs to the subway platform. She boards the train and alights at her stop only to face the prospect of lugging doggy corpse up three flights of stairs.

“Excuse me ma’am do you need a hand?” asks a young man.

“Oh that would be awesome,” she says gratefully. “This bag is really heavy.”

“It looks it,” says the Good Samaritan, picking up one end of the case. “What’s in there?”

“Ah…computer supplies,” she lies, hoping he doesn’t catch the faint whiff of expired canine.

“Oh right, like parts of computers?”

“Yeah, I’m moving and this seemed like the best way to transport my computer.” She cringes at her tale, but the guy seems to believe her and they make it to the second landing.  

“Thanks so much for helping me.”

“No problem,” says the guy, “I’m just glad I was around when you needed me.”  

In a sudden twist of fate, he punches her in the face. She drops the case and reaches for her bleeding nose. Good guy gone bad picks up the case and legs it up the final flight of stairs and into the streets of NY – gone.  

And not with a case of dismantled computer pieces, with a day-old deceased Fido, hijacked on its way to the doggie morgue.
   by Tim Burton
Words:  Paul Liddle

I’ve always hated being the kid that found out the good news later than everyone else. The one who ran into a group of kids and asked “Have you heard of The Cure?” and was immediately handed their CD straight out of some kid’s discman. This is how I started feeling one night at dinner when my seemingly uncultured friend began reciting verses from Tim Burton’s The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy.  Dumbfounded, I sat there with my jaw so wide, I could have been a character in the book. This book of ‘children’s poems’ is like a treasure chest full of witty verses and rhyming ditties that you’ll wish your parents had read you when you were a kid. Dominated by black humour and tales of love and loss, this little gem is perfect for those times when reading a novel seems way too arduous but fuelling your mind and giggling at others’ misfortune is a necessity.