Helluva Good Cunt
by Michael Botur
Joblin swore he’d get my computer fixed even as the boys started invading the house, epic-distraction. I told him it was a piece of junk anyway, chuck it bro, crack a brewski, but he stayed running diagnostics even as we turned the lounge into a fight pit, shirts off, blood and sweat and flesh the coloura wet bread, and a crate smashed against the wall and he still got my computer good to go. Helluva good cunt, old Joblin. He was from the hood, don’t get me wrong, but on the fringe, where the good houses start. Got snagged by that school zoning BS. Wasn’t allowed to bus up the hill to Boy’s High. He’d come to parties but he never did bucket bongs. He was like that David Attenborough nigga, hangin on the edge, studyin us, quietly smiling.
The bro showed us cheeky downloads, cellphone hacks, how to sell fake Stan Walker tickets on TradeMe without getting snapped. He searched the electoral roll when we were trying to find them Crips what smashed that bottle over Ratboy’s head.
He got his licence first. He wrote our assignments. He ran this investment club after school. Lended us all twenty bucks when dole day was late.
One time I banged his missus and he didn’t even kick the door in. I heard his keys tinkle. The bro was waiting on the landing to drop her home safely so he could get to lectures.
He’s a CFO now. Makes microchips or somethin. JobCorp’s on the NASDAQ and whatnot. He gives quotes to Al-Jazeera about tech trends, IPOs, stocks. He made it on the rich list, d’you hear? Not in the top 90, but he squeezed in the top hundy. Like I said – just hangin on the edge.
Honestly: helluva GC.