Splendiferous as the vision of my highly polished engine was, more importantly, of the two traps I had set, neither was visible.

As I approached the engine bay my unassisted vision noted that thankfully, no plug leads had been chewed. Over the back, between the engine and the firewall I located my first trap. Not surprisingly it’s been set off but has captured nothing; as for its counterpart, search as I did with my six-lamp, three-triple-A-battery, LED powered flashlight in hand, up, down and all around the area, the second trap, along with perhaps the first rodent, was nowhere to be seen.

As I was down on my hands and knees searching for the trap I put together some theories. The trap I did retrieve appeared to have been the one that had been covering the number one plug; the lost trap was the one over the number four, or previously damaged plug. What I presumed therefore, was that said rodent had come along entertaining projections of gorging himself upon my juicy spark plug leads, sniffed some three-year-old Pam’s peanut butter, thought ‘better yet’, attempted to scoop up the stale spread with its paw, suddenly ‘ping’ goes the old-school timber-and-wire constructed trap, it comes away with a hell of a start, also perhaps a fractured limb and/or hefty attachment, leaps in the air, sets off the other trap which topples downwards, where the rodent then, presumably three-leggedly, dashes away to seek cover.

Also while I’m down there searching away with my LED light on hands and knees like a common peasant, clucking from the adjacent property offers a timely reminder that hens produce eggs. It’s an odd thought to have jump into one’s head, admittedly, but from there I was able to make the association that rats in fact rather enjoy the smooth flavour of poultry placenta or, more to the point, the yolk that lies within. Thus given that my neighbour’s chicken coop abuts the rear of my garage, I think it’s likely that these ‘Rat’ yarns might just become increasingly abundant.

Anyway, those were my theories and at the time I thought them pretty damned feasible; maybe even good enough to qualify for Wednesday’s ‘Theory’ slot; I don’t know, you tell me.

Oh and, one more thing, the following Tuesday evening, which is incidentally, yesterday in real time, I had just driven two or three hundred metres down the road, hit a bump – which with performance suspension is most everything on the road surface – and heard a clatter. I knew instantly what it was so performed a pleasantly erratic U-turn and went back. Even with prescribed vision I couldn’t see anything, least of all a dead rodent in a mouse trap.

So there I am, jogging along the roadside wearing a navy puffer jacket over my, predictably convivial red, NZ Blood Service T-shirt above a pair of Napisan-white jiu-jitsu pants, which on account of the length look as though they are about five years too small for me, also sneakers with broken elastic laces, and a car flies past. I hear a clatter. I run towards the sound, still not seeing anything amid the fading light, just running towards the sound. The little daub of peanut butter gives it away.

Something’s life has ended but it was sure as hell not that bloody rodent.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Roe Dant

Photography by Rip Muss-Trapp

What reason could a 36-year-old male with past criminal convictions possibly have to stow himself away with an attractive 15-year-old girl?

According to messages posted on the girl’s Facebook page this ordeal ought to be treated as a kidnapping, thus many are worried that Dean Whakatau has violent intentions…

Admittedly not a great deal of information has been released about the girl they’re calling LA; even so I think it’s safe to assume that, in the hearts of most young, fatherless Maori girls, there is something decidedly exciting about the notion of being forced to run away with an older man. More exciting still of course is the prospect of defying Mother’s wishes.

…Mr Whakatau’s mother has assured the public that her son, repeat offender and all around ignominious character he might be, would never harm a sweet 15-year-old girl.

Police have admitted to not knowing of the pair’s whereabouts but ‘are fearful for LA’s safety’. Yeah, I’d be more concerned about her being returned with a baby in the oven.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Don T Ruster

Photography by T N Aisher

Ironically, a typical website’s array of ‘Frequently Asked Questions’, or as I prefer to call them, Far Qs, are usually the most illogical, inane line of questioning any normal person could imagine.

This leads me to pose the question: Frequently Asked Questions – I ask you, frequently asked, by whom? This week’s theory therefore relates to retailed products, the problems people inevitably face with those products but moreover, exactly why those producers don’t allow us mere consumers to be able to remedy our products’ faults…

The reality is that on the odd occasion I have delved into a website with the intention of putting to rest a nagging query I have only ever come away still wanting; the only questions thus answers provided by FAQs (remember, pronounced Far Qs) allude either to the type of inquiry a two-year-old might ask – despite the aforementioned’s rather lacking ability in the field of interpreting literature at all – or relates to something so technical that as a layman, you would have no business even troubleshooting that variety of task to begin with.

…Producers don’t want consumers to be able to fix their own products’ faults, oh no, they would much rather you sent your malfunctioning product to a qualified repair shop for assistance; that way everybody’s getting a slice of the action (by ‘action’ of course, I refer to money).

I understand that to many, all that I have so far written may just be coming across as a disgruntled consumer, pissed off by his own inability to handle even the smallest issue, now writing a misdirected rant at those literary geniuses who compose the FAQ sections of products.

As that ignorant consumer I ask, before you judge, hear my example.

I recently came into ownership of an electric chainsaw. I don’t currently have a great deal of use for it, other than running through the kind of oversized firewood shied away from by my faithful axe. The other day, whizzing through some metre lengths of four by two I’d pulled from under my property’s perimeter fence, earmuffs on because this thing is about as loud as I imagine the volume of standing beside a 747 at take-off, also safety glasses lest the earmuffs should look out of place, and suddenly it undergoes a significant change in tone. It sounds as if it’s jammed but given that it’s cutting twenty-year-old lengths of pinus four by twos, I understand this to be an impossibility. I withdraw the saw and one by one squeeze the assortment of safety triggers to make it go again. It throws back the same sound. I unplug it and dismantle the chain guard to see if there’s an obstruction; there is not. I check the chain tension; it feels fine. I manually rotate the chain on the bar; it spins with surprising ease. I plug it in and squeeze the medley of triggers to make it work once more; it responds with that same awful slipping sound.

I then dig up the instruction manual and take some time in tearing off the plastic wrapper. I quickly skim through it. I quickly skim through it again, this time somewhat more thoroughly. ‘Setting up Your Saw’; no. ‘Lubricating Your Saw’; perhaps but no. ‘Saw Operation’; maybe but again, no. Here we go: ‘Troubleshooting’. I quickly skim read the passage. I quickly skim read the passage again; this time somewhat more thoroughly. Even when on the third run through I take my time to read it slowly and properly I am left dismayed. The calibre of ‘Troubleshooting’ problems and the related solutions aren’t extensive.

For instance, Problem: ‘My saw is not going.’

Solution: ‘Make sure saw it is plugged in at the wall.’

Problem: ‘My chain won’t turn’ – “Oh,” I thought/mumbled, “this could be good.”

Solution: ‘Check that chain brake is off’ – “Of course.”

Problem: ‘Chain still won’t turn’ – “Here we go,” I thought/mumbled.

Solution: ‘Remove chain guard and clear impediment’ – “Well what if I’ve removed the cunting chain guard,” I thought/mumbled, “but what if there was no cunting impediment? What then?”

What then indeed. Most Troubleshooting or, as it were, FAQ pages, simply, don’t have contingencies for what must be the rarest of occurrences when those people asking the questions haven’t asked frequently enough the very question that is plighting you, thus the corresponding query is not forthcoming.

Imagine that.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Freya Quaint-Lee

Photography by Mia R Seoul

Yesterday I put the final full stop in my latest novel, Pride in the Land.

Those of you who have been following the progression will know that this is the sequel to Pride in the Name. I have been up editing since 5 a.m. and will hopefully manage to get it to HarperCollins before they have had a chance to officially reject the first; any potential plot holes or story weaknesses are plugged and packed out respectively by reading the sequel.

That said the sequence still really needs one more to be complete – Pride in the Face..?

In this recent sequel the reader is allowed an insight into the deranged mind of Kodos Wanton which is pretty awesome, and where the first story took place over a lifetime, the sequel spans a decidedly more curtailed timeframe.

Should be good.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tim Walker

Photography by Tim Walker

Winston Peters has been heard saying that corrections minister, Sam Lotu-Liga, is qualified to fill his position because he’s Polynesian and, given that the majority of New Zealand inmates are also Polynesian, this just makes sense.

Now he’s being called a racist.

Gosh, here’s me thinking that racism was a form of race-based slander – scurrilous comments, defamatory insults, mocking effrontery and so forth – but it turns out the term has been opened right up; now racism is any kind of speech, factual or otherwise, relating to race, creed, or personal preference…

I’ve said it before – quite recently in fact – but it looks as though it needs to be said again: people’s ability to take offence has become so ridiculously petty that I just don’t think we are going to survive out there.

…It should be said, I don’t much care for Winston Peters but in this case, all the man did was state a fact; yet the instant that he was seen to be ‘classifying’ races – calling a Nigerian ‘Black’ or an Englishman ‘White’, or in a few years’ time I guess claiming charcoal is black or cotton wool is white – some idiot decides to throw around the ‘racist’ call.

John Key ran into a similar predicament at Waiuku College, joking that if Maori language week was extended to an entire month people might get bored, and is now being vilified in a similar manner because a 16-year-old girl started crying.

Are we honestly supposed to believe that Key’s comment was the cause of her tears? His awkward presence under the guise of humour, perhaps.

As a predominantly European nation (have I been racist yet?), the majority of New Zealanders are English speaking (dude, that sounds pretty racist); admittedly a section of our population do speak Te Reo Maori (oh my God, that so has to be racist) but proportionately, I mean unless the density of Maori speakers is more than 1 in 52 (racist), it’s simply impractical to draw it out for any longer than a week, given that other people have lives to live, too (bigotry, xenophobia, intolerance, hate crime!).

I see what he was saying.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Cotton Wahl

Photography by Lang Wedge Weak

Former State of Origin league legend Billy Moore has come under a shit-storm for referring to New Zealand’s Warriors as having a ‘coconut’ style of play.

As one would imagine, this comment caused uproar on social media sites across Australasia.

I can’t imagine it actually offended anybody, least of all the Polynesian sector of NZ to whom the title referred, yet in this modern world where it has become so very easy to vent distaste over anything harbouring even the projected potential for Political In-correctness, many dick-headed people are tending to do just that.

Alright folks, here’s my decidedly distasteful opinion on the matter: the majority of people across the world have become such slaves to the term ‘Political Correctness’ it is my wholehearted belief they have forgotten what genuine affront feels like. The world has become such a padded little area of social awareness that these people no longer seem to wait to actually be insulted before complaining, oh no, they carefully observe the actions taken or words spoken by television or radio personalities in the hope of picking up on those areas where somebody is perhaps doing or maybe saying something that they know could potentially in particular circumstances lead to their being insulted; that’s when they kick up their stink.

The world seems to have developed a set of rules that should apparently dictate etiquette. The problem is that many of these ‘rules’ are largely illogical and utterly ridiculous, yet if somebody breaks them somebody else is quick to ‘force’ an apology, which is equally ridiculous.

For example, that forbidden ‘N word’ is everywhere at the moment; so much so in fact that even Barack Obama was even heard using it. Of course this caused massive ‘offence’ across America. Forget the fact that Black and White folk alike use this word among friends as a term of endearment…

The ‘rules’ regarding ‘etiquette’ surrounding ‘racism’ are some of most asinine parts of life ever developed. Focus needs to be shifted; priorities need to be sought.

…I think truly offensive is the fact that Auckland dairy owner Arun Kumar’s killer has been handed down a mere six year manslaughter sentence, along with the recommendation that the teenage boy never see the inside of an adult prison cell lest it disturb his innocence.

Hah. Does the name Tony Robertson ring any bells? A judge took pity on the innocence of that teenage rapist and look what happened.

Now that’s offensive.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Way Cop

Photography by Gat Reel

The top of my number four spark lead had been completely shredded.

I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing until peering more closely, I was able to distinguish teeth marks in the rubber insulation. Looking even more closely though I am again rendered disbelieving; the cable’s conductor, whose job it is to transfer current from the ignition coil/s to the spark plugs thereby creating a spark hence combustion, has been completely chewed through – but for one metallic strand. “Well,” I recall though/mumbling, “there’s no way that strand could carry sufficient current to make the cylinder go pop,” leading me to hypothesise that further damage must have been done after I had parked up the previous night.

Unplugging the number four lead I immediately embarked on a ponderous stroll to my local servo although on arrival, checking my timepiece I wished I had delayed my departure by ten or so minutes. Entering the workshop the delectable aroma of coffee and cigarettes filled my nostrils. Suffice to say I was surprised when, despite being mid-smoko, my plight seemed to hold the attention of all staff involved. Strange as I believed the phenomena of a high-tension cable-chewing rodent to be, these guys didn’t seem to perceive it as at all astonishing…

I understand my history in the field of diesel mechanics leaves me somewhat wanting when it comes to bizarre instances of electrically induced engines, but I still thought it was pretty amazing.

…The boss or owner or whatever term he allots himself rose and with cigarette between his lips led me over to the kind of box that every good petrol workshop should have on hand – a veritable pick ‘n mix, an utterly disorganised array of assorted spark plug leads from every model from every make of car imaginable. A speedy ten minutes later he had found a match; handed it to me, discarded his expired cigarette butt and, refusing my offer of payment but offering his well-wishes, sent me on my way.

I arrived back at my car, plugged in the lead and thought/mumbled, “Nice one … Back in business.” Before closing the bonnet however, I did consider the consequences of returning to my car the next day and turning the key only to find that once more the lead had been chewed. Feeling trapped by the frustrating uncertainty of this quandary and determined to even the stakes I ran inside and fetched the two mouse traps…

These I had purchased at the time my cat was going through that springtime, sexually active and high on catnip, phase of bringing into the house live mice, dropping them at my feet, looking up at me expectant of adulation, while the mouse runs off and hides under the range and the cat makes a half-arsed, pathetically belated attempt at recapturing it’s quarry.

…I smeared on both traps some crunchy peanut butter by Pam’s and returned to the garage, taking some time to decide on the best location for them. Finally with both traps set – one over number four plug facing back, the other on number one plug facing forward, primarily because any other style would have upset my OCD – and with the bonnet left up I headed back indoors.

Next morning, following the obligatories, I excitedly opened the garage door and flicked on the lights. I approached the car tentatively as if rip-shit-and-bust might go some way towards ruining the surprise, and peered around the side of the open bonnet. Let me tell you, it was a glorious visage.

The shiny red rocker cover of my car’s GT engine glistening under the illumination of three 200 watt light bulbs, truly was a sight to behold…

(Shit, we’re already over 600 words; we’ll finish it up next time, yeah?)

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Tua-Ly Z Tudae

Photography by Nick S Thyme

Simply, the judicial system in New Zealand is failing.

Auckland woman Blessie Gotingco was raped and murdered by the same man who, just ten years earlier, was imprisoned for the abduction and rape of a five-year-old girl.

The fact is that when Tony Robertson raped and killed Blessie Gotingco he was not long out of prison for this earlier crime where, at the time of conviction a judge had taken pity on the then teenager expecting that given the chance, the young man could still make something of his life…

During the aforementioned sentence Tony Robertson was repeatedly denied parole due to a total ‘lack of reform’.

…So they let him out. Tony Robertson abducted and raped a five-year-old girl. He showed no desire to comply with the prison’s rehabilitation policy. They then released him back into the public.

Granted he had to adhere to pretty stringent conditions but nothing too serious; nothing so austere as to prevent him from running down the defenceless Gotingco in his car, raping then murdering her. Nothing like that.

Tony Robertson spent weeks before the courts and despite firing his legal counsel in the early stages, managed to somehow burn up over $200 grand of taxpayer money.

Truth be told when I first laid eyes on the cretin he gained my pity. I actually thought this reasonably well-spoken and good-natured man who seemed to believe he could defend himself better than an agenda-driven court-appointed lawyer, was being persecuted by overzealous police on the hunt for a scapegoat.

It wouldn’t have been the first time anyway, he said soberly, casting a discerning eye in the direction of Teina Pora’s wasted youth.

Blessie Gotingco was a well liked member of her community. Now she’s dead. All it would have taken for her to not be dead is for that judge a decade ago to have based his sentence on the magnitude of the offence rather than a teenager’s apparent innocence.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Noah Ena Sense

Photography by Chet Bag

The question of life on other planets has to be among the most debated in the world – in our world.

Look at the facts: planet Earth languishes amid a Universe so vast that nobody can adequately explain just how big it is, let alone reach its perimeters. Within that ‘infinite’ Universe is Earth’s Solar System which comprises nine planets, including Pluto. These nine planets all orbit one sun, our sun; the Sun. The Sun is a big flaming ball of largely hydrogen gas with some helium, held together by its own gravity.

Alright, now consider the following: our Universe, as we know it, contains millions of suns. Look to the Milky Way at night time, you’ll see millions of suns. Each of these suns, potentially, has its own Solar System. Of these millions of suns with their potentially millions of Solar Systems therefore, it is unreasonable to postulate that none of those planets have evolved conditions conducive to the nurturing of life.

The one key element that sets Earth apart from other suitably heated planets is that Earth comes complete with its very own oxygen-rich atmosphere. The reason for this oxygen-rich atmosphere is abundant, oxygen-producing plant-life. The reason for abundant plant life is soil and, primarily, water. The reason for water is hydrogen and two oxygens but hang on, I just said the reason for oxygen was plants and you can’t have plants without water but without water you can’t have plants…

Oxymoronic.

…The only way therefore for life to exist is if water already exists. Water is unequivocally the key to life.

Scientists recently discovered another planet which keeps a similar temperature, is a similar size and orbit pattern to our own and were talking about the possibility of using it to harbour life, I guess, once we’ve killed our own planet, but I saw a picture of this planet – it looks already dead.

Even so, good to see there’s a contingency plan.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Fritch Water

Photography by Dud Planet

Unbelievable.

Firstly that this ‘Indian witch doctor’ scandal is still heading Auckland news and secondly, the stupid things that silly people are saying with regard to the aforementioned.

First memorable quote: “…I was feeling really depressed so I went to see a priest – little did I know this guy wasn’t a priest he was a witch doctor…”

“My God,” I recall erupting at the TV in disbelief, “honestly, what’s the bloody difference?!”

Second memorable quote: “…They’re not priests, they’re con-artists.”

This time I managed to restrain myself; instead just seething quietly to myself from the comfort of my couch.

As an atheist, priests, in my opinion, are quintessential con-artists.

While they do perhaps provide mental relief for their flock, feeding them lie after lie, reassuring them with fallacy after fallacy until they are happy to live amid a world of delusion, far as I’ve seen they don’t provide any real, tangible solutions. Despite this notable religious shortcoming, members of a priest’s congregation will still happily part with their money to ensure their churches prosperity…

Can anyone smell the bullshit yet?

…Brian Tamaki and his Destiny Church are famous names among the Christian world and in fact provide a perfect example of religious con-artistry. The earlier Auckland speaker wanted her priest to aid in her struggle with mental illness because, well, we’ve all heard of the amazing results priests can bring, along with their wonderfully scrupulous approach to life…

I am reminded now of countless instances of child ‘mistreatment’ at the hands of priests; also there’s Brian Tamaki who appears to have zero compunction about sucking dry already impoverished families to ensure that his church undergoes frequent refurbishment.

…As it turned out, apparently under the impression that she was in fact visiting a priest, this confused Auckland woman went to one of these so called Indian witch doctors to be told the cause of her depression was black magic. As a lifelong Christian there was no way this was true – black magic? Preposterous – imagine her dismay when she was then told that such a revelation demanded payment.

Conversely she could have gone to her priest, to whom she likely makes weekly donations anyway, to be told her depression was the work of the Devil. That would have made much more sense.

Article by Tim Walker

Edited by Chris Chin Del Uzan

Photography by Blake Ma Jeek