Long long ago, before ekweleks and I hit the procircuit and went full factory Petzl and Teva we were real fucking dirtbags. Nobody showered, nobody carried babywipes and the idea of gloves was beyond comprehension. That's how draining was back in the day. None of this modern LED torch tech or headlamps, just dirt ass kids with crappy plastic dolphins and batteries stolen from council warning lights.

We weren't chasing fame but our conquests drew attention and unsurprisingly Picture Mag came knocking on our door. For the unfamiliar Picture is cherished by construction workers, crane operators and tumbleweed makers everywhere as the pinnacle of cheap pornography. Stretch marks, crooked teeth, home gals (and home blokes), dirty local shielas. When you climb exhausted into the cabin of a construction crane and slump breathlessly into the operators chair you can bet your ass a sticky, well loved Picture Magazine will be there to greet you. It's top fucking notch mate. In short Picture Mag wants us, little old brisbane clan to be pimps. Can WE be pimps? Shit son we got that shit on tap. Bats, gats, clits, tits and clips we own all that shit.

We rolled into the meeting spot dressed to impress, Magga's cherry red sigma bumping on the hydraulics, or the Roma Street Parkland speedbumps. Millsi's sick Bluebird was shooting sparks off the bitumen. We shot some dice under the solitary street light and awaited the rendezvous.

The photographer and the model rocked up all nervous, him carrying too much camera gear, her caked thick in makeup. We set the rules for our night out, blind folded the guy and the model, tossed em in the trunk and got hell outta there. Is that screaming coming from the boot? Someone pump that stereo.

Roll into the spot, flick off interior light from 'door' to 'off'. No need to announce our appearance to anyone. Quiet street, dimly lit park, no cars, it's on for young and/or old. The guy and the model dont resist much, they know the score. Noone talks, noone needs to. Ekweleks pops the hatch with his fingers, farken tuff cunts in brisbane eh. We descend.

The photo guy gets to work, he knows his equipment and the model knows her job. We stand back and let em do their thing for a while. she moves like a pro and the guy's in step. The clothes come straight off and shes enoying the underground warmth. Her stretch marks glow alluringly under the tungsten lights. From within the folds of our clothing we pull our masks, anonymity is the first priority. Winnie the pooh, skeletor, condorman, gasmask and tigger in full effect for the evening. The mood lightens a touch as everyone relaxes.

The guy is old hand at this and is on point every time the model tenses up. His game is nothing short of spectacular.

"Yeah you're beautiful love, spread your legs a little more. Someone shine a torch on her cooch".
"Just move your arm so I can see them titties love"
"Someone get down and shine the torch through her legs"

She doesn't flinch. A bit of flattery and the inhibitions fall away. Nothing was beyond the call of duty: spread on a cold step iron, knees in the stank ass water, half naked climbing out a manhole. She just took it all in her stride - what a gal.

Photo shoot complete everyone's going their seperate ways. The guy scribbles some stuff for the article, wonder if anyone will actually read the words when there are such beautiful drains in the photos beside them. We dumped the guy and model at the side of the road, who knows where they end up? They'd been to the other side and back. And what of the brisbane ninjas? The nights still young so we wander off, seeking adventure in the dark.

Article scans:
Cover - Page 1 - Page 2 -dsankt, 2007