20% OFF FREE ILLUSIONS: Retellings of Retails.


The shopping centre is a man-made system.

Don’t be fooled into thinking it basic or uncomplicated due to what you think you know about Mankind or Womankind. ‘Humankind’ (as it should be introduced) is a resourceful and harmonious entity. Their organs share a wealth of vital and powerful chemicals throughout the human body. The eyes blink so as not to ache, the stomach aches so as not to starve, the hands find food and the jaw breaks is down. Saliva seeps from Ebner’s Gland and lubricates, permitting the initiation of swallowing. Infant humans draw nutrients from Mammary’s Gland and donate surplus saliva to their fellow human, along with feces, vomit and lacrimation that leaks from Krause’s Gland whenever the body, mind or pride is hurt or touched in the unfleshly sense; and often to purely… manipulate.

These are but a few examples plucked from a manifold of incredible ingenuity that makes up the physical human system. What goes on in the human mind however, well, that’s a different kettle of fish.


When humans need to eat they find food. When humanity wants to consume, its products venture east to Eastland, west to Westfield, south to Southland (can you feel the neurons in your brain firing? Hopefully not, but you can be sure they are. Encoding and retrieving, fuelled by ions of sodium, potassium, chloride and calcium, your brain is recognizing a pattern; remembering) and, for the reservation of this particular episode of human HIS-STORY! Humans flock to the northern recesses… To Northern Lands.




PD’s HIGH-FI is the largest software retailer in the southern hemisphere. No one knows exactly who PD is or was, but rumour has it that he was of Mediterranean decent and was good as selling budget audio equipment at a sophisticated price; mutton dressed as lamb, or a Taiwanese noise box dressed as a Danish sound studio.


PD’s packs itself into the northeast wing of the Northern Lands Shopping Centre and spits yellow neon light across the faux marble squares that wash beneath a pocked, chip-plaster ceiling. Two large, Taiwanese speakers stand at the entry to the store and cast wild accusations and nonsensical bullshit at shoppers walking past; the latest sticky pop-electro-nightmare featuring the most recent dredged, semi-retired, falsely accused rap artist telling his life story using compact-nouns, shallow grunts and a machine that makes your voice sound like a robot gargling syntax and nuclear flavoured Gatorade. Moreover, this audio nightmare features some, ergonomically designed 19-year-old girl whose family had too much money/not enough love, wailing like a goat choking on a bent harmonica. Collectively these two sub-humans (with the aid of digital mechanics) are making sound come out of their mouths that seems inspired by shit that comes out of their anus.


As one walks inside PD’s, looking to their left they might spot Mandy and Rosetta, the company’s telecommunications salespersons. They inhabit a small ambit of the store tightly packed with colourful boxes. These two female human employees of PD’s make up the abbreviated ‘Telco’ department.


Throughout a normal day of trade, one can quite often hear the electrified Public Address shout ‘Call for Telco on line one…telco, call on one-0-one’. Hopefully thereafter, for the customer’s sake, either Rosetta or Mandy would cease their verbal ventilations and pick up the telephone, thus addressing but one of their limited employee requirements.

“Telco department, Rosetta speaking. Thanks, it was my mother’s name. No, Puerto Rican. No, she’s dead…can I help you with something phone related?”

Mandy smiled, touched the send icon on her I-5 and looked up as a rat-eyed kid tucked a phone cover under his over-sized hooded jumper.

“Put it back Fucko!” Mandy barked habitually and looked back to the screen in her hand.

The kid dropped his spoils and loped toward the exit, looking like he had cold piss running down his jeans.

Mandy wondered why all the deadshit kids that stole, swore loudly, came into the store blasting horrible music on their tinny phone speakers and programmed the mega-watt stereos at the back of the store to rape the general vicinity with tumor inducing trance music; why these centre vermin walked like ballet dancers with garden stakes down the seat of their pants. It doesn’t look cool, she thought to herself.

“Next Tuesday” Rosetta sighed into the phone.

”Oh, umm… another megapixel, a smaller screen, slimmer body… the usual”.

“I dunno, ergonomics?” She frowned into the receiver.

“Well it’s a piece of machinery created by humans…that makes it ergonomically designed; I don’t really know why this year, a particular colossus of the technical industry of digital telecommunications has chosen to decrease the screen size of their latest wiz-bang ignorance-inducing touch-wow utensil.” Rosetta’s face was shifting color ways as she spoke angrily at the phone in her hand.

“Well what kind of answers were you expecting? Do you even need a new phone or are you, my good sir, just another unconscious victim of the techno-squeeze?” Mandy shifted her eyes toward Rosetta as the corners of her mouth kinked upwards.

“No, thank YOU for nothing…and thank YOU for bringin’ up my dead mum arsehole” Rosetta growled and slammed the phone back on its cradle.

“How many times has your mum died?” Mandy quizzed.

“Four times this week.” Rosetta replied moving her eyeballs toward the ceiling and filling the space between her gums and bottom lip with her tongue.

“Fank eww fur, fank eww for oar custummm.”

Mandy’s phone made a sound like a bell that might beckon small children into a new, and altogether untrustworthy dimension and she rubbed the surface of the device like a maid half-heartedly removing bird shit from a hand-held French window.

“What’s with everyone creaming their pants for the I-6?” Rosetta snarled in a sharp tone, cured of her intermittent verbal obstruction.

“Vanessa’s gonna quit” Mandy answered rather indirectly.

“Really? Fuckin’ hell, everyone’s quitting. When’s she gonna finish up” Rosetta chirped, forgetting her preceding frustrations.

“Well, she hasn’t actually given notice, but she told Mira she was gonna quit… And the I-6 looks fuckin’ cool by the way.”

“It’s a phone Mans” Rosetta replied, curling her top lip.

“Why do you even work in this department? You don’t know shit about the stock, you don’t even like phones” Mandy said accusingly.

“This” she continued. “This is your phone.”

Mandy held aloft a thin plastic briquette with numbered buttons.

“I seen one of these things on the Flintstones” Mandy laughed and tossed the antiquated cell phone onto bench of the workstation.

“Oh no you di-enn” Rosetta twanged, swaying her forefinger in Mandy’s face and tilting her head like a dog pondering the riddle of a barking television.

“Flintstones had seashell phones bitch”.

Both girls laughed until the PA made a further announcement: Rosetta to the manager’s desk please…Rosetta can you please contact the managers desk when free?

“Motherfucker complained to head office,” Rosetta growled, reunited with her foregoing irritations.



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