Old Cunt's Story

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Adult Romance  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

This is Old Cunt's story, written by him. It sheds some light on why he is the way he is. Ps. We are still together.

Written byOld Cunt

 

Part 1

 

Prelude

 

 

I suffered major head trauma when I was a child in 1977 at my parent's home. The accident was due to my younger ( approximately 10.5 yrs old ) brother playing with one of my golf clubs. As I was exiting our garage via the side door to see what was going on. The last thing I remembered was seeing my 4 sisters and my parents watching my brother. I believed I was struck by the club as I walked out of the garage. 

 

Except for the long stay in the Brisbane Royal Children Hospital and few speech therapies,  I received no other professional help to recover. My family kept the extent of my injury quiet. I was about 12 years old when the accident occurred.

 

As a child and throughout my life suffered from emotional abuse and to some extent neglect. I only now I approach 60 years of age I realise how it affected me and everyone I came into contact with. 

 

Recently after an altercation with our neighbours in the retirement village where Missink and myself were residing and a phone call to my oldest sister, how low profile was wrecked due the police showing up everyday. Missink had enough and demanded I get help. She is the first person ever to help guide me to seek professional help. 



 

As A Child Before The Accident

 

We were all scared of dad. We grew up thinking domestic violence was normal. Still today I shake my head at people yelling and a bit of a slap at domestic violence. To me and our family, that's how we were taught to behave. 

 

My dad was a man's man, well respected, liked, and feared by all. He was fast with his hands, hit first, asked questions later if you are still standing.. No one would dare to assault him. However, he seemed to like fighting and fought for money. My brother also fought for money. Dad was fair and honest, a good Dad. Mum was usually the cause of Dad hitting us. 

 

Sometimes we deserved a belting. I remember on one occasion before my accident dad was furious at me. I was about 5 years old. I love guns, dad would teach me how to handle guns. Because we were poor he wouldn't allow me to waste bullets on targets, as bullets cost money we didn't have. 


 

One day when mum was outside doing the washing, I took some bullets out of dad's draw beside his bed. I waited until mum went back into the house. She spends most of her time in the house while us kids play outside in 35c plus heat. I like throwing the bullets into a small fire I made beside the stockpile of timber in the timber mill yard.

 

My oldest sister saw the fire, as she approached the crackling noise from the bullets exploring scared her so much she ran screaming back to our house which backed onto the mill. Dad, when he heard the screams coming from our house, came running over. 

 

The screams must have been loud, as dad was unloading his truck with  a large front end loader. He was mad as hell at me for wasting expensive bullets. He didn't seem worried about me scaring my 5 siblings, mum and all of the blacks kids that followed us around. The only one not frightened was Jet the dog. He was more confused at what sounded like gun fire as there were no pigs to chase. 

 

 Whites kids didn't want a bar of soap for us, they avoided us like the dingoes in the bush during the daytime {at night they would hunt in packs for anything that could be eaten}. The town was very small, one corner stall that sold fuel and a pub. Only about 20 white families live in town and hundreds of Aboriginals lived on the outskirts where we lived.

 

As I got older I learnt to make bolt bombs from gun power and matches.

(gun power from bullets I kept stealing from dad ).

I borrowed and used what I thought were spare bolts from the logging trucks after the mechanics serviced them. These spare bolts were perfect to hold the gun power from the bullets I dismantled.

 

 I  threw the bolt bombs down onto one and only sealed road in town. Until the day  dad had a truck tyre blow out from ruining over the bolt. I still can't see for my life how the bolt caused the tyre to go flat. It was the  white kids that saw me throwing bolts onto the road that got me into trouble. 

 

We lived in a small house, very small for 8 people. On a clear night when reception was at its best, we had the luxury of watching TV. At best we could get reception for channel 9 and the ABC. Our younger kids weren't allowed inside during the day while dad was at work. So we had very little TV time. My favorite show and the only show I was allowed to watch was " Mr. Squiggles'' on the back just before the news. I dreamt of blasting a rocket into the sky. 

 

Later in life I learnt about hydrogen peroxide and how it can be used as fuel in rockets. Much later in life I learnt how to make a device out of a chlorine, brake fluid and gasoline 

 

Our house was owned by a timber mill company where dad worked.  It backed onto the mill. The mill was surrounded by dense bushland where aboriginals lived. They were real blacks, they chose to live outside around their fire. They fuelled the fire with timber from the floorboards they removed from their government-owned houses.


 

We were told not to venture into the bush. We spent most of our time outside playing in the dirt, while mum stayed in the house while dad worked. We played with the black kids as the other white kids deemed us unruly.

 

 Those who have lived in outback Australia would know how hot and dry the days are and how cold the nights can get in winter. We had no pool, no dams, no running water outside. We didn't even know what an air con was like in 1970. There were no trees around the house and it was unsafe to play under it as there were snakes. We were real bush kids who made our fun. 

 

One day my brother and I went into the bush, which wasn't unusual as we like exploring in the bush. On this day we got separated and my brother got lost for 3 days, he was only 4 years old. Lucky for him the blacks helped track him down. Whatever happened in those 3 days he was lost has affected him for the rest of his life. Nightmares every night. He wakes up screaming as long as I can remember scaring the shit out of me. I never told my parents of my involvement and my brother has never mentioned it. 

 

Water was scarce. The water would run brown out of the tap. It never rains out there. However, we were bathed by our older sister once a week. Even then the baths had to be fast as king brown snakes would come out from underneath the bath. The bath was outside in a small shed known as the " outhouse".

 

Dad would drive all of the family to the beach. It would take 6 long hours driving to get to the beach. In those days we younger kids would ride in the back of a car. Which was an HR Holden station wagon with the rear tailgate window down so Jet the dog could keep cool. My older two sisters and my youngest sister would sit in the back seat. There were no seat belts, no child booster seats, only common sense.

 

Dad taught my brother and me to swim in the surf. We barely knew how to swim in calm water. His way of teaching was simple. We would stand on his hands, then he would launch us high over the waves into deep water. It was a swim or sink method. I did the same with my sons. 


 

 We were like black fellas growing up out there in the mid-60s and 70s. Apart from my younger brother and four sisters, I had no other white friends. My best friend was a jet-black dog called Jet. I called him jiggles.  . 

 

Mum reminded me how I used to sit on the side of the main road in the roaring afternoon sun waiting to see dad driving a logging truck home to the timber mill. The trees dad cut down and carted were huge. Three logs was an oversize load on his big Mack truck. 


 

From memory these trucks had two gearboxes, two gear sticks to change. You could hear the roar of the engine working hard, they were always hauling heavy. No roadside scales back then, no police, just common sense.. It was the wild west. None of this workplace health and safety bullshit, like we have today. 

 

Common sense was how you kept safe. Something I totally believe in. I hate all the rules of the modern workplace. The trucks sounded like thunder coming down the single-lane main road into town. They created a dust storm as the road was more dirt than sealed. To me, it was the biggest road I have ever seen. I loved watching the trucks.


 

As I sat in the blistering sun wearing only a pair of oversize dirty shorts. Looking as black as the indigenous people who my dog hated. Yes, Jet, the dog was racist. He would only just tolerate my black friends if they walked behind us and kept their distance.

 

Jet was a bull terrier cross. He was savage, he was all muscle like dad and like dad he would bite first. He was dad's most feared pigging dog. He was the boss of all dogs, including the dingoes that the indigenous people tried to keep as pets {pure Dingoes are no one’s pet}. . 

 

 Like dad If there was a fight to be had Jet would be in it. Dad would let the blacks help him on his pig hunts. As long as the rules were followed by all, including us kids and Jet. Rule one never tell our mum when anyone gets hurt or scared. That was hard as most of the time dogs would be ripped apart by the very large razor backbores. Some of the blacks would also get ripped in the mayhem.  Sometimes even after dad shoots the pig, it would continue to chase after the blacks as they ran back to the safety of dad's car. 

 

 A huge razor-back boar ran past dad and towards the car. The 22 caliber bullet dad shot into the pig didn't slow it down. Dad was a good shot. He shot the pig without hitting Jet who was holding on to the pig-like bull rider in a rodeo. 

 

I love guns, dad taught all of us how to shoot. Dad wishes he had guns like mine. When I was in my 20's I had a good collection of guns I used on a farm. Still, to this day I believe my oldest sister stole my guns. My mum claims someone broke and stole them. I know that's a lie….. 

 

 Dad said if he had my pistol grip 12 gauge pump action shotgun at the time, that pig when we were kids wouldn't get past him. I pointed out it probably would have killed Jet as well. Jet hated guns just because he liked chasing live pigs. 

 

 Back to the pig hunt, dad is now yelling at us kids to get back into the bloody car. We always like to be part of the action even when dad tells us to stay in the car. We just got back in time when the bore gored the door of the car open. We were curled up on the back seat shaking. After the pig is pulled down by Jet and the blacks. Dad warns us about the rule not to tell mum.

 

Jet loved pigging, the blacks love helping to catch the pigs. We would take home to keep in our holding pens. The blacks hated Jet as when there were no pigs in sight Jet would turn on them. Jet hated dad as he would kick him for attacking the blacks. I hated dad for hurting Jet. However, I used the same method in life to teach my dogs to behave.

 

 No one would come between us kids and Jet. Not even mum couldn't touch us as Jet would go for her. Mum would say wait until your father gets home. Jet would just growl at her then attack a few blacks.  As a kid, I thought that's why mum stayed in the house because of Jet the dog. I now know mum suffered from depression.

 

Usually, dad would come home to mum screaming at him about what we did wrong. He would hit us, kick the dogs, and then hit mum for not keeping us in line. Today will be different since I did something very bad. Even though I was only 5 years old I should have known better not to. 

 

To me Jet wasn't savage, he was Jiggles my best friend. I would hold his head as we sat on the roadside and say can you see dad. Dad would drive straight past us with a storm cloud of dirt following him. But I knew he was seeing us and I know he's going to be mad as hell when mum tells him what I did today.

 

Dad can't take his eyes off the road, he doesn't have a spare hand to blast the truck's air horn as he passes by us. He's busy changing gears to slow down the track to make the turn into the mill. Only old-timer truckers will understand what it takes to handle those old logging trucks. Slim Dusty's song " Lights on the Hill sums it up." When things go wrong. 

They played it at Dad's funeral. I was the last person to see dad alive before he passed away in a home where my sisters decided he should be. Hate them for doing that. 

 

My brother and I as kids  would play with our only two real toys in the dirt. We received a Tonker toy each for Xmas of 1970. My brother got the front-end loader and I got the tip truck. I kept both of them as adults. Back in the late '90s, I refurbished both toys. Repainting them back to their original condition. We looked after our toys. Not like my oldest sister's kids who destroyed my brother's and my matchbox car collection in the late 80's we left with mum. I hate them for that. 

 

 We would play in the dirt beside the road as kids.  One day we decided to play in some long grass closer to the bush. Our younger sisters always tried to stay close to us, instead staying with our much older sisters. My second youngest sister while playing in the grass announced something bit her on her foot.  We yelled for mum who was locked away in the house as usual.

 

My older sister knew what to do as she was more like a mum than a sister to us younger kids.  Go get dad as he's working in the mill today she screamed at us boys.  There was my brother, 4 black kids, and me all running towards the sawmill, with jet weaving around us.  If you had ever been to a working timber mill in the early 1970's you would know it's not a place for kids.  Not a safe place for anyone, as there was large machinery moving around everywhere.  The ground was covered in sticks and bark and rocks.  None of us kids had shoes.  We never wore shoes.

 

Dad was in the mill where they cut the logs into the timber.  Dad was also the top dog in the mill when he wasn't driving the trucks.  As soon as he saw us, he knew something was wrong.  We knew never to go into the mill without him as that would mean a belting. We didn't know what was wrong only to get dad, except whatever was wrong with my sister it was my fault.

 

My oldest sister told dad that my younger sister was bitten by a king brown snake. Dad looked at the bandage around my sister's foot and up her leg, he calmly said let's go for a car ride.  We all loved going for a drive including Jet.  It was a long drive to the nearest hospital.  Over 5 hours away.  Dad was driving very fast.  Mum didn't say a word, she just held my sister.  We left her in the hospital with mum and returned home as the sun was coming up.   My sister survived the snake bite only because she remained very calm. It was my fault for going into the bush.


 

 Just before the accident we moved to  Redcliffe City beside the golf course near the beach.

 

I was close to my siblings and was a talented golfer. Especially close to my younger brother. We would go fishing and swim together. We would just be like any other boys and get into mischief. We would hide in the bushes and throw stones at cars stopping to pay for the bridge toll. Back then, men in uniforms would conduct the business of toll collecting from the motorist. It was one of those men that sneaked up behind us catching us red handed. Thank god dad never found out, as he would beat us.

 

 One day we found a man's wallet. It contains a lot of cash. When we were kids 50 cents was a lot of money. We were poor country boys. The wallet was filled with $20 notes. We have never seen so much money before. We never held a $20 note before. We handed it in to the shopkeeper, near where we found it. Dad would have beaten us if we kept it. The shopkeeper knew us and the owner of the wallet gave us a little monary reward. We were good kids and good friends to each other. Now we don't have contact with each other. 




 

After my accident

 

 I was sexually abused as a child in a public toilet, while returning home from receiving speech therapy after the accident. My mother didn't believe me at the time and told me never to mention it again. I think it was because of my speech impairment and my lack of ability to express emotions that made mum decide I was making it up. Even though I attempted to explain that I was molested in the train station toilet while mum sat waiting for our train home. Mum told me not to bother my dad with it as he would get mad. I have never told that story before until I met Missink as she copped and witnessed my anger.. I think I already had anger issues, however the accident made it uncontrollable.


 

 My parents and my siblings emotionally abused me and I was having out of control outbursts. My family enforced their improper response to my behavior issues. I learned from them that I was acting normal when I had outbreaks, when actually I wasn't even close to normal. They allowed me to get away with violent outbursts. I had no idea why I had no friends. 

 

I remember being alone most of my time. Even at our Dad's funeral in 2019 I was alone. Everyone left me grieving alone. I was lucky enough to be with dad just before he passed away. Only my brother came by to visit dad on that last day as my sisters knew I was there. 


 

My sisters only spent the bare minimum on dad's funeral. Even though he owned his house, which they quickly sold, they gave dad a basic send off. The sisters rejected my brother's offer to purchase my dad's house, as the offer was lower than they wanted. They refused to let me buy it as well. 

 

They made false statements and accused me of wrongdoing by dad. My brother told me he had no doubt that my sister was stuffed up, but he won't back me up.. Fuck him I don't need his support, I will continue with the legal actions to recover the money my sister took from dad. My brother always had my back, he protected me. 

My brother was gifted at sports including martial arts. I lost the ability to be a high achiever at sports after my accident. My brother I believe chose not to follow through to be a sportsman. However, he did achieve highly in martial arts and boxing. I never blamed him for causing my brain damage, until now 40 plus years later. 

 

After we moved to Redcliffe, which was beside the sea, every Saturday before my accident I would play golf with the other kids. Like all boys, we would play fight. Couple of the older boys would spar (box) with me. I liked watching dad fight, that's how I learned to spar. He would take my brother and me to the pub. We would sit outside waiting for him. We always knew when to look up to see dad in action. As mum said, dad would hit first and ask questions later. Dad was fast and hard with his hands.

 

 Before  the accident Golf was my world. I would also earn some money for collecting golf balls on the practice fairway that Dennis Brosnan, the local professional, had hit at my feet from 200 meters away. He would give me lessons as well as a couple of dollars after he finished his practice,  which usually took over 2 hours. I would play golf non stop as I wanted to become a professional golfer like Dennis. 

 

I was nearly 13 years old when my life changed for the worst. It was after I spent the day playing golf. I walked out of dad's garage via the side door. Unaware my brother had my old nine iron golf club we used to hit cane toads with. I guess he wanted to be like me, to be a golfer, that's why he had it. As I walked out, I was struck on the left side of my head. I remember mum screaming at the sight of the blood and dad telling my older sister to get the car out of the garage. I wasn't expected to live. The club crushed my skull. 

 

The brain surgery removed the fractured skull fragments from the brain. I lost my speech. After leaving the hospital, I went back to school. I was 13 years old with a half shaven head that revealed a huge scare in the shape of a nine iron golf club. 

I could barely say my own name "Brett Head" also known after the injury by some as Dick Head because of my retarted speech and spastic actions while I was recovering of sorts.

When I first meant Missink I told her my name was Gimme Head. She didn't realise that her trainer Dave Head, also known as Jimmy after Cold Chisel lead singer was my brother. But she felt she  knew me. She just liked my chest and arms. Gimme was a name from a song that struck since my late teens. Everyone laughed as I was asked  my name by the screws and other prisoners as Gimme Head. As the Joker says “ Why so serious “

It's a good name to break the ice in a dangerous and violent place with. No one ever called me Dick in jail. 

 

 I lost the ability to play golf at the same level before the accident. I lost everything, including the coordination to spar. My brother has never picked up a golf club again, never really followed through with  any sport. Mum made me stop learning Judo after my accident.  Both my brother and I started to do kickboxing and martial arts without mum knowing some years after my accident. 

Even today, approaching 60 years old I continue to train.  I enjoy doing one arm push ups and two finger pull ups.  My brother still trains and teaches boxing.  He doesn't do martial arts as his knees are fucked.  He used to cage fight and street fight.  He was also a feared bouncer in the old days when smashing someone was the norm. 

 A couple of years ago he heard I got bashed by some 20 guys plus from a New Zealand club/ gang for making Missink lose our unborn baby. Missink warned them I knew how to fight, which only made them hit harder. I told my brother it was my fault and it was sorted as I  took their punishment without hitting back because of what I did to Missink. In the end they only stopped because she told them to. They wanted to kill me. She is highly regarded among her people. My brother wanted to hurt all of them regardless of what I did.

Recently I reached out to my oldest sister via a mediator. She never replied. I don't know where any of my 4 sisters live. The mediator only had a mobile phone number for her I got from my brother. I made a rash decision to call her. Soon after the police were banging on our retirement village home door, with a court order in hand. I hate the police as much as I hate my sisters. I'm  one step from going back to jail over it. I'm still wanted interstate for other violent crimes. I needed professional help after the accident, not my family's teachings. 

 

End of Part 1 


Submitted: October 31, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Missink31. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Janus

A trove of writing ideas through all this. Has the potential to be developed into a Facey like: A Fortunate Life. Jet is great. Keep writing.

Mon, November 1st, 2021 1:31am

Author
Reply

Thank you.

Sun, October 31st, 2021 6:35pm

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