See an artists paint box strewn with violent reds and dashes of yellow ochre. Add sullied rags wrung through hands and dropped frequently at the foot of an easel. They're blackened and soiled with heavy blotches of colour. Add an assortment of tools and spatulas. Pick this box up and shake it thoroughly and imagine the contents being mixed up and smacked around inside. Now open it and blow the result up to room size. Think of a house looking exactly like this, a replica of an oversized artists paint box. This large paint box is illuminated with a warm yellow light. Music is blaring out every orifice of this place. Bottles of paint are lined up on the window sill in the kitchen like miniature watercolours. The room before it is littered with so many individual newspaper sheets. Someone has taken enormous care to separate each one from it's sheaf and then thrown them spontaneously around the entire house. Empty glasses stained with bourbon and coke seem to lounge in a drunken stupor between pillows on the floor. The entire house-in-a-box is a trail of mess from one room to the other.

Two women sit directly outside of this. The oversized one's face is darkened with black hair. Her eyes don't make a statement because they hide in shadow. The other woman is dainty by comparison. She has the stature, remarkably, of a mouse. Her nose moves in a dainty wiggle as she nibbles at her companion's conversation, tasting each piece and lavishing audible satisfactions.

“Oh, comeon, I know he likes you”, she murmurs quietly. Her body language is shy and wary of the larger woman. She leans away from her larger companion. She seems wary of being crushed.

“Yeah, he's weird. I love him and I know he loves me too”, whines the other one.

I think about cutting to a suburban soap-opera scene. “He's weird”. Ok. Let's go with that.

But the large one stops talking and contents herself with moping under her mop of dirty black hair. I notice that her hands are too large. They are mans hands. I want to throw a soiled nappy in her face. Her little partner sits and silently placates her. Her little body moves imperceptably, but it's there. A certain cooing rhythm. A slightly seductive wobble. That's when I notice it; they are mistress and slave. I look at the black haired woman and imagine dark gritty black pubes to match. Suddenly she is sitting upright on her stool, her faced screwed up with enormous exertion. Her significant arse starts to envelope the seat with a hot swollen greed. I stare slack-jawed in wonder. The seat buckles violently and flings the smaller woman in the air. Her hands have clamped around one of the legs and she dangles off it staring, transfixed at the looming event horizon, the point where time is slowing and at which the seat is disappearing. I'm dimly aware of shouting something though I'm not sure it's intelligble. No-one is listening. The little woman's tail wraps around the window sill and rattles the old glass pane. The pane beats back and cruelly slaps the large womans sagging breasts. I beat my hands on my thighs and scratch wailing lines into the duco of a passing car. The dark haired woman is groaning and her eyes have started to grin blood. Her lips shake and shower saliva over the entire verandah. I'm kicking the fence down in front of me while the little woman is disappearing, but she is gone and the only remnant is a slick wet mess of hair. The large woman heaves a massive sigh and winks at me. I grin back at her and continue on my way.