Diary of a Wolf

by David Hampson

March 15 2015 – Monday,


I awake with a start. My head is pouring with sweat from wearing my helmet in bed. This stops the kelpies putting little electrodes, probes or some other electronic hardware in my brain; eves-drop on my thoughts. I´d slept for 3 hours, but it seemed I was out a lot longer than that. Maybe someone is fucking with my clock…or with time? I check the talcum powder spread around the floor for footprints. Nothing. As most people know the kelpies can levitate above the floor, but the talcum powder would catch any dogs, dingos or hyenas who sniffed their way into the apartment, looking for fresh meat.

I check under the bed, all clear. I remove the helmet and unzip my sleeping leathers, then walk to the bathroom.


I finish my breakfast of Mcdonalds sausage and egg McMuffin, two hash-browns and Mcdonalds coffee. I keep a large store of these staples in my refrigerator. Aluminium foil covers the fridge, it protects the food stuffs from radiation poisoning. I light up my third high tar Marlboro, and scoff at the pathetic attempts of what the kelpies write on the box to try to stop me smoking these things. We all know cigarettes increase lung capacity. I am preparing for the great flood.


Dressed in my day time helmet, gloves and bright yellow motorcycle racing leathers, I board my taxi to go to work. I prefer to dress in leather, the faint resonance of the previous animal owner permeates my aura, emboldens me, intimidates the kelpies. And anyway, people tend to give me a wide birth dressed in this yellow leather gear. People are problems.


I see a kelpie, squatting by the traffic lights. The kelpies are a subhuman species, employed by the government, to spy on the populace and spread lies and rumours to keep the people weak. This kelpie is dressed in a brown uniform, with a red flag and a whistle. He´s counting the sheep, keeping track, subverting the truth. I wind down the taxi window and shout at the bastard:

“I know what you are doing, you fucking kelpie mother scratcher!”

Several people look up bemused, my full face helmet must have muffled the words, but the intent was clear. The kelpies have identified me as one of a few people who have rumbled their game. I´m known by them as a ‘wolf’, the rest of the people are sheep. I´m onto them. Their human form usually takes the shape of uniformed municipal workers, parking attendants. But I have also seen them in the form of hair dressers, dentists. My uncontrolled emotional outburst makes me nervous; must be careful, stay focused.


My taxi journey improves, I see two other “wolves” dressed appropriately in leathers, helmet and gloves. Both of them happen to be riding high powered motorcycles, hmm, strange coincidence. I wave to them from my taxi window, no reaction. I smoke more cigarettes. The driver coughs and complains – Stupid sheep, I tell him I´m doing him a favour, then mock him with farmyard sheep sounds, “baa”.


I arrive at my destination. When I say I´m going to work, actually I have an appointment with the bank to secure a lone. More on that later. Next to the bank I catch a glimpse of the holy golden arches. I decide to take advantage of the opportunity to refuel. I buy five sausage and egg muffins, eat two immediately and put 3 in the sack and drink more coffee. Something I have learnt: Mcdonalds – the only place to get uncontaminated food – is not always readily available, so when you see one use it, fuel up. A bit like finding a good public toilet. Although I havn´t shit anyware other than my plastic bucket for the last 3 years. I need to sift through my turds with rubber gloves, check for bugs, make sure what goes in, also comes out; sometimes better looking.


Knowing that the bank will be swarming with those kelpie bastards, I take several deep swigs from my large flask containing Jack Daniels. Not only does that sweet liquor taste and feel good, Jack Daniels protects you, makes you invisible to the kelpies.


With Jack Daniels dancing through my veins I enter the bank, I present my fake I.D. card; “Jeffery Wokao”. The kelpie masquerading as a security guard, asks me to take off my helmet. I oblige, knowing I am safe for at least 45 minutes in the warm embalming goodness of Jack Daniels. I approach the information desk to where an attractive woman smiles and says;

“Can I help you?”

“Too late for your help sweet lady, I´m in too deep. I need to see Mr Jacobs, about a loan” I reply.

I am promptly directed into a small room, decorated with brochures depicting happy young families freely spending their newly attained loans on frivolous nonsense likes cars, kitchens, new patios. Happiness can be bought they tell us, with 12.5% interest and nothing down.


Mr. Jacobs enters the room, I have already identified him as a fellow wolf, I have seen him arrive at this bank several times dressed in a black motorcycle leathers with red trim. Blue and purple zig zag flashes decorated the arms and legs, and the letters YAMAHA was emblazon across his upper back. This wolf has style. However, Today I am a little uncomfortable to see him dressed in a dark blue suit, I make the secret sign of the wolf, he does not respond, probably we are being watched. Smart guy.

“What can I do for you Mr. Wokau?” he asks.

In hush tones, I outline my plan and need for a loan:

“Mr. Jacobs, basically it’s a cull, there are too many sheep. Stupidity is everywhere, stupid weak people everywhere, The kelpies are becoming too effective. The sheep are diluting our ability to live. We wolves are being pushed to the fringes. Misinformation is everywhere, sheep numbers are growing inexorably. We need to reduce the sheep numbers. The exact details of the cull I have not worked out, maybe total carpet bombing, maybe with sharp sticks, but we need to act now. And, I´m sure it will cost a lot of money, that´s where you come in Mr. Jacobs”.

Mr. Jacobs leaned back in his chair, and with raised eyebrows he pressed the intercom button:

“Security”. He said.


Security enter the room to discover myself and a kelpie wrestling on Mr Jacob´s desk. My hands around the fucker´s neck strangling the life out of him. The kelpie was strong, he was beating me over the head with the desk phone. I was hysterical, screaming:

“What have you done with Mr Jacobs you fucking kelpie bastard!?”


After being detained and beaten by the goons and kelpie lovers at the New Commercial Bank, I retire to the only sanctuary in the city: Mcdonalds. With my helmet replaced, I was sitting away from the window munching on several Big Mac meals, smoking heavily, and swigging down Jack Daniels bourbon whisky, rebuilding my protective shield. The kelpies are getting smart. I need to focus, need to be sharp, need to get another bottle of Jack Daniels. I also need another bank, maybe the International City Bank.

Banks must be full of clever people, full of wolves, they know how to make money, and I need money.

…to be continued?…