Enough was born to a Junior Solicitor and his wife Karen Spokenfelt during the exhaustion period of Newcastle when earthquakes had become a daily activity, a sport even. To some the avoidance of being stuck under a two-tonne stone or marginally escaping a fifty foot plunge in a newly opened up ravine, was sheer joy and exhilaration. The only other sport to get so much coverage on Tablet View was Eating With The Sharks and occasionally, when things went terribly wrong - Bogan Brother.
The late exhaustion period, for Enough, took him by surprise when taken in by the Frankly’s, whom had become accustomed to helping out the local riff-raff by giving them a place to stay and some food for their bellies. The Frankly’s were extremely wealthy in sea shells and potato skins. They weren’t new wealth. In fact, they came from a long line of sea shell and skin collectors, and it wasn’t until the middle period in Newcastle’s history that paper money had become obsolete in exchange for the more valuable beach item and the left-overs from chip factories, which Senior Frankly the second, had fortunately been collecting since being announced a prodigy at the age of three.
Some said that ‘prodigy’ really meant ‘dumb ass’, but his parents held stead only ever praising the whipper snapper whenever he dragged a bag of skins from the Standard Chip Co. at the dockside, all the way home past The University of Numbskull and across to LessThanNothing cove. His little body would be covered in sweat and grime, muscles aching and hungrier than a hippo operated by an ADD kid with nothing to lose but his own sense of time.
SF II grew up, but his hunger for the skins and shells never abated. Hi mother and father purchased another block of land in which they could build a gigantic shed to house the loot of the young man. The shed became an eye-sore for an entire population of New Lambtonites who protested against the vast shadow caused by the eighty story edifice that loomed over the now impoverished suburb. It’s not that the protests weren’t heard, it’s just that the council bureaucracy that had to be traversed was impenetrable, and as such had become the cornerstone of the New Climbing Movement, or NCM.
The NCM was formed when climbing Mount Everest had become a ho-hum activity compared to the stack of public servant refuge that could NOT be conquered. People travelled from afar to hook up with NCM and attempt what most now considered an impossible task, but the more the council denied it, the more people came.
And so, with the growth of SF II so did his property and holdings, until one day, he set up an online business and began to auction his salvage that had now covered almost fifteen square miles of prime real estate. People wanted to own bits of, the ‘Bureau’ and paid accordingly. Slowly, the sheds were demolished, the land re-purposed for more astute business ideas, but with the now lack of protestations from neighbours, the ‘Bureau’ began to destabilize.
The NCM protested the lack of protestations, but it was too late. Climbers began to reach the very top. It became a joke. Nothing short of a government intervention would help, but they weren’t interested – they had their own problems with an over-supply of child-care centres that were now being managed by new-borns, whom had mandatory postings based on IQ Scans.
It wasn’t the war or famine or even unemployment that changed Newcastle forever. It was lack of cheese; cheese was the glue of democracy, and without it, nothing would bind the dilettantes to the specialists. The left hand had no idea what the right foot was doing. Nuff Nuff knew that he was not in the right spot to observe the demise of the once thriving population and so requested from his masters a spot well above the population, somewhere where he could spit on them and throw blocks of squishy cheese and watch them call out inappropriate names.
The Frankly’s couldn’t deny his request because they shared the same cowardly views, and to them, it was a way to become the ‘Big Cheese’ as it were. They built a tower for Enough and he climbed the ladder all the way to the top. It took several days, but eventually he took out his radio controlled cheese squirter and sat it beside his rusting body. He thought about what he was doing, his aluminium lips pursed and his brow of green algae furrowed. Looking down on the creatures below he began to feel for the first time in his life why he was important. He held the cheese squirter in his clutches and squeezed slowly.
Below, a lady Novocastrian, hurried along the boardwalk umbrella in her hand, her shadow non-existent, her feelings of inadequacy dissipated in the droplets of cheese all around her, tasseling for space on the sidewalk but never hitting her because she knew that one drop of that lactose could set her off faster than a councillor could deny a simple request for a development application of a house made from paperclips. Enough kept firing. He felt relieved that what he did had an effect, even if it was judged as absurd by Beyond Blue.