Draw the Brisbane Line Read Online Free PDF Page B

did.  Just the backpack on the seat beside him.  He seldom took his hand off it, and when he slept he placed it in his lap.  If he had to use the bathroom, as convenient as it was to his seat, he’d slip the bag over one shoulder.
    Occasionally a new arrival would venture down his end.  He combated this by performing loud voice searches on his Android Eyes glasses.
    ‘OK Google, search three-way interracial arse-to-mouth .’
    ‘OK Google, search bareback sheep love .’
    ‘OK Google, find video of midget felching party .’
    God but he loved these things.  Occasionally he’d watch the resulting video through the glasses, switching to virtual full screen mode for a few minutes.  He’d had to root the things for the full screen hack.  Mostly though, he read his Twitter feeds and made plans.
    ‘Tweets from stir list,’ he said, and the little blue bird started moving up in the air on the right side of his field of vision, dragging short blocks of text behind it.
     
    Nine News Retweeted
    Great Northern Cross @gr8nthx
    Where are the Liberals in Rockhampton?  In Mackay?  Fighting has started over scraps while Sydneysiders laugh their arses off. #classcrash
     
    BBC News Retweeted
    Re-dystope @redyst98
    Looting in full swing in Moranbah, coming to Emerald soon!  Just saw this guy helping himself to a new Playstation from EB Games!! #moronbar #classcrash bit.ly/1Rtty3
     
    ABC Retweeted
    Billy Billy Moore @b_billybilly6
    Lot of Yank movement in Townie, Army and Navy.  No exercises planned that I’m aware of.  Please explain?
     
    Bubble What Bubble @toilntrble
    Protest march by striking unions in Brisbane is turning ugly, aviation workers joined by cleaners and taxi drivers, fights breaking out. #classcrash bit.ly/3xxcyu7
     
    Seeing the re-tweets always gave him a buzz.  Great Northern Cross, Re-dystope and Billy Billy Moore were all Twitter handles he owned.  He didn’t create them, he bought them on Silk Road after someone else had established their credibility, over several years of reliable and verifiable tweets.  Epoch had to periodically keep them tweeting, tickle their feathers, usually recycled news from the Twitterverse, but every now and then he was able to sow his own headlines into the dirt.  He had to do little more than sit back and watch them sprout.
    He tittered at the Moranbah tweet.  #moronbar .  Disorder and looting actually had broken out in the depressed mining town, Epoch had been there for some of it.  But the picture of the man nicking a Playstation?  Epoch beat him in poker, and the not-yet-owned Playstation was in the pot, along with a crate of mining explosives.  Big Dave Razinski, crazy bastard, the sort of guy you’d cross the street to avoid if you saw him coming from three blocks away.  Wild eyes, beard like week-old roadkill, six feet tall and a body shape best described as slab.  Absolutely shit at cards.  Epoch didn’t actually want the game console, he just wanted to see how the guy went about getting into the shop.  He went in with very little finesse, a sledgehammer and a cordless drill.  Epoch offered to let him keep the Playstation in exchange for a tutorial on handling the blasting gear he’d won.  Big Dave peeled his lips back from his broken teeth in a smile so foul it made ugly seem pleasant and said, ‘Mate, I’ll even let ya have a fuggen practice run.’
    Epoch patted the backpack on the seat beside him, felt the rolling contour of the tightly wrapped tubes.  If he’d had more time, he probably would have concealed the explosives in something, tennis ball cans or Pringles tubes.  It might be enough to get him past the dumbest of nosy cops, which he figured accounted for about eighty percent of them, maybe more.
    The bus stopped at a shelter on the nowhere highway.  Epoch saw a woman standing by a suitcase and an overstuffed Ikea bag, the big plastic ones you could buy at the checkout when you realise just how much unnecessary small shit