Jackson King is a man of contradictions—half mystic, half muscle, and always on the edge of trouble. A psychic by trade, he’s haunted by visions that come unbidden—sharp glimpses of the future, cryptic images, and unsettling truths about those around him. His gift makes him sought after, but it also leaves him with more questions than answers, especially when the visions are as dangerous as they are unclear.

Physically, Jackson is the kind of man who attracts attention. His body, sculpted from years of intense training, is both a shield and a weapon. He’s always ready to fight if things go south—whether it’s in a back alley brawl or a tense standoff with dangerous people. His fitness is as much a survival instinct as it is a testament to his self-discipline.

Women are drawn to him, not just for his looks, but for the air of mystery that surrounds him. He exudes a magnetic charm, his wry humor always just beneath the surface, offering up a quiet laugh when things get too serious. But trouble follows Jackson, often at his own hand, thanks to his impulsive nature and knack for getting mixed up with the wrong crowd.

Despite his allure, Jackson has a huge appetite for life—and food—but he’s notoriously tight with money, preferring to keep things simple and avoid unnecessary expenses, even when it costs him a little comfort.

In Cannibals in Brisbane, Jackson buys a cheap 1976 Ford Laser dubbed “The Death Trap,” is invited to a disastrous wedding, and meets Polly, a Tantric Master. He pulls off a high-stakes job with a huge payout, fights bikies and skinheads, and encounters Elizabeth, a wild nymph. Jackson saves Ava, an innocent waitress, and rescues Chef from his growing financial troubles.

I invite you to enjoy the read.

–        Alex

Sample

A few people shuffle by—just a couple, probably too drunk to find their way home. A guy with a guitar case slung over his shoulder, muttering to himself. But none of them matter. They don’t catch my eye. None of them are important.

Then, across the street, I see them. A couple. An Aboriginal man and woman, swaying as they stumble along, both clearly too far gone. Their voices are sharp, rising in angry bursts, but the words are lost in the haze of their slurred speech. It doesn’t take much to piece it together, though. The guy’s more drunk than she is, and whatever he’s saying is really starting to get to her.

In one smooth motion, she grabs his legs, yanking them out from under him. He hits the ground hard, a sickening thud echoing off the pavement like a sack of potatoes crashing to the floor. I can’t help but flinch. But she doesn’t hesitate. She keeps going.

Her boots start pounding into him. His chest. His ribs. His head. She’s stomping on him, vicious, and yet there’s something oddly rhythmic about it. The way she moves, like she’s keeping time to some dark, twisted song only she can hear. The whole thing is so bizarre, so off-kilter, that for a second, I forget who I am, where I am, and just… watch.

I can’t help but grin at their antics. There’s something strangely dark about the whole scene, almost comical in its twisted way. But then, I remind myself—it’s also pretty fucked up. A man’s getting stomped on in the street, and here I am, standing by, critiquing the performance like it’s some amateur act at the local pub.

But before I can dwell on it, I hear something—muffled voices from inside the café. It’s hard to make out the words, but it’s there. Someone talking. Maybe more than one person. A shift in the air—like the atmosphere just changed. I feel a cold prickling crawl up my spine.

I’m already alert, every muscle tensed, ready to move. Something’s off.

I glance toward the café door. Mack’s still inside, but I can’t afford to waste any more time. If things go sideways, I need to be on my feet, not standing here like a bystander. My pulse spikes, and the quiet of the street feels suffocating now, like it’s closing in around me. The air smells like rain, though it hasn’t hit yet. I can feel it, though. It’s only a matter of time.

I’m scanning the street, trying to pick up on anything unusual, anything that could mean trouble. The couple across the street is still going at it, but I can see the guy isn’t moving anymore. She’s pacing now, her boots still tapping against the ground, but there’s no more yelling. She’s too drunk to care, or maybe she’s too pissed off to notice anything else. I’m not sure which is worse.

A car whizzes by, headlights blinding me for a split second. And then, there it is. The faint sound of footsteps, light and fast, echoing off the walls behind me. I turn my head instinctively, my body already moving before my brain catches up. Someone’s coming up behind me, and I don’t like the way it feels.

I don’t have time to think about it. The situation inside Grumpy’s has gone from a simple chat to something more dangerous, and I’m already wondering if I’ve waited too long.

I was amusing myself at the entertainment across the road when a movement to the left of the Aboriginal couple caught my eye. Like a pack of hungry wolves, four huge bikies and their skinny mole were walking through the park; the girl was clearly upset and was being physically restrained and dragged along by the biggest of the four. The other three bikies were obviously enjoying her misery, laying shit on her as they walked past my vantage point; then they stopped between the street light and the Aboriginal couple who had now settled down and were both enjoying a quiet drink. “Fuck off, you abo cunts,” yelled one of the bikies, lashing out at the couple with kicks and punches till they both ran off into the night.

I could see the bikies more clearly now and took a double blink; I was wondering whether they were the same bikies who had mauled Elizabeth last night. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Or maybe it was the Universe playing tricks on me again. Either way, I took a step back into the shadows, my back close to the entrance of Grumpy’s, and took a closer look at the proceedings in front of me.

The first thing I noticed about the group was the name of their motorcycle club emblazoned across their leather jackets; Cannibals. The biggest of the bikies looked like a powerhouse in his leather jacket and giant link chain belt around his jeans, and reminded me of photos I’d seen of the legendary monster, Bigfoot. His three offsiders also looked pumped and fit, but they weren’t as tall or bulky as Bigfoot. One bloke was stocky with a crew cut, wearing his leather jacket over a pair of ripped denim overalls. Another was bald with a pointy head, wearing his leather jacket over three-quarter broad shorts. The other was very skinny but fit, with an orange Afro hairstyle, wearing his leather jacket over what looked like Scottish tartan trousers.

The four bikies then sat on the grass, dragged the girl to the ground between them and started pawing at her clothes. I took a closer look at their skinny mole and realised she looked like…  “No!” I screeched. The girl was Ava, the skinny waitress I met at the cafe. Shit! I forgot to ask Mack about a safe place for her to stay.

My screech cut through the silence of the evening like a hot knife through butter. The four bikies turned to look in my direction as I stepped out of the shadows and began crossing the street. The four of them immediately stood to attention and, while Bigfoot hung back holding on to Ava, his three mates turned and in unison approached me, stopping about six paces directly in front of me. Crew Cut was on my left, Baldy in the middle, and Afro on my right.  Afro gave me a very serious once up and down, took one step forward, and in a Scottish accent thick enough to spread on toast asked, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Who am I?” I replied. “I’m just a librarian here in Brisbane for a conference.”

“Jackson!” stammered Ava. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“How the fuck do you know this prick?” barked Bigfoot.

 “I’m just returning from a seminar at the State Library, Ava. It was very inter…” But I never got to finish my sentence. When I was at school, I was bullied every day and was at the receiving end of beatings quite frequently. And if there was one lesson I’d learned during those years, it was that if you don’t lash out first, you are always at a great disadvantage in a fight. So I didn’t finish my sentence, but decided it was time to make a move. I could feel my eyebrows bristle and my adrenalin hit hyper-drive as I took a step forward and drove a furious left hook into Afro’s throat. Afro’s eyes bulged out of his head as his legs buckled and he collapsed in pain and shock. As he was slumping to the ground, I slammed my right foot into Afro’s face and the ‘crack’ of his jaw bones shattering was very audible indeed, echoing up and down the street.

The other three bikies looked at each other in disbelief but only for a split second as Crew Cut and Baldy moved in on me. I crouched low and smashed a diabolical barrage of short rights and lefts into the right side of Baldy’s head before he had time to blink, lacerating his entire face and almost ripping his ear clear off his head. But instead of dropping to the ground, the unconscious bikie lurched forward and landed head-first in my chest. I threw him off and he landed on the grass as I booted a couple of massive dropkicks into the semi-conscious bikies’ kidneys for good measure.

Crew Cut, who looked no more than sixteen, froze, took a step back and looked at Bigfoot. “What the fuck you waiting for?” Bigfoot yelled at Crew Cut. “Fuckin’ jump him already!”

“Fuck that,” said Crew Cut in a high pitched, squeaky voice, and ran off into the night.

Bigfoot was fuming. He back-slapped Ava across her face and, like a sack of potatoes, she dropped to the ground. I felt his blood turn to ice and I slowly and deliberately moved towards him. And Bigfoot likewise moved slowly towards me.

“By the way, mate. Send my love to Elizabeth, will you?” I chimed merrily.

“What?” said Bigfoot somewhat confused, and moving quickly towards me.

“You heard me, you fucking ape. Send my love to Elizabeth.”

“How the fuck…”

And of course Bigfoot never got to finish his sentence; he swung a left that just barely connected with my nose as I weaved to the side, and Bigfoot then walked straight into a diabolical right hook that shook my entire body but made Bigfoot’s face look like strawberry jam. I took a couple of quick steps forward and unleashed a barrage of straight lefts and rights that knocked out most of Bigfoot’s teeth and tore his face wide open. But the giant was still standing.

“She’s a good root, Elizabeth. And the hash cookies weren’t bad either.”

Under the curtain of blood and purple custard that used to be his face, Bigfoot managed a gurgling scream and somehow threw himself at me. I tore a short left under his heart before unleashing a stream of lefts and rights into his stomach. By this stage Bigfoot was wishing he’d never been born, and I was literally tearing him to shreds.

“So here you are?” came a calming voice from behind. Mack. Closing the boot of his new Mercedes. “I work hard to earn us a living and you hang around the park playing with your friends. What sort of man are you?”

I looked up, gave Bigfoot a head butt that destroyed what was left of his face, and turned to face Mack as Bigfoot hit the ground.

“What?”

“You heard me,” said Mack, putting on a gay persona. “I work hard all day to support you and all you do is play around and enjoy yourself. And take a look at yourself; blood all over your nice, new shirt. It’s totally ruined. I suppose I’m going to have to buy you a new one.”

Ava cautiously walked up to us, “Jackson? Are you really a librarian?”

“Of course he is, honey,” said Mack, theatrically. “A man has to work, you know!”

“And you’re gay!” she spat in disbelief.

I looked down at my ripped shirt, felt a trickle of blood coming from my nose, and smiled.  “I’m sorry, Mack. I’ll do better next time.”

Ava looked at the onslaught around her and said, “Geez, Jackson. Thanks for the help. But I reckon I’d better disappear.”

“So where are you gonna go, Ava?”

“I might hitch down to Sydney and get a job there; and somehow save enough to get me back to London.”

“Well, hang on a minute. Let me check something first.” I leaned over the sleeping Bigfoot and started rummaging through his clothes as police and ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance. “We better make a move, mate,” said Mack.

“Righto; just a sec,” and I grabbed a wallet that was thicker than a dictionary from the inside of Bigfoot’s jacket. “I thought I felt something odd in there.”

I dug out a pile of hundred dollar notes at least three inches thick, snatched one from the pile, put it in my jeans, and gave the rest to Ava. “You’re a good girl Ava, but maybe it is time you went home to England.”

Ava looked at the money, looked at me, gave me a loving peck on the cheek, and with tears streaming down her face she turned and was gone.

“So why’d you take the hundred dollars, Jackson?”

“It was an expensive shirt, Mack.”