Chapter 8 – Australia Must Be Some Sort of a Joke

Steamer was shocked to personally see that riots had erupted in ever so politically correct Australia just as it became his landscape, over an Indigenous girl’s death as cops tear gas and disperse locals to protect the black assault perp; calling into question their Crocodile Dundee abandonment allegiances; more easily seen as libtard bullshit.

“It’s like their system is not sticking up for us at all;” said an angry native demonstrator holding a stick. In the background a police vehicle burns following the clash with the cops who protected the black bum, illegal alien sicko.

Jefferson Lewis, 47, was arrested late on Thursday night local time in Alice Springs.

The young girl, referred to by her family as Kumanjayi; “Little Baby” in line with Indigenous customs, was reported missing from her central Australian home late on Saturday.

Authorities located the body, believed to be hers, shortly before midday on Thursday, about 5 kilometers south of the original crime scene.

Local reports said a crowd attacked Mr. Lewis when he appeared in a local community and beat him unconscious before police intervened.

Police said they had long suspected that Lewis received assistance from someone in the community before he appeared at a town camp.

“For him to be able to appear and be beaten in Alice Springs last night just confirms to us that he was getting support from somebody,” police commissioner Martin Dole said. “My message to that person is, look out because we’re coming for you as well,” that “warning” perhaps another offer of protection.

Despite the fact that the situation in Alice Springs has escalated into rioting, vehicles set on fire, and damaged property, Steamer’s first instinct is not fear but tactical calculation. He's entering a town that's already tipped into self-harm; cars burning, windows smashed, people moving in fast, jittery lines of panic and opportunism. In that environment, a lone man walking in from the perimeter looks like a provocation. Or a target. Or a story someone wants to finish with their fists.

He’s thinking; "Don't look like an arrival." In a riot, strangers are threats. Outsiders are blamed for whatever the crowd already wants to blame someone for. He knows this. He's thinking about how to erase the silhouette of a newcomer. "Match the local rhythm."

Every chaotic environment has a tempo. Alice Springs right now is moving in sharp, frantic bursts. If he walks with the wrong cadence; too slow, too deliberate, he'll stand out. He's watching how people move, how they look around, how they carry their shoulders. "No eye contact, but no avoidance."

Predators and panicked people both read eyes. Too much eye contact is a challenge. Too little is guilt. He's calibrating the exact middle. “Who is actually dangerous?” is the question.

Not the loud ones. The ones hanging back, scanning. The ones with improvised weapons they're not using yet. The ones who look sober. He's mapping them as he walks.

"What story do I look like?" He knows people project narratives instantly. He wants to look like a local who's been out checking on something; generator, livestock, a neighbor's property. Someone with a reason to be moving toward the chaos rather than fleeing it.

He adjusts his clothes; zips the jacket halfway, cuffs the sleeves, dusts off the shoulders. Not to look neat; just to look normal. A man who's been working, not traveling.

He picks up an object, any object lying on the ground; a length of rebar, a broken broom handle, a dented traffic cone; anything that makes him look like he's been helping, defending, or cleaning up. People carrying tools look like participants, not intruders.

He joins the flow instead of cutting across it. He falls into step with a group moving down the street, not close enough to be part of them, but close enough that anyone watching assumes he belongs. He mutters to himself, not loudly; just enough that if someone glances at him, he looks like a local cursing the situation, not a stranger evaluating it.

He uses smoke and noise as cover. He moves when a car backfires, when a window shatters, when a crowd surges. He times his steps to the distractions.

He keeps his hands visible. Hidden hands are suspicious. Visible hands say; “I'm not here to start anything.”

He looks for the people who aren't rioting; the watchers on porches, the ones guarding their own storefronts, the ones with radios. Those are the ones who will recognize he's not from here. He avoids their sightlines.

Steamer's thinking; "Blend until I'm boring. Boring people don't get hit."

Steamer's cover holds until the moment the street's rhythm breaks; one of those sudden lulls in a riot where the noise drops just enough that people start noticing shapes again. He feels it before he sees it; the crowd's attention re tightening like a muscle.

A ute burns half a block away, throwing a wavering orange wash across the shopfronts. A group of three men; local, dust coated, adrenalized, step out from behind a smashed vending machine. They're not looking for trouble; they're looking for explanations. And Steamer, walking alone with a piece of rebar in his hand, is an explanation waiting to be assigned.

One of them calls out; not a shout, worse, a conversational tone. "Oy. Where you comin' from?"

Steamer doesn't stop immediately. Stopping too fast is guilt. Stopping too slow is defiance. He gives it a half beat, then turns his head like a man who's been interrupted mid task. He keeps his shoulders loose and lets the rebar hang like it's just something he picked up without thinking, which is more or less true anyway. His mind is running the calculus. They're keyed up but not drunk. They're together, so they'll be braver than they should be. They're not looking for a fight; they're looking for a category to put him in. If he gives them one, they'll take it. If he hesitates, they'll invent one.

He answers with the tone of a man who's been annoyed all day and has no energy left for anything else. "Back fence line," he says. "Bloody generator's playing up again." He doesn't over explain. Over explaining is what liars do.

One of the men squints at him. "Didn't see you earlier."

Steamer shrugs, a small, dismissive roll of the shoulder. "Didn't see half the town earlier. Everyone's runnin' around like chooks."

He gives them a tiny, conspiratorial smirk; just enough to say I'm on your side of this mess, not enough to say I want to be your friend.

Then he does the most important thing. He asks them a question. "You blokes seen if the servo's still open? Need to grab a jerry before someone nicks the last of it."

Questions flip the dynamic. Now they have to justify their knowledge. It makes him the one who belongs. The men glance at each other. One gestures vaguely down the street. "Think it's shut. They were boarding it up."

Steamer nods like that's exactly what he expected. "Figures." He starts to move again; not away from them, not toward them, but on the diagonal, like a man who has a job to finish and no interest in lingering.

They let him go. But one of them watches him a second too long, as if trying to place him. Steamer feels it on the back of his neck. He doesn't look back. He thinks; "Next interaction won't be this easy."

The escalation comes from someone who actually knows the town, someone whose mental map of Alice Springs includes every cousin, ex coworker, and drinking buddy. Someone who can spot an unfamiliar gait from half a block away.

Steamer is halfway down the street, still riding the momentum of that first successful interaction, when he feels the shift; a single pair of eyes tracking him with intent, not curiosity.

A woman steps out from the shadow of a shuttered bottle shop. Mid 40s, sun creased, wearing a hi vis vest that's seen real work, not cosplay. She's holding a radio in one hand and a length of PVC pipe in the other. Not a rioter. Not a looter. One of the locals trying to keep her own patch from being swallowed.

She calls to him, sharp and clean; "Hey. You. Stop a sec."

This is different. This isn't a group looking for a category. This is a person who already has categories and is checking which one he fits into. Steamer stops; only because not stopping would be a declaration.

She walks toward him with the confidence of someone who's lived here long enough to know every face worth knowing. Her eyes flick over him; boots, jacket, the rebar in his hand, the dust on his cuffs. She's not looking for weapons. She's looking for context. "You're not from here," she says. Not a question. A diagnosis.

Steamer doesn't answer immediately. Silence is a tool. It forces her to fill the space. She narrows her eyes. "Where'd you come in from?"

He gives her the same shrug as before, but she doesn't buy it. She's not reading his words; she's reading the micro hesitations, the way he scans the street, the way he stands like someone who's used to being watched. She steps closer. Too close. Close enough that if he lies, she'll see the flicker. "Look at me," she says.

He does. Calm. Neutral. Not challenging.

She studies him for a long moment. Then she says; "You're Zone side, aren't you." It is not said loudly. It is not said accusingly. It is said like someone who's just realized the stakes of the conversation.

Steamer's pulse doesn't change, but his mind shifts gears. This is the moment where blending stops being an option. She's perceptive, sober, and not afraid. She's the kind of person who will follow him if he walks away. He answers with a low, steady voice. "I'm passing through. Not here to cause trouble."

She snorts. "Nobody's 'passing through' today."

A bottle shatters somewhere behind them. A siren wails and dies. The riot's tempo is rising again, and she knows it. She leans in, voice dropping. "If the wrong people think you're from the Zone, they'll tear you apart. You know that, yeah?"

He nods once.

"So tell me," she says, "why shouldn't I call you in?"

This is the real escalation. She's not threatening him. She's deciding whether to protect him or expose him.

And Steamer has to give her something true enough to anchor him in her world without revealing anything that puts him at risk. He thinks; "This is the first person who can actually hurt me."

Steamer knows the next sentence has to do two things at once; give her something real enough to anchor him in her world, bBut not so real that it exposes why he's actually here.

So he gives her a truth with the edges sanded off. He keeps his voice low, steady, almost tired. "I'm not here on anyone's orders. I'm looking for someone who came through before the perimeter tightened. That's it." He lets the weight of it sit there; personal, not political; specific, not strategic. A man searching for someone is a familiar shape. It's the kind of motive people don't question too hard because they don't want to get pulled into it.

Then he adds, just enough roughness to make it believable; “And I don't want him caught up in this." Not the Zone. Not the authorities. Him. A single person. A human-scale reason.

The woman's posture shifts; not softening, but recalibrating. She's still wary, but now she's trying to picture the story behind his words instead of the threat. She studies his face again, this time not to identify him, but to measure the sincerity. "Someone from the Zone?" she asks.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. The silence is its own confirmation.

She exhales through her nose, a sharp, irritated sound; not at him, but at the situation. "Christ. We don't need more ghosts wandering in today." She glances down the street where the riot is swelling again, the noise rising like a tide. She's doing the math. If she calls him in, he'll be swallowed by the crowd before anyone official gets to him. If she lets him go, she's responsible for whatever happens next. Finally she says; "You walk like someone who knows how to stay out of the way. Fine. But if anyone else asks, you didn't talk to me."

A beat.

"And if you see a group with red bandanas, avoid them. They're looking for outsiders to blame. They act like Survivalists, but really are Mossad."

“Mossad.”

“Or CIA. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.” She steps back, giving him space to move. Then, almost as an afterthought, she says; "Whoever you're looking for ..... you better find him fast." She turns away, already scanning the street for the next problem.

Steamer moves on, but he feels the shift. He's no longer invisible. He's now a known unknown; the most dangerous category in a town on edge. He keeps moving not because he knows where he’s going; but because he knows where he’d like to leave.

When officers took Lewis to a local hospital, hundreds of angry, Indigenous residents gathered, shouting for him to be killed and demanding “payback;” the Indigenous form of punishment.

The situation escalated into rioting as people threw rocks and bottles, set vehicles on fire, and damaged property. Police responded with rubber bullets and tear gas to control the crowd.

Several officers were injured in the violence.

One Indigenous protestor said; “They pay lip service to being guilty of usurping our culture and rights. Then they turn around and again impose their colonial wicked system on the Indigenous peoples. They use our tax money to protect this N1668Rbum bassid pervert from the justice of our timeless world. They must pay.”

The unrest continued into the next day, leaving streets littered with debris and signs of looting nearby. Authorities later transferred Lewis by helicopter to Darwin for his safety and to prevent further violence.

“As a result of presenting himself, members of that town camp decided to inflict vigilante justice upon Lewis, and we received numerous phone calls saying he was in the process of being assaulted,” colonial police commissioner Dole said on Friday.

Kumanjayi - “Little Baby” went missing from a remote Aboriginal town camp near Alice Springs. The violence followed days of searching for the girl. Hours after the girl’s death was confirmed, Lewis was reportedly seen wandering near the Charles Creek town camp in central Alice Springs.

“Members of that town camp decided to inflict vigilante justice upon him and we received numerous phone calls saying he was in the process of being assaulted,” usuper Dole said.

“Our police officers were attacked at that time, as were the St. John Ambulance crew that attended to assist. They were turned on by about 200 people, but they were able to get out of there and get Lewis to the hospital.”

Several officers have been injured in the violence. Videos from outside the Alice Springs Hospital showed protesters demanding “payback,” meaning a form of traditional punishment under Aboriginal law in Central Australia.

Reports said anger within the community remained high. “The feeling is that the police are protecting this guy. They are shooting us with rubber bullets,” Harley Myers, an Arrernte man from Alice Springs, said. “It’s like the system is not sticking up for us and letting us get our own traditional payback. We’re united because it hurts all of us,” he added, “because she was only five years old and it could happen to any of our kids. I don’t want that to happen to any of our kids at all.”

Indigenous leaders urged Aussie recognition of Indigenous rights. “Thwarting our God given, time proven, rights to ‘payback’ in this scenario just fuels more righteous violence,” Michael Liddle, an Alyawarre man and Alice Springs local, told the BBC.

“There’s a system set up here, where there is a person in custody, and the Western rules will deal with that person,” said flunky Dole.

The girl’s grandfather also called for Indigenous justice on Friday. “What has happened this week is not our way. Our children are precious, of course. We are feeling angry and hurt at what has happened. This man has been caught, thanks to community action, and we must now let that same community justice take its course while we take the time to mourn Kumanjayi – ‘Little Baby’ and support our family.”

On Thursday, the girl’s mother, who was not named, said; “It is going to be so hard to live the rest of our lives without you. Me and your brother will meet you one day.”

Dole said charges against Lewis were likely to be filed in the coming days. “Likely? ...... in the coming days,” thought the Native audience.

In the interim, it can only be said that the ruling authorities of Australia, despite their pretenses to the contrary, have followed their usual pattern of over-riding the customs of their founding families while giving them useless lip service, in this particular case, as they have wasted no expense in protecting this scumbag N1668R pervert, marauder.

The red bandana group doesn't appear all at once. They cohere-like iron filings finding a magnet; three, then five, then eight of them drifting into the same vector as Steamer moves down the street. They're younger than the first group, more adrenalized, less disciplined. Their energy is wrong: not defensive, not protective. Predatory. Looking for someone to blame, someone to punish, someone to turn into a story they can tell later.

Steamer feels them before he sees them. A shift in the air. A tightening of the street's attention. The way people on the sidewalks suddenly find reasons to step back into doorways.

He keeps walking, but he adjusts his grip on the rebar; loosens it, not tightens. Tightening looks like preparation. Loosening looks like indifference.

A voice cuts through the noise. "Oy! You!"

Steamer doesn't turn. Turning too fast is fear. Turning too slow is arrogance. He gives it a half beat, then pivots just enough to acknowledge.

The one in front; tall, wiry, red bandana tied pirate style; points at him with a length of metal pipe. "Haven't seen you before."

Steamer gives him the same tired shrug he used earlier, but this time it lands differently. These men aren't looking for a category. They're looking for a target.

Another one steps forward, eyes narrowed. "Where'd you come from, mate?" The last word seems sarcastic and edgy; especially coming from one who looks as though he would be more comfortable in a beany and exposing his payas.

Steamer answers with a flat, unimpressed tone. "Back fence line. Same as everyone else."

The leader smirks. "Funny. Don't look like everyone else."

Steamer doesn't rise to it. He knows the dynamic. They want him to flinch, or bristle, or explain. Any of those gives them permission. So, he says nothing. Silence, again, forces them to fill the space.

A third man circles slightly to Steamer's right, trying to get behind him. That's the real tell. They're not questioning him; they're positioning. The leader steps closer. "You Zone side?"

Steamer doesn't answer. He lets the question hang in the air like a trap they've set for themselves.

The leader grins, showing a chipped tooth. "Yeah. Thought so." He taps the pipe against his palm, a slow, rhythmic threat. "See, we got a problem with Zone people wandering in here. Big problem."

Steamer's mind is running the angles. They're not coordinated enough to kill him cleanly. But they're chaotic enough to try. And the woman's warning was right-they're hunting for outsiders. If he runs, they'll chase. If he fights, the whole street will collapse on him. If he talks, they'll twist it. So he does the one thing they're not expecting. He steps toward the leader. Not aggressively. Not challengingly. Just one calm, deliberate step that collapses the distance and forces the man to adjust his weight.

It breaks the rhythm. Steamer says, quietly; "If I were Zone side, you wouldn't be asking questions. You'd be running."

The leader's smirk falters; -not fear, but confusion. The line doesn't fit the script he had prepared.

Steamer keeps his voice low, steady, almost bored. "You want to pick someone to blame, pick someone else. I've got work to do."

He turns; not fast, not slow, and starts walking away.

For a moment, the group freezes. They're not used to someone refusing the frame they're trying to impose. They're used to fear or anger, not indifference. But then one of them; shorter, jumpier-shouts; "Hey! Don't walk away from us!"

And that's the real escalation. The moment where the group's uncertainty flips into aggression. The leader raises his pipe. "Grab him."

Steamer hears the shift in their feet, the intake of breath, the beginning of the rush.

He thinks; "This is going to get loud."

The moment the red bandana boys rush him, Steamer doesn't think in terms of winning. He thinks in terms of angles, timing, and noise; how to use the riot itself as a weapon so he doesn't have to be one.

They come at him in a loose, sloppy surge; too many limbs, too much adrenaline, not enough coordination. Perfect.

The first one reaches him with a wild, looping grab. Steamer doesn't step back; he steps in, slipping past the man's arm and letting the momentum carry the kid forward. A simple redirect, nothing flashy. The kid stumbles, crashes into a stack of plastic crates, and goes down swearing.

The second one swings the pipe. Steamer doesn't block it; he lets it pass in front of him, close enough to feel the air shift. As the swing overextends, Steamer taps the man's wrist with the butt of the rebar; just a sharp, precise shock that makes the hand spasm. The pipe clatters to the ground.

Not a strike. A disruption.

The third one is the real problem; bigger, steadier, not drunk on the moment. He moves in with intent, not chaos. Steamer sees it instantly: this one won't fall for misdirection.

So he gives him something else.

Steamer backs up two steps, eyes flicking past the man's shoulder. Not dramatically; just enough to suggest something behind him. The man hesitates, half turning to check.

That half turn is all Steamer needs. He steps past him, not touching him, not engaging, just moving through the gap the hesitation created. The man reaches for him, but Steamer is already gone, slipping between two parked cars and into the smoke drifting from a burning ute.

Behind him, the leader shouts; "Where'd he go? Where'd he ....."

A bottle explodes somewhere nearby. The riot surges again. People scream, run, shove. The red bandana group gets swallowed by the chaos they helped create.

Steamer keeps moving, not fast, not slow; just another shape in the churn. He gets out unscathed because he never gave them a clean target. He never gave them a clean angle. He let the riot do the work.

And most importantly. He didn't fight them. He out behaved them. His thought as he disappears into the smoke; "If they find me again, it won't be by accident."