Future Shock Bodice-Rippers Inc present:
A Hunk of Burning Love
Magnolia McGill stared into the meter box, her green eyes coolly scanning the kilowatt-hours. She scribbled the date in her clipboard – 6 October, 2017. She didn’t hear the footsteps on the grass until the stranger was right behind her, his breath hot on her neck.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ His voice was low and deep yet strong with a husky growl.
She whirled around. ‘I’m from Contrary Energy. I’m reading your electricity meter.’
‘Another interfering busybody sneaking around on my family’s property! I’ve already chased off the Weeds Inspector and the Rural Lands Protection Board this morning. You people should mind your own damned business!’ His furious dark eyes swept her face as he tried not to look towards his pot growing in the compost heap.
God how she hated men like him, arrogant bullies with square jaws and smouldering eyes. She added three zeros to the reading before flouncing back to the car. He smiled tauntingly, his face full of contempt. ‘And don’t come back either!’
Her only retort was a helpless ‘Ouch!’ as she tripped in a rabbit-hole, twisting her slim ankle. He hurried towards her, his chiselled face suddenly full of concern. Before she knew what was happening he had taken off his shirt and was tearing it into a bandage. She gasped. His skin shone like bronze, whorls of dark hair covering his broad chest before arrowing down to his belt. He bound her ankle tenderly before carrying her to her car. She drove away with her heart performing acrobatic feats. Hardly a word had passed between them but she had uncontrollable feelings of desire for this dark, angry, tender man with his hairy chest and first aid skills. She checked the account. Calzone. Antonio Calzone.
He watched her go with a mixture of tenderness, lust and relief before climbing back on top of the water tank and picking up his trumpet. Tall dark Antonio Calzone had been sent from Sicily by his industrialist family to report on the latest acquisitions – the GM chicken-nugget hatchery at Tucabia and the wood-fired power station at Koolkhan. He had no interest in them, but you didn’t argue with the family. Antonio was the black sheep. He’d always read too much. His recent penchant for wearing a beret had been the final straw. Now he spent his days in Copmanhurst playing sad trumpet and looking out over the bald hills, trying to muster enthusiasm for a trip to Koolkhan.
Magnolia drove pensively back to the depot. This was her last day as a meter reader. Tomorrow she would start her new job in fuel quality control at the wood fired power station. Magnolia had a winning combination of beauty, brains and brawn. Her reddish-gold tresses curled and cascaded down past her knees; only her pert nose and breasts protruded from the masses of thick locks. She sighed. At least she had a job. Magnolia’s family had been Yamba fishing people before the river died. They had sold their house on Yamba Hill just before the real estate boom, and Magnolia’s father had died without a will. Yamba was now a gated community for the rich. MacGrafthurst Waters Council had been taken over by Westpawn Infestments who were maximising their return. Life had improved for some in the last 20 years – the new Grafton Bridge was a boon, with one occupant for every two vehicles. WaterIsUs had gone from strength to strength, with pipelines radiating out from Nymboida Creek to the world. The Clarence valley had become famous in the scientific community for its accelerated rate of species extinction, which was a godsend for the conference venue people and the motels. And the power station was a major industry. There had been early fears of insufficient fuel, but fifty truckloads a day came through the gates. It was strange that there’d been a spate of fence-stealing recently, and Coutts Crossing Church had vanished last year. Years ago there’d been a few problems with community consultation but things had settled down. Most people had welcomed the Rural Appeasement Act of 2003, which banned the Vegetation Plan and Water Sharing Plan as well as introducing compensation for anyone who had been made to feel uncomfortable by environmentalists.
Magnolia rubbed her delicate chin thoughtfully. Where were the environmentalists now? They’d all gone quiet. They probably had nothing left to protest about. Everything was alright now. That’s what octogenarian PM John Howard kept saying. Everyone was safe. It had been a good idea postponing elections for the last 15 years, as there was a real risk of the democratic process being attacked by terrorists. Magnolia rubbed her chin again. She thought of Antonio and the feel of his hard manliness pressing against her slim body as he carried her. A ripple of desire swept through her. So dark, so tall, such a square jaw.
At the power station next afternoon Magnolia was having a perplexing time. As each truck drove in, she had to tick a form saying its cargo was made up of sustainably acquired forest products. The loads were covered by tarpaulins which were chained and padlocked down. How could you tell what was in there? She’d thrust her hands inside one of the tarps before the foreman had shouted at her to keep away. There’d been something soft and warm. She was sure she’d heard a muffled cry coming from several of the loads. She’d found a homespun beanie on the ground, and an empty Chardonnay bottle had rolled off one truck. What was going on? A low voice in her ear jolted her into the present. ‘Hello meter reader.’ It was him. ‘Antonio!’ His name was a small betrayal of the swirling mix of emotions that both shocked and excited her.
‘I’m here to look at the power station. My family’s a major shareholder’. The blood surged along his veins like hot wine. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I work here. Do you know what’s in these trucks? I think there’s something terrible going on.’
‘Let’s go behind the fuel stockpile over there so we can talk.’
The stockpiles were huge mounds covered with locked-down tarpaulins. Antonio gave a small cry as his feet skidded from under him. She caught him and steadied him against her. She could feel the steady beat of his heart, a beat which seemed to pulse from him to her until the air between them throbbed with its rhythm. They squeezed through a small gap in the tarpaulin, into the stockpile. His mouth was hard when it took hers. They kissed with a burning, abandoned passion that shocked them to the core. Their waves of desire surged to a huge crescendo of need. The ground moved beneath them. The universe roared and the air was scorching. Machinery shrieked and flames leapt. Piteous cries and moans echoed. Magnolia opened her eyes a crack. She screamed. They were on a conveyor belt 10 metres up and heading for the furnace! And trapped on the belt were . . . dissidents! Idealistic youth, hairy-legged feminists, indignant old lefties! Bleeding hearts and environmentalists and indigenous activists and anti-globalisation protesters! Forest blockaders, committee people, organisers, pamphleteers, agitators of all shapes and sizes!
Magnolia’s bra had become hooked on Antonio’s belt buckle and as they pulled apart, it twanged and catapulted straight for the control switch next to the furnace, looping around the off-lever and the flay-rod. The powerful elastic contracted, pulling the off-lever down. The conveyor belt ground to a halt. The dissidents gave a mighty shout of joy. Things happened fast after that. Antonio climbed down to the ground and found a ladder. The dissidents swarmed down. Antonio declared the power station closed. He and Magnolia locked the managers in the staff toilet, freed people from the stockpiles and disconnected the turbines. They smiled at each other softly, eyes tender and shining.
‘Will you marry me Magnolia?’
‘I . . . Yes!’ She flung her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to kiss him then found herself enveloped in his arms as he kissed her back, love’s sweet tide flowing all around them.
‘And we can start an environment centre!’
‘Yes, yes, yes darling!’ To be continued. . . .