Tonight’s episode of Bankingcommish comes to you from the darkened interior of a crumpled up 2011 Subaru Impreza sedan. My mate was driving leisurely home from a long week of work when his train of thought was rudely interrupted by young girl in a late-model Toyota Echo ramming his car from behind more viciously and unapologetically than a gimp being analised by a series of rubber fists at a masochist’s convention that are gradually ascending in size. I was still at work when the fisting began, so I’ve joined him in the wreckage for moral support and eventually, transport.

We now wait for a tow truck on a non-descript and thoroughly dismal stretch of freeway with the same sort of hope that he’ll turn up in less than an hour that the drought-stricken farmer holds when he looks solemnly to the sky from the confines of his dilapidated weatherboard farmhouse, somehow suspending his own disbelief and hoping for a miracle despite the taste of sun-scorched earth forever lingering at the back of his throat from the fierce and unrelenting winds of the dustbowl that engulfs him.

If I was forced to choose what I would consider to be the worst stretch of road in ten kilometres, I’d pick here. The car is parked close to a rubbish-strewn embankment, directly underneath a vaguely sinister-looking footbridge that stretches menacingly over the freeway, undoubtedly to a location equally as awful and fear-inducing on its far side. This looks like the type of setting that a tramp would come to wheeze his final shallow, cooking sherry-soaked breath before emptying the contents of his bladder and dying an undignified and unnoticed death. In fact, I’d wager a small fortune that I could shut my eyes, spin around five times and then throw a stone and have a 50% chance of hitting someone who sells The Big Issue.

I peer out of the thankfully still-intact windscreen at the foot-bridge looming ominously overhead and my imagination takes control. I can picture it now; a group of rodent-featured twelve year old halflings lined up in an orderly fashion across the span, malnourished from years of sustaining themselves on high-starch, high-GI, low-nutrient diets consisting predominantly of chicken nuggets, white bread and fish fingers, their bodies underdeveloped and their skin ashen from years of their parents inadvertently inverting the healthy eating pyramid when doing the weekly shopping. They proceed to drop bricks onto the windscreens of vehicles as they pass underneath, spinning quickly and leaping to the other side of the bridge to fervently revel in the high-velocity fatality they’ve collectively just deliberately caused. Their tiny lips retract to form sinister smiles, revealing rows of already-yellowing, rotting teeth. Dead smiles from dead children…

I’m snapped back into consciousness by the flashing lights of the tow-truck as it pulls up in front of us. Our ordeal is over! My mood lightens when a metal-head jumps athletically from the cab, his hair flowing regally in the breeze like that of a famous conqueror entering a defeated enemy town on the back of an armoured stallion in the dying Autumn Sun.  I’d give even-money odds that Judas Priest features heavily on his Winamp playlist (he definitely wouldn’t go anywhere near iTunes).

As the tow-truck disappears from view with the remnants of my mates’ car in-tow, I pull out from the curb and we drive away. I make sure to look up cautiously as we travel under the bridge…

/end communication