I let myself bask in the moment on the stage. It was a glorious feeling as the crowd of burly teddy bear loving men erupted into applause and whistles. My legs wobbled as the full rush of alcohol infused adrenaline coursed through my veins. Through the haze, I saw Henry come forward out of the crowd, beaming and clapping.

"That was...something!"

"Really?"

He nodded as I forced my jelly-like legs to take my body off the stage. It seems bogans were easier to please than I first expected. I beamed at him as the bar returned to an excited murmur, and a hideously edited version of 'Born to Be Alive' played over the karaoke machine.

"Now, I promised you your papers."

"Yes, I do seem to recall that." I smiled, laying out an open palm for him to slap them onto. When he didn't, my hand retreated back into my pocket. "It would be best if I got on the road soon."

He chuckled, the crowd parting for us we stumbled through. "Yes. Well, some of the boys thought that performance was so brilliant, they've set themselves a challenge to see who can restore the papers to their former glory."

I frowned. "Why?"

He shrugged.

"They do realise it's covered in dog shit and piss, right?"

"Nope," he squeaked cheerfully. "That's what makes it fascinating. My men seem to believe you're worth the time of day."

"Funny," I whispered. The minds of these men made no sense to me. Henry promised to reforge the papers, but what if Haynes and Buller saw between the lines? What if I returned them and the police were in on it? What if I still went to jail for the crimes I didn't commit? The whole country was looking for me; waiting for me to stuff up. I was a fugitive not only to the state, but also to Galgort and Jack. I couldn't trust anybody anymore.

I shook my head. Yet here I was. Trusting these bikies with my file in the hopes that I can return it undamaged. If Jack were here, he'd be punching them all up. I was glad he wasn't here; that the police had got to him. He deserved jail - I didn't. I just wanted to correct my mistakes, and maybe someday that would happen.

I sighed, following Henry and his pet squirrel, Jerry, to the back of the bar. A small doorway, minus the door, loomed before us. Instead of a door, a string of brightly coloured neon beads made a flap, replacing what was once the doors' primary position. They changed colour with the lights, and for some reason when they were a dark pink, they appeared to have little squirrels imprinted on them.

"Jerry's favourite," Henry said, glancing back at my curiosity as I examined the little beads. He smiled and parted the beads, motioning for me to follow.

Amused at the thought of grown men enjoying the company of squirrel infused beads, I entered the small room. Rows of pool tables lined the wall, and an arcade was abandoned in the far corner. I expected the patrons of the bar to be engaged in a swearing contest over whose ball was really hit into the pole table hole, but instead a group of men were huddled around two typewriters and a stack of paper.

I stopped, a little confused as one man furiously typed on a typewriter, whilst another rivalled him. Their fingers dashed across the machines with incredible speed as the rest of the men huddled around their respective teammates.

"JOE! JOE! JOE!" one side screamed.

"DEREK! DEREK! DEREK!" the other side rivalled.

They went back and forth, erupting in a cheer every time a page was exaggeratedly flipped over by the typer. It was a strange sight to behold. I smiled, and before I could stop myself, my large ass mouth spoke.

"Switch typers!"

The men stopped, a judicator pressing down his stopwatch, as they all glared at me. I retracted. It was as though I'd entered into a time bubble and my voice had broken the fantasy these men held for their typewriters. All I wanted to do was make it more interesting. If I had to wait for my stolen file to be reforged on dry paper, then I wanted to at least make it interesting.

"What?" I said, shrugging. "Switch users."

The men blinked and remained seated.

"That's my file you're messing with, and I'd like to think you boys have the ability to do it correctly," I informed them. "And if this is a challenge, then I want to see it executed properly."

The men gazed back blankly.

"You got that? Whatever I say, you do," I reiterated.

They nodded, unable to counteract my request.

"Now, switch typers!" I insisted with a grin.

They did as they were told and rotated. I nodded my satisfaction at the timekeeper, and he started the timer.

The men were in an uproar in no time as the typers typed and their teammates cheered them on. The new ones were comparatively slower and the one on the left kept catching his white-daisied beard on the keypad of the old machine.

I needed to make it fairer, and I noticed the one on the right seemed to prefer his left hand over his right. "Left hand on your heads lads!" I yelled out over the cheering.

They complied, placing their left hands on their heads.

"Now rub your heads."

Their hands made circular motions over their balding heads as they concentrated all their might on the document. I glanced over at Henry, an amused grin on his face as he gingerly patted Jerry.

"Braid each other's beards," I shouted.

The men glared angrily at me but took up the challenge anyway. They leaned in towards each other, reaching a hand over to one another's beards. They ran their hands through the matted selection of daisies, causing them to fall out of place. Hurriedly, the men tried to part the wiry chin hairs and plait it.

The amusing notion took about five minutes to complete with the winning man lighting up the room with a beaming smile.

"HA! I WIN! Got ya Boris!" he yelled, pointing at the man.

I laughed at the appraisal. This was way more fun than playing Simon Says as a kid, but then again, I was pretty drunk, so anything seemed like fun.

He returned to his phase of typing as I scanned the room, placing my eyes on a small shelf covered in flowers. I advanced towards it; two shiny objects glittering in the changing light. The elongated boxes were carved in a magnificent floral pattern as I moved towards them. I reached up to get them, a voice distracting me as I did.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

I gritted my teeth. "Yes."

"Hmm...but do grown men appreciate that?" she asked, bobbing her head down at me.

"They're friggin' hippies!" I hissed at her.

"Hippies but not kippies."

I frowned at her. "What the heck are kippies?"

"I don't know."

I scoffed at the Hula girl; my face riddled in confusion. She was an annoying figure of my imagination and utterly inconvenient too. "Shut up!" I hissed at her. "Your opinions aren't wanted here!"

"I'm offended you think so, Butch," she said as I snatched the metal instruments off the shelf and turned from her, scowling. "I'm just trying to save your life. You don't have much time."

"Play the harmonica!" I bellowed out, angry that she was here. I approached the men and placed the instruments in front of them. "No, wait. Play Gangnam Style on the harmonica."

It angered me that I knew the Hula girl was correct. I needed to get moving, whatever my brain thought. I tried to ignore the growing pit in my stomach as the grown, beer-dwelling, men played Gangnam Style on the harmonica, whilst simultaneously typing.

I stared in astonishment as the men played out the tune, attempting to ignore the sick feeling building up inside me. Together they typed in perfect sync whilst playing the harmonica version of Gangnam Style. I gaped, feeling outsmarted that these men were pure geniuses encased in hippie loving flowers.

The last page of the file was flipped over and the repetitive clicking of the typewriters got more intense as Gangnam Style started again. I leaned closer to them, watching.

A cheer erupted as the one they called Boris stood up, throwing his seat back.

"HA! I WIN SERGEY!" he screamed into the others' face.

"How?" I whispered, picking up a discarded sheet from the typewriter and gazing down at it. All the information was exactly how it read on the soggy file.

"They are trained daredevils," Henry said, appearing at my side and patting my shoulder. "Get these men some drinks! On the house!"

His excitement was met with another cheer, this time in unison with the losing team. A gleeful Boris slotted out his papers, gathered them in a neat pile and trotted over to me.

"I quite like this new look," he said, stroking his braided beard. He flashed me a holey grin before he bowed and held out the freshly typed file. "I believe this is yours."

"Thank you," I said, returning the grin.

"At your service," he replied, turning his attention to the sorrowful Sergey. I watched them, before turning to Henry.

"Thank you," I said, holding up the papers. "I'm not the person you think I am."

"I know."

"You do?"

He opened his mouth to reply but stopped short as a loud crash rippled through the building.

"WHERE IS THAT TRAITOR!?" a familiar voice shrieked.