Australia, modern-day: when Detective John Pomeroy’s wife Lalaili, asked him to look into the mysterious death of young Jimmy Jungarai, an Aboriginal youth from a community in the middle of Australia’s dry Desert country, the Detective began to understand just how large his country really was. Soon the Detective was wondering, if it was only the land that was large. Since beginning this enquiry, his own life had become large: with ‘out of the box’ situations and events occurring much too frequently for his ordered peace of mind. Throughout the rest of the international investigation, Detective John Pomeroy began to expand his case notes and his mind; at any and every chance that presented.
As the man moved through the spiky grasses and rocky land underfoot toward his goal, he began to think back on the long solitary car journey that had brought him here to this hot godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere. He’d driven across the wild outback country of Western Australia toward the small Aboriginal Township that was his destination, while wondering if this was perhaps some type of weird joke being played on him. But no – the organization and the man he worked for never joked. He’d watched casual jocularity die the death of a thousand cuts on people’s faces; saw it wither instantly on a man’s lips, when standing before his cold-eyed boss. This was no joking matter – his business here was deadly serious. Surely, he thought, as he drove the long straight roads and passed kilometre after kilometre of blacktop and desert, I’ll reach the ocean on the other side of the country soon if this keeps up! No one, single country could be this big! He was taken aback as the long boring kilometres turned into days, while he followed the directions that he’d been given in his brief. Back home in his own country, the man would have crossed a dozen borders by now, and yet here he was three days later – nearly to the centre of this huge dry island called Australia: the brown-land: 'down-under', as he’d always thought of it.
“Whad-ya want with me? Do ya know who I fuckin’ am! Who the fuck are you?” Greeward coughed out through his dry parched mouth and throat, while dying for a fucking drink. I wouldn’t give water to a dead man either, the very scared former Detective suddenly thought; finally realizing he was utterly helpless and, completely friendless here. The black man squat in front of him and looked him in the eye.
“It matters not who I am, man who reeks of greed and death,” Nhompo answered far too calmly. “Only, that I am your executioner. I carry out Fethafoot decrees; much the same as you did for your masters. That is all you need to know, man of dust – and soon to return,” Nhompo stated indifferently, as he turned away.