The group of teenagers staggered out of the pub and onto the darkened Melbourne street. It was only partially lit by streetlights, which stood sparse along the walkways.

The high-spirited troupe consisted of three youths and four young girls, all aged between seventeen and nineteen years. They had just begun what was promising to be a brilliant evening of drinking, laughing and hitting all the pubs and perhaps check out some bands.

They were a cheery, enthusiastic bunch, dressed well and pleasant looking; at a time in their lives when they were not quite innocent, but they hadn't quite made it to the other side, either. They had the rest of their lives to get there.

One of the younger boys, a lean youth of average height, was especially drunk. At times he required the support of his mates to keep him on his feet and to cart him along the street. Their destination was another pub, in Richmond, where they were meant to meet up with some more of their friends.

"You are so blind, mate!" cried one youth to his tall friend, as the latter stumbled awkwardly against the fence of one of the houses fronting the suburban street.

"No I'm not," the youth, named David, said with sincere indignation. He had short, dark coloured hair; cut to a flat top-style. He had large blue eyes, which were at present, unflatteringly blood shot and dulled by alcohol. His stomach suddenly kicked him in the throat.

"Ourf!" he gulped, covering his mouth with his hand. The smell of stomach acid permeated the still night air.

"Oh, gross!" One of the girls with the group cried. "Dave's going to chuck!" The others giggled and made suitable groans of disgust.

David felt his stomach go into spasms, and he buckled over, dry retching and dimly wished that he hadn't had the McDonalds' Quarter Pounder for dinner.

He hung himself over the front fence of one of the houses, leaning on it for support and vomited into the yard. Sputum gushed from his mouth in a scorching, acidic river, which spattered onto the lawn of the unsuspecting home owners. He threw up again, his body caught in twisting, almost acrobatic convulsions.

"How off!" moaned one of the young girls. She demanded that they keep walking and leave David behind. He could always catch them up when he'd recovered a little.

"If we hang here much longer, I'll be throwing up, too," agreed another young girl, her nose screwed up as the vile smell of vomit wafted around them.

David's friends banded together around him, though careful to avoid getting too close, and told them that they were going to get moving. They said that he could find them at the pub, later. David remained draped over the fence.

He mumbled something unintelligible and waved them off. He erupted' again; vomit flew through the air. In his befuddled mind, David Jones heard his friends’ voices and laughter become gradually fainter, until he could hear it no more. Nor did he hear the sound of a car door opening, from just across the street, or the sound of the blonde, tall man getting out and walking up behind him.

He seemed to have thrown up everything thing but his bowel, or so it felt to him, and there was no indication that the rest of his insides were about to attempt an evacuation. The vomiting had ceased, if but for now. He let his wearied body slump to the ground, leaning against the fence, and laughed to himself.

"I am so pissed," he admitted to no one imparticluar, and giggled quietly to himself.

"Do you need a hand?" asked a voice.

David opened his bleary eyes and tried to focus. A street light was blinding him, but he could make out the shape of a man, standing in front of him, one hand out stretched.

'Thanks, mate," David said with a smile, taking the hand.

"My pleasure," Kurt said, his face rigid as he helped the youth to his feet. David stared into the man's cold, pitiless eyes and immediately sensed that he had made a terrible mistake.

Kurt had hold of him, muffling and cries with his hand, locking one arm around the boy's throat as he dragged him over to the idling car, parked by the curb.

Bubba was in the car. He had opened the back door and was watching as Kurt brought the struggling youth to the vehicle. When at the car, Kurt bashed the boy’s forehead against the roof, thus knocking him out cold. He effortlessly unloaded the boy into the back seat.

Bubba reached over from his place in the front, passenger seat, to stroke the young lad's hair. "You are my Jackson, my pretty child, for tonight," he said solemnly. He looked to Kurt as the younger man climbed in behind the wheel. "Everything been made ready?"

"Yes," Kurt replied and started up the engine.

He realised he was naked. There was a man; young, blonde ...the one who'd helped him on the street … the man was naked, too, and crouched between David's spread-eagled and manacled legs.

David's eyes rolled about his surrounds; a fat man sitting in a chair, watching, a horrific leer on his lips, and such black eyes! An outer ring of lights, on stands, were blinding David ...he glimpsed a video camera sitting on a tripod, being attended by...

"Now it begins " the fat man muttered.

"... No... No - please..."David whimpered in the broken voice of a small boy.

There was no such thing as pity for David Jones that night.

He was alone in his private room, considering the operation ahead of him. In just a few minutes, he knew Marion would come in and give him the injection to relax his body. He would then be transferred to a gurney, wheeled down to the operating theatre, and ...it would be over. But it would be the start, too, he assured himself.

‘I have come along way from that no-where town of Helton, Victoria, Australia. I have left everything about that life behind, except for my revenge. I can never be that boy again. Lloyd Crane and his hateful nature and his all-encompassing greed took my innocence from me. You will have a lesson to learn from me, father. And it shall cost you everything and bring you a taste of the pain I have known.

'It's as Old Jas said: my destiny! It was meant to be this way and nothing can prevent it, not even Bubba!'

The door of the room was opened. It was Marion. She held in her hand a small silver tray, carrying a hypodermic syringe. She greeted Jaselle with a comforting smile.

"Good morning, dear," she said pleasantly. "Feeling nervous, are we?”

Jaselle shook his head and sat up in the bed. He was without the customary wig he usually wore, but his hair had grown sufficiently that it didn't really matter, and certainly didn't detract from his beauty. He had seen himself in the mirror, just that morning, without make-up and the wig, and he had still seen Jaselle, not Jackson, staring back at him. He wondered if it was the hormones he’d been receiving which was 'making' him appear even more feminine, or if it was merely his own imagination?

"Well, it's time for me to give you just a small injection," Marion explained, "and don't you worry, it won't hurt a bit," she said as she pushed up the sleeve of Jaselle's hospital gown.

Marion lied. It did hurt like a bitch, but it was done.

"You'll be feeling drowsy soon, and then we'll begin," said Marion, as Jaselle settled back onto his bed.

"Good," he responded, his mind already feeling foggy.

In mere moments the fogginess solidified to black and he was only barely aware of what was going on around him; of the two male nurses that came into the room, gently transferring him onto a trolley. He was wheeled out of the room and down the corridor in a procession to the theatre.

In the theatre itself, masked men hovered above his face, like images from a nightmare. The lights from the surgical lamps blinded him. The voices of the clinic's staff sounded as if they were fading in and out like gibberish.

One of the attending doctors placed a gas mask over Jaselle's mouth and nose. The noxious, fumes filled his lungs. A dreadful, claustrophobic feeling seized him. He tried to fight it, but was unable to move as the anaesthetising gas poured into his body. He tried holding his breath, but failed and was forced to breathe the gas in. He couldn't resist, he couldn't scream for help.

He fell into - and was subsequently consumed by - a buzzing blackness that was lonely and icy cold.

His last thought was: ’Jackson Crane has died.’