Opinion: FRANKLY

Even the City of Churches can’t keep the devil at bay. Hell exists, and the gates open at 3.30pm inside the West Terrace servo. 

It’s busy. But you don’t stress – it was purpose built with five counters. Sike! They’re all staffed by Steve. He’s 42 – 28 when he clocked in – and he will not let you pay for your fuel at the same counter you order coffee. What did you think this was? A convenient pitstop? Get a grip!

Maybe you’d like a delicious Subway roll, prepared for you by (you guessed it) Steve. For those of you into everything exclusive, icy and designer, there’s a special sauce available at only this time. Steve’s perspiration. Recommend pairing with the teriyaki chicken.

Enjoy your meal in one of the many rigid chairs. These chairs are subject to availability as a local startup harvesting organs operates out of these booths Monday through Thursday. Please keep this in mind. You can’t taste it. Everything is Lynx Africa. 

They’re here: the hordes of teenagers micro-dosing adulthood by spending their free time doing something arguably unenjoyable. 

The sun beats through the window, bounces off a pair of Red Bull-branded Dealers and takes your arm clean off. It would be nice to mourn that, but who’s got time – there’s ham and cheese flavoured peanuts legitimately for sale. 

Civilisations have come and gone. Steve’s on a pension. You’ve developed varicose veins. No one knows how to pay for their fuel. 

You try counter three. You pitiful fool. That one’s for selling hotdogs. 

By the time you escape, your licence has expired. Now you’re on foot, severed arm in tow. Wouldn’t recommend.

Perfectly acceptable servo at other times of the day! Just don’t use the hand soap – smells like ass.

DOOM BOX: A CABARET BY FRANKLY, My Lover Cindi, until 23 February

DOOM BOX: A CABARET BY FRANKLY, My Lover Cindi, 16-23 Feb, 6pm