*An excerpt from Slippery by Liam Carroll* Joel pops the trunk and waves me up, “Right mate, all clear, out you get.” I push my golf club camouflage away and edge forwards. The heat overwhelms me. I’m so sick of the equator. We’re a short way down a dirt road in the shade of some tropical overgrowth. I hop out and feel the side of my head, the cut seems to have healed over somewhat and the bleeding has at least stopped. “Flynn, there’s a train station around the corner. Get a

*An excerpt from Slippery by Liam Carroll* Our hotel room has a bare-bones ‘Prison Break’ chique; white tiled floors worn into a mushroom grain thanks to the oppressive southern Mexico heat, three rust-encrusted, steel-framed single beds that appear unappreciative of the Pacific ocean’s proximity, and a door-less dunny that should be entertaining later on after generous servings of chili doused, black bean tortillas washed down with tequila. We throw our bags to the floor, do

*An excerpt from Slippery I’m woken from my tequila-induced slumber by the captain’s rushed Malay gibberish. He stops talking as he pulls the boat around to where I’m lying on the concrete wall. I sit up, rub sleep from my eyes and try not to whiff my rancid breath. I step down onto the boat, brushing off his outstretched hand to help me aboard, saying what any Aussie lamb to the slaughter would, “she’ll be right, mate.” I’m no historian, but I’m fairly certain these words pa

*An excerpt from Slippery It’s almost midday. There’s a lack of construction noise in this part of the city, most of the old buildings in the immediate vicinity are heritage listed and safe from Bangladeshi operated jackhammers. This means I am actually able to wake up leisurely and with a degree of peace. I stay lying in bed, checking my emails on the Blackberry, nothing urgently important in the hundreds of subject titles I scan over amongst the unread list. Week one. Done.

*An excerpt from Slippery The dust, the warm, heavy air, the swarming flies, the road’s pebbles catching between heal and thong with each step, Chris’ freshly half barbered, half butchered face breaking into some awful rash, none of it matters, not one iota. The first view of Barra de la Cruz as we pass over the final crest and down into the bay, you could be facing execution and still be aware of one thing only; how perfect is this place? Every surfer’s cartoon scribbles hav