When JB and his flatmates took in the new guy they had their doubts.
The Celine Dion albums, the flufty hordes of stuffed animals and the plastic-covered floral-pattern love seat should have set their threat detectors singing. But nobody was paying attention.
Within days their house had become a swirling maelstrom of death metal Junkies and Drug War narcs, stolen goods and hired goons, Tasmanian Babes, karate dykes, evil yuppies, dopey greens and the Sandmen of the Terror Data.