The fourth wild thing stomps onto the stage. His face is seared from coming a little too close to life and the people who, as he tells us, say he drinks too much and laughs too loud. He abandons the microphone, shouting out into the darkness. He’s had periods of howling into the night in Tasmania, he admits, letting new neighbours know he is there. He’s in love, he tells us, with a Tasmanian bush woman. And for some time he can’t seem to get past that point. We sense that love is something new, for him, and he has to let the world know. We are likely to say ‘I understand’, but he would say ‘how could you?’ We lean back, though our eyelids are peeled. Will he go over time? Be dragged off the stage? Keep swearing? Is this his ‘act’? Is this why they invited him? Due to the likeliness of this happening? Is he, then, like the televised prophet in the film Network? Is it OK to be both wary and thrilled? Especially when he takes to the Virgin Blue Voyeur magazine and its article on jails that are now luxury hotels. That red of his face deepens; he grows and spits and literally tears the magazine. Can you believe this? he is asking us. Places of utter fucking misery turned to novelty and comfort? His rage is genuine. He is a site of misery. Under the bright lights and getting paid.