This isn’t so much a “review” as it is a plea for help...



I came close to securing an elusive copy of Drago: On Mountains we Stand. Close, but no Drago. I was finishing the late shift at the library I work at. I should digress...



For years I had heard the legend of Todd Noy in hushed whispers within the librarian community - Noy was more mystery than man. I tried to lobby the collections manager at my library to find a copy of Drago. Without me even mentioning the author, Joyce (the collections m

This isn’t so much a “review” as it is a plea for help...



I came close to securing an elusive copy of Drago: On Mountains we Stand. Close, but no Drago. I was finishing the late shift at the library I work at. I should digress...



For years I had heard the legend of Todd Noy in hushed whispers within the librarian community - Noy was more mystery than man. I tried to lobby the collections manager at my library to find a copy of Drago. Without me even mentioning the author, Joyce (the collections manager) screamed, “There is no Noy!” Such a violent response to my enquiry only heightened my curiosity. Who the hell is this Noy? I needed to know more.



Months passed, and still no Noy... After finishing my late shift at the library, located in the industrial Western suburbs of Melbourne, I walked slowly to the train station. At that time of night, the only people left on the streets were vagrants. I felt as though I shared more in common with them than my colleagues and friends. I saw in them a cold stare into the distance that suggested a mystery yet to be solved...



When the train finally arrived, it was just me and a vagrant in the carriage - the lights in the train flickering - symbolic of a dilapidated privatised system in a neoliberal world - a world not fit for Noy... I avoided making eye contact with the vagrant, but I could make out a vague mumbling that sounded like, “Need me toy, need me Toy. Where are ya Todd? Need me toy.” Two stops further down, another (presumably) vagrant hopped on the train, carrying a shopping bad in one hand, and a tattered red book in the other. The vagrant already on the train looked up, and shouted “There’s me Noy!” Suddenly it became clear that he had been mumbling “where’s me Noy?!” He ran at the other vagrant with a power and velocity Drago himself would admire, making a flying tackle, somehow perfectly finding the centre of gravity of his target, folding the man in two like a freshly ironed shirt. A scuffle ensued, the two men fighting tooth and nail for this tattered red book. In the melee, a page from the book flew into the air, and the tackler, finally overcoming his opponent, held the book aloft, screaming “I’ve got the bloody Noy!” Luckily for him, the train arrived at the next stop and he fled. A gust of wind flew in from outside as the train door closed, the page flying towards me, almost as if it was seeking refuge. The other vagrant slowly gathered himself, not noticing as I quickly shoved the single page into my pocket...



Despite being about 10kms from my home station, I was keen to get off the train as soon as possible - I felt that the vagrant would soon feel the aura of anxiety and guilt that surrounded me... I hopped off the train and pulled out the piece of paper, consumed with curiosity. Did I really have a piece of Noy? As the train pulled away, I heard a muffled scream and thumping - the vagrant saw me reading this page, joined the dots and it’s fair to say, wasn’t happy about a piece of Noy finding a new owner. The train pulled away and I was safe... for now... I must have read that page 50 times over the two hour walk home. I tripped on cracks in the pavement and walked into poles as I read that page over and over and over and over again. There was no question that this was the work of a genius. The myth was true - this was the work of a man who had seen it all, done it all, felt it all. This was the work of a man who’s universal truth was so real it just had to be fictionalised... this brings me to now. I’m about to walk into work. Please - I am desperate for a copy - of shit! Joyce is coming. Nobody at work can know about this lest I be stripped of my librarianship, but can I PLEASE get a copy of Dra