Dear reader, we return to our fracas, with Christmas only a week away, our heroes, Ces, Quent and the hapless Terry find themselves face to face with their nemesis Sophie, exalted custodian of the Fair Work Commission.

No ‘ho ho ho’, but just Sophie.

The AK 47 toting Sophie, who’s angrier than usual and about to do em in. Unless they disclose the whereabouts of the Gold destined to be paid by Gina as a bribe to ‘the firm’ and King Charles the Turd so she can get a peerage and a dose of respectability.

Will our heroes cough up?

Will they have time to engage Netflix to do a tediously over long expose of the hurt they’ve suffered as a consequence of being spoilt, rich, overdignified and rotten?

Will they be able to stare open eyed at the camera and say they’ve been slotted by ‘the firm’, before they’re slotted by Sophie? Is it one rule of compassion for ex royals and another for just ordinary folk who try and keep their heads above the filth of non-official official corruption? Decent ordinary folk who are just trying to get along?

Heaven knows, and three wise men might need more than gold, incense and myrrh to get out of this mess, cos as the Kalashnikov safety catch is off, Sophie is likely to go off faster than a Christmas cracker.  And the joke will be worse than the one inside.

Stay tuned if you DARE and read on….

 

‘One last time boys, I’ve been pretty fair with youse to date! Where’s the fucken gold’?

Not a whisper issued from our parched lips, just the sound of Sophie dragging on her Sobrani, one last big one, and then the shuffling sound as she ground the butt underneath the toe of her jackboot.

‘Well’ Ces, said, ‘we know where the gold is, it’s right above you’.

‘Hahahahah nice try!

Sorry folks I’m a non-believer, the bloke upstairs aint gonna save you, nor is the star of Bethlehem. You’ve wasted enough of my time, cos as you may know I’m, (she shouted the word at the top of her voice) ‘Fucken IMPORTANT’!

‘Seriously’! Ces pointed, ‘it’s right above you. We switched the weights, smelted the gold and put the real gold, disguised above you as lead weights.  They’re doing the job right now, on keeping the oil rig tight and upright’.

‘Nice try’.  Sophie still wasn’t convinced, for an exalted Fair Work Commissioner she took a lot of convincing.

‘Prove it!!  You have about one minute’.

Ces saw his chance, racing over to the shed, he picked up a step ladder, perched above the top holding onto the counterweight and flicked the surface with his pocketknife, and surely enough the auric gleam came through the scratches.

‘Well I’ll be’, Sophie scratched the stubble on her chin admiringly, ‘Clever boys, who would’ve thought?  Now I want youse to do for me one other small favour’, she waved the muzzle of the AK,’ Cut it down and give it to me’.

She waved the muzzle again, ‘no funny business.

Just do it nice’, and she paused to add weight and emphasis; ‘do it nice and Slow’ !

Eyes were on Ces as he undid the shackle that supported the counterweight. He asked, ‘for everyone’s sake stand back, when the counterweight is released, the derrick may get a little unsteady’. Sophie just ignored the request, ‘let me be the judge of that cos I’m a Fair Work Commissioner’, and busied herself in lighting another Sobrani.

‘Just get me the fucken gold and we’ll talk terms later’!!

‘Allright then as you wish’. Terry and Quent, just stood forlornly.

‘Be careful Ces, that’s a lot of gold and you don’t wanna injure yerself’ Terry was worried with the ladder perched so precariously.

‘Shut up all of youse’! Sophie Commanded.  I’ll be the judge of that, as I’m also on the board of WORKSAFE’!

She had a point, there wasn’t a taxpayer funded board nor sinecure Sophie didn’t have a finger in.  Like Angus she’d learnt the benefits of monetising office. The Coalition were masters at the game.

But just, and at that moment three things happened. The shackle broke. Ces lost his balance as the counterweight landed smack bang on the ladder itself. Ces shot sideways like a catapult. The gold landed with a thud crushing the ladder to a mangled mess. And Ces, splayed and stunned cannoned obliquely by the force straight into the pudginess of Sophie who softened the collision and possibly saved Ces from serious injury via her generous protective coating. Her Michelin-man of torso of exalted fat.

Fat and fate collided.

With such ferocity both Sophie and her Kalashnikov thrown to the air, fell in a forlorn heap just beyond the shadows of Quent and Terry.  Who both stood gob-smacked by the divine and entirely unexpected reprieve. They looked at Ces and Sophie, both bodies inert.  And wasting no time ran in the opposite direction picked up the counterweight and flung it into the fuselage of the Rotodyne.

‘Good thing’!  Ces remarked as he groggily arose.  Sophie still concussed as a consequence of the impact, ‘help me tie her up and we’ll work out a plan later, even inert she’s still Dangerous and liable to GO OFF at the tick of a clock’.

Expertly, Terry applied, Gaffer, tape, electrical cord and actual rope and before we could say ‘St Wenceslas’, he had her trussed up like a Christmas Turkey. ‘Many happy returns’! He slapped Ces and Quent on the back.  ‘All we have to do is get this baby fired up and we’re out of here’.

And not a moment too soon, for in the distance they heard the distinct sound of aeroplane engines. Not any ordinary engines, but the throaty roar of Twin inline Gypsy majors, Twin Gypsys’; with the air cooled inverted six thrusting a whopping 200 hp each as it made its approach.

‘We might have to leave Sophie here’! They looked at the crumpled heap of jackboot and Fat. Compassion suggested they take her with them.  Logic suggested she stay behind.

They were stumped, though she promised them instant death, they were caught between the moral dilemma, and the test.  The ultimate test of humanity v survival had arrived. And they found themselves wanting.

Can they take off and leave Sophie behind?

Or is there still a trick up her pudgy designer label sleeve?

Find out in the next episode; ‘Sophie and Christmas Crackers are both liable to go off’. Or;  ‘A Sophie in the sun should be well cooked and rare’.