Dear reader, we’re back again with a vengeance, this episode is sponsored by everyone and everything, (via royal decree) that comes with a Third.
Charles 111 prototype monogram. Still waiting for Buckingham palace approval. Would look good outside any Post Office or Court House. Only problem: what does the ‘C’ stand for?
With precious little time before the balloon goes up on all the bullion destined for the house of Windsor, and Gina and Twiggy’s bid to get a seat in the House of Lords, our desperate heroes make their way back to Hancock prospecting oil rig. Their only hope, to get there and return the ingots in the back of the ute before Brendan squeals and the plutocrats from Perth are baying blood.
It’s a tough gig way out west, and as any local will tell you, when there’s gold between you and the prize, you’d better either duck, run or get processed by CSR and Bex.
Desperate to get there before sunup our heroes bleary eyed and buggered have thrown their last hat, played their last card, and rolled their last dice. Will their destiny be as dicey as the Timor gap negotiations and Alex Downers listening in? Will they be freed, and live to inhale the air of freedom as the people of Tibet now do joyous in the embrace of the CCP do so? Will they be enfranchised and free as the recently acquired territory of eastern Ukraine? Only time can tell and the sand its dripping through the hourglass whilst the clock tok tiks inexorably… Find out in this next impulsive episode; ‘Go west young man and get out of my sight’!
Rolf. A visionary for the modern era
‘I dunno’, Ces murmured as he gripped the wheel of the land cruiser, ‘by my reckoning we should be there about now’. His colleagues Quent and Terry just puffed on their Camels as the Toyota subsumed in a cloud of dust rumbled and rattled down the corduroy tracks in search of the oil rig. ‘Look for a plume, a flash of light’! Ces looked at his watch; ‘only an hour or two before sunup! We don’t wanna get caught out I the open if Brenny-boy returns with the rapide’?
They anxiously looked out the rear window, noticed the stars twinkling in the crisp cold air of the hinterland, and hoped that somewhere out in the celestial mantle, a star twinkled for their providence. It had been a long night, but they all knew that unless the stash was returned it would be an perpetual night if they failed to reach their rendezvous.
Visionary. Rolf always had a handle on threes. And Royal turds.
‘There it is’!! Terry actually removed the Camel to make the observation and pointing with his nicotine-stained finger we discerned the dull glow diffused by the mulga. They sped towards the plume and reassured themselves that they still had a chance. A slim chance, a wafer-thin chance, but a chancey-chance nonetheless. Well, put it this way a chance that they, like the management of Crown who were up to their nostrils in shonky, illegal and corrupt practices could still hold their license. Or the chance that whatever Wayne Carey had in the little plastic band was Dettol sprinkled with Whizz Fizz.
The Toyota screeched to a halt. ‘Just back it into the shed and pretend it’s always been there, in the meantime I’ll try and find a way of starting the other vehicle’. And as they bounded out and replaced the tarp, covering the bullion and gathered their things they scarcely noticed the shadow that passed between them. It was only when Ces fiddled with the ignition on the other land cruiser, that he noticed something odd. ‘What’s this’? he remarked, removing a prosthetic limb from under the in instrument panel, he looked at it, turned it round and felt the splash of warm beer as it splashed upon the seat. ‘Someone’s been drinking from this, and by the looks of it’…..
Translation; ‘Three Coins tossed in the fountain at Crown Casino’! ‘Enter the draw and we’ll put you in the draw for a possie on the Crown Board. Association with known criminal syndicates an advantage’.
No sooner, had he uttered the words, than the shadowy figure stood forth, silhouetted in the dull glow of the plume of burning gas. Quent and Terry were too busy loading the tent and the cooking gear into the tray of the ute to notice, but Ces gasped. He knew the familiar outline, the massive bulk, the profile, the square set jaw and the swagger and more ominously, etched out from the dull glow the semi-automatic, the .303 a relic from the ‘Glorious Sons of Daughters of Anzackery light and Sound Exhibition’, and the brace of grenades hanging like the baubles of a Christmas tree around his waist.
‘Well well well’, the figure said. ‘Fancy meeting youse again’! In one instant they knew by the corruption of grammar and idiom tarnished by years of war experience, who it was, they didn’t need to say it for in the next instance it was made abundantly clear.
‘Me and Julian, aint arf surprised in finding youse, he always said you’d come back, and now you have what have youse to say for yourselves’? From behind the massive bulk of Benny-boy, now clearly visible in the dawns first light walked Julian, he had a smirk on his face and with a flick of the wrist tossed the rollie from his lip, ‘yep, now it’s your turn’. He pointed to the three heroes; ‘and this time no slip ups’.
Will the trio escape from this one? Will the future king get his ingots? Will Gina and Twiggy get a seat via gold ingots and a gong from the UK’s leading the Crime family, the deceptively named; ‘Windsors’, and get a possie and a couple of medals to sit in the House of Lords?
Find out in the next vice-regal episode, ‘inside the royal chamber…..pot’, or “three tossers tossed trajectoratedly into the fountain”