Dear reader,

 

We return to our saga without an overlong preamble.

The overlong preamble department has also suffered sackings under Elon’s watch. 

If we had an over- long preamble, we might be able to string the narrative out and engage curiosity.  Instead, we must economise, and through efficiencies get to the point. This episode is brought to you by Power- Point and Face- book. Find it on the Meta-verse, or worse. 

 

We continue where we left off….

In no time at all our heroes found themselves soaring above the desert wastelands of Western Australia. And just in the nick of time, because they had barely minutes to roll the trussed and bound carapace of Sophie on board before the De Havilland Dragon rapide made its arrival. And who might be on board the Dragon rapide?

Was it ‘Brenny-boy Nelson’, poster boy of the AWM and ‘Benny-Boy Roberts Smith his stooge at the wheel?

Or Clifford the smooth-talking pommy assassin from MI 5?

Or perhaps Gina herself?

Hell bent on revenge and incensed that her plan to be parachuted onto the House of Lords with a peerage had been thwarted again, by none other than Sophie (there’s professor in your back paddock) Mirabella.

Gina by rights would be furious and incandescent with rage, and if she wasn’t behind the wheel of the rapide perhaps it was Nev of the ‘Gas Led Recovery’. As Gina’s right-hand gas- jet, he too had enough grudge to settle it once and for all with our hapless trio.

Or as an outside chance, could it be Angus?

Angus had a hand in everything, so why shouldn’t he have a hand in the Princes’ shonky deal and the gold? Only a Cayman island investor with a Jam-land pedigree could have that kind of reach.

There were so many variables and with the head of the crime syndicate Windsor Inc and Charles, ‘the chinless wonder’ now parachuted to kingly status. He could now have them executed with just a tilt of his middle finger or worse.  If Vlad was busy impaling on the western front then King Charles the turd would have to go one better. That’s what power is all about, and they don’t get much more powerful than the Windsor’s. Even Prince Harry wields more press coverage than Ukraine and it stands to reason. Nothing more interesting to the public than a Prince who’s sore on his privileges and his divine right to come the raw prawn. That’s why Australia needs Gina as a head of state or at the very least on the House of Lords to show us all how to respect power and authority. We’ve tried with first nations Australians for nigh on two centuries and a half and they still show no respect whatsoever for all the good we’ve done for em.

Are some injustices are just too knotty to unknot? That’s the knotty question.

So whereto from here?

The Rotodyne roared, and in seconds the piercing scream of the rotors, (each rotor individually equipped with tip placed turbine)  retros’ made an audible scream, as it lunged upwards. The power of this machine was remarkable, and as we watched spellbound, we could see the De Havilland rapide recede. It just couldn’t match the power and aggressive roar of the Rotodyne. It was as if the stone age stood still, and progress itself was embodied in the sleek stressed aluminium and titanium shell. We were rocketing out of harms way and for the rest of the world everything was reduced and immaterial. Yet the hourglass emptied with a lassitudinous air. For time cared nought for our individual struggle.  We mere specks amid the ferment. And counted, as the Australian taxpayer stands amidst the titans of ‘big coal’,  ‘big gas’, ‘big oil’ and ‘big property’….. for nothing.

‘You fucken bastards, let me out here I’m gonna fucken make your lives a misery’!!

Our consciousness returned to reality, we had Sophie. Our bargaining chip or our albatross?

With her ladyship trussed up in the rear, we returned to reality, ‘Quick Terry make this thing go faster, and keep low, you don’t want anyone picking this up on radar or we’ll have the might of AUKUS after us’. Obligingly Terry lowered the angle of the rotor and we skimmed across the salt bush at barely fifty feet. Terry’s aptitude for flying was exemplified by his knuckles, bleached white as he gripped the steering wheel, the butt of a camel still clenched between his lips..

‘Youse bastards, wait till me hubby gets ya’!!

‘Be quiet’! Ces admonished, and for his pains the baggage kicked him savagely in the chins….’You bastard’! But being a gentleman, he pleaded; ‘I wish you wouldn’t be so beastly Sophie’, and then searching for the right epithet, commanded, “its … it’s unbecoming’.

It was reassuring to know that Prince Andrews epithet about gentlemanliness had rubbed off on our trio, as it made them feel that whatever expediency they now faced, they were well and assuredly on the side of righteousness.

‘I’ll fucken get you thrown into the worst jail in the country! Don Dale ‘ll be a fucken holiday camp after I’ve finished with ya, and I’ll make sure every one of youse PAYS FOR THIS!! I’m gonna fucken de- ball ya, and then stick ya with my stiletto’s till your guts run out your noses’!!

Ces had had enough and noticing the cargo doors ajar firmly closed them and all we could hear was a muffled warbling akin to an Indian Minah being squashed in a wool press.

What are we gonna do’? Ces enquired, ‘and have we got enough fuel to get us to Darwin?

‘I dunno’ Terry phlegmatically replied. He tapped the fuel gauge, the needle pointed encouragingly upwards, and Terry reassured us; ‘at this rate we’ve got enough to get us to Darwin, or’, he checked his watch and the direction of the sun, ‘even Indonesia in a pinch’.

‘Good oh’! Ces beamed. ‘Let’s try and get to Bali, at least there we can melt into the subculture and with a bit of luck the thing might blow over’.

Will things blow over? Or is blowing over just blowing in the wind?

Find out in our next windy episode.

‘Three sheets to the wind’, or; ‘what doesn’t blow you down might blow you up’!