Dear reader,

incredibly we’re finding ourselves a little bit a Donbas short of the Kherson.

For no sooner are our heroes free than they find themselves un- freed again. ‘Is freedom just another word for nothing less to lose’?  As Janis Joplin so famously said before topping herself. Or is being ‘free’ just another four-letter word. In the United States there are several words for Freedom and yet in Russia, they have almost as many words for freedom than the Eskimo’s have for snow. We haven’t, got time to go through all the definitions right now, for with the recent reappearance of our anti-heroes Julian and Benny boy, the sense of freedom is nothing more than a sensation.  Like democracy in Australia? A shibboleth determined by the highest bidder.  Franking credits anyone?

It’s a shocking turn of events, but nothing worse than Scott Morrison still receiving a parliamentary salary to do a Vince Gair on us all down the track. Win or lose, there’s another roll of the dice, and we have it on good authority that Crown Resorts may yet have a stake in that place where robbery goes by the name of ‘corporate governance’. Is that a Transurban moment you say?

We return to our saga, with more pickle than found in a pork barrel in a marginal seat and rolling steadfastly towards a teal-coloured false dawn. For we have it on reliable evidence that Dawn on Uranus, (not Mars) is of a greenish tinge.

 

We all feel tinged.   We return to our saga.

 

 

‘Well, Well’, Benny Boy said it again for effect. ‘Fancy meeting youse here, The Three Stooges’!

He sniggered. Ces, Terry and I did feel a little awkward, but this comment, said with a particular venom made us feel uneasy.  If we were the designated ‘Three Stooges’, who was the ringleader? Was it Ces, who had an eye for strategy, was he the putative Moe? And then, which begged the question, who was Curly?  Could it be Terry and his Camels, or Larry?  Was that Quent with his tousled hair, sensing the awkwardness? Terry had a masterstroke, reaching into his coat pockets, he offered Julian and Benny-Boy a Camel.

 

They greedily took the pack from Terry’s fingers and within seconds, without so much as a bye your leave, lit up. The ensuing smoke established a fug around this scene. A lone Land Cruiser, five figures and the earthly glow of the plume atop the gas rig.

‘Whatchyagot in the ute’?

Benny asked, the cigarette dripping from his bottom lip, the ribbon of the VC clearly visible against the dull khaki of his combat fatigues.  Ces stood firm, ‘it looks to be a consignment of ingots destined to the chinless wonder from Windsor’. Benny nodded affirmation.  ‘Yeah, I’d heard about this racket, almost as organised than the one that got me this’. He fingered the ribbon of the VC, now held as a talisman around his neck. He smiled sardonically; ‘with the right connections, you can be sure of almost anyfink’?

Before we could wince at his grammatical inexactitude, he felt the handle of his bayonet, hung carelessly around his waist. ‘So whatchya gonna do? Return the stuff to her ladyship, or give it to the chinless wonder’?

‘You mean King Charles the turd’, Terry chipped in. ‘Show a little respect.

 

‘Yeah, his fucken Majesty’ Benny retorted, ‘not a patch on his ma’. And then reflectively, ‘but I spose a better judge of character than his brother Andrew’.

It was curious, here was Benny and Julian, desperadoes in every sense, yet all of us, in this moment of strife could agree that the Duke of York was not the full toss. In fact, in Royal terms, bit of an underarm delivery in a limited overs match.  Benny continued with his train of thought. ‘What’s to say the ingots get side-tracked? There’s a couple of me mates on the subcontinent, who’d like a crack at this’! He wandered over to the tray, ripping over the tarp and surveyed the gleaming bars.  “And I reckon you stooges’, he spat the words out with some venom, ‘are just the mugs to get slotted’. With that Julian stepped in and laughed in an unhinged kinda way.  We winced, he’d clearly gone soft after all those years of solitary and just wanted more notoriety, it was sad to see him, reduced to social media to being just a rusk of his former self,

 

‘Yeah, we can do a lot with this dough, and if we convert it to bitcoin’? With that he made a muffled ‘hurrumph’ as Benny punched him in the ribs. ‘There’ll be no bitcoin, I’m takin this lot to Crown resorts, no questions asked and getting it converted to U.S Dollars, and if you shut the fuck up, you might get a cut. Get me Julian’?

 

Julian looked suitably stunned and nodded affirmation; ‘Yes Benny, I understand’.

 

 

‘So, it looks to me boys’, he stood upright, and we could see the grenades, the smoke projectiles, the RPG, the old Lee Enfield .303 Sons of Anzac sacred rifle the MP 40 and the Bren gun waggle as he moved.  ‘Boys, we have a little problem, and I think you can help us along. D’ya like the sound of that’?

We all nodded loke imbeciles, it was best to play it straight with Benny, Ces looked around noticed the absence of cliffs, that was reassuring, at least we’d have a chance rather than being rolled off.

We looked up, and the light was getting brighter. ‘Well then Benny boy whatever we do we’d better hurry, for by sunup, Brendan might be hauling back in the rapide with Clifford and the gold, and if he finds us here, were rooted’.

Benny laughed, in a jocular but menacing way… ‘Yup, Times ticking’…

What will happen next?

Will Benny pilfer the gold?

Can the trio survive?

Will Julian ever straighten his reputation for being a shagger rather than just a naughty boy?

Find out in the next episode; ‘Time’s out for the Timorous’, or ‘Three Stooges and you’ve half an Essendon Football Club Board’, when we return with the next compelling episode of Pcbycp….(the thinking person’s Global Times)