ferals

I fucken love getting into the bush and getting rid of feral vermin.

Like the two goats that I got up north - the poxy vegetation destroying, desert creating cunts. It would have been nice to have an SLR or an M60 and really have give it to the rest of the fuckers in the mob these cunts were in- about fourty of the maggots - eating up the bush, as is, I didn't. So...

The borrowed Tojo, a station hack, rattled to a halt, which was good, as the brakes didn't work- at all, pedal to the floor with no pressure stuff - you had to rely on the gears, and turning it off at the right time when you wanted to stop. Which wasn't problem if you knew the track. Dead fucken flat for a hundred and fifty kays. Except the creek lines, that is. Roo jumps in front of you - it's fucked - Skippy the flat kangaroo -the old jappa's a tank. The boys at the farm used to keep up with maintenance as much as ya can in the back blocks, but when the nearest town is 500k's away a gearbox takes precedent over shit like brakes. Easiest way I've ever changed a gearbox was up there... what do you do? Here's the procedure...

• get the fucking crane ( yep - no brakes either)
  
• hook a chain around the front spring hangers
• lift the fucker up so its arse is still just on the ground
  
• rip the fucked cunt out
• chop the floor and the bit around the gearstick out with the gas axe so the new fucker'll fit in sweet as
  
• chuck the 'new' (read ratted from another nearly the same model) cunt in
  
• drop it back on the deck
• take it for a test blatt - (with ya mate changing cogs with a big screwdriver while you negotiate the no brakes bit - yep all the vehicles didn't have them)
  

Anyway...the ute rolls to a stop in a cloud of dust, flies and the sort of dust that you get on a fifty degree day in the Gulf. The engine choppily cuts out as I kill the ignition. Silence descends, except for the buzzing of the fucking dunny budgies - swarms of the cunts, and the dust slowly drifts off in the slight breeze, which should smell fresh and clean - as I'm in the middle of fucking no-where, but instead reeks of stinky goat.

And there the cunts are...

About 400 meters away, and, obviously , upwind of me. The vegetation is sparse low trees of about 15 foot high, no ground cover or vegetation below the browse line, due to the previously mentioned cunty evil eyed fuckers efforts. Cunts of fucking things - (I had a pet one once but that another yarn).

So I had to stalk up on them, quietly, and slowly - moving only when the wind blew - the sound of the wind, the buzzing of the flies if I happened to disturb the ones covering my back - and the soft bleating of the parasites in front of me is the only sound apart from my breath, which seems loud to me. Getting ever closer... and closer... a circle of rocks and pile of old shells catches my eye as I pass by. A campsite of the original indigenous occupants of this remote country. What must life had been like for them in ages past up here, where I have seen railway line telegraph poles bent flat to the ground by the cyclones that regularly pass through, for folks that live in a stone age society?

The mob is close now, fifty feet - I move slower, more mindful of the wind eddies, direction and what shadows exist or are cast, their unalarmed mindless bleating continues, dumb cunts... thirty feet, moving like a ghost, every step taking an age, whenever their collective eyes are averted - freezing if they raise a head, glance up or a stray wind eddy passes over...

Twenty feet. The two biggest cunts are standing close to each other. One is a clearer shot, but is a bit smaller (horn wise) and further away. He is getting edgy - his closer mate is still oblivious the dumb cunt, what a fucking crayfish...

I sight up, carefully... as I don't want to fuck their horns up...

And..

Shoot the furthest one in the neck, it does a wheel stand and drops like a fucken rock. The mob freezes, alert and looking. I freeze as well. I'm a tree, part of the landscape. They ignore their recently deceased mate, now laying and still occasionally twitching at their feet, and go back to their stupid bleating and eating - dumb cunts.

As soon as they get on with their, in some cases - short, lives - the other big cunt gets it in the neck as well. Some fucking group leaders they were - " don't worry it's cool - we're in the middle of nowhere. there's no cunt here" - anyways the rest of them bailed quick time.

Geez the cunts stink on a hot day when you're dressing them out. I got a sheila tourist who happened to be visiting to hold their heads while I cut the horns out of the skulls with a hacksaw.

Later on, after a few beverages we looked at the stars and had a pissing competition to see who could do the best pissrings and write their name in the dust in the most artistically and ethically pleasing way.

Fuck I love going bush. Roll on the next trip.