WAR MACHINE

A machine, like a cross between a wooden tank and a battleship, appears at Glen Hartwell

Dennis DuBeck, at a hundred and fifty-five centimetres tall, as its founder and leader, was a giant of a man at the LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society. The society have recently re-enacted many famous battles, but today, May 12, 2025, dressed as knights of old, some in papier-mâché suits of armour, some in more realistic chain mail, and some in Sherwood Forest green for some reason, were planning to they were going to defend Camelot against invading hordes of Bretons (French).
Marcus Youngblood (Marconius) was the leader of the Breton army, a tall, lanky man with long red hair, which, like Marsha's, he tied in a long ponytail, in defiance of historic accuracy.
"How come we have to be the froggies?" demanded Marconius.
"Because I'm the leader of the LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society," replied Dennis (Sir Lancelot) DuBeck, "and I say so."
"Yeah, so take it or leave," said Dennis's loyal second in command, Kenneth Maudsley (Sir Galahad). "Besides, it was my family who built the Camelot set."
He pointed to a rickety-looking two-storey wooden fort.
"Are you sure that's safe to go inside?" asked Kenneth's wife, Marsha (Sir Kay), a tall, thirty-something, Amazonian brunette wearing her long hair in a ponytail.
"Of course, my love," said Sir Galahad. "Don't forget, my family are builders going back generations."
"I don't know,' said Sir Galahad, "it looks to me as though Jenny has gone insane overbuilding again."
"Sire, when we're role-playing, she likes to be called Genevieve, not Jenny."
"I don't care if she likes to be called King Kong, she has the habit of going mad when she's building."
"But, sire, my brothers and uncles helped out. It's as sound as the Aussie dollar."
"Which is worth about fifty-five cents American at the moment," said Marcus Youngblood, unable to miss a chance to cause trouble.
"Shut up!" said Marsha, feeling the need to defend her husband, even though she secretly agreed with Dennis's concerns.
"Have you decided what name you're using today as leader of the Breton forces?" asked Sir Lancelot.
"Charlemagne, King of the Bretons, naturally."
"Trust you to pick the most famous Breton night," accused Galahad.
"And from completely the wrong period," accused Lancelot. "Camelot was from the fifth or sixth century AD. Charlemagne was in the eighth century."
"So what?" demanded Charlemagne (Marcus). "You said yourself, the re-enactments don't have to be one hundred percent accurate."
"Oh, come on!" demanded Galahad (Kenneth).
"Oh come on, yourself!" replied Marcus, never one to back down in an argument. His strongest suit, as a re-enactment gamer.
"Very well, you can be Charlemagne," conceded Lancelot (Dennis).
"What about the castle, Sire?" asked Sir Kay (Marsha).
"We'll defend it ... from the outside."
"Yes," said Sir Kay, throwing her right arm into the air as a victory salute.
"But, sire," pleaded Galahad, "Genevieve and my family worked so hard on it."
"Which is why we shall still use it," said Sir Lancelot. "But I'm damned if I'll risk setting foot inside it. And a good commander never sends his troops where he himself refuses to go."
"Here, here!" said Charlemagne, who hoped to drive a wedge between Lancelot and Galahad.
"Very well, sire," said Galahad sadly.
Now, Sir Kay, call your Chivalry to attention!"
"My chivalry to attention!" called Marsha-Kay. "Stand to attention, you worthless knight-wannabees!"
Which had the desired effect of bringing them to order!
"Excellent, Sir Kay. Now, Sir Galahad!"
"My chivalry to attention!" shrieked Kenneth-Galahad, terrifying his 'troops' into line.
"Excellent. My chivalry!" shouted Dennis Lancelot.
As the most experienced of the re-enactment gamers, they snapped to attention briskly.
"Excellent," pointing at the wooden 'castle', he said. "We shall defend Camelot ... from the outside."
"Thank God!" said a few of the Britons.
"Now, Charlemagne, take your troops out into the forest and try taking Camelot."
"Or destroying it," encouraged Sir Kay.
"Marsha! I mean, Sir Kay, my family spent weeks building that, don't encourage the Breton swine to destroy it."
Ignoring her husband, Sir Kay shouted to Charlemagne's retreating Breton army, "Remember they had fire arrows in those days."
"Honey!" called a dismayed Sir Galahad.
"Galahad," cautioned Sir Lancelot as their chivalries were sent around the rickety fortress to guard it, "don't refer to Sir Kay as Honey. Such things were frowned upon in the days of yore."
"Sorry, Sire," said Sir Galahad, running to catch up with his chivalry who had been sent to guard the rear of Camelot.
After half an hour or so, Charlemagne's Bretons tried a sneak attack around the rear of the castle, surprised to find Kenneth (Sir Galahad)'s chivalry waiting for them.
"Looks like Sir Lancelot is smarter than he acts," said Charlemagne, attacking Galahad's chivalry with his own.
"Lancelot is the smartest knight of the realm," said Galahad.
"Maybe in the British realm," said Charlemagne, "but not in the French realm, haw, haw, haw."
"That is the worst French accent I have ever heard," said Kenneth, slipping out of character. "I'm fairly certain a great knight like Charlemagne would not have said, 'haw, haw, haw'."
"What do yew knew, British pig dog," said Charlemagne (Marcus), deciding to camp it up Monty Python style.
"At least try to stay in character," pleaded Galahad, "I know you're not very skilled at this."
"Haw, haw, haw, that's what you say, British swine," said Charlemagne.
Hearing the skirmish from the front of the fortress, Sir Lancelot (Dennis) said to Sir Kay, "Take your chivalry around to help out Galahad. My chivalry shall stay here, in case this is just a feint to get us to leave the front of the castle undefended."
"Sire!" said Kay (Marsha), before leading her troops around to the rear of the Jerry-built castle.
After twenty minutes or so of fighting, Sir Lancelot was considering sending his chivalry around to help defeat the Breton hordes. When, from out of the forest, on the left of Camelot, he heard a sound like loud machinery, then a crash of trees.
"There's not supposed to be any logging in this area, Sire," said one of Lancelot's troops, a tall, gangly, brown-haired man of forty-something, Tony a.k.a. Sir Gawain.
"No, there isn't," agreed Lancelot, "it's an old-growth forest!"
He started to swagger across toward the forest on the left, when suddenly, with great Lemon-Scented, Blue, and Red gums flying around like matchsticks, out of the forest came the War Machine: Thirty metres long, eight metres high, ten metres wide, it looked like a huge wooden battleship, apart from having massive tank-style metallic tracks with metallic cog wheels working the tracks.
"What the Hell?" asked Sir Gawain, as his leader came charging back, shouting:
"Run for your lives, Charlemagne is a bloody cheat! He should have had this thing approved first by the re-enactment society council before using it in a battle."
Around the rear of Camelot, the Britons and the Bretons stopped fighting to stare in amazement as the War Machine suddenly shattered its way out of the old-growth forest.
"Lancelot is a bloody cheat!" shouted Charlemagne (Marcus). "He should have had this thing approved first by the re-enactment society council before using it in a battle."
As both sides retreated, the War Machine wheeled its way up to, then straight through the Jerry-built castle. Then, spinning on its tracks, it finished reducing Camelot to kindling.
"I told you it was Jerry-built!" cried Sir Kay (Marsha).
"In fairness, Honey ... Sir Kay, Buck Palace wouldn't have lasted long against that thing!" said Galahad (Kenneth). "You're a bloody cheat, Marcus ... Charlemagne! You should have had this thing approved by the re-enactment society council first, before using it in a battle."
"This isn't my doing!" insisted the Breton leader. "It's that bloody cheat, Lancelot, who had it built!"
"No way!" said Sir Kay. "Lancelot sticks to the rules."
"Besides, he would have had it built by my family, so I would have known about it," insisted Galahad.
"And it would have fallen apart long before now," teased Sir Kay.
"Honey!" said an embarrassed Kenneth Maudsley. "Not in front of the Breton swine."
As they were talking, one of three turrets atop the War Machine swung toward them.
"What the Hell can a wooden battleship fire?" demanded Marcus Youngblood.
"Wooden bombs?" guessed Marsha Maudsley correctly.
And, on cue, the War machine started to fire a procession of bowling ball-sized wooden spheres toward the re-enactment gamers.
"Take cover!" cried Kenneth. They're big enough to kill you!"
As was proven, when one of the wooden spheres landed amongst the unchivalrous chivalries, which had started to run away. The sphere exploded, killing three of the gamers and sending six or seven others flying through the air.
"Run for your lives!" shouted Dennis DuBeck as one of the three wooden turrets on the War Machine spun around to start firing wooden bombs at his chivalry.

Over at the Mitchell Street Police Station in Glen Hartwell, the five cops were sitting around the huge blackwood desk that took up half of the front room, getting stuck into tea or coffee and cheese croissants.
"Mrs. M. sure spoils you lot rotten," said Suzette Cummings, an eighteen-year-old trainee with long raven hair.
"Yeah, she's a great cook," said Colin Klein. At forty-nine, Colin, a tall redheaded Englishman, had only worked for the police force for a year or so, and had been dating Terri for most of that time.
"The best between here and Melbourne," agreed Terri Scott. A tall, ash blonde of thirty-six, Terri was the top cop of the area.
"And you can thank me," said her second in command, Sheila Bennett. Also thirty-six, Sheila was a Goth chick with orange-and-black striped hair. "I'm Mrs. M.'s favourite, so she makes certain we're all well fed."
"We bow to you, Oh Great One!" said Paul Bell, a tall, dark-haired sergeant close to retirement age. He stood and did an exaggerated bow.
"I choose to take that as a genuine compliment," said Sheila. "And not the crass sarcasm that it sounded like."
"Actually, I'm gonna miss this haute cuisine when I retire at the end of the year."
"Can't we convince you to stay another year or so?" pleaded Terri.
"Sorry, but as much fun as it's been fighting monsters and maniacs, over the last forty-five years or so in Glen Hartwell, I am looking forward to retiring to Bondi Beach to have fun and sun."
"Bondi?" cried Sheila, shocked. "That's in New South Wanker."
"She means New South Wales," explained Colin.
"That's where my family originally came from, and my brothers and sisters all live."
"You traitor," teased Sheila.
"Settle down, Sheils," said Terri, just as her mobile phone blared.
"Saved by the screeching," said Colin.
Terri opened her mobile and started to talk for a few minutes. before saying, "That was Kenneth Maudsley over at LePage, The LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society has been attacked by some kind of wooden monster."
"Wooden monster?" said Suzette. "Can I come with?"
"Sure, I'll man the phones," offered Paul Bell.
"I've been telling them for two years," said Sheila, grabbing a couple of cheese croissants as they stood to leave, "they should give up battle re-enacting and stick to draughts or Chinese checkers."
"It'd be much safer," agreed Suzette as they headed out into Mitchell Street.
When Terri's police-blue Lexus GX reached the war site, they found all of Glen Hartwell's six ambulances plus a plethora of medics and paramedics on site.
"As always the last on site," said Julia Prescott, a tall, muscular, twenty-eight-year-old redheaded paramedic.
"That's it, I'm swinging for her," said Sheila, advancing upon Julia.
"You can't, there's no death penalty in Australia," said Terri, as she and Colin tried to get between the two warring females.
"Even better, I can do twenty years, for justifiable homicide, standing on my head."
"Wouldn't you get dizzy long before twenty years?" asked Julia, backing out of range of the enraged Goth chick.
"Sarky bitch!" cried Sheila, only just being held back by Terri and Colin.
"Calm down, Sheils," said Tilly Lombstrom, a tall, attractive, fifty-something brunette, and a top surgeon at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. "We've got enough war victims here already, without you and Jules starting another one."
"So, what happened?" asked Terri Scott, following Tilly across to the patient she was treating.
"According to the survivors, exploding wooden bowling balls."
"Say what now?" asked Sheila, having allowed herself to be dragged after them by Colin.
"Fired by a giant wooden battleship, but with tank-like wooden tracks," said Kenneth Maudsley.
"A giant wooden battleship?" demanded Colin.
"That's what everybody is saying," said Stanlee Dempsey, a tall forty-something sergeant with raven hair.
"There are track prints over here," said Drew Braidwood, a tall, gangly blond constable, leading them across to the kindling that had been a Jerry-built Camelot.
"There's also a tunnel, for want of a better word, over there," said Suzette Cummings, pointing behind them. "As though something massive has ploughed through the old-growth trees to get here."
"Has anyone investigated it?" asked Terri.
"Jessie Baker and Don Esk went that way twenty minutes ago, and haven't returned yet," said Drew.
"Which suggests it goes for kilometres," said Colin.
Eventually, Jessie Baker and Don Esk returned.
"How'd you go?" asked Sheila.
"To misquote The Who," said Jessie, a tall ox of a man with flame red hair, "we could see for kilometres and kilometres!"
"Whatever did the damage did not come from nearby," affirmed Don, a tall, strong man with shoulder-length dark brown hair.
"It was a gigantic wooden battleship, with wooden tank tracks, which fired exploding wooden bowling balls!" insisted Kenneth Maudsley.
"Calm down, Honey," said Marsha, holding him still as Tilly gave him a knockout injection.
The police stayed there until late in the afternoon, helping to transport the injured and dying to the hospital, then Terri asked, "So who wants to go on a wooden battleship hunt?"
She stuck her right hand up in the air, then, after a few seconds' moaning, all of the other cops did the same.
"Good," said Terri, grinning, "that way I don't have to nominate volunteers."
"How can you nominate volunteers against their will?" asked Drew Braidwood as they headed toward three cars: Terri's Lexus, Don Esk's rusty blue Land Rover and Stanlee's white Range Rover.
"I don't know," said Don, but the Chief manages it.
"CentreLink orders people to volunteer," said Terri, "so why can't I?"
"CentreLink orders the unemployed to help age pensioners," said Drew.
"Who are living in the lap of luxury, compared to the unemployed," pointed out Terri.
"She's got you by the happy sacks there, Drew," said Sheila with a laugh.
After they had been driving through the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest for ten minutes or so, Sheila said:
"This is quite a convenient shortcut from LePage to Lenoak actually."
"Apart from the devastation to the hundreds of old-growth trees that have been ravaged by the wooden battleship, or whatever it is," said Terri.
"You can't please everyone," said the Goth chick under her breath.

Nearly seventy Aborigines of the Werrawerra Tribe, outside BeauLarkin, were taking part in a special corroboree to celebrate the approach of winter a couple of weeks away, to beseech the Dream-Time gods to give them a bountiful winter with plenty of good food, but not enough rain to drench them and make them sick.
"I like the idea of good tucker," said Donny Muttaburra, a seventeen-year-old buck, unable to take his eyes away from the opulent breasts of the elder women in the tribe. Usually, corroborees were single sex; both the importance of this meant that women and men both attended.
"Unfortunately, Neptune's Fish and Chipatorium in Blackland Glen Hartwell no longer makes decent tucker," said Devon Djawan. "Not since poor Lino DiPucci got murdered, and his widow sold up and moved away."
Smiling broadly at the two youths, Sally Mudbra, a sixty-something lubra with enormous naked breasts, swivelled her torso slight side to side, to make them sway, enjoying they way Donny's eyes went side to side to watch them, like a spectator at a tennis match.
"Stop teasing him," said Toni Mudbra, her younger sister.
"Why?" demanded Sally. "He enjoys watching my big tits, and I enjoy him watching them. Especially in the cold weather."
"Jesus, look at the nipples on her," said Devon, "they're like thumbs."
"Now, they're what I call good eatin' tonight," said Donny, and the two youths laughed into their hands.
"You can say that again."
"I would," said Donny, "but I'm still tittering from the first time."
At the word titter, both youths almost wet themselves laughing.
"Well, they seem to be enjoying themselves," said Sally with a broad grin.
"Enjoying your chest, you mean," said Toni, unamused.
"You think so," teased the older lubra. She swivelled her upper half again, making her enormous breasts sway seductively from side to side.
"Jesus, look at that!" said Devon. Then, when Donny didn't answer, he looked at him and asked, "What's the matter?"
"Looking down at his crossed legs, where he sat on the ground, Donny said, "I think I just came from excitement."
At that, Devon fell over onto his back from laughter.
"Well, you've made their day!" said Toni sarcastically.
"I wouldn't mind making their night as well," said Sally. Her nipples no longer hardened merely from the cold weather.
"You pervo! You're three times their age!" said Toni.
"Not if I have them together," insisted Sally. "Then I'm only fifty percent older than the two of them."
"You really are a lecherous old bag!" said Toni, turning to walk away.
"I'm only sixty-two," pointed out Sally. "Since sixty is the new forty, I am barely middle-aged."
"One thing about older lubras," said Devon, "they do have huge tits. Unlike flat-chested young chicks."
"Yeah," agreed Donny. Unsure of her reaction, he abandoned Devon and sneaked across to sit next to Sally Mudbra.
"Hello, handsome, is there something I can do for you?" whispered Sally. She sneaked her hand under his loincloth, then looking startled, withdrew her hand, which was now white and sticky. "Oh, I see I already have."
"Sorry about that," said Donny, starting to move away.
Grabbing his right knee to stop him, Sally said, "Don't run away, I'm understanding."
Raising her hand to her mouth, she slowly licked up and swallowed the semen coating it.
"Jesus!" said Donny, almost cumming again.
"Stick with me, kid," said Sally, grinning lecherously, "and I'll make your night as creamy, I mean dreamy, as your day."
"You got it, gorgeous," said Donny, making Sally giggle like a teenage girl as he snuggled up closer to her, enjoying the feel of her pendulous breasts against his right shoulder.
Despite her initial surprise, Sally reached under his loincloth again, scooped up a more generous amount of semen on her left hand and slowly lapped it off her hand again.
"Oh, Jesus, please don't do that again," begged Donny. "Or I'll be out of juice before tonight."
Giggling like a schoolgirl, the busty lubra, turned away to lick off the remained of the creamy man sauce.
"I wouldn't want you to run dry before tonight," she teased, giggling again.
"All right, everybody, we are ready to start," said Harry Dinnigan, a tall, strongly built, grey-haired man of perhaps seventy, the Chief Elder of the tribe.
At his words, everyone stood up, with Donny taking the opportunity to accidentally on purpose fall against Sally's front, so he could give both of her enormous breasts a huge squeeze, letting go quickly before anyone could see.
"Oh, someone's eager, you'll get to squeeze them a lot more later tonight," promised Sally, ignoring her sister Toni's withering glance from across the corroboree circle.

Over at the Yellow House at Rochester Road, Merridale, they were just settling down to tea in the yellow-painted dining room.
"What scrummy tucker have you got for us tonight, Mrs. M.?" asked Tommy Turner. A short, chubby, reluctantly reforming alcoholic, Tommy was a retiree.
"Tucker?" demanded Deidre Morton, a short, chubby, sixty-something brunette who would have at least twenty Michelin stars if she ran a restaurant.
"All right, what delicacies have you for us tonight?" asked Freddy Kingston. Also a retiree, Freddy was tall and stout, and practically bald.
"Since you asked politely, a traditional French recipe, Bouillabaisse. Served over two courses, using a variety of fish, shellfish, and a saffron-infused broth, served with crusty bread and rouille sauce."
"That explains the crusty rolls on our bread and butter plates, instead of sliced bread," said Natasha Lipzing, a tall, thin, grey-haired lady of seventy-one.
"Exactly," said Deidre Morton, starting to serve out the delicacy."
"As long as you didn't catch the fish anywhere nearby," teased Leo Laxman, a tall, thin Jamaican who now worked at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital as a nurse.
"Certainly not in the Yannan Sewerage Farm?" teased Sheila.
"Sheila! Leo!" said Deidre, shocked by their teasing. "I am too busy cooking and keeping house to go fishing ... even if there were somewhere nearby where the produce might be safe to eat. "I had these shipped from a friend of mine in Collins Street, Melbourne, who runs a sophisticated restaurant. The Cafe Laurie."
"Is that her name?" teased Terri. "Or does she drive a lorry?"
"I don't know what has got into everyone tonight," said Deidre, sounding shocked. "You're all so sarky all of a sudden."
"No, they've always been sarky," said Freddy. "So serve me first, and let the others have theirs cold."
"Frankly, I'm tempted to," said Deidre, serving Sheila first, then Freddy second. "Laurie is my younger cousin, and almost as good a chef as I am."
"Of course," said Terri, trying to sound contrite, but struggling not to giggle.

Over at the Werrawerra Tribe corroboree, outside BeauLarkin, the seventy Aborigines, braves and lubras were dancing and chanting for the coming of winter in a fortnight. Horny Donny Muttaburra, had managed to sneak into the circle behind Sally Mudbra, occasionally risking sneaking a hand around the side to squeeze one of the sixty-two-year-olds opulent breasts, making her giggle each time. Behind Donny was his friend Devon Djawan.
"Man, you're in there tonight for sure," said Devon, enviously.
"Maybe she'll service both of us tonight?" suggested Donny.
"Happy to, handsome," said Sally, overhearing their conversation.
"Man, we're both in there tonight," said Devon, almost creaming himself, unaware that only one of them would be alive after the corroboree broke up.
"Concentrate, everybody," ordered Harry Dinnigan, Chief Elder of the tribe. "We are close to reaching the climax of our proceedings."
"Man, he just said a mouthful," whispered Donny, making Sally giggle.
Yes, concentrate! mouthed Tina across the circle to her older sister. However, Sally was concentrating too much upon the two horny bucks she was planning to have fun with later that night.
Harry looked to the heavens to chant the most important part of the ritual...
When out of the neighbouring forest came a sound like a gigantic earthquake racing across the land toward them.
"Earthquake! Run!" shouted Harry Dinnigan. Before being mown down by the War Machine.
It shattered the huge boulders that surrounded the corroboree circle, sending rocks flying, some straight through the heads of dancing lubras or bucks, splattering their brains and killing them instantly.
Donny managed to grab Sally by the shoulders to pull her out of the direction of the great wooden death machine, unaware that behind him, Devon had been slit in half by the razor sharp metallic keel of the land ship
"What the Hell!" cried Donny, throwing Sally onto her back, then leaping on top of the busty lubra.. Ostensively to protect her, but in reality so he could feel her huge breasts with his hands, in case either of them died before he got to fuck her later that night.
"Don't know," said Sally, not even notice the young buck groping her, as she stared at the War Machine: Thirty metres long, eight metres high, ten metres wide, looking like a huge wooden battleship, but with massive metallic tracks, and three wooden turrets with cannons on the top.
"How could wooden cannons even fire?" asked Donny. "They'd explode!"
As the War Machine raced through the corroboree, it ran down twenty or more of the frantic, shrieking native Australians, then continued after the ones who raced out of the ritual circle, in an attempt to escape into the forest. Then, ignoring the handful of people who stayed hidden in the corroboree ground, the War Machine turned its wooden turrets upon the fleeing natives and opened fire with its wooden bombs the size of ten-pin bowling balls.
"What is it even firing?" asked Donny.
By way of answer, a terrified Sally Mudbra wrapped her long, curvy legs around his back, reached down to stroke his penis to life, and soon the couple were making out frantically, not caring who noticed.
Sex is supposed to be the best cure for distress or fear, thought Donny, taking Sally's huge breasts into his hands to squeeze, while sucking first one large nipple, then the other.
Soon, the rutting couple had almost forgotten about the horror of the War Machine and all of their friends and tribal members who had been killed. They could barely hear the sounds of the explosions in the forest, the screaming of bucks and lubras alike, even the thundering of the great metal clad wooden leviathan as it tore its way mercilessly through the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus trees that filled the neighbouring forestlands.
Sex relieves stress! thought Donny again, not caring about anything except rutting away on top of the cooperative sixty-two-year-old Sally Mudbra. Then he thought, Jesus, I'd like to get a lot more of this!

Over at the Yellow House in Merridale, Terri and the others had finished their bouillabaisse, agreeing that it was superb. Then Deidre Morton started to get them their dessert, a massive pineapple upside-down cake.
"Oh boy, how do you make it upside down, Mrs. M.?" asked Sheila.
Before Deidre could answer, Terri's mobile phone rang.
"Oh no," said Sheila, "and this looks so great."
"Wasn't the bouillabaisse great?" asked the diminutive brunette.
"Yes, but this looks even greater," insisted the Goth chick.
"Don't worry, I'll lock your share away in the fridge in the kitchen so greedy Tommy can't sneak it all."
"You have a lockable fridge, Mrs. M.?"
"I have to have, with Tommy around. Or else the rest of you would never get anything."
"How dare you!" said Tommy. "Anyone would think I was a greedy pig!"
"Well," said Freddy Kingston, "as my dear sainted mother used to say, if it walks like a pig, and it scoffs food like a pig ... Then it's a pig."
"How dare you?" demanded Tommy, as everyone else laughed.
Disconnecting, Terri said, "That was someone called the Benny Beenak of the Werrawerra Tribe, outside BeauLarkin. It seems our iron-clad wooden battleship has crashed their corroboree ground, killing at least forty of their seventy-odd people."
"Jesus," said Sheila. Then, "It's a four-hour round trip to BeauLarkin, we'd better get started."
Dialling, Terri said, "No, I'll ring Louie Pascall to see if he can take us there and back in his Bell Huey."
"Do you think he will at this hour?" asked Colin.
"We pay him three hundred and fifty bucks each time we hire him."
"Then, I'm guessing he will!"
Half an hour later, they heard the whur-whur-whur of the chopper's rotors, then Louie's floodlight lit up the front of the house and much of Rochester Road.
"Lucky it's only tea time," said Terri as they all exited the Yellow House, to soon climb into the helicopter.
"So fingers crossed we won't get back too late," said Colin, as it turned out futilely.
Just over forty-five minutes later, they reached the Werrawerra Tribe, outside BeauLarkin. Benny Beenak was a tall, fifty-something Aborigine who, due to the deaths of Harry Dinnigan and so many other tribal members, had taken temporary leadership of the tribe.
"Jesus, looks like an atom bomb exploded here," said Sheila, staring at the masses of dead bodies and hundreds of giant gum or pine trees that had been shattered like balsa wood.
"No, just a metal-clad, wooden battleship with tank tracks, and wooden cannons, firing exploding wooden bowling balls."
"The Death Ship, we're calling it until a better name presents itself," said Terri.
Overhead, they heard the sound of light aerocraft as three air ambulances approached.
"If that sarky redheaded cow, Julia Prescott, is on one of those, I'm gonna ask her what kept her this time!" said Sheila with feeling.
"Sheils, Sheils," said Terri, putting a hand on the Goth chick's right shoulder, "calm down, the sarky bitch isn't worth getting into trouble over."
"Do you think she'd dob me in to Russell Street if I decked her?"
"Well, I would, if you decked me," said Terri.
When the three planes landed nearby, fortunately, the redheaded paramedic was not aboard any of them.
"What happened here?" asked Tilly Lombstrom. "It looks like the place was nuked."
"I already said that, Tils."
Seeing Derek Armstrong and Cheryl Pritchard approaching, Sheila went across to the Amazonian paramedic and asked, "What kept you, Chezza?"
Looking shocked, Cheryl said, "Sheils, forty or fifty people have been killed here tonight. This isn't the time or place for childish tantrums."
Seeing Sheila looking glum, Derek, a tall black American, who was Sheila's boyfriend, put his arm around the Goth chick, gave her backside a comforting squeeze and said, "Don't let her upset you, babe."
"Yeah, you're right, of course."
"Okay, everybody, let's take care of the injured but living first," said Jesus Costello, a tall, fifty-something man, chief administrator and head surgeon at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.
"Gotcha, Jesus," said Tilly, heading through the tribal grounds, hunting for people still living.
In relatively short order, they found and sent off by air ambulance thirteen injured Aborigines, plus they found forty-three corpses, some cut in two, or exploded into dozens of people, plus the still copulating Sally Mudbra and Tommy Muttaburra in the sole surviving section of the corroboree circle.
"What'll we do about them?" asked Leo Laxman.
"Assuming they're not related, leave them," said Jesus. "Sex is the best known cure for terror or stress."

Don Frazer was a tall, heavyset man with short blond hair and a ginger moustache. Complete with a vest, checked coat and trousers, pipe, and a deerstalker hat, he looked the part of the archetypical English gentleman farmer. Except for the fact that his farm was in the Victorian countryside.
Always an early riser, that morning Donald was up at 6:30, riding out on his favourite mare, Henny, toward what was known as Frazer's Mount.
That morning, he saw a dozen or so horse-drawn caravans atop the mount.
Travellers again? thought Don. Although an easygoing man, unlike his tyrannical father, Don remembered the last time gypsies had squatted on the mount, and Dark Angels had slaughtered most of them. [See my story 'Dark Angels'.]
"Here comes the fuzz!" said Zondo, a tall, muscular man in his mid-fifties. The leader of the Travellers.
"Zon!" warned his wife, Tepia. "Don't assume he'll come the heavy. And stop watching those 1960s psychedelic movies ... Here comes the fuzz, indeed!"
"Hello," said Don, climbing down from Henny. He held out his hand.
"Let me guess, we've got twenty-two seconds to get off your land, or you'll have us exterminated?"
"Zon!" said Tepia, elbowing him in the back. Holding out her hand to shake with Don, she said, "My apologies, Zondo watches way too much Doctor Who."
"That's not possible," said their fourteen-year-old daughter, Telia, who had long brown pigtails. "You can never watch too much Doctor Who!"
"Just my luck to have two Whovian fanatics in my family," said Tepia, laughing.
"Whovian?" asked Don.
"Doctor Who fanatics?"
"So how long have we got to vacate?" demanded Zondo.
"No need, I'm happy to have a bit of company. It's just me and my housekeeper up at the house," said Donald. "We have small festivals and whatnot on the mount from time to time. And I'm sure you can't be as much trouble as that rock concert we had here three years ago ... What were they called...?" He thought for a moment, then said: "The Devil's Advocates!"
"Oh, I love the Devil's Advocates!" said pretty Telia.
"Although half their songs aren't appropriate for fourteen-year-old girls," insisted Tepia.
"Oh Mum, don't be such a prude!" said Telia.
"Feel free to stay here for a week or two, I can use the company. There are apple trees all around. Feel free to help yourself. And I'm sure we can spare you some beef, potatoes, veggies, and some bread."
"Very kind of you," said Tepia, before inviting him into their caravan for some green tea.
Plonking herself on her bunk, Telia turned on a small CD player, which started belting out:
"I'll have a black, black Christmas
"And an unhappy New Year
"How can I think of Christmas things
"Without my baby near,
"I'll have a black, black Christmas
"A black, black Christmas
"Dah doo dah doo dah dah."
"Let me guess ... The Devil's Advocates?" said Donald, making Zondo and Tepia chuckle.
"Honey, it's a bit late, or a bit early for a Christmas song," said Zondo.
"It's on their greatest hits album," explained the teenager. "Isn't it fabuloso?"
"Not really my kind of thing," admitted Zondo.
"Oh, Dad, don't be a morph!"
"If I knew what that meant, you'd be in trouble," said Zondo. Then, to get back into her good books, "Don't worry, we can watch classic Doctor Who later."
"All right," agreed Telia, "although that Ncuti Gatwa is fab!"




THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia