Dance of the Wild Mincies

It was with some anticipation that the residents of Donald greeted that particular evening. It was to be attended by some of the best dancing masters that the Mincies could provide, they gathered by the dozen and capered about in frenzied delight to the subtle almost invisible sounds of the music master. Some Mincies though, lost their heads and were soon swept up by the almost salivating local Mincies fishermen and fisherwomen if there were any, into the nets that had been lain, and soon many a Mincies were headed to the Horsham markets for processing. He could hear the howls of “I’m almost two kilometres tall” and “I need a dozen towels so the boys can take a shower”, echoing down the byways and highways of the Wimmera Mallee, fowl though their wretched stench was, cantankerous to the assailed nostrils, a veritable smote by fire wrought by the Hand of The Master.

Now Mincies had been caught , many and far and wide, 3768 was the number of their slain fallen comrades, left to rot in a despicable Siberian Gulag, living on a crust of Rye bread and a bowl of gruel a day, such was their fate. Had they not thought for a while, then they may have reasoned that if they could get their dirty little mits on an invisibility cloak, suit, whatever, then it would stand to reason that other people could get one as well, losers.