Done and Dusted

Corporal Agarn had announced his arrival, all the native flowers were decimated, much like Vietnam and the good ol’ days of Napalm and bulldozers. He proceeded to drone on and on and on about all of his contacts that he bought hooch off, where they grew it, the bloke with 3 or 5 caravans full of hydro up in Ballarat, who grew what in Donald, in great lurid detail, didn’t he know that the house was bugged, and that some of the population of the planet Earth were listening. I looked at him, flecks of saliva spraying from his mouth across the room, wild eyed and on something, “Oh, he makes this much a week, and he makes this much money”, and I thought to myself, ”Why are you even telling me”, they told me all about supposed members of various bikie gangs, how they ripped them off, blackmailed them and whatever other sneaky little capers they could engineer. All night, every night, great lurid, detailed filled stories about how they stood around after they had roasted a baby on the stove and one of them had cut off the baby’s eyelid and was chewing it, and remarked quite casually to his amiable companion, “Tastes like bacon”