Tales Of The Donald Mincie

The wild Colonial Mincie boys, used to congregate at the end of Buchanan Lane Beaufort, where they would gambol and frolick in the Autumn mist in utterly gay abandon. They would inform the denizens of the scrappy illegal shed all about their latest gambit, “Oh, we stopped him doing his Tai Chi today”, said the Invisible Mincie in the darkness, “Here’s the plan, we’ll keep him up for a few days straight, and when you come up, you can leave the doors unlocked, then we’ll be able to sneak in, in our invisible suits and poison him, come up at about 4 o’clock, make sure you cut down all those stupid fucking native bush flowers on his footpath, we’ll do the rest”. And sure enough the Mincie Boy Paedophiles kept him up for three days straight, then they drugged him and made him play his report over the stereo, nice and loud, of course the shrew from next door complained that it was inappropriate, though they both seemed to be quite au fait with having people screaming out tales of vile debauchery, horrendous tortures, gang rapes, drugging, cannibalism, child pornography being made in Donald and the like, those subjects didn’t seem to bother them at all, but when I played my report about a real series of assaults against myself, there were major complaints. Even dull witted Officer Pedraka attended and told me to turn it down, expressing the fact that, “We’re all part of a community here”, and looked at me sternly, you know, intent gazing, narrowed eyes, slight beading on the brows from perspiration, raised heartbeat, shallow complexion, etc, I was having trouble ascertaining whether he was on meth or something. So as the day wore on, they began their co-ordinated attack, after the visit from the stoned Officer, they began mowing the lawns all around the neighbour hood, first one up the road, then one across the street, then one next door, one up the road to the left looking on Campbell St, and then Corporal Agarn turned up and mowed all the native bush flowers down to the dirt and came back in looking all happy and pleased with himself that he had destroyed someone’s happiness, small though it was. I wonder how many babies he has killed, did he bayonet them, did he roast them for an evening snack much like they do when they are out of money in Donald, what was the tally, a dozen, a bakers dozen, did he hit the ton, do the AFP want to know about those goings on in Iraq and East Timor, did he hate Fretlin that much, I wonder.