The mist continued to creep into the township just west of the Sunshine Coast Hinterland. The moon tried with all of its might to shine through the dark clouds. It was eerily silent, bar the sobs and weeps from the barmaid. Chief gave the cowboy Tex Tockley another nod of approval for blowing the brains out of the rampaging boar. He turned and gave the woman with swords a similar nod of approval.
"Awe stone the crows, here we go," said the farmer, looking away from the monstrous dead boar with its brains blown out, "what looks like, big pink dongs, are bloody well, slithering up from the flaming drains. It's the tentacles from that pink squid thingy that ate the big fat nerd!"
Chief turned his attention away from the cowboy Tex Tockley to see the rise of the tentacles from the drains, slithering stealthily along the gutters. He pointed his pulse rifle at the nearest set of tentacles and pulled the trigger.
POW-POW-POW!
Chief fired three rounds – each into a separate slithering dong. A painful monstrous screech, echoed from the bowels of the stormwater drains. Chief followed up with a VX gas grenade. He fired it towards the nearest drain.
KERPLOK! DIK, DIK, FLOP … KABOOM!
Uncontrollable shrieks filled the night as slimy pink dongs shook in nervous convulsions, before they all fell flaccid and slithered back into the depths of the drains.
"That's for Himbo," Chief said as he rested the butt of his pulse rifle on his right hip, barrel pointed to the dark and heavily clouded sky.
"Awe gee, thanks Jo_"
"I wasn't paying respects to you," Chief interrupted.
"Oh," replied Himbo, "you meant the older, wiser version of me."
"Yep."
"Oh well," smiled the younger Himbo, before he eyed off the foot path and followed through with a few commando rolls, some shrimps, bridges and several other Betelgeusian Jiu Jitsu solo drills.
"This knob jockey's retarded," pointed the farmer, "even more so than that boofhead bong hole," he then pointed at Ronch…
The old hippy just stood there on the road, smoking the roach of something questionable. His left hand in his pocket. Ronch looked up to the night sky, "I can't see a single star man," he said as he squinted, "that's like, the densest clouds I've ever seen."
"How would you know?" barked the farmer, "it's nighttime, bloody blacker than a crow's arse dipped in crude oil."
The Fat Flash along with his boyfriend – the huge dude decked out like a Klingon, approached the woman with the swords.
"You just totally totalled that tyrannically terrible monster pig," lisped the Fat Flash to the woman.
"tIqIpqu' 'ej nom tIqIp," added the Klingon.
"What did he say?" asked the woman, her expression calm, eyes slit and narrowed like a panther.
"He said you 'hit them hard and hit them fast," replied the Fat Flash.
"Mm," nodded the Klingon in agreement.
In mild appreciation, the woman smiled, ever so slightly.
Satisfied the immediate threat was neutralised, Chief projected a holographic map, beamed from an emitter built into the left wrist cuff of his green power armour. His attention was drawn to a flashing beacon on the top of the nearby hinterland, near a large body of water.
Chief activated his mission recorder, "Target acquired, I am at the foothills of the western fringe of the Sunshine Coast Hinterland. The target appears to have crashed in the bushland near a dam at the top of the range.
"The venting of nanobots into the atmosphere above this area, appears to be widespread. So far, encountering category one, two and even three, nanobot flesh wraiths.
"I will need to move fast to the target to see if I can contain and hopefully, reverse the contamination. If not, we're looking at a widespread replication event and a full-blown modification of the planet's biosphere, modelled from electromagnetic pollution caused by human brainwaves."
"What the fudge!" screamed the farmer pointing in sheer anguish, "look at my fudging ute!"
Everyone turned to look at a blue Ford Ranger lying upside down, all four wheels pointing arse up to the heavens.
"I think that rhinoceros," said the Māori trucker chick, "being chased by those Asian fellas on dirt bikes, might have tipped it over."
"I can't take this," complained the farmer.
"Oh my God," cried the barmaid, streams of mascara ran down her cheeks from tears, "neither can I."
The farmer looked at her for a moment. A brief wave of sympathy numbed his confusion, before it joined the torrent of rage that swept over him like a flame thrower loaded up with NAPALM. He looked in Ronch's direction, heaved and grunted before he charged towards him, "What'd yah spike our drinks with, yah fudging hippy?"
"Stop!" said the Indian fellow, he heaved slowly, stood up and blocked the farmer's way, "look," he pointed sadly towards the grotesque pile of burgundy gore, "you are worried about your truck, when that big dead prick of a pig over there," he pointed at the giant boar with the custard of its brains, blasted all over the bitumen, "just tore apart a bunch of millennials," he pointed back at the mound of gore, "look at what is left of them … how is it even possible for a pig, even as big as that prick, "he pointed back at the lifeless boar, "able to do that?" he pointed once more at the pile of gore, "for heaven's sake man, be a man and pull yourself together."
The farmer straightened up, he patted down his overalls and took in a dignified gulp of air, "Fair enough," he said to the Indian fellow, "people seem to be dying in an awful hurry; maybe because this whole situation … is not fudging normal! What did you put in our drinks, yah fudging hippy!" the farmer continued to stomp towards Ronch, but the Indian fellow, with some degree of effort, held him at bay, "I'll fudging have you, yah dumb fudging carob!"
"Please," said the Indian fellow in a calm and soothing manner, "just; calm down."
"You're done hippy!" added the farmer, almost frothing at the sides, spitting out in spite, "you're a fudging dead man!"
"I ain't done anything," said Ronch, flicking his roach, "chill out man."
"Oh, I'll chill you out!" cried the farmer, tears welled in his eyes, "I'll chill you the fudge out for fudging good!"
"Calm down," reaffirmed the Indian fellow, "please; be a man."
"Awe fudge off Gandhi," said the Farmer before turning away in frustration, "just what the fudge is going on?" he asked, his hands out, looking towards the darkness of the sky.
Chief scanned the street, "All of the cars on this street are inoperable … Kung Fu Davo," he said to the lanky white guy, dressed in the silk red kung fu suit, "you, Shawshank and Joel," he said to the Flat Flash and the Klingon, "split up and see if you can find us something to drive."
"My semi is parked up the road a bit," said the Māori trucker chick, "the cab can fit two but everyone else can climb into the trailer."
Chief pondered for a second, "Ideally we need something faster, there is a need to get up to the top of the hinterland as soon as possible. If we can't find anything, then I guess that will be our only option. Lulu," he said to the woman with swords, "can you escort her safely to her truck."
Lulu nodded.
"Okay, said the trucker chick in mild nervousness, my truck's this way," she started walking with Lulu down the street and into the darkness.
The farmer looked in their direction, "I'm coming as well," he waddled towards them.
"So am I!" cried the barmaid, she raced off in their direction.
"So," asked the cowboy, the gunslinger, the executioner of monstrous boars – Tex Tockley, "what are we doing?"
"We're going there," Chief nodded his helmet towards the hunting store across the road, "time to gear up some more, restock and reload."
Chief, Ronch, the Indian fellow and Tex Tockley, started to walk across the road while the Fat Flash – aka Shawshank, Joel the Klingon and Kung Fu Davo, crept off into the streets in search of a car, ute, van … anything on four wheels that could go.
"Wait," asked Himbo, "what am I supposed to do?"
"Keep lookout," said Chief as he kept walking, "or keep doing your Jiu Jitsu drills on the footpath, frankly, I don't give a crap."
"Fair enough," shrugged Himbo. He adjusted his heavily aged blue belt, and proceeded to continue practicing commando rolls, shrimps and bridges on the footpath.
Shawshank, Joel and Davo turned the corner. The streetlights were dull, akin to a brownout, black puddles and stains covered roof tops, timber houses and the brick walls of buildings. A bluish grey mist shrouded everything.
"This town is empty," lisped Shawshank.
"Agreed," agreed Davo, "look at the houses, windows broken in, doors ripped out. The stuff of nightmares, literally broke into their homes and ate everyone," he pointed to a broken chain, tied up to a bent hill's hoist clothesline, "including their dogs; all while the silly buggers in the pub were drinking on in blissful ignorance."
"qamDu' yI'ol," grunted Joel.
"What did the big fella say?"
"He said to keep our eyes open."
"True."
"Say fellas," asked Davo, "can you guys remember anything?"
"Remember what?" lisped Shawshank.
"Like, remember before?"
"Before what?"
"Like," paused Davo, "before tonight."
Shawshank and Joel the Klingon glanced worriedly at each other.
"No," replied Shawshank, pulling a wad of Lycra from his Flash costume that was wedged between his arse cheeks, "maybe because of all this stress," he lisped, "but I can't remember anything."
"Mm," grunted Joel, "jIH qaw neH 'oH DeSwar."
"What did he say?" asked Kung Fu Davo.
"He said that all he remembers is the bus," replied Shawshank, "come to think of it," he lisped, "that is all I remember as well."
"That's where we found you two," said Davo, "a big rainbow coloured bus, crashed into that billboard promoting the new Flash film."
"Yes," agreed Shawshank, "the bus had an advertisement printed along its side for the new season of that Star Trek streaming series … and on the other side, a travel advertisement for Japan … it had Sumos as the focal point."
"Strange," thought Davo, "the bus was abandoned, just you and Joel sitting there together at the back, holding hands, looking stunned and confused."
"That's all I remember," said Shawshank, "just the bus, nothing before that bus."
"All I remember is standing out the front of some house in the Glasshouse Mountains township," remarked Davo, "A bin was knocked over, rubbish everywhere, including some old VHS tapes that someone threw out."
"What kind of films?" lisped Shawshank in curiosity.
"I dunno, ah, Kung Pow, The Last Dragon, The Crippled Masters, Shaolin Invincible Sticks."
"Mm," pondered Shawshank, "the kung fu genre."
"I guess so."
They continued trudging on – they failed to connect the dots, ignorant of the obvious pink elephant in the room.
"'u'be' 'oH QubHa'ghach tlhaQ, 'oH neH qechmey Qoylu'pu'be', 'oH neH yuvtlhe' qoH." Joel boomed.
Davo looked at Shawshank.
"He said," began Shawshank, "and this is a loose translation mind you, along with a borrowed term, but he said; There is no point wasting thoughts on unanswerable questions, it just feeds the chattering monkey."
"Mm," thought Davo, "all of this talk about kung fu films and monkeys is doing my head in."
They walked past the last few houses before they turned the corner…
Shawshank, Joel and Davo stalled in astonishment – there in the middle of the road, stood a chimpanzee in a karate suit. It stared up at the three with a subtle look of sheer contempt. The chimp had an 80's style ghetto blaster sitting on the kerb, it played Kung Fu Fighting by Carl Douglas.
"Well," lisped Shawshank, "that's a little out of the ordinary."