Thursday the 15th of March, 2012
Pipe looks wild and primitive. I’ve never seen him quite like this, flushed and so furious one minute, in tears the next.
The Boss sent me up into the hills for a break away from the pub to find out how the seasons crop is shaping up. It’s a long walk up to Pipes camp and suddenly I was there, eyes wide open. It looked like an orgy but he was angry as and that didn’t equate, even for me. To be fair, he was naked on all fours with three golden nymphs climbing all over him.
It took me a very long breathless moment to work out what was happening.
“42”, cried Tinkerbell.
“43”, chirped the gorgeous pregnant fairy with her head between his legs.
“44”, “45”, “46”.
They were pulling leeches off him. On and on, they finished at 74. Pipe said the record was 112.
“You could dress like the chopper squad, sealed from head to toe”, I told him and should have known better.
“Die of suffocation,” he grunted, as they dragged several from between his toes.
Some of the weedcops do collapse on the job, from heat exhaustion, it’s true.
While they are picking him clean like tickbirds on a buffalo, Pipes busy with what he calls his RAD (Repressed Anger Disorder). Today it’s suing Her Majesty the Prime Minister, as he calls Julia, for his average of “about fifty” leech bites a day which has started to deeply affect him. His blood is so thin he cant stop the flow some evenings and says he feels weaker by the day.
“I never get sick,” he fumes. “And it’s all because of her war on weed otherwise I could grow the crop in the front yard.” He looks extraordinary covered in ash trying to stem little red trickles flowing from more than a dozen holes. I keep thinking of seeping refugee boats.
After a while he gives me all the info I need for the Boss. “Forget the leeches, it’s the mould that’s merciless. What the wallabies and bandicoots don’t ruin the mould is consuming this year. Unless I live up there the buds are gunna all turn into big grey fluff balls. And if I live up there near the crop the leeches’ll have me in the end.”
Just another hippy dreamer I thought. He’ll never grow the big crop but he’ll never run out of weed. We soon got stoned around the fire on some lethal Dutch skunk grown by the girls next to the camp, from seeds sent to Pipe from California.
“Where they sell weed in everything from lollies to milkshakes,” he spits, glaring at me like it’s my fault. I looked away.
I dressed like the weedcops but still got a dozen leeches myself walking back down the mountain. All the way I thought it was hard to work out the Yanks and undastand why I was still employed here in the weed war they started, while it’s legal over there for them.
HipiLeaks: Feb 2012, classified. The fallout from the “Class C” Canberra terrorist attack, as it was called on the day, continues.
Apparently Julia really did want to go out and sing Happy 40th Birthday to the Tent Embassy Mob but the Force, as our name implies, cannot operate on trust and hastily deciding it was a ‘C’, which means ‘escape no matter what’.
Brian then got so excited by The Big Moment he knocked Julia off her feet when he should have swept her into his arms and made a decent job of it.
HipiLeaks: March 2012, Canberra to all States. Time to begin the previously discussed nicotine sniffer dog training programs. It is expected the dogs should be up and running by early 2013.
The public need not be informed yet.
