The Polites have completely embarrassed the Force with the hemp rope contest at MardiGrass. The YouTube has done the rounds of Oz Police Stations and guaranteed you won’t win next year! And you won’t win the weed wrestling they have in mind either.
Almost unbelievably I couldn’t be at the big weekend and so missed the Pipes entry in the Cup nearly winning. Truth is I was absconded by a computer glitch.
We were laying around the front of the cave with the weed safely packed away when they arrived by chopper, and out of nowhere. The choppers fly over regularly on their way to Brissie or the Goldie but suddenly this one dropped out of the sky right onto us. Never believe they can’t find you when they really want to.
The near naked girls fled into the bush and back towards the camp and their children. I scarcely moved as three big black ants poured out of the chopper and down the rope.”You must come now”, was all the first man said. I knew better than to argue.
Back at Unda HQ no one was listening and I couldn’t stop thinking about how my cover with the Pipe Tribe was blown. All that beautiful weed I’d never get to smoke.Turns out they wanted a symbolic Aussie in a UN assault team for a mission so special no one knew what it was. And how come I was picked? It was all done by computer apparently.
Later I discovered it was a combination of my expertise on weed, my experience with rabbits and, wait for it, the bin in the word Nimbin. Stupid too clever for themselves computers. Plus the years I’d spent hashish training in Pakistan and Afghanistan and my Unda experience with bearded hippies who they’ve started to call “mini-talib’s” in their training manuals.
Who would have known the Bearded Bin was a rabbit lover. His compound was full of them, sent in by supporting Sheiks, all varieties and colours, in cages stacked on cages six high. It was his favourite tucker in the sustainable fortress where he’d holed up for years.
The Yanks had found his hideout months ago and introduced myxo into his rabbits in an effort to draw out their most wanted man, and that’s where I came in. The Aussie rabbit expert I wasn’t but it was an easy Unda role for me to play.He had superb rabbits and I did what I could for them but what can you do with myxo? I’d tried every trick on the net and made no difference.
Then one morning by chance I was smoking the workers hooker with the kitchen hands and we noticed a big old breeding rabbit sucking it in. He was clearly looking for the smoke so we gave it to him, all over his face, up his nostrils, down his ears, all over. The next morning he could clearly see and came looking for it, and we did it again. Within three days his eyes were clear!
The Big Bin himself came down the next day to see for himself if it was true. There we were, surrounded by rabbits like an Aussie waterhole in summer, smoking the best hash on the planet. All the windows were closed so we were locked in with the rabbits and dense smoke. Because of this I could hardly see Bin and it was surreal talking to such an important pair of sunglasses over a beard peering out of the smoke, but the voice was unmistakable. He handed over a lump of black Afghani which turned my brain into a blue sky for the rest of the week.
When the yanks found out hash was fixing the myxo I got pulled out of the job quickly, with a lot of sideways looks. “You’re supposed to be on our side soldier, not fattening him up”, growled the fighting seals. Words I was used to.The rest I know no more about than what you have read in the papers like me, but I keep wondering what happened to the rabbit collection, surely the finest ever gathered in one place.
Back in Oz I’m on the trail of the CFIB, the Carbon Farming Initiative Bill. The Government is genuinely concerned the hippies are going to send them broke when their claims come in for all the trees they’ve let grow when the cows got shown the front door decades ago. So far my research looks like their fears may be well founded. Now they’re thinking about a retraction like they had to do on the solar payments. Slowly drowning in their own shit just like the hippies kept telling me they would.