Bring In The Cleaners

By Marcus Braid on August 27, 2015 in

“So Reg, I hear you’ve a problem down in the bottom paddock, neighbour.” George sipped his cup of tea and smirked at his mate. He was not one to back down from a challenge. His three-year tour of duty in the Vietnam War had taught him a lot about problem solving. “So do tell; what’s doing?”

Reg had let a couple of travelling hippies set up camp along the creek in his bottom paddock for a few days. Before he could bat an eyelid, there were six of them. By the end of the week the soap-dodging group had swelled to well over a dozen.

At first Reg didn’t mind the hairy freeloaders as he had spent his own youth surfing, travelling and freeloading around the planet. But these grubs were bad news. They completely rubbished the campsite and disgustingly used the old shed as a dunny. At night they gorged on magic mushrooms from the cattle paddock and played their bongo drums until the early hours of the morning.

Something had to be done. Reg fronted the unwanted feral visitors, asking them to vacate, but this lot were a bunch of smart arses. They told Reg they had squatters’ rights and refused to move on.

Obviously, George was concerned.

“Don’t worry, Reg. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve, old mate. I could blow the bastards up or maybe take a pot shot at them from up the hill,” he offered.

Reg had to be careful. George, a Vietnam vet, was a collector of war memorabilia. In his shed there were guns, grenades, uniforms, medals and even an old restored Bell 47 model helicopter. To give George free rein could prove disastrous. There had to be some sense of caution.

As the two retired friends finished their cups of tea watching the sunset, the hippy bongo beat started up. It looked like another long night ahead for poor Reg.

It was almost midnight when Reg heard a strange whirring sound in the distance. It gradually got louder and challenged the hippies’ commotion. Reg climbed out of bed and walked onto his veranda, wondering what the mounting racket was.

In the moonlight, Reg spotted the perpetrator. Hovering over the distant hill was George in his Bell 47 helicopter. As he approached, the noise was deafening and trees began to bend. Reg had half an idea what was going on.

With absolute precision, the ex-pilot hovered the whirring chopper over the makeshift campsite, flicked on a floodlight and descended to less than ten feet above. The swirling gale created by the helicopter blades swiftly levelled the camp. Their tents, campfire, bongos, incense sticks, unwashed beards and smelly clothes were blown to kingdom come.

The hippies had no defence to George in his chopper. It was armageddon. There was screaming. There was panic. With the fear of Jesus in the whites of their eyes, they left their sprawled possessions and took off like a shot in their rusty campervans.

Over a cup of tea the next day the two neighbours laughed.

“I’m tipping that team won’t be back around these parts for quite a long time,” George said. “It certainly was the apocalypse.”

Once again, the two friends relished the serenity.