A Routine Expedition

I have recently returned from Bungwahl to my secret hovel on the outskirts of Gotham City, and I must say I’ve had much success. Whilst the filming of the propaganda video was not undertaken, some valuable data was gathered and resources acquired.

It was a long hard journey, making my way across the Bridge of Sighs to Tuncurry. The Bridge was named by avid Stamp collector Giovanni Campelli, a man of Venetian extraction, after a bridge in his beloved home city of Miami. It is not, contrary to popular belief, named after the common reaction a potential traveller has when faced with the prospect of entering Tuncurry.

I toiled across that bridge in the fetid warmth of the sun. I had my swag and a keyboard. I was also forced to wear a jacket. It couldn’t fit in my swag, I anticipated cold weather. Like a shrew this one of my many talents. Eventually I came to a bus stop, and thanks to the disgusting corruption of our corporatist regime, was able to get on a bus to Bungwahl free of charge.

Lord Voltron

Many Bungwahlians Are Followers Of The Voltron Heresy. Here St Voltron Poses By Lord Jesus In Their Joint Conquest of the Aztec Empire.

Acquaintances, dyed red from the sun, and rolling around in alcoholic stupour joined me on my vehicle as the journey progressed. They’d recently come from the Harvest Festival, a lovely event in which Australian traditional culture is celebrated. Participants salute the flag, play the banjo, set up Arts and Crafts stalls then engage in a past time known as “getting totz maggot”, the direct translation of which is hard to explain to someone unfamiliar with Australian ethnic folkways.

So as the faithful vehicle wound further, and further into the tractless wilderness I wondered, is the browser Opera prounced “O-pe-ra” or “Oh-prah”, because some girl I was talking to said “Oh-prah” and I though it was kind of funny and picked her up on it, in a non-aggressive manner.

Eventually we reached the outskirts of Bungwahl, a tiny little bus stop surrounded by thick bush, and slowly, I made my way up to Rancheros del Gato. The Ranch of the Cat. Where boarding and lodgings had been arranged by those sympathetic to our cause. The rest of the afternoon and night was spend feverishly debating the plight of the average Bungwahlian, destroying alien scum and taking turns talking about our respective love lives. Mine was conspiciously short.

In the morn we arose and set about immediately to inspect the area. We recruited a kindly yet affectionate dog with promises of equal, fair, frequent elections and a rise in the minimum working age to 18 months. This is highly amusing as now, if any calls us “communist dogs” we can say something along the lines of “Yeah? What of it?”, and all previous arguments will fall to smithereens. Furthermore, the dog in question may or may not be a veteran of the Spanish Civil War.

I Have No Idea What This Is About.

I Have No Idea What This Is About. There's a Wounded Mouse/Dog with a Banjo, and Then There's An Alligator With... No. I Give Up.

Apart from this key achivement we discovered a key bagel deposit, which will prove valuable to the new society which we will shortly form eventually. I hear hipsters love bagels, and hipsters are always cashed up. I don’t know how they get their money, as working as mainstream, and something no self-respecting hipster would do. I suspect that all of them are extremely talented pickpockets.

We then made our way down to the Great Lake, where members of the Bungwahl Militia’s fledgling navy gave us an inspection of their new flagship, Bob. That’s not even a joke. It flies, for now, under the Ethiopian flag, and sometimes the Danish flag, as we do not want to be found and destroyed by the corrupt Australian regime. Though upon further thought, they could identify us either Pirates or Vikings and terminate us on those grounds. Not that I wouldn’t mind be a Viking. I do however abstain from joining their ranks for practical reasons. Firstly they have beards. I like beards but beards are confusing. I don’t like being confused. Or itchy. Secondly is the horns. I don’t know where to find a good set of horns, and I’d be too scared to buy them. It would be kind of like buying condoms. Well, a bit anyway. No the Viking life is not for me.

These Are Vikings. We Aren't Vikings.

These Are Vikings. We Aren't Vikings.

But I do like semen. With the salt spray on our faces, and the ropes between our fingers we sailed across the lake, charting key positions and training a whole crew of sailors for our new navy. Considering Australia’s defence funding we should gain nautical superiority by late 2012.

And so after some further debate and sounding out of potential support, I left beloved Bungwahl incognito, bound for the people’s abode with cuts on my feet and smelling slightly of swamp mud. I force marched myself through the driving rain, and cracking lightning in the depths of midnight to avoid orbital surveillance from the regime. When I next return I am sure that the Revolution will occur, and that our resistance will garner the fruits of socialist utopia.

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2 thoughts on “A Routine Expedition

  1. I really wish I could help you with the banjo-playing-mouse and alligator thing. As an American southerner who also spent my young adulthood steeped in “socialist realism” I should be of more help, but it’s a mystery to me, too. A greater mystery is why Bulgakhov was allowed to die from natural causes. In addition to satirizing the Soviet system, he made the statement “I never read Soviet newspapers before dinner”.

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