|Hurray for successliness!
||[Jul. 29th, 2004|09:58 pm]
The Bungaree Pineapple
|||||Rejoicing amongst the masses||]|
|||||No, computer still sucks.||]|
After the momentous success of the LJ cut test, the people rejoiced. And there was much Operation: Shrubbery.
“Hey, look at the dumb roos!” snorted the obnoxious, North American tourist. He felt safe under the protection of the soldier accompanying the tour group, but also slightly paranoid; guns weren’t a welcome sight in his native country. ‘Harrison’, the soldier’s nametag read, and three chevrons sat on each of his sleeves. He seemed detached from his intended purpose and was more intent on the sightseeing, the tourist deduced, as the soldier was wearing a cheap, fluorescent pink souvenir hat with a picture of a pineapple on the front. It was so bright that he had to put on his sunglasses to look at it directly.
Sergeant Jim Harrison was quite the well-reputed soldier at the FNT, with which he’d worked for a little over three years now. For this reason, he wasn’t very impressed with being assigned to tour group security. He was in the task force who dismantled that major drug ring back in ’98, and that was in the days when he was still a private. He’d even gone as far back as ‘Nam. Well, he knew some people who had. Okay, he would’ve liked to. But in any case, this job was just embarrassing.
In case you don’t know, the FNT is an Australian federal police agency that had been a totally black organisation until 2003, after the revelation that ASIO never actually existed. The people of Australia needed to know that there was an agency competent enough to protect them from terrorists and similar threats, but that wasn’t the reason the government made the FNT public knowledge. It was actually an accident and not the fault of the government at all (although the Director still blames them). The advertising branch of the FNT, which had absolutely no use whatsoever until 2003, accidentally came up with and released to the public a new advertising campaign for the organisation. Strangely, the advertising branch still has absolutely no use, with the exception of selling Federal Nose Tappers brand toothpaste and blueberry muffins. Harrison remembered those days, no in-your-face media, not that he ever got any attention. He was just a sergeant. A tour group escort.
Suddenly Harrison's attention shifted to one of the kangaroos. It seemed to have a vengeful look in its eyes. “Hey, you take that back!” yelled the now angry and disgruntled marsupial.
“What the...?” one of the tourists exclaimed, “Okay, who the hell said that?”
Harrison's eyes widened, “What the fuck?” he half-murmured. Sweat was running down his face, he started to get a bit scared now. He knew that panic was probably the least helpful thing in this kind of situation, apart from a bullet wound to the centre of the forehead, maybe, but no one ever listens to what they teach you in military training. “Get away from the roos! Go, go, go! Get back to the bus!” he yelled, and at that moment, a vast majority of the tour group started screaming and whining and generally running around in random directions. Harrison raised his PG-SMG 15mm level to his shoulder and aimed it in the general direction of the kangaroos, when suddenly, a whiny, American environmentalist, by far the least terrified person in the group, pacifistically protested, the way environmentalists do.
“Don't shoot the poor, defenceless Rufus Macropus!” she yelled in a very irritating way, so Harrison didn't mind much when one of the roos nearly removed her neck with one swift movement.
Harrison was now starting to get scared, “Fuck the fucking fuckers!” he yelled obscenely as he lined the up the sight on the top of his weapon with the target and fired a few 15mm rounds into the ferocious, but now dead-looking marsupial’s skull.
Another furious looking roo leapt two metres into the air in preparation for a roundhouse kick to the side of another tourist’s head, when suddenly, yet another obnoxious tourist took a photo, with flash! The roo executed the blow to the Yank’s head and as he hit the ground, he lost his footing due to the unexpectedness of the flash photography, and stumbled to the ground. He was now absolutely psychotic, and let out a mighty roar, as kangaroos often do.
The rest of tour group 17, although not all American, was now whimpering with pure black terror, with a dash of French Dijon mustard, at the sight of the Australian sports mascot, minus the boxing gloves, going postal on fellow humans. This kind of act of senseless violence wasn’t supposed to happen to people who earned over $30,000 a year unless they were crime lords or politicians. The terror that the innocent tourists were experiencing now escalated into pure even-more-terror as a horde of the supposedly vegetarian beasts seemed to engulf the horizon in answer to the bellow of their comrade.
If even one person comments, I'll post part two some other time.