Poison Gate Road Narrative

It was a roasting midday on a Saturday. Not a cloud in the sky, knocking back some smoko in the grips of my sweaty, bloody hand on the porch of one of the oblong huts, the galvanised iron roof buckled and creaked as the mercury rose to forty three. The sounds of pigs squealing broke the silence of the dusty outback wind that swiftly gathers up dust and travels through the thin clearing of the coolabah trees. The earth was worked and prepared, and dusty as the Poison Gate Road.

As the thermometer edged forty-four I moved for the Bullalara pub. I whistled for my Kelpie “Butch,” he came racing from the torn edge of the barren scrub near the buckling shearing shed. Launching over the tailgate and into the bundle of tools and hoses that were scattered
He bellowed "The farmers watering hole." He called over the bartender “Mate, one for me and fang those two a stubby as well.” Barney and me stubbled over and introduced ourselves. After a few stubbies we got to know this freshman as Wally and in fact he went to the Olympics in rifle shooting a few years back winning bronze. “What drove you out to this s**t hole” Barney asked. “The atmosphere mate, the dusty red sunset, the untold stories of aussie legends, meeting new true blues like you fellas.” He was out here as a contract shooter to exterminate the squealing boars of the shrub or the skippers of the
“Sure thing mate, how about I come out right after a few more schooner’s.” slurred Wally.

As the sun rapidly vanished below the cracked timber opening of the Pub wall, Barney, Wally and I lethargically directed each other towards the exit, stumbling and fumbling. After leaving a lawn pizza at the front exit, we lurched towards the door of Wally’s shiny white Land cruiser. “Oii, Wal can you pop by my ute about one kilometre west, I need my dog Butch if we are going out shooting tonight.” I Garbled. “Sure mate” replied Wally.

It was a dusky baking summer night, with intermittent flickers of lightning silently discharging from a haze lying low in the south. We arrived along side my Ute, Butch quickly arouse from the rigorous sound of the roaring v8 and swiftly bounded between the Ute's. Wally hit the floor and we quickly accelerated back off into the deeping night.

All three of us were in drunken disarray. The high beam lights shown onto the reflective signpost for our turn. We suddenly slowed down rapidly to a stop leaving deep skid marks on the gravel road. An uproar burst my left ear “BLOODY FOX, NAH PIG, IT’S A FOX PIG,” Barney