THE MIMIC

A Hindu demon starts luring people to be eaten, around Glen Hartwell

Archie Neumann, George DuBois, Eunice Grayson, and nine other employees of the Department of Building and Works were working around the smelly Yannan River, not far outside Glen Hartwell, in the Victorian countryside on July 3rd, 2025. Their assignment, to put up a temporary dam to empty the river long enough to clear away any old white goods, then clean up the ooze from the river as much as possible. Not to beautify the river, but rather to reduce the stench to something akin to a bearable level.

"Did we do something to piss off Terri Scott, that we got stuck with this duty?" asked Archie, a thirty-two-year-old redheaded man who was thin but very strong.

"We should remind her that we're letting her and Colin come on our honeymoon cruise after we're all married on the 10th of December," said Eunice Grayson, a tall Amazonian, forty-eight-year-old brunette who wore her hair in a long ponytail.

"No, it's orders from above," said her fiancé and foreman, George DuBois, a tall, strongly built man of fifty-two, with balding brown hair.

"What, from God himself?" teased Archie.

"Don't tell me the stench is reaching all that far up?" teased Eunice.

"No, my beloved. Orders from Head Office to clean it up. The sewerage smell is bad for tourism."

"Fair enough," said Archie, "but don't call me your beloved."

"Very funny," said George, ignoring Eunice's laughter.

Hidden behind an old-growth red gum tree, they were being watched by a Mimic, a creature with the body of a stag, a lion's neck and head, cloven hooves, and a wide mouth with sharp, bony ridges in place of teeth.

"I'll be glad when we can get back to planting saplings in the verges at Glen Hartwell and Merridale," said Archie, still smelling the noxious odour through the COVID mask that he wore.

"Yeah, even if the ungrateful wretches do keep backing into them accidentally, on purpose," said Eunice. "Forcing us to replant them."

"Oh, well, just keep reminding yourself that on December 10th we'll be sailing away upon the Eunice is My Honey with Terri and Colin."

"I would, but you're taking along Eunice, not me," teased Archie.

When they finally completed the temporary dam, the water on the right of the dam slowly started draining away. Then, as the Mimic watched, puzzled by their actions, the Building and Works staff started removing rusty old fridges, stoves, washing machines, even an occasional small car with two large cranes which had been standing beside the banks while they were damming the river.

"We seem to do this two or three times a year," said Eunice, "yet each time there seems to be more white goods, cars, you name it in the river bed."

"Yeah," agreed Archie, "where do Glen Hartwellians get the money to keep buying new cookers, fridges, cars, et cetera, all the time?"

"Hey," called one of the workers, a tall, raven-haired man, Cliff Forde, "I think I've just found an ancient Moog Synthesiser."

"Let's have a shufti," said Eunice.

She and half a dozen other workers downed tools to check out the keyboard, which came with a black control panel with dozens of lights, switches, sliders, knobs et cetera.

"Wow, looks like a mid-1970s model," said George.

"Can it still play?" asked a tall blonde, Rhonda Rhodes, in her mid-thirties.

"I doubt it," said George. "Having been in the Yannan River, it's lucky not to have dissolved away."

"Now, if only Emerson, Lake, and Palmer were here to test it out for me," said Cliff.

"Well, if you're gonna keep it," said Eunice, "let it dry out for at least a week, then take it to a good electrician to have it checked over before plugging it in."

"Isn't Wayne, at Building and Works, an electrician?" asked Rhonda.

"Good thinking, girl," said Cliff.

The Mimic watched these strange goings on, hearing the humans laugh as Cliff pretended to play the keys on the synthesiser.


Over at the tiny police station in Morcambe Street, Lenoak, five police officers sat around being served tea or coffee, and homemade chocolate biscuits by Deidre Morton.

"Mmmm, these are delish, Mrs. M.," said Wendy Pearson, a forty-six-year-old honey blonde who looked more like a beauty queen than a cop.

"Marvelloso," said Alice Walker, a forty-seven-year-old brunette. An amateur weight-lifter and gym mate of Sheila's on Saturdays.

"Superb, Mrs. M.," agreed Terri Scott, a beautiful ash blonde, in her mid-thirties, who was Senior Sergeant of the region, and engaged to Colin.

"Magnifique," said Colin Klein, a tall redheaded Englishman of forty-nine.

"Scrumptious as always," said Sheila Bennett. At thirty-six, Sheila was a Goth chick with black-and-orange striped hair and was Chief Constable and Terri's second in command.

"So gratifying to be appreciated," said Deidre Morton, a short, chubby, sixty-something brunette, and a trained cordon bleu chef. "But where are Suzette and Paul today?"

"Oh, we sent them outside to patrol the cold streets, while we stayed inside in the warmth," said Sheila.

"She is so cheeky," said Deidre, giving the Goth chick a friendly tweak on the cheek, "but she is my favourite member of my extended family."

"Ouch," said Sheila. "You don't know your own strength, Mrs. M."


By five-thirty, George, Eunice and the others were all well and truly ready to go home for the night.

"I'm starting to fear that this is going to be a two- or even three-day job," said George.

"Well, I'm not complaining," said Cliff Forde, "I've got my synthesiser to play with. Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah!"

"If I'd been alive in the 1970s, I might even recognise that tune," teased Rhonda Rhodes.

"Just remember to let it dry out for at least a week, then get Wayne at work to check it out for you," warned Eunice Grayson.

"Yes, Mummy," teased Cliff.

"No way am I old enough to be his Mummy," complained the Amazonian brunette.

"Of course not, honey," said George, putting an arm around her. "So would you like a ride home, Archie?"

"Yes, thanks," said the redheaded man running to catch up with them.

"Not me," said Cliff, "I've got my Cortina, and I've got my Moog to play with, Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah!"

"If he keeps doing that until the darn thing dries out, his wife, Wilma, will kill him long before then," said Eunice as they climbed into their dark blue Ford Ranger.

"Aided and abetted by his three daughters," said Archie.

"I think they'd all get away with a verdict of justifiable homicide," said George, making them all laugh.


Over at 97 Vernier Street, Glen Hartwell, Bernice Forde was kneeling upon the black leatherette sofa in the boat race blue lounge room, looking out the front window as a pale orange Cortina pulled up outside.

"Mum, I think Dad's home," called Bernice, a tall, ravenette of fifteen.

"Well, let him in," called Wilma Forde from the kitchen at the other end of the house.

"Okay," said Bernice. Climbing off the sofa, she ran out into the lilac-walled corridor, opened the front door, and said, "Hello, Dad."

"Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah!" said Cliff, playing with his new treasure.

"Mum, Dad's gone insane!" called Bernice.

"Well, it had to happen one day," called back Wilma, a tall, chesty redhead like her namesake Wilma Flintstone.

"Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah!" said Cliff as he continued down the corridor toward the kitchen, followed by a puzzled Bernice.

In the lime-walled kitchen, Wilma, Ida, and Dolores Forde were all working hard, preparing tea for the five of them.

"Hello, darling," said Wilma.

"Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah!" said Cliff, before kissing her on the cheek.

"Bernie is right, he has gone insane," said Ida, a tall, sixteen-year-old redhead.

"Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah!" said Cliff kissing Ida on the cheek, then Bernice, then Dolores.

"He's also tone deaf," said Dolores, a short, plump fourteen-year-old blonde.

"Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah!" said Cliff, leaning down to say it right in Dolores's face.

"He's also teasing me, Mum."

Looking around from the stove, Wilma saw the ancient Moog synthesiser her husband carried and asked, "What is that piece of junk, honey?"

"Junk?" demanded Cliff. "This is the fifth love of my life. After my beautiful chestalicious wife, and my three beautiful but cheeky daughters."

"What does chestalicious mean?" asked Dolores.

"It means Mum has big boobs," explained Ida.

"Oh, yeah, so she does," said Bernice.

"Girls, stop talking about my boobs," said Wilma. Then to her husband, "And what are you planning to do with that piece of junk?"

"Firstly, I have to dry it out, doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah!" said Cliff.

"It'd dry out quickly in the rubbish bin," suggested Dolores.

"Or in a fire in the backyard," said Bernice.

"My beautiful but sarky daughters, I will have no more talk of cremating my beloved Moogie."

"Moogie?" asked Wilma.

"That is what I have decided to name her."

"How do you know it's female?" demanded Dolores.

"Mechanical things are always female," explained Ida. "Ships, planes, cars, computers ... and now it seems, prehistoric synthesisers."

"I prefer to say a classic synthesiser, pet, not prehistoric."


After their tea of lamb chops, mashed potatoes, peas, and carrots, the Forde family went into the lounge room to watch a two hour session of reruns of the classic TV show Medium, starring Patricia Arquette, then Wilma and Cliff went upstairs to bed to make love while the girls stayed downstairs watching TV.

"Wrinkly sex," said Ida as her parents went upstairs, "ooh!"


As she undressed, Wilma advised, "Be warned, if you call me Moogie while we're making love, I will kill you."

"I have been forewarned," agreed Cliff.

After making love, they both fell asleep, unaware that the three girls downstairs stayed up watching television till nearly midnight, before finally sneaking up to bed, tiptoeing past their parents' room.

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when Cliff awakened again. He lay in bed for a moment, then heard what sounded like a synthesiser outside playing, doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah.

If that's the girls outside playing with Moogie, they're in for some serious spankings! thought Cliff as he put on his dressing gown and slippers, before sneaking downstairs. Never considering that Moogie could not play until she had been dried out for at least a week, then was checked out by Wayne at work.

Outside the doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah was loud enough so that Cliff was able to follow it down the backyard, to the iron-walled tool shed, which he had bought when they were first married, and which he had never used.

Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah came the electronic noise from inside the shed.

"Who the Hell is in there?" demanded Cliff, swinging the rusty door open with some difficulty.

"Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah," mimicked the Mimic again as Cliff stepped into the shed.

"All right, who's in there?" demanded Cliff, stepping into the shed tentatively. "If one of you girls has Moogie, you'll also have a very red bum soon."

He switched on the overhead light, which blew immediately, causing him to fall forward, landing face-to-face with the Mimic.

"What the fuck?" cried Cliff, staring in horror at the creature with the body of a stag, a lion's neck, cloven hooves, and a wide mouth with sharp, bony ridges in place of teeth.

"What the fuck?" said the Mimic in Cliff's voice, before tearing out the startled man's throat.

Then, over the next three hours, the Mimic slowly devoured Cliff's flesh, fat, muscles, and organs, until there was nothing left except blood-soaked bones. And even most of those it had cracked open to suck out the juicy marrow.

"Doo dah doo-doo dah doo dah," repeated the Mimic as it headed out into the back yard. Then, as it climbed the wooden fence to head out into the lane behind the house, "What the fuck?" in Cliff's voice again.


At seven-thirty, Wilma Forde awakened to find her husband missing. He had left Moogie on the bedside table on his side, taken his dressing gown and slippers and vanished.

Dressing quickly, Wilma headed downstairs with Moogie and found her three daughters all dressed and eating breakfast: porridge for Dolores, Wheat Bix for Ida and Bernice.

Seeing the moog, Ida asked, "Would you like me to burn that for you, Mum?"

"I'm tempted," admitted Wilma, "but no, just take it out to that old shed down the back yard to dry out."

"Who wants to bet Dad has forgotten it by tea time tonight?" asked Bernice.

As Ida took Moogie and headed out the back door, Wilma asked, "Have any of you girls seen your father this morning?"

"No!" said the three girls.

"Well, why not?" muttered Wilma.

"I guess we just got lucky," said Dolores.

"No, I meant, where is he? He wasn't in bed when I woke up this morning."


Over at the Yellow House in Merridale, they were sitting down to a breakfast of pancakes with maple syrup, raspberry jam, or breakfast marmalade.

"Need I even ask what you want, Sheila dear?" asked Deidre Morton.

"Three large flap jacks, one with maple syrup, one with raspberry jam ....;"

"And one with breakfast marmalade," teased Natasha Lipzing, a tall, thin, grey-haired lady of seventy-one.

"You can read her like a book, Miss L.," said Leo Laxman, a tall, thin, black Jamaican, employed as a nurse at the local hospital.

"Hey, when there's more than one good thing going, I like to sample everything available," insisted Sheila Bennett.

"I'm not sure, one large flapjack of each counts as sampling," said Freddy Kingston, a tall, plump, balding retiree.

"I'll have the same as Sheils," said Tommy Turner, a short, fat, blond retiree. "But smother mine in rum, please."

"He really is a Philistine," said Terri Scott, laughing.

"Leave religion out of it," insisted Tommy.

"He says that at church, too, when they ask for a tithe," teased Colin Klein.

"Hey, the Pope is a lot more cashed up than I am. He should be giving me a tithe! Not the other way around."

"Forget Philistine," corrected Terri, "I think he's a full-blown heretic."


Over at 97 Vernier Street, Glen Hartwell, redheaded Ida Forde skipped down the backyard, carrying Moogie, then stepped into the iron shed, saw her father's remains, dropped and smashed the moog, and started screaming.


"Ooh, dis is dewish," said Sheila with her mouth stuffed full of pancake and Maple syrup.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, dear," said Deidre Morton.

"If she didn't, she'd never talk," teased Tommy Turner.

"How'll dared youse," said Sheila, almost choking as she spoke.

At that moment, Terri Scott's mobile phone rang.

"Owl woe!" said Sheila, still struggling to speak through a full mouth.

"Don't worry, I'll pack up your pancakes for you," offered Deidre.

"And Terri's and mine?" asked Colin, clenching his hands as though praying.

"Of course, dear," said Deidre, happy to wait upon her extended family.

Disconnecting, Terri said, "That was Tilly Lombstrom at the Forde's place ...."

"97 Vernier Street," interjected Sheila.

"Poor Ida Forde has just found the rather gruesome remains of her father."

"Yeech, she's only sixteen," said Sheila, as the three cops got up to head outside.

"Perhaps you'd better come with us, Leo," suggested Terri.

Whimpering like a whipped puppy, Leo held his hands up toward Deidre Morton as though praying.

"Yes, I'll pack your flapjacks too, Leo," said the chubby brunette.


Pulling into Vernier Lane between Vernier Street and Howard Street, the three cops found five ambulances, plus myriad medics and paramedics waiting for them. They got out of Terri's police-blue Lexus and walked in through the back gate.

"In there," said Tilly Lombstrom, a tall, attractive, fifty-something brunette, and a top surgeon at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.

"Yeech," said Sheila as they stepped into the shed and saw the broken remains of Cliff Forde's mostly shattered bones.

"What the Hell got at him?" asked Terri as Sheila started taking the crime scene pictures with her mobile phone.

"That, my friend, is the sixty-four million dollar question," said Tilly, entering behind them.

After Sheila had finished, Tilly, plus a gorgeous platinum blonde nurse, Topaz Moseley, had the unpleasant task of examining the remains as much as possible.

With Ida Forde already on the way to the hospital, Terri, Colin, and Sheila managed to interview Wilma, Bernice, and Dolores before they were also whisked away.

"So, he got up in the middle of the night, without waking Wilma," said Terri.

"And something did that to him," finished Colin.

"Gangway," said Cheryl Pritchard, a tall, Amazonian brunette, the senior paramedic of the area, as she and Derek Armstrong carried the shattered bones on a stretcher out to the last remaining ambulance.


Over at the dammed Yannan River, George DuBois, Eunice Grayson and the other Department of Building and Works men and women were still removing white goods, car frames, TVs, almost prehistoric radiograms, when Terri, Colin, and Sheila arrived to tell them in person what had happened to Cliff.

"Oh shit," said Eunice, crying into her hands.

"And he was so excited about finding that damned Moog synthesiser yesterday," said George, going on to tell them about it.

Hidden behind a large lemon-scented gum tree, the Mimic watched the humans talking. It recognised that the towering female was crying, but could not understand why. It was still toying with the notion of taking its next victim from the people cleaning up the river.

"What about Wilma and the girls?" asked Rhonda Rhodes.

"They've been taken to the hospital for now," said Colin Klein.

"But how will they get by without Cliff earning?" asked Archie Neumann.

"Wilma has parents and brothers in Western Australia," said Sheila. "Maybe they will all go there."

"We'll be sorry to see them go," said Rhonda, before bursting into tears.

"Maybe, we'd better take the rest of the day off ... bereavement leave," suggested George.

Watching them packing up so soon after arriving, the Mimic was puzzled. But its instinct told it to follow the tall blonde, Rhonda Rhodes.

Climbing onto her pink and white motor scooter, Rhonda drove slowly toward her one-bedroom house at 66 Mountcliff Way. Along the way, she stopped occasionally to cry, having been secretly sweet on Cliff, despite knowing that he was happily married. And knowing that feisty Wilma Forde would have killed her if she had had any idea of how the blonde felt about her husband.

Love is a many-splintered thing! thought Rhonda, as she placed her scooter in the tool shed, which had to double as a garage. Although, employed at Building and Works, Rhonda was a dab hand at building things.

Still crying a little, she walked through the small, brown, unpainted door from the garage, which led into the tiny kitchen. Which had room for a microwave, an English-style half-height fridge, plus draws for the dishes, but no room for a table or a standalone freezer, both of which she kept in the medium-sized lounge room, forcing her to settle for two kitchen chairs and no sofa in the lounge. There was also a twelve-inch colour TV on one end of the black-topped table.

Tonight, she microwaved a hamburger patty and placed it between two slices of wheat bread, with margarine and a slice of cheddar cheese on each piece of bread. She also dosed it in White Crow tomato sauce. That was what she often ate for tea, and usually enjoyed it, but tonight, she was too upset over the death of her unobtainable love even to notice what she was eating, and was a little surprised when she discovered that she had finished.

She looked at her hands and saw the tomato sauce and margarine stains, and the plate that she had microwaved the meat patty upon, and was forced to accept that she had indeed eaten the homemade cheese burger.

After rinsing the plate and knife under the hot water tap, she went up to the lounge room to watch TV. But wasn't able to concentrate, so after two hours, without taking anything in, she turned off the TV, went upstairs to the toilet, brushed her teeth, showered, then went to bed, even though it was barely eight o'clock.

It was a little after 10:00 when the blonde suddenly awakened. She lay in bed, a little cold, shivering, wondering why she was awake, since her bladder felt empty.

I usually sleep like a log, she thought. When I can get to sleep at all!

She kept her eyes closed, hoping to fall back to sleep, when she heard a gentle murmur, barely a whisper even.

Sitting up in bed, she turned on her bedside lamp and listened,

Although very quiet, there was undeniably some sound, a voice maybe from downstairs. Never one to be afraid of the dark, or even burglars, Rhonda put on her slippers and dressing gown, went across to where an ancient cricket bat sat by the cupboard, a reminder of her older brother, whom she used to play cricket with, many years ago, until he was killed by a hit-and-run driver.

"Gerald!" she called out, before thinking: Don't be an idiot, Gerald has been dead for fifteen years, now. Since whoever it was ran him over!

Keeping quiet from then on, she tiptoed out into the hallway, stopping to allow her eyes to adjust to the dark, then continued to the carpeted steps, then down to the ground floor, where the sound was now clearly a human voice calling her.

"Who is it?" she called back. Although not quite a bodybuilder, like Cheryl Pritchard, Sheila Bennett, or Eunice Grayson, as a building worker, Rhonda was a strong woman, unafraid of anything much. "Hello."

There was absolute silence, except for the blonde's footsteps, then a voice from outside called clearly, but quietly, "Rhonda, help me!"

"Who is it?" called the blonde, still holding the ancient cricket bat, as she headed across the downstairs hall toward the back door.

"I need your help!" called the voice, now clearly male.

"Who are you?" demanded Rhonda, creeping across to the back door.

As she was unlatching the door, the voice said, "Cliff. Cliff Forde. I'm not really dead."

"Cliff?" asked Rhonda, not daring to even hope.

"They claimed I was dead, because it's really you I love, not Wilma."

"Me?" asked Rhonda, finally daring to hope.

"I was planning to leave Wilma and the girls to run off with you. So they hurt me badly, and claimed I was dead."

"Those bastards," said Rhonda, not considering for a second that the voice was not really Cliff. Or that it could be lying to her.

As she crept slowly down the tiny backyard, she asked, "Where are you, Cliff, my love?"

"Down in the old tool shed," said the voice.

In fact, it was a converted outdoor dunny, which had room for twenty of so brooms and shovels standing on end, and nothing much else.

Trying not to fall in the dark, Rhonda started to hurry, anxious to find and help her true love, hoping that he was not too badly hurt.

All he really needs is the love of a good woman, thought the blonde foolishly.

Almost tripping over, she hurried to the dunny-cum-tool shed, pulled open the door and looked inside ... Only to see the old shovels and brooms standing up against the back wall.

"Where are you, Cliff?" asked the blonde.

"Behind the shovels and broomsticks," said Cliff Forde's voice.

"Cliff ... darling!" cried Rhonda, hurriedly tossing the shovels and broomsticks into the back yard. Then, leaning down, she offered, "Let me help ...."

Stopping to stare in horror as she came face to face with the Mimic, a creature with the body of a stag, a lion's neck and head, cloven hooves, and a wide mouth with sharp, bony ridges in place of teeth.

"It's really you I love, not Wilma," said the Mimic in Cliff Forde's voice, then, "Cliff ... darling!" in Rhonda's voice."

"What ... are ... you?" said Rhonda, her eyes wide in terror.

"What ... are ... you?" said the Mimic in Rhonda's voice.

Then it leapt forward and knocked the thirty-something blonde over onto her back. Then, before she could even try to fight the monster off, it ripped out her jugular vein, drinking as much of the spurting hot blood as possible, before ripping away her face and the front of her skull to start feasting upon her juicy brain.

After tearing away her dressing gown and thin nightie, the creature devoured her generous breasts, then cracked Rhonda's ribs to get at her heart and lungs. Before moving down to her stomach to eat muscle and organs: liver, kidneys, spleen, pancreas, gall bladder, womb, uterus, and so on. The creature enjoyed her creamy thighs, although as a building worker, she had a much lower fat content than most adult women. It managed to roll her largely gutted corpse over to chew away her juicy buttocks, then devoured everything else except faecal matter or urine. Before finally cracking open all of her bones to get at the juicy marrow.

At last sated, the Mimic walked down toward the deal wood fence, leading to the lane between Mountcliff Way and Calhoun Street. As it climbed the fence, the Mimic said, "It's really you I love, not Wilma," in Cliff Forde's voice, then, "What ... are ... you?" in a perfect imitation of Rhonda Rhodes.

Out in Calhoun Alley, it repeated, "What ... are ... you?" in a perfect imitation of Rhonda Rhodes, then trotted down the alley, heading back to where the Department of Building and Works were cleaning up the mucky Yannan River.


The next morning after breakfast, Archie Neumann, George DuBois, Eunice Grayson, and other employees of the Department of Building and Works were working at the Yannan River, trying to concentrate upon trying to clean up its now dry waterway, rather than thinking about poor Cliff Forde, or Wilma, Dolores, Bernice, or Ida Forde.

"No sign of Rhonda, yet," said Eunice, glumly.

"Well, she was sweet upon Cliff," pointed out Lesley Porterhouse, a tall, leggy brunette in her mid-thirties. "Must have hit her like a fist clenching in her gut."

"She was lucky Wilma was understanding about it," said Archie. "A lot of women would have let her have what for."

"Considering she's a redhead, and they are famous for their tempers," said George, "Wilma handled it very gracefully."

"I guess she knew that she could trust Cliff not to stray," said Eunice.

"Also, I don't think Rhonda would ever have built up the courage to tell Cliff how she felt about him," said George. "Although he must have known, since we all worked it out. And to misquote Humphrey Bogart, 'We're no geniuses."

"Speak for yourself, honey," teased Eunice, "personally, I do be a genius."

"Me too, duh," said Lesley, making everyone laugh.

"Now, I see why they say women come from Venus," teased Archie.

"Then Viva Les Vénus," said George, making them laugh again.


After breakfast, Terri Scott, Colin Klein, and a dozen or so other local cops, including pro rata police women, set out into the forest on what had been advertised as a tiger hunt.

"Why a tiger hunt?" asked Stanlee Dempsey, a huge, forty-something man with shoulder-length raven hair.

"Because tiger sounds scary enough to keep most people out of the forest until we catch, kill, or drive away whatever it really is," explained Terri.

"It could be a giant, killer koala for all we know," admitted Colin, "but that wouldn't scare off most people."

"Fair enough," said Jessie Baker, a huge ox of a man, with flame red hair.

"Actually, I wouldn't mind meeting a giant killer koala," teased Alice Walker.

"Yeah, between us, Alice and I could tackle it to the ground and kill it," said Sheila Bennett. "Killer koalas don't scare the buff pair."

"The buff pair?" asked Wendy Pearson.

"Well, Alice and I don't spend our Saturdays at the Muscle-Up Gym to be weak and flabby like you and Terri."

"Beg pardon, constable?" teased Terri Scott as they set out on foot, with drivers trailing along behind with their vehicles.

"I meant like Wendy and Suzette, marm."

"That's better," said Terri with a broad grin.

By lunchtime, they had found nothing, no tracks, no spoors, no animal stools, no killer koalas, and were starting to get frustrated.

"So, what now, Chief?" asked Don Esk, a tall, brown-haired sergeant.

"Now we're going to have our lunches," said Terri. "Then we do what we should have done in the first place."

"Get our old ... middle-aged mate, Bulam-Bulam, to track for us?" asked Sheila.

"Maybe, eventually. But after lunch, Don comes back with the dumb mutts, and we try tracking whatever it was from Cliff Forde's tool shed.

"Are Wilma and the girls still in the hospital?" asked Suzette Cummings, a short, eighteen-year-old trainee with long raven hair.

"Fortunately, yes," said Alice, "so we won't have to worry about upsetting them further."

"I'll upset whatever ate poor Cliff ... with my fists, when we find it!" boasted Sheila Bennett. "Dare to eat a mate of ours, will it?"

"Sheils, just because you chased down and killed a made killer moo cow ... " [See my story, 'The Catoblepas'.] "and used a bazooka to destroy the Devil Fish ..." [See my story, 'The Devil Fish'.] "Doesn't mean you can bare fist fight a tiger ... or even a killer koala."

"I might be able to," insisted the Goth policewoman.


At one o'clock, or a little after, Terri and the others gathered at the rusted-out shed in the back yard at 97 Vernier Street, Glen Hartwell.

"All right, dumb mutts, get a sniffing," said Terri.

"Chief, don't hurt their feelings," warned Don Esk. "They're very sensitive."

"They're about as sensitive as Donald Dum-Dum when he's explaining he wants to conquer Canada, because, 'I want it. I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it!'" said Stanlee Dempsey, jumping up and down, clenching his fists in imitation of the madman.

"Stanlee, don't make us laugh when we've got serious work to do!" said Colin.

"All right, dumb mutts, do your stuff," said Jessie, leading Slap, one of the three Alsatian crosses, over to the rusted-out shed.

At first the dog was happy to be led, but then it smelt the Mimic and started to howl, trying to pull away from the policeman.

"Oh, no, you don't, you craven cur," said Stanlee, refusing to release the chain, which Don Esk had bought to replace the dogs' leashes after they had bit through them during an earlier case. "Try to bite through that!"

Realising it couldn't bite through the chain, after breaking a tooth trying, Slap growled and leapt at Stanlee instead.

"Hey, you worthless mutt, I'm one of the good blokes," said Stanlee, reluctantly backing away, allowing the dog to get away from the shed.

As soon as the dog was a metre or so away from the shed, it calmed down and stopped growling at the policeman.

"I don't know what got into her," apologised Don Esk.

He tried to lead Tickle across to the shed, with the same result.

"Come on, you dumb mutt!" he ordered, trying to drag the dog across.

When the dog sat down and planted its feet to stay put, Don put a boot against its backside and tried pushing it forward. Growling in anger, Tickle spun around and attacked the offending boot, forcing Don to back off, crying:

"You treacherous, bloody mutt, talk about biting the foot that feeds you!"

"You two are too soft with the dumb mutts," insisted Alice Walker. Picking up Rub, she hurried across to throw the dog into the shed, then slammed the rusty iron door shut.

From inside the shed, Rub started howling while scratching at the bottom of the door, trying to dig his way out.

"Oh, let the poor thing out," pleaded Suzette Cummings.

"Suzette, you have to toughen up if you wanna be a good cop," said Sheila. "If it were me, I'd be sniffing out that killer koala, then tracking it through the town, into the forest if necessary, then duking it out with the bloody thing."

"Firstly," said Terri, laughing, "we don't know that it is a killer koala ...."

"No, it could be a giant, ice-skating mongoose," teased Colin.

"Don't make me laugh, honey," said Terri. "Secondly, it must be something pretty frightening if it has all three dumb mutts terrified."

"No, necessarily," said Jessie Baker, "those dumb mutts have been chased up trees by alley cats."

"Hey," protested Don, as everyone else laughed, "they're not that cowardly."

"Yeah, well, Tickle was brave enough beating up your boot," said Alice, making everyone except Don laugh again.

"Is it time to bring in the old ... barely middle-aged bloke yet?" asked Sheila.

"Well, at least he won't run away howling in fear," said Terri Scott.

"My dogs are just sensitive," insisted Don Esk.

"And he probably won't attack Don's boot," teased Colin. "Probably?"

An hour later, they had collected a grey-haired Elder from the Gooladoo Tribe, Bulam-Bulam, and taken him to the shed in the back yard at 97 Vernier Street. The Elder was a close friend of theirs and regularly worked as a police tracker.

"So, what do you think, mate?" asked Sheila, after hugging the sixty-six-year-old.

He looked around the shed and backyard, then said, "The tracks aren't too difficult to follow at the moment. But I don't know how I'll go, once we get out into the streets. How far did the dogs get following them?"

"Peed themselves in terror," said Wendy Pearson, "and refused to go anywhere near them."

"I'm guessing it's pretty frightening if the dogs are peeing themselves."

"Not necessarily," teased Jessie. "The other day they were running, howling, terrified of something chasing them ... and it turned out to be their shadows."

"That is so not true, you liar!" said Don.

"Don't make me laugh while I'm trying to sort out these tracks," said Bulam-Bulam as they set out on foot across to the back fence. "It climbed the fence, but I think we can go through the gate."

"I'm game to go over the fence, if you are," teased Sheila.

"No, thanks, I might be only the new forty-six, but my back isn't as good as it used to be, when it comes to climbing fences."

"Told you he was getting old," whispered Sheila.

"It's only my back that's old," insisted the Elder as they walked out into Vernier Lane. "The rest of me is the new forty-six."

"Keep telling yourself that, old timer," teased the Goth policewoman.

They followed the footprints down the lane without much trouble; however, it was slow going once they reached Biblical Road. Especially since the prints went down to the Glen Hartwell High School on the corner of Biblical Road and Howard Street.

"What now?" asked Terri, as they stared at the seemingly thousands of child-sized shoe prints, crisscrossing every which way possible.

"Now, we go past the school, and hope we can pick the prints up again later," suggested the Aboriginal Elder.

After searching around for half an hour or so, however, they could find no trace of the animal's prints again.

"It must have cut through the high school," said Colin, sending shivers down everybody's spines.

"Thank God the school wasn't open then," said Suzette Cummings.


Over at the Yannan River, they had spent the morning sluicing out the dry river bed, in the hope of reducing the stench to a more bearable level.

"Personally, I think we need to dredge it out about two metres, then run strong acid down it to get it clean," suggested Archie Neumann.

"I don't know about running acid down it," said George DuBois, "but we could use the dredgers to dig it out a metre or two. That would let the water flow faster, and possibly keep the river cleaner."

"If only we had some way to stop deadbeats from throwing their old white goods, TV, and even cars into it," suggested Eunice Grayson.

"If we got it deeper and running faster," said Lesley Porterhouse, "it's possible a lot of the white goods thrown in would float down river before sinking."

"If we're lucky, they might float all the way to New South Wales, then we could let those bastards take care of it," suggested Archie.

"I don't know if we'd get that lucky," said George, "but let's get the dredging equipment and see if we can get rid of the stinkiest rocks and sludge anyway."

By two PM, they were digging out the riverbed two metres or more in depth. Although parts of the river were already two, even three metres deep.

Having brought three tip trucks from their base, they had filled the backs of them by five-thirty, and were ready to go home.

"I'll be glad to get home, and have a nice hot, Eunice bath ... I mean Radox bath," said George.

"Oh, is that a less than subtle hint, my love?" asked Eunice between laughter.

"We'd better go around first and see how Rhonda is doing," suggested Lesley Porterhouse.

"Yes, it's not like her to miss a day without ringing us," said Archie.

They all piled into George and Eunice's dark blue Ford Ranger, then headed around to 66 Mountcliff Way, a yellow brick, one-bedroom, single-fronted house.

After knocking on the door for a moment, Lesley called out, "Rhonda, honey, are you in there?"

They hunted around for a spare key, in the letter box, under the grotty Welcome mat, under a couple of potted cacti, all without luck.

"Maybe she's in the back," suggested Eunice, so they walked around to the right side of the house, then started toward the white slatted gate, which fortunately was unlocked, then passed into the backyard, where they found the door wide open.

"Back door is open," said Archie, the first one to reach it.

"Rhonda," called George, as they started into the house.

Between the four of them, they managed to search through the small house in fairly rapid time, without finding the blonde woman.

"Where could she have got to?" pondered George.

"The bed is unmade, as though she got up for some reason, then never returned," said Lesley.

Leaving the house by the back door, they looked down the yard. In the middle of the yard was a Hills hoist washing line, then beyond it, a small outhouse-sized shed.

"Could she be down there?" asked Lesley, thinking: Crying perhaps?

After a moment's hesitation, they started down through the long(ish) grass toward the old dunny-cum-shed. They were still only halfway down the yard when they saw the shattered white shards, which were all that was left of the skeleton of Rhonda Rhodes.

"What the Hell is ...?" began Lesley Porterhouse, stopping to turn around to throw up in the long grass as she realised what the bone shards were.


An hour later, Archie, Lesley, Eunice, and George had given their statements to Sheila Bennett and had been allowed to go home. Then, after Sheila took the crime scene photos, Tilly Lombstrom, aided by Leo Laxman, examined the bone shards as best as she could.

"So what's the verdict, Tils?" asked Colin Klein.

"They're definitely human bone fragments, but unless we can track down one of Rhonda's relatives for testing, it's only an assumption that they're hers."

"I think all of her rellies live in Tassie," said Sheila.

"We'll have to check on that with the Tassie Police," said Terri.

"Rhodes isn't a widespread name in Australia in general," said Tilly, "so hopefully there won't be too many in Tassie."

After a moment, she stood and signalled for Julia Prescott, a redheaded paramedic, and her partner, David Langely, a short but wiry raven-haired teenager, to come over to collect up the bone fragments.

"So, what's next, Chief?" asked Alice Walker.

"So, now we try Bulam-Bulam again," said Terri. "But since both Cliff and Rhonda were working the last few days at the Yannan River, we start our new search from there, instead of here."

"We could always try the dumb mutts here?" offered Wendy Pearson.

"What and have them pissing themselves in terror, and fouling the crime scene?" asked Stanlee Dempsey.

"They're just sensitive," insisted Don Esk.

"Sensitive, my arse!" said Sheila, making everyone except Don laugh.


Over at the Gooladoo tribe, outside Harpertown, they were sitting around the campfire, eating kangaroo meat, with chips, plus a few potato cakes purchased from Eduardo's Fish and Chips in Chappell Street, Harpertown.

"These potato cakes go great with kanga meat," said Tony Muttabunga.

Standing a few metres away, hiding behind an old-growth blue gum, the Mimic repeated, "These potato cakes go great with kanga meat," in Tony Muttabunga's voice.

"Hey, was that an echo, or did you repeat yourself?" asked Bulam-Bulam.

"I never repeat myself, repeat myself, repeat myself," said Tony, making the tribe laugh as they kept eating.

"His problem," said Suzie Warrabutta, "is that like most teenage boys, he thinks he's funny ... but he's not."

"Am too, am too, am too ... this is not an echo, not an echo, not an echo," said Tony.

Despite herself, Suzie couldn't help laughing at him. To the pleasure of Tony, who fancied the tall, busty, twenty-something lubra. Unlike some of the older women in the tribe, Suzie did not go around topless; however, her clothes left little to the imagination, and Tony could see she was chestalicious as he had heard white men say about big-chested women.

"His problem is that, like most teenage boys, he thinks he's funny," repeated the Mimic in Suzie's voice, careful not to be overheard this time.

The creature stood on the carpet of pine needles and dried gum leaves, watching as the Aborigines ate, then played warrior, or Frisbee, or in some cases, played video games on mobile phones. Then, around nine thirty, the tribe settled down to sleep for the night.

The Mimic waited until nearly ten o'clock, then crept into the camp and padded across to Tony Muttabunga's lean-to. Poking it's head into the lean-to, near Tony's feet, it said, in Suzie's voice, "Would you like to have some fun?"

"What kind of fun?" asked Tony, whacking his head on the top of the lean-to as he sat up too quickly.

"Boy on girl fun," teased the Mimic.

"You mean humpety bumpety fun?" asked Tony.

"Your problem," said the creature in Suzie's voice, "is that like most teenage boys, you think you're funny ... but you're not."

"Is that so, hot stuff?' demanded Tony, reaching out into the darkness.

Backing up, the Mimic said, "You'll have to catch me first."

It backed out of the lean-to, then raced into the forest twenty metres away.

Climbing out of the lean-to, Tony picked up his mobile phone, thinking: If I'm gonna finally see her naked, I want some happy snaps to remember it by. Now, where is that sexy tease?

In Suzie's voice, the creature called quietly, "You'll have to catch me first."

"Oh, you like playing games?" said Tony, following the sound of the voice. As long as I get some nookie afterwards, I don't mind playing first, Tony thought.

"Catch me if you can," teased Suzie-Mimic.

"I'll catch you," called Tony, forgetting to keep his voice down as he ran out into the forest outside the campsite.

They were more than a hundred metres from the campsite when Suzie's voice called out, "I'm taking all of my clothes off now, handsome."

And I'm taking happy snaps, sexy! thought Tony as he crept toward the huge blue gum tree, from behind which the voice had come.

Tony leapt out from behind the gum tree, snapping off half a dozen pictures of the Mimic, before it ripped his throat out, then began eating him slowly. Head and brain first, then chest, lungs and heart, before disembowelling him to eat his kidneys, liver, spleen, pancreas, and organs, leaving behind all faecal matter, and this time not daring to break open the bones to get at the marrow, for fear of the Aborigines overhearing and coming to investigate.

Sighing in frustration at having to leave the juicy marrow, the Mimic galloped off into the forest, unaware that the mobile phone had captured its image.


The next morning, as usual, Bulam-Bulam was the first of the tribe to awaken. He helped himself to some cold kangaroo meat for breakfast, then started off on foot for Chappell Street, Harpertown, to open his small milk bar.

An hour or so later, Suzie and the other tribal members started to awaken around seven-thirty.

"Where is Tony Muttabunga?" asked Suzie, noticing his absence. "It's not like him to be late for a meal."

"You didn't wear him out last night, did you?" asked Agnes Wandin-Din, an elderly lubra, who despite the recent wintery weather, went topless, pretending not to notice when the young bucks couldn't keep their eyes off her huge, pendulous breasts.

Until recently, Agnes had been the Chief Female Elder at the Mulla-Mulla Tribe, based about twenty kilometres outside Glen Hartwell. Until most of the Mulla-Mulla people had been slaughtered, and the remainder had been invited by Bulam-Bulam to join the Gooladoo Tribe. [See my story, 'The Werebison'.]

"What do you mean, wear him out?" asked Suzie.

"Don't play innocent, honey," said Agnes. "I heard you calling him to follow you into the forest to have some fun last night."

"How dare you?" demanded the twenty-year-old, shocked. "I did no such thing."

"Maybe that's why he's not here," said Agnes, "he's sulking because you did nothing, after leading him out into the forest."

"I did not lead him out into the forest last night."

"I heard you calling him," insisted the huge-chested lubra. "The pity is, that if he'd come into my lean-to, I would have helped him to have some fun, and we would have both been good and hungry come breakfast time."

"You old trollop, you would have, wouldn't you?"

"I said I would. Unlike you, I don't lead horny young men on, then do nothing."

"I did not lead him on!"

"I heard you call him to come out and have some humpety bumpety fun with you!" insisted Agnes. "No point denying it."

The argument might have raged for hours, but the others started awakening, and the cook fire was lit to reheat leftovers from last night as breakfast.

"We'll have to send Tony and some others into Eduardo's Fish and Chips in Chappell Street, to get some more chips for lunch," said a tall, lean Elder.

"If we can find Tony," said Suzie, "he didn't appear for breakfast."

"Maybe he's feeling let down," teased Agnes, running her hands down along her massive, pendulous breasts, for no reason, but to get the attention of all of the young bucks in the tribe. "He should have come to me."

The tall, lean Elder, Leon Mullagrew, gulped, feeling a lump rising in his throat, and another one under his loincloth, saying:

"Well, maybe we can test our tracking skills to find him after eating."

"Maybe," agreed Agnes, smiling lasciviously, as she continued to run her hands along her huge breasts.

"You'd be arrested for doing that in white society," whispered Suzie.

"Luckily, we aren't in white society," said Agnes, smiling sensually at three teenage boys who struggled to eat their food while ogling her breasts.


Over at the Yellow House, in Merridale, they were also enjoying a breakfast of pancakes with jam (of your choice), and whipped cream.;

"How many types of jam are there today, Mrs. M.?" asked Sheila Bennett.

"Seven, dear."

"Surely, even you couldn't scoff down seven flapjacks to try each flavour?" asked a horrified Natasha Lipzing.

"What do you mean, even me?"

"We expect that kind of piggery from Tommy," said Freddy Kingston.

"How dare you?" demanded Tommy Turner. "I have a healthy appetite, that's all."

"A healthy appetite for a hog, maybe," teased Leo Laxman.

"How dare you?" demanded Tommy.

"He meant a wild boar," teased Terri.

"Or some kind of a boor, anyway," added Colin, making everyone except Tommy laugh.

"I repeat, how dare you?" Then to Deidre Morton, "Be sure to put plenty of rum on my flapjacks."

"We're all out of rum, you'll have to have brandy."

Sheila ended up having seven small pancakes, instead of her usual plate-sized flapjacks, so that she could indeed try all seven flavours of jam. She was just finishing the seventh pancake, ready to lick the plate clean, when Terri's phone rang.

"Ha, beat you, Terri's phone," said Sheila, making everyone stare at her. "What? Well, the damn thing always tries to make me miss my brekkie."


By eight thirty, Terri, Colin, Tilly Lombstrom and Leo Laxman, Bulam-Bulam, and an ambulance crew, Cheryl Pritchard, and Derek Armstrong were all standing around watching as Sheila took the crime scene pictures.

"I wonder why it didn't crack open the bones this time?" asked Derek Armstrong, a tall black American of fifty, who had spent the second half of his life working for the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.

"Because it knew the tribe were too close and would have overheard," suggested Bulam-Bulam.

"In which case, we have a clever, as well as psychotic killer," said Colin.

Finished taking the pictures, Sheila turned round and saw something glinting by the base of a great blue gum tree.

"Hey, what's that?" asked the Goth chick.

She walked across to pick up Tony Muttabunga's mobile phone.

"It's a fancy one to be left lying on the ground," said Suzette Cummings.

"I think that was Tony's," said Bulam-Bulam.

"And he's taken some pix," said Sheila, "let's have a shufti." She started looking through the half a dozen pictures, and said, "Yeech! I think he photoed his killer."

The cops and medics gathered around to watch as Sheila leafed through the half a dozen pictures of the Mimic.

"I wonder why he photoed it, instead of running like Hell?" asked Alice Walker.

"I can answer that," said Agnes Wandin-Din, going on to tell them what she had heard the night before.

"It wasn't me, dammit," insisted Suzie Warrabutta.

"Could that creature have imitated Suzie's voice?" asked Bulam-Bulam.

"Which would explain why he snapped the pix," said Sheila. "If he was expecting it to be Suzie naked, not the creature hungry."

"It would also explain how it lured Cliff Forde and Rhonda Rhodes outside," said Terri. "If it imitated voices, they would go outside for."

"But what the Hell is it?" asked Wendy Pearson as they looked through the half a dozen photos again.

"I don't know," said Colin, "but our witchy friend might."


An hour later, they were sitting around in the living room at 1/21 Calhoun Street, Glen Hartwell, the right-hand side of a subdivided white weatherboard house. Inside lived Magnolia (nee Mavis) McCready, a tall, busty, forty-eight-year-old redhead with electric-blue eyes.

As they were sitting down in the turquoise coloured living room, with cups of Milo and hot milk, and coffee cream biscuits, Terri said, "Here's something which will put you off your Milo."

"Real Quik," added Sheila, handing over the phone with the pictures of the Mimic. "Oh, come on, Milo, real Quik, that was funny."

"Don't give up your day job, Sheils," advised the white witch.

"And we think it can impersonate a human voice," said Colin.

"I think it's a Cynolycus, also called a Crocotta, or a Mimic," said Magnolia. "It's a Hindu demon, which lures people toward it, then eats them, down to the bones, often snapping the bones to get at the juicy marrow."

"So we need to get the Pandit Rohan Ahuja to bless more bazooka shells to use on this thing, like we did with the Rakshasa recently," suggested Colin. [See my story, 'Rakshasa'.]

"But we've only got three shells left," pointed out Sheila. "That might not be enough to kill this Cyno-whatsamatush."

"No, I rang Russell Street and they sent us ten more shells," said Terri.

"When was this?" demanded the Goth chick.

"They arrived about a week ago," said Colin.

"Why wasn't I told?"

"Sheils, they are to kill Rakshasas, Devil Fish, or Cyno-whatsamatushes," said Terri. "Not for you to waste, firing them all off for fun."

"How is practising wasting them?" demanded Sheila.

"Sheils, we know you too well," said Colin, Terri, and Magnolia as one.

"Very funny," said the Goth chick, clearly not amused.


Three hours later, they were seated in the Hindu mandir (temple) at 190 to 210 Henry Street, toward the northernmost edge of Glen Hartwell, while the Pandit (priest) Rohan Ahuja finished up the ritual to bless the ten new shells. The old three had already been blessed.

"So now we just have to track down the Rakshasa, I mean Cyno-whatsamatush," said Sheila, "then Dirty Harriet can zap it."

"Sheils, this is a serious business," reminded Terri. "It has already killed and eaten three of our friends."

"So, we don't need you getting excited and playing Dirty Harriet," added Colin.

"You two are no fun," said Sheila, sulking.

"Well, I can cast a calling spell to bring it to us," advised Magnolia McCready.

"But please, not in the temple," said the Pandit. "It's not long since the Rakshasa ravaged the mandir.

"This looks like another job for Louie Pascall to fly us out to the desert, away from Glen Hartwell, and hopefully any innocent bystanders," said Terri. "As we did to kill Behemoth." [See my story, 'Behemoth'.]

"I really thought she was going to say, 'This looks like a job for Atom Ant, that tiny ant, with his moronic powers'," teased Sheila

"Sheils, we can always get someone else to fire the bazooka," teased Colin.

"Nah-ah," said Sheila, knowing that she was the best weapons and armaments officer this side of Melbourne.

"It's one thing for her to be confident," said Terri, "but I hate it when she rubs our noses in it, when it's something that we're not good at."

"Running, jumping, climbing rope, blowing things up, those were my greatest strengths at police college," said the Goth policewoman.

"I know, Sheils, I was there," said Terri, before taking out her mobile to ring Louie Pascall.


It was 2:30 in the afternoon when they finally landed in the red sandy desert, a full hundred kilometres outside Glen Hartwell, well away from any farms or Aboriginal tribal grounds.


Over at the Gooladoo tribal grounds, the Crocotta (Mimic) was still hiding in the forest, not far from the frightened natives, wondering whether it could get another meal from the Aborigines that night. Seeing the huge, pendulous breasts upon sixty-two-year-old Agnes Wandin-Din, it licked its lips, deciding that she would make an excellent meal for that night.

Seeing the lubra talking to three teenaged bucks, it listened in and carefully imitated their voices, knowing it could get the sexy, sex-mad sexagenarian to come to it that night by imitating one, or all of them.


Out in the desert, Magnolia had started preparing her potions, while Colin and Sheila unloaded the bazooka and all thirteen shells from Louie Pascall's Bell Huey.

"It's probably best if you take the chopper out of bazooka range, in case Sheils gets carried away," advised Terri.

"But don't go too far, if it starts to get dark before our Cyno-whatsamatush arrives, we'll need your flood light to see what Sheils is firing at," said Colin.

"And remember to stand behind me, but not directly behind the bazooka," reminded Sheila.

"Whyever not?" asked Magnolia.

"It has a massive back blast," said Terri.

"You mean like Sheila after she's eaten curry," teased the white witch.

"How dare you?" demanded the Goth chick. "Aussies don't eat curry!"


Over the next hour or more, the Crocotta stayed watching the huge, pendulous breasts of Agnes Wandin-Din, deciding that after killing her, it would devour those massive delicacies first. It licked its lips at the thought, then suddenly screamed out, "Rhonda, help me!" in Cliff Forde's voice, before being pulled backwards as though upon a gigantic elastic band, which had reached its limit and was now retracting rapidly.

"What the Hell?" cried Agnes.

Two of the boys ogling her breasts, ran away to hide. The third boy threw himself in front of her. Not to protect the sexy sexagenarian, but to take her enormous breasts into his hands to squeeze firmly, and to start sucking first one nipple, then the other, in case this was as close to sex as he ever got before the Crocotta slaughtered him.

Holding onto the boy, not caring who saw them, Agnes took him down to the ground on top of her, so that they could start making out. In case this was the last sex that she would ever get to experience.


Over at the desert, Magnolia kept chanting and mixing her herbs and potions, until she also jerked back, and said:

"I think it's starting to work, the Cynolycus is coming."

Loading the bazooka with the first shell, Sheila instructed, "Everyone, get behind me. But not directly behind the bazooka."

Doing as instructed, Colin and Terri waited while Magnolia McCready continued her calling spell.

After a few minutes, they heard screamed out, "Rhonda, help me!" in Cliff Forde's voice. Then the Crocotta flew out of the sky and landed fifty metres or so away from them.

"What the fuck?" said the creature in Cliff's voice.

"Time for some target practice," said Sheila, checking no one was standing behind the bazooka before firing it.

The first shell sailed well over the Crocotta's head and exploded fifty metres beyond it.

"Try aiming at it, not fifty metres beyond it," advised Colin.

"Thank you, Professor Know-It-All," said Sheila, reloading the bazooka as the Crocotta decided to charge them.

This time, since she aimed low, the shell landed ten metres in front of the creature and exploded, making it change its mind about charging them. Instead, it turned tail and started running back into the red sandy desert.

"Chicken, aye?" asked Sheila, before firing the third shell.

This time, the shell exploded beside the creature, sending it flying sideways, but without killing it.

Looking back at them, the creature said, "What the fuck?" in Cliff Forde's voice, as Sheila loaded the forth shell into the bazooka.

As the creature stood to take off, Sheila fired again, this time a direct hit, sending the Crocotta flying straight up into the air to come down with a crash.

"What the fuck?" it said in Cliff's voice again, before dying.

"She shoots, she scores, she is the champion, my friend!" shouted a highly excited Sheila Bennett.

"She has every right to be excited," said Magnolia, "but somebody please take that bazooka off her, before in her excitement she accidentally shoots us all."

"Will do," said Colin. He went across to hug Sheila, then took the bazooka away from her.


Back at the Gooladoo tribal grounds, Agnes and her young lover were frantically coupling. The sixteen-year-old boy had already ejaculated three times: once upon her slightly distended, chubby belly, once in her vagina, and the third time in her anus, which he had started fucking without even asking, thinking it would be the only time he would ever get to sodomise a woman either.

Although a little startled and in agony from the sodomy, Agnes held the youth to her as they kept rutting, and would do so for three hours more, until both passed out from exhaustion.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia