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searching for something appropriate to say, but found himself vacant of any
inspiration other than losing his temper. "You bowbs will live to regret
this!" Which wasn't very impressive and only drew sneers from the redskins.
The flames roared higher.
The smiles on the Red Indians' faces grew wider, and they started to do a wild
dance to celebrate the delicious conflagration.
But something remarkable was about to happen. Something as inappropriate and
impossible as a lawyer going to heaven.
The Indians beat tom-toms and worked themselves up into a hysterical lather,
too high to notice the cloud stealing over them until it was too late.
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Bill, the Galactic Hero on the Planet of The Hippies From Hell
With a crack of ear-destroying thunder, a mini-storm broke. Water rained down
upon the mesquite fire, drowning it out with much smoky hissing and gurgling.
A bolt of lightning frizzled down, striking one of the redskins and blasting
him right out of his moccasins.
"Hark! It comes upon me that, perhaps, there is a message of some kind here!"
intoned Chief Thunder
Bluster. "I do think that this seems to be some sort of sign from the gods."
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Bill was happy it was a sign from somebody. This little fire had almost put
paid to any ambitions he might have had regarding progeny.
"Bollocks!" cried the frustrated medicine man. "Talk about raining on the
parade! What did we do wrong, oh gods, that you should rain out our holy
barbie in this manner?"
"Bill!" shouted Elliot. "Look!"
Bill looked.
Sure enough, there was something remarkable to look at.
"You're right! There are still full cans of Foster's lager on that cart!"
"No, you quasi-alcoholic military moron, no!" screamed Elliot. "Not the beer.
The cloud! Look at the cloud."
Bill blinked his eyes and tried to focus his attention on the cloud. He saw
that the vapors of which it was composed were moving moving and moiling so
as to form a face!
The face had a big clown nose, protruding clown eyes and frizzy red hair, with
a painted-on frown. "Hark and honk!" said the clown god, honking a horn from
within its little cumuloid assemblage of water vapor.
"I am Quetzelbozo, the clown of ridiculous blood-thirsty pagan Aztec ceremony.
I've been sent by
Coaxialcoitus to tell you that you're doing this all wrong."
"Wrong!" said Buffalo Billabong. "Why, we've got them marinated to high
heaven!"
The clown-god sniffed. "Yeah. I can smell them from here. But you didn't do
the rituals right. Recipe seems right on, but the rituals we gods like have to
be included to make it a proper sacrifice."
"Oh, damn! Of course! I forgot the pies!" said the medicine man.
"That's right!" said the clown-god. "Prerequisite to the proper ritual burning
of sacrificial victims is a proper mashing of cream pies in the face!"
"That's about as bad as a poke in the eye with a burnt stick!" moaned the
medicine man, slapping his forehead in self-abasement and derision. "I forgot
the cream pies." He fell down to his knees before the clown-cloud. "What else
has your humble, penitent servant forgotten, your Big-noseship?"
"The rubber chicken with its head bitten off!"
Buffalo Billabong's eyes went wide. "The rubber chook of course! How could I
have possibly forgotten the bloody chook! This is just not my flipping day.
"You got it that time, buster. Be prepared to take your punishment for
absentmindedness, worthless servant."
The medicine man braced himself and closed his eyes. A spray of carbonated
water squirted from the cloud, smacking him on the kisser, followed by a dead
mackerel which slapped him wetly in the forehead.
Holy blood-thirsty laughter echoed through the canyons. Even Bill and Elliot
had to laugh. This was better than dying, thought Bill. Now if they could
escape along with some more drink everything would be pretty all right.
Buffalo Billabong sighed and gestured to the nearest Indian brave to go and
procure the important items he had forgotten.
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