“Oh whoa,” chuckled the old hippy, “I think I’m having a flashback again … and this one, man, like definitely in my top 30, maybe 20? Yeah … like definitely in my top best 50 of all time man. Like my most awesome flashback was being in space with this really like, suave and rustic black dude from Mars man and this, totally cool like, shape shifting robot man,” he stopped to sip his liquor, “awe yeah and there was like this, big monkey man,” the old hippy’s eyes widened with realisation, “actually, I think it was Bigfoot man, as in ‘the’ Bigfoot man and there was like, this hot Asian android babe, actually…” pondered the dirty old hippy, “she kind of looked just like this babe,” he made a double pistol point gesture towards the woman and almost dropped his seven ounce glass in the process, “wow lady, you’re smoking hot, woo wee…”
The woman crossed her arms, rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth as she looked away. She was not amused.
“But,” pondered the hippy, “like in a, big sister or mum kind of way. It’s weird man, like, you seem really, really familiar to me.” The hippy took another sip of his liquor, “And” he continued, “like yeah, I remember spending time in outer space man. And there was also this big green bug man who was like a professor of astrophysics or something man. Wow, I think I used my space Kombi to bust him out of Area 51 man, we crash landed on the moon man. I think we just waited for this big black spaceship to turn up or something, so we played and then we lit up this huge—”
“Shut up Ronch,” said the old mum from behind the bar, “no one wants to hear your crazy crap, blasting from your hippy pie hole.”
“But” replied Ronch, “I outran a squadron of TR-3B’s man, flying through clouds dodging missiles while listening to on 8-track man.”
“Awe bloody hell here we go,” said the farmer sitting at the bar, “he’s blabbing on about his space Kombi again.”
“Zero to 700,000 times light speed in seven seconds maaan.”
“Bull crap yah bloody boof head,” barked the farmer.
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“From here to Andromeda powered by just a banana peel man.”
“Codswallop.”
“For the last time,” added the old mum, “you deluded Woodstock antique, you don’t have a space Kombi, you didn’t help save the universe and you didn’t rescue a 400-pound space cicada from Area 51. Just quit yah big fish yarning and shut that herbal ash tray you call a mouth.”
She turned to the strange looking mob, “Now, if you clowns think you’re robbing this pub, then I hope you bastards brought some bloody shovels.”
The portly beef cake alpha nerd stomped forward but stopped when he heard the pump of a shotgun. It was pop, standing to his side. He pointed both barrels to the fat boy’s head.
“Don’t you or your friends make another move,” he said as he stepped in to place both barrels on the pork bun’s left temple, “you got that? You feel me fat boy?”
The fat alpha nerd grinned. He looked like he was ready to pull off some sudden fancy move from Krav Maga 101. However, he simply grabbed the barrel of the shotgun from the feeble old pops and headbutted the poor codger. As pops hit the floor the nerdy beef cake butterball caught the shotgun with his free hand before stomping his boot on the old man’s chest.
“Keep calm everyone,” he said, “in other words, shut the hell up!”
“Nice move fat boy,” sneered the cowboy, sculling his whisky.
“Well, what the bloody hell’s going on then?” asked the farmer, “bunch of … pack of nerds walking into our pub dressed like that. The city is that way,” he pointed to the south, southeast, “that’s where you’ll find all the weirdos. Decent folk live around here and we don’t want your kind.”
“Who are you people?” asked the well weathered Māori woman.
“Who are they?” replied the portly Jean Luc. “Well, ‘A’ they’re with me and ‘B’ they’re all smart because they’re with me. If you all want to live like them then be smart like them and do what I say.”
“And who are you then?” asked the Indian fellow, “you, big bald fat bugger.”
“Who am I?” chuckled the fat Jean Luc. He took his boot off of pops and stepped backwards. He placed the shotgun on a table and stood just in front of a window. The sound of rain ran through the pub as it fell on the rusted iron roof, “I’m Himbo … the big bad boof, the hero, the champion … and I’m here to save the day.”
The window shattered as streams of pink tentacles burst in and wrapped around the fat boy. In an instant he was there and then he was gone. His top half was torn off at the waist and pulled out of the pub. Oodles of intestines that looked more like a giant coiled up yellow slug, blood, guts and fat exploded as his legs and buttocks collapsed onto the floor. His legs twitched as nerves cried out for a brain that was no longer there while his backside blasted like a baritone in protest.
Himbo was no more … or at least, so it seemed.
Chief, the kung fu guy and jiu jitsu butterball along with the woman sprang into action. They upturned several tables and barricaded the window. The pub was filled with screams and panic. All had lost the plot, except for the dead fat boy’s crew. They were clearly shocked but did their best to remain focused and composed. As for the cowboy, he just sat on his bar stool, chuckled and sneered.
