“Oh stop moaning. It was only a little tumble.”
“Fuck off. Look at the size of me. I do not have little tumbles.”
“Did you roll down the hill, or just hit the ground and lay still?”
“A little of both. You’re lucky I’m alive, given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances? You slipped and fell. This is not your first rodeo. Nothing’s broken, and you’re just making moaning noises so I’ll feel sorry for you.”
“Are you insane? I had 10-litres of hell-poison on my back. I fell on it! It could have broken, the pump-handle could have pierced my back, and that evil shit could have splashed into my body. I would have been dead and melting before the fucking ambulance got here.”
“Yes. That could have been catastrophic. But that’s not what happened.”
“It almost happened!”
“Did you trip over your feet?
“No. I have the grace of a hunting leopard. You know that. It was the mud.”
“Did you not see the mud as you hunted, O great leopard?”
“It was hidden by the grass. It was stealth-mud. Leopard-crippling stealth-mud.”
“I wish I’d seen it. I would have died laughing.”
“There was nothing funny about it at all. Do you laugh when a mighty rhinoceros crashes to the earth after being hit by a poacher’s bullet? No, you don’t. This was like that.”
“The fuck it was. This was you dressed in shitty old Hazmat suit with a mask on your face and a barrel of weed-poison on your back going arse-up in mud. The only thing you and the rhino have in common is the size and the way you lumber.”
“It’s hard not to lumber when you’re carting a barrel of hell-poison on your back – and don’t deny you thought it was funny. I heard you laughing when I walked past the window.”
“Of course I was laughing. You looked very funny. You look even funnier now because you’re caked in mud. And why do you keep using that terrifying shit? Can’t you just get normal weed killer from Bunnings like everyone else?”
“Only amateurs, bitches, and man-bunners buy weed-killer from Bunnings. Farmer’s Warehouse is where the good shit is. It’s out the back in a big white bottle made from impregnable plastic with a list of a hundred unpronounceable chemicals on the label, and lots of dire warnings. If it gets on your skin, you will scream and die. If it gets in your eyes, you’ll go blind and die. If you breath it in, you’ll gag and die. Even if you wear all the protective gear, you’ll probably get cancer and die later. Kills weeds like a mad cunt. It’s the best shit ever. I love it.”
“Good thing the pumping barrel didn’t break when you crashed to the ground like a sack of ham then, I guess.”
“Damn straight. Can you hose me down please?”
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