To follow what I have written it would be great if you would read Part One of Lucifer’s Camp Ground of Wretchedness Part One .
Lucifer’s Campground of Wretchedness Part Two
I was almost asleep when I heard a strange buzzing noise. It grew louder and louder. I crawled outside to investigate.
“G’day there,” a big, burly man zoomed past on a quad bike. Dust flew up behind him.
“Howdy,” his wife called as she zoomed past on another. More dust.
A surly teenager grunted at me as he zoomed past on his quad bike. A dust storm.
“Bollocks!” Mr Manager said driving past. “Forgot to tell you about the roundabout. You’re camped right in the middle of it.”
“We need to move,” I declared.
“Why?” Mr Smarts asked.
“Because we’ve pitched our tent in the middle of an invisible roundabout. Look outside,” I demanded. “It’s a tornado!”
“It’s just a bit of dust,” Mr Smarts said. “Besides, it took us hours to set up the first time. I don’t think our marriage could survive a second time.”
“Hey! There are men out there with guns,” Will peered through the window.
“I knew I wasn’t dreaming,” I said.
“Looks like they’ve been out hunting,” Mr Smarts said.
“Hunting what? People?” I said slightly deranged from lack of sleep.
“Hunting ducks Kooky,” Mr Smarts said thrusting a cup of coffee at me. “Drink it fast. You look like you need it.”
“G’day ,” Mr Manager said poking his head in. “Thought I’d better let you know that the pools a bit blocked up. Found a dead rat in it. Caused all kinds of hoo ha, it has. Should be okay for a quick dip though.”
Speechless I counted the hours until wine o’clock. Time couldn’t pass fast enough.
After spending the day in the tent, avoiding the dust, all was suddenly quiet. Not a quad bike, nor a person could be seen. It was all very mysterious.
Bam! Music roared across the camp ground. Strobe lights shone across the sky. It was party time at Lucifer’s Campground of Wretchedness. Things were looking up.
“Where’s the party?” I asked Mr Manager.
“The music? The lights?” I asked hopefully.
“No party, love. Siestas over that’s all. Happens every night. All night sometimes,” he explained.
Had we moved to Spain and I hadn’t realized? Unfortunately not.
I was rudely woken by a very rude woman who was speaking very rudely about her, “rude” husband.
“I don’t like him. He has no friends. He’s boring,” Mrs Rude said slurring her words.
“He’s not that bad,” someone hiccuped.
“He is so. How would you know? You’re not married to him,” Mrs Rude replied. “He snores. He has bad breath and to top it off his picks his nose.”
“Are you listening to this,” I asked Mr Smarts.
“Hard not to,” he said pulling the pillow over his head.
“And do you know what the worst thing is? He shoots ducks and we don’t even eat duck. Can anyone tell me why I have a house full of dead ducks which no one wants to eat?” she demanded.
“Stop talking about me,” a voice sobbed.
“Go back to bed,” Mrs Rude said.
“Nobody likes me because you tell lies about me. I like to eat duck. It’s why I shoot them. I just don’t know how to cook them,” the voice cried.
Then it dawned on me.
“Mr Smarts it’s one of the shooters,” I whispered. “I bet he’s going to shoot her.”
“Can you blame him?” Mr Smarts asked.
“I have to call the police,” I said.
“You can’t. There’s no reception,” Mr Smarts reminded me.
“Four months we’ve been married and already you want to leave,” Mr Shooter sobbed.
“I didn’t say I wanted to leave,” Mrs Rude said. “Just brush your teeth once in a while and see someone about your snoring. The nose picking is okay. Just don’t flick it my way.”
“If I stop doing all those things will you cook my duck?” Mr Shooter asked.
“No way! Gross!” Mrs Rude whined.
I waited fearfully for her head to be blown off.
“But my mum will,” she said. “Won’t ya mum?”
And we drifted off to sleep with the smell of duck roasting on a camp fire.
We have yet to go camping again.