Syd Soyley is a True Blue outback backpacker, licenced professional adventurer, and genteel vagabond. He travels the world bringing his readers the grundiest travel log and extreme vacation guide on the Net.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII

Outback Backpacker

Adventures in Dirt Cove, Part IX

"We never said he was dead," Big Bill pointed out. "We only said we couldn't find him. Who said he was killed?" All eyes were on the gore-spattered hatchet lying conspicuously at Garland's feet.

"Did you find dat bloody axe in the woods?" asked the rat-faced youth, clutching two badly worn steel-belted radials. "I found dese tires! Dere's lots of good stuff in the woods. If I finds some sticks and rope I'm gonna make a go-cart and drive all the way to Friggers Cove!"

"Shut up, Tinsel," said Big Bill. "Is dat Chuck Hookey's axe, Garland?"

Garland turned whiter than a pommy's hanky. "I dunno, b'y ... m-m-maybe, I s'pose," he whinged.

Murmurs from the townsfolk. "Is dat Chuck Hookey's blood, Garland?"

"I n-n-never killed him!" Garland blurted out. "B-b-buddy dere did!"

I turned to see Garland pointing the dirty, unmanicured Finger of Accusation at Yours Truly, backpackers. Bloody dobber.

"Dat buddy dere paid me to take him on the Spooky Stroll and he wanted to see the lighthouse and I told him we couldn't 'cause we had to cross the woodsman's property and he said he didn't care 'cause he hated the woodsman and then he said that he was gonna kill him and he did! He took out an axe and stabbed him with it in the uglies and took off and I tried to chase after him and I did and I captured him and he punched me in the eye and I overcomed him and I figured I'd turn him in to you 'cause I'm a hero!" Garland was panting like a bilby in heat after that epic stream of shit.

"Now hang on a minute here, mates," I began, but one of the villagers clocked me with a hockey stick and the world turned black.

* * *

I awoke to find a large, blood-spattered man slathering me with sauce. For a moment I feared I was back in the ritual stewing pot of the cannibalistic Umbanga tribe, but it was actually a large aluminium tub.

"G'day mate, how ya going?" I asked cheerily.

Sully Wrongwrub

"Meat's still tough," observed the bloke, applying more marinade. He was clad in a filthy white apron, with a large, rusty cleaver dangling from his belt.

"Syd Soyley, professional adventurer, at your service," I said, offering my hand. He regarded its dimensions with a practiced eye, but didn't shake it.

"Sully Wrongwrub. I'm the butcher here in Dirt Cove," he explained. "I got to detain you until we finds the Mountie."

Table with 'meat' and tools The butcher shop stank badly. Most of the stench could be blamed on the hunks of meat of dubious origin that lay scattered about in various stages of decay. The remainder emanated from Sully himself, with a not insignificant third portion accountable to the slightly chewed corpse of Chuck Hookey. The woodsman lay in a rough, plywood box on a nearby table, surrounded by an arsenal of poorly-maintained knives, hooks, saws, and other implements.

"Er, right. Well, I'd best be on my way," I said.

"Hang on 'til I tenderizes ya," said Sully, turning to reach for a wooden implement the size and shape of a croquet mallet.

This was my only chance, backpackers. With wallaby-like reflexes, I grabbed a nearby shaker and blinded the butcher with a cloud of Steve's Sizzlin' Steak Spice as he turned to whack me.

"Aw, b'y!" he cried, dropping the mallet and covering his eyes. I seized the initiative and shoved the disoriented butcher into a meat storage locker, then slammed the door. Refrigeration didn't seem to be a known technology in Dirt Cove, so I had no worries of him freezing to death. Shame, that.

"Let me out b'y!" yelled Sully, pounding uselessly on the door as I gathered my gear and clothing. "You won't get away with dis! I'm s'posed to cater da wake tonight at Wally's. When dere's no cold cuts, dey'll come looking for me!"

"Good on ya, mate!" I planned to be long gone by then, backpackers. Time to get out of Dirt Cove.

I waited a couple of hours for cover of darkness. Not wanting to chance an exit by the front door, I slipped out a second-story window at the rear of the shop via a rope ladder crudely constructed of link sausage. Sully's was on the outskirts of town, so from there it was a short dash into the woods, and Syd Soyley was back in his element!

I wandered for some time until I ran across pavement. I planned to end this adventure as many a trip began -- with a full backpack and an outstretched thumb. Too right!

Several pickup trucks slowed down to get a look at my mug, then sped off as I went unrecognized. How long, I wondered, before they found the butcher in the locker and the next car turned out to be the coppers?

Not long, it seemed. The headlights approaching me were suddenly topped by flashing blue and reds. A siren whooped. No time to dive for the underbrush this time, backpackers.

A voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "Hey Syd, you would nay happen to have a bottle on ye, would ye?" queried a familiar Irish brogue. It was Father O'Lecher!

Father O' Lecher in car

"I heard yer name on the police scanner and figured I'd best be pickin' ye up, boy-o," he said, poking his head out the window. He'd trimmed his beard down to a goatee and dyed his hair blond. Badly. He sported sunglasses despite the darkness. "I had to change me appearance a wee bit. Keep the Man from recognizing me, ya know."

I neglected to question the wisdom of travelling incognito while driving a stolen police vehicle. After all, a ride was a ride. I climbed in.

"Have ye ever been to Ireland?" he asked. "I bet ye knows all kinds in Ireland. I think we should drive there. What do ye say?"

I wasn't about to argue. "Sound like a fair dinkum plan to me, mate!" And we two fugitives from justice drove in the general direction of 'away'.

* * *

You are now leaving Dirt Cove, read the roadsign. Participant in the Clean Community Contest 1982-84. Come back soon. Not too soon, I thought, and pulled my Tilley down over my eyes for some well-deserved shut eye.

Syd Soyley's whereabouts are currently unknown

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