Blacky Blasts Back by Barry Jonsberg Page B

fifty per cent of what he said.
    I was improving. Earlier in the day it had been less than ten per cent.
    Mum once said that exercise and fresh air was tiring but gave you a healthy glow. I hadn’t listened, mainly because it was exactly the thing that old people always said. Like watching television would give you square eyes, carrots helped your eyesight and eating Brussels sprouts was generally a good idea.
    But I had never felt so tired in all my life. And it wasn’t just because I’d spent a sleepless night manufacturing diced carrots. Judging by the amount I scattered over Bass Strait and John Oakman’s face, I should be able to spot a pimple on a mosquito’s bum from four kilometres away. My muscles ached and I could barely keep my eyes open. Looking around the camp fire I saw the other kids were feeling the same. Everyone was yawning, faces were glowing and it wasn’t even eight-thirty.



It had to be exercise and fresh air. I wasn’t going to tell Mum she was right, though. She’d probably use the admission to push her viewpoint on Brussels sprouts.
    â€˜Time to hit the sack, guys,’ said Phil. ‘And no talking or reading or playing on hand-held game consoles. We’re up at sparrow’s fart and judging by the look of yous, you all need your beauty sleep.’
    We trudged off to the toilet and shower block. All of us except for Kyle, which helped explain the odour of week-old salmon hanging around him in a visible cloud. I hoped someone had brought clothes pegs to put on our noses, otherwise we could all be gassed to death in the middle of the night.
    I was first out of the shower. The snags and steak were spreading a grease patch in my jacket pocket. I ducked behind the shower block and called out in my head.
    â€˜Blacky? Dinner is served.’
    â€˜On my way, mush,’ came the reply.
    Actually, he could have saved his mental breath. I knew he was close. And not because me and Blacky had bonded. Not because we were like twins and could sense each other’s presence.
    It was the smell.
    Something evil was headed towards me.
    â€˜What have you rolled in now, Blacky?’ I sighed.
    â€˜It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ said Blacky. He loomed out of the darkness and sat at my feet. ‘Stroke of luck, that. Stumbled across a mound of horse poo in the bush. No idea why a pony would have been out here in the wilderness, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or the bum, in this case. The mound was old – nicely crisp on the surface but with a very satisfying soft centre once you’d broken through—’
    â€˜Yeah, okay,’ I interrupted. ‘I’d love to share your all-time-favourite top-ten stinks of the decade, but I’m gagging here.’ Sniffing Kyle’s armpits would have been heaven in comparison. ‘Here’s your food.’
    I put the blackened meat on the ground. Blacky nosed it, then cocked his head and stared at me.
    â€˜What’s this, ya twonk?’ he said. ‘Charcoal briquettes from the barbie?’
    â€˜The meat’s slightly overdone,’ I admitted.
    â€˜Slightly overdone, mush? Slightly ? It’s buggered. It’s blacker than a baboon’s bumhole and about as appetising. The secret of good cuisine, bucko, is—’
    â€˜Look. Don’t eat it, okay. I really don’t care. Next time, you can do the cooking. I’ll be the food critic.’
    Blacky wolfed the steak. The sausages didn’t touch the sides of his throat. I tapped my foot.
    â€˜Couldn’t have been that bad,’ I said.
    â€˜It was,’ said Blacky. ‘It was worse. I just didn’t want any other animal eating it. I have, as you know, tosh, a solemn duty to protect all living things, even at the expense of my own wellbeing.’
    I turned to go.
    â€˜Be ready, mush,’ came the voice in my head. ‘The mission starts