Mission of Vengeance Part 4 of 4

Mission of Vengeance
Fraser Island, Australia

“Well, lookit here,” I said. “They’re typical Aussies, right? I’m sure after drinking themselves silly they’ll pass out.”

I snapped my fingers.

“Raider, you got any sugar?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me get some sugar. See that?” I pointed to their put-puttering generator, only a few yards away. “I’ll fuck up their wonderful generator by putting it in there.”

Raider gave me a quizzical look. “What would that do?”

“The sugar will cause their generator to at least break down. Or explode. Hopefully explode. But that’ll teach ‘em not to call me that. Just call it some Bronx street justice.”

With Raider and Vic following, we went back to our camp to finish the rest of our warm beer and mull over what just happened.


After finishing my dirty deed, I crept back across the sand dunes into the tent. When I came in Raider was lying there wide-awake, while Lisa and Vic still slept.

“Didja do it?”

“Of course, of course. Their generator was off though. So I guess they will find out that it won’t be working in the morning when they try to start it.”

As I stretched out and tried to sleep, I got a little depressed. This dark skin I own – almost a stigma in some people’s eyes – has opened doors for me and closed others at the same time. I often wondered what type of world it would be if we were all blind. Or if we all looked the same. A boring world, I’d bet. The fact that we are all different races makes us what we are: human. But of course there will always be people that will use it to their advantage, by calling others names and such. Trying to make themselves look superior. It’s a shame they exist. And it looked like I met three rotten apples of that ilk here in Australia. Of course, their stupidity didn’t change my thoughts on the fantastic people of Oz. But there was no way I could let this go without retaliation!


I awoke to an empty tent and a lot of noise. Sunlight flapped through the unzippered door, the salty sea breeze blowing even stronger than it was the night before. When I came out, the moonscape of empty beer cans and litter had been mostly cleaned up by everyone. The fire we had started the night before still smoldered though. Declan was out and about, surprisingly sobered up, wondering just what exactly was wrong with his shoulder. He vaguely remembered falling down, let alone entering the sand dune competition with the others. Everybody poked fun at him while he tried to juggle 3 leftover oranges, dropping them every time, making him wonder aloud why he thought his shoulder was broken.

Lisa and Vic were already putting our cooking and cleaning utensils in our truck, while I helped strike down our tent with a few of the other backpackers. By that time word had spread around the campsite on what had happened. And of course everyone asked me what I had done about it. But I kept it quiet. In the back of my head though, I wondered when those 3 losers were going to wake up and realize that their precious little generator had been violated by the likes of The Moman.

Within an hour or so, we were all ready to go. The 18 of us gathered up the last of our equipment and jumped in our trucks. Of course the last thing to go into the truck was the infamous Bomb, which took its place right in-between my legs again – making me nowhere near as nervous as before, since most of the propane in it was used up by then.

When we started up, I told Declan to take a little detour. Though he worried about making it to the ferry in time (it was a half-hour drive down the island), I convinced him to hold on for a minute or two. I wanted to see if these Yobbos had awoken. So he diverted a little bit off the dirt trail leading away from the campsite, and slowly crept up the dunes. When we got to the last one, we all looked down and saw that they had just woken up. I was hoping on seeing their reactions as their lovely generator exploded in front of them, the flames of what was left causing the gas tank under their Ute to explode in a spectacular fireball. Leaving them cursing the likes of me as we sped away.

Yeah. A fantastic ending!

But that was not to be. What we saw was the Fat Slob stretching himself. He arched his huge girth back, while his hairy arms grabbed the air surrounding him, yawning. He seemed to be screaming as he stretched (his morning breath must’ve smelled horrible). Pinhead and the Short Guy were talking outside their tent, looking very perplexed at their generator. They were both taking turns trying to crank it, but it wouldn’t go.

The Fat Slob saw us in the truck and waved; and I rolled down the side window and gave them the finger. “FUCK YOU!”

The Fat Slob just scratched his head as if he didn’t hear what I said. With Declan pointing at his watch I told him to hit the gas. In no time we were back on the dirt trail heading for the ferry point.

“Think their generator will blow?” Raider said. I swatted my hand at him. “Nah, trust me man, that generator won’t work. It will break down as soon as they try to start it. I put a load of sugar in there.”

Lisa looking at me worriedly said, “You know Mo, after you stormed out of their tent, that guy seemed rather surprised that the word bothered you. I mean, he apparently had no idea that you would’ve taken offense to it. He apologized to us, though.”

“What? You’ve GOT to be kidding. That dude knew what he said to me – and if he apologized to you, why didn’t he walk the 75 yards or so and apologize to me? And I don’t feel sorry either.

“You know,” I continued, ” when I came to Australia I knew not to call an Aboriginal an Abo. Or an Italian a Wog. I knew this. He didn’t know not to call me that? Did you see the reactions of those other two assholes in there when he said that to me? They were giggling to themselves! They knew what he said to me. I saw his reaction when I initially walked in their tent, too.”

“Hey,” Vic said, “didn’t you say that the Aussies are pretty decent world travelers? And that a lot of them have shocked you by knowing some Black American history, when they have absolutely no reason to know it?” I nodded my head in agreement.

“But maybe those three aren’t world travelers, Mo,” Lisa said. “Did you ever think of that?”

I laughed. “That’s obvious. But they’ve paid for their ignorance. Bronx style.”

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