The Knights of the Galaxy Klaxon Haz Ghost Tobacco

It was a fuelling station, back in the day. The mechanic's garage is dusty with storage and bees have established a nest in the pumping room. Blackberry surrounds the pond at creek's end. The owner-occupant has been moved into a retirement home - they are not ready to sell but somebody is paid to keep grass below bushfire risk. This is where Kieran The-Knights-of-the-Galaxy-Klaxon finds himself.

Kieran opens one door: 'But a laundry. Unlocked, yet carrying white goods and a set of clubs for a-golfin'. How adroit but one of these be tonight's bounty.'

Kieran tuts: 'White goods. I dare say, Kieran, I have spent days in these modern climes to understand correct politicisms.'

Kieran finally wedges jimmy bar between door and door frame: 'Shut up. Both of you. Someone put pressure on this, see if I can get it open.'

Kieran does. Kieran does not. Kieran kicks in door.

Kieran rubs one of his chins: 'Splinters. Perhaps they are treasure sought which one must relay? For treasures of another kind?'

'Maybe. I dunno'.' Kieran limps inside. 'I don't care. Leave it for morning.'

'Thine protocol is subject.' Kieran lugs bag inside. 'Thine drill is drilling, which thou know. Food, water, bedding, light, poultices. Then dyes of royal hue.'

'Tally ho indeed.'

Tally ho indeed. Kieran has spent close to six years in roam, in march directed by no-one-is-sure-what. Wherever they land, they seem to find a magical something-or-other that someone is likely to buy, be that a quarter of dope or a step ladder which, when placed next to a Milwaukee radio, will make said radio transmit the conversations wafting in airs of whichever alfresco tables are closest.

Kieran also has to fill in Maslow's baseline in triplicate. When they find a good squattings, like the present one,  they stockpile on canned goods and slaughter nearby rabbits. Kieran carries a backpack of foodstuffs, Kieran shoulders the fire starters and slut root, whilst Kieran carries a bag full of ghost tobacco, cigarettes which give form to spirits who feel like they left the oven on.

It is the ghost tobacco which has brought Judea. It is easy enough to find where Kieran is camping for the night because people tend to talk about three guys hiking in purple robes. Doris the camel ascends the driveway - the tempo of her canter transfers, via slight sway, to Judea's ass, a bopping in time to, ooh I dunno', Electric Six's Bite Me?

Kieran has already found and opened a Taylor's Limestone Coat/Clare Valley 2021 Cabernet Sauvignon. It has breathed by the time Judea dismounts into a pose which is jazz hands above the torso but disco in the legs. The wine is poured equally into four glasses.

Judea addresses the obvious faux pas: 'Kieran, I believe.'

Kieran nods appreciatively and Kieran hands a glass to Judea: 'Winds of gossip carry your travels beyond thine own hoof prints, Judea.'

Um: 'Nothing bad, I hope.'

Kieran is nodding off in the couch: 'What are you offering?'

Kieran: 'Hospitality was tantamount amongst Greeks of yore and lore. We must subject our guest to most ritual.'

Kieran, pissy: 'Ancient Greeks were privy to certain inclinations which, no homo, I hope to not get a reputation for.'

'We are not in Greece.' Judea shoves foot in conversational door. 'Speaking of, where are we?'

Kieran looks to Kieran, Kieran looks to Kieran, Kieran shrugs: 'The kitchen?'

Judea's in: 'No phones? No GPS? How do you connect to the internet?'

'We are on what is called Dee Ess Ell.'

'Well, I might have just the retro navigation tool for you. Do you know what a Nintendo is?'