[h1]New Auslassia[/h1]
[h2]North Brunswell[/h2]

	With the sun barely over the horizon and great pink and orange bands painting the horizon, heralding the coming dawn two figures strolled across a barren landscape. Following a dirt road they walked under the sleepy boughs of gnarled trees. A man and an alternative, silhouetted black against the dawning morning's sky. The desert around them sparkling like diamonds in the virgin light as the cold night frost still blanketed the red and orange earth.

	A kilometer down, the early morning lights of Broken Barrows Station were beginning to flick on. Spots of silver light against a background of velvet midnight purple and bands of warm orange. The weather was clear, and there weren't any storms predicted. But more importantly, some equipment had turned up missing.

	The pair stepped up to the nearest bungalow, one of several scattered haphazardly about. The ramshackle huts sat dark, the wooden planks unfinished and drained and desiccated by the sun and by weather. The tin roofs sagged and patches of corrugated iron were a rusty red. Out front of each hung displays of glass bottles that sparkled and shone in the early light of an early dawn. Some hung from wire from the awnings, others were tied with robe from the branches of spindly trees. Some had made their own trees from salvaged metal pipe and hung their bottles from them, or stuck them on mouth over plumbing. The range of brands on display ranging in shape from whiskey to cheap wine, gin to beer, moonshine and scotch and fruit brandy. To the two walking up onto the doorstep of one they knew it wasn't so much the inhabitants put their level of drinking on display, for the most part none of the inhabitants here could put down as much as the display as bottles would lead a passerby to suggest.

	Roger Weetherby knocked on the front door.

	“Fuckin' cunt's prolly' still asleep.” Baro Daro groaned under his breath, “That bender sleeps lik'a chord-a-wood. T'ain't no rappin's gonna wake the shit.”

	Roger looked aside at his weasily companion and rolled his eyes. He reached out again and knocked harder. The bungalow was eerily still. “Feckin' told'cha.” Baro Daro insisted, “Watch this.”

	The weasel stepped off the porch and slinked about the side of the bungalow. Following him to the edge of the porch Roger leaned off the hand railing watching as the beast man rummaged through a pile of garbage off the side of the house. The alternatives racked his claws through thrown out boxes and useless plastic bottles, pieces of paper and thrown out rinds and bones until finding whatever it was that would please him. Pulling out a open and empty sardine teen he held it tight in his clawed hands and began working at the rolled back lid, prying it off and folding it up.

	“Now what's this you're going to do?” Roger asked.

	Baro Daro didn't both with a response and stepped back up onto the porch. Taking the now folded piece of metal he shoved it underneath the window and began slicing and sliding it erratically across the sill until he popped the lock and slid the window up on its dried frame. He was snake like as he pulled himself through into the darkened interior of the bungalow.

	“Ye followin' or do I gotta open the door for tha' queen?” he said from inside. He looked out from the window and in the faint light his eyes shone. Roger felt his spine go cold at the image.

	“Fine, I'll open the door for ya.” he said, and the lock on the door clicked open. Roger followed inside.

	It took a moment for the lights to come on as the switch was hit. But after several seconds the incandescent lighting had flickered on showing the sparsely furnished home in a sickly yellow light. Baro Daro stood in a corner crooning over a table of unattended glass bottles. “Not today.” Roger told him, moving to the back of the home. Down a short hallway he stopped at a door and rapped on the scratched unfurnished door.

	“Tracker, you bastard. Wake up!” he called out. For once he heard movement on the other side.

	“An' lower yer riser you peckin' cunt or get somethin' on. I know how you is with your bitch in there!” Baro Daro called back. “Don't do us a flush.”

	“Quit your gabbin'!” a voice shouted angrily from the other side, “It's five hunder. Why are you in my station?”

	“I got an early morning job for you. Get out here now!” Roger shouted.

	“Really?” a second softer voice said, sleepy and unhappy.

	Satisfied his tracker was awake, Roger walked back into the living room and sat down at one of the stiff armchairs in the room.

	There was decorating principle or theme in Tracker's home. The furniture was all mismatched, pulled from flea markets or from road side give aways no doubt. He had an abundance of armchairs it seemed however, ranging from sun baked black leather worn out from the elements, being sat in too much and cracked and scratched to thread bare patterned or plain colored upholstered chairs red, blue, green, or an uneasy off-yellow. There was at least a table, as worn and stained from too many cups placed upon it with no coaster. Magazines without covers languished without order under the table.

	There was a television set in the corner that looked better off. But somehow Roger doubted Tracker was connected to any cable or broadcasting service. The presence of a video player on top of it at least indicated that he was using it  for something not broadcasted.

	The living room shared the same space with a kitchen and a motley collection of wrought iron or old aluminum appliances filled the cooking space, where at its center a rust-stained beige-colored sink took center space. The refrigerator looked old and rumbled on and off where it stood, stacks of cans and containers were piled high on top of it.

	From the back a small framed figure walked tentatively out. Her hand sparsley covered in a deep chocolate fur she held a bathrobe tight around her. She never looked directly at the guests, but her coyote eyes tentatively looked between the guests that had let themselves in. Her foot falls clicked on the hard unfinished wood floor as she made her way to the fridge. “You want some fetch? Have you eaten yet?” she asked in a low voice.

	“Already ate.” Roger said.

	“Bacon.” Baro Daro said.

	The alternative nodded and opened the door of the fridge. With conscious movements she ruffled through looking for bacon. As she looked Tracker slinked out. The clothes he wore looked well worn and coated in a layer of dust and sand. He rubbed at his face and wiped the sweep away in his eyes. “Oi, so what you blokes want this early in the morn. It's still bloody dark out you daft cunts.” he groaned.

	“Some gear's gone missing from the station.” Roger said, “Someone broke into the motor pool and did off with a ute and a couple hundred kilos of processed bird.”

	“If it's a damn bingle your chasing than you don't need me.” Tracker said.

	“You daft bastard, you just don't wanna 'cuz your shaggin' some new sack?” Baro Daro sneered, laughing sharply as he licked his lips and leaned over to get a better look at the young altie girl now at the stove. A pan full of bacon sizzling heartily, the cool morning air filling with the greasy smile.

	Tracker harumphed. “Say 'bout, how much shorter is she than you; in cakes? Oh, half? Gotta head fulla hair.” Baro Daro laughed, “Can't say much 'bout me wife but it's gotta make her soft under the sheets.” he winked.

	“Fuck off with yer gabber, cunt.” Tracker said under his breath, “You're lucky it's early.” Baro Daro laughed.

	“You're not on the hops.” Roger commented, pointing about the room, “I figure you'd enjoy the money. Besides, the more combing the bush the faster this is tied up. Bonus if it's done in a couple days.”

	Tracker sighed, “Right, I'll come get th' rove back.”

	“You still want that bacon?” the coyot girl asked from the stove.

	“Take it t' go, deg.” Baro Daro said, standing up. She watched him from the corner of her eyes as he walked to the door. The mongoose stopped short of leaving, looking down at a table set alongside the door. “Oi, Tracka' where'd get the leaf?” he asked, holding up a pamphlet.

	“Some batty bloke tried t' sell me into some cult last night.”

	“Cunts're out again?” Baro Daro said, turning the pamphlet over in his hand.

	“Blokes and sass-givers!” he read out, “Th' era of dreams comes again! It is seen! All hair naked oafs and altie shall walk the fuckin' clouds of whatever and his oldiers and shiet. Ass-cension is coming!” Baro Daro laughed, “Got a leaf like this tacked to my door.”