The camera opens on an overhead shot of a maze like junkyard with walls made of car carcass and a dirt floor glinting with lost nuts and bolts. The camera comes in tight on a hill of parts overseeing the landscape. Atop the mountain of twisted metal stands a shrouded figure in a red hooded cape.)
Haul: Years have come and gone with the ease of sand slipping through the fragile flue of an hourglass. In that time I’ve watched the modern marvels of man made of wrought iron turn to rust and prove to be just as fragile as the years that decay them. Nothing’s built to last. Consumerism has plagued the bush of Tasmania with skeletons of imperfect and aborted creations. Just like them our own bodies end up in overcrowded hallowed grounds, or stacked high crypts that hold the withered branches of a family tree in some sacred cubbyhole…sacred, until there’s no more room left. Then what? They pave over us, they destroy another plot of land, and then time sends it all crumbling down once again and makes it just another fresh tomb on top of other long forgotten resting places.
Haul glances down at a car below him that has fallen out of the’s place as a brick in the wall and landed on it’s roof. Unamused, Haul watches as some unseen creature from within flings bits and pieces out onto the junkyard floor. Haul rolls his eyes and lets his gaze rise to meet the wall of cars once more.
Haul: Old models buried by new models, just more intentionally flawed designs stacked in the cinder pile at the end of our creator’s assembly line. That wont be the case with you though will it Bobby? You seek to bury a new model beneath your girth and entomb it in your legacy. For now it carries you forward toward the great junkyard in the sky, but soon it’s wheels will fall off under the weight of your bulky archaic frame like a modern sporty compact car being slowly crushed under the weight of a boat with fins from the late 50’s. What’s sad is that he was made for deterioration, while you will stick around in eternal oxidation long after his contribution is forgotten.
A loud grunt catches Haul’s attention as he glances back down at the upturned car, only to watch a small burly man with a passing resemblance to him crawl out from underneath covered in grease and look up at him.
Gnash: OY! WHEN YOU’RE DONE PHILOSOPHISIN’ WHY DON’T YOU BRING YOUR BLOODY GOON SUCKIN’, FLANNO CAPE WEARIN’, MONGREL TOOKUS DOWN ‘ERE AND ‘ELP A BRUCE WITH SOME HARD YAKKA YA BLUDGER!?!
Haul: I’m trying to save a young man’s existential being.
Gnash: LET THE BLOODY ANKLE BITING HOON GO TITS UP FOR ALL I CARE! WE’LL BE SMASHIN’ ‘IS BLOODY BRAINS IN SOON ENOUGH ANYWAY!
Haul: Quit acting like a bogan long enough to see the junkyard for the cars for once my racketeering rello.
Gnash: YOUR WARNIN’ ‘IM OF A FUTURE THAT AIN’T HAPPENIN’! YOU’RE TAKIN’ A MICKEY! LET THE DAG DIE A DESTRUCTIVE DEATH OF DEVO AT OUR ‘ANDS AND NOT WORRY ABOUT A TOMORROW THAT AIN’T COMIN’!
Haul: There is more to existence than death, just as there is more to this world than this junkyard.
Gnash: OY! SAYS YOU! SOME PSYCHIC YOU TURNED OUT TO BE YA GIT! YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW THE WORLD WAS STILL A BLOODY THING UNTIL COPPERS KNOCKED IN OUR DOORS AND DRUG OUR MUM AND DAD OUT INTO THE STREET!
Haul: Perception is reality.
Gnash: AND OUR REALITY IS ABOUT TO BE BEATING DOWN SOME PUDGY HALF NUDDY GEEZER IN ‘IS BATHERS AND A SHARK BISCUIT WHO CARRIES AROUND A BOX OF BLOODY MACCAS FOR NO REASON! SOD OFF WITH THIS BLOODY FUTURE TALK! WE’RE IN THEIR FUTURE AND THAT’S WHERE IT BLOODY ENDS!
Haul: Hm. A crude but apt summary of the situation at hand by my less than eloquent big brother, although I’m not sure if the yanks will understand a word of it.
Gnash: NOW THAT WE’RE DONE WIT’ HANDIN’ ‘EM GOON ‘N CALLIN’ IT CAB SAV, LET’S TELL ‘EM THAT THEIR FUTURE IS FIXIN’ TO BE HAULED, GNASHED, AND FLUSHED DOWN THE DUNNY! NOW GET DOWN ‘ERE BEFORE I CHUCK A TIN AT YOUR ‘EAD!
Haul slumps forward with a begrudging sigh as the camera fades to black on him carefully traversing down the hill of scrap.