The camera opens on an eerie desert sunset as two silhouettes stand on the horizon, the hot air of the outback rippling and distorting their image.
Haul: As days end in our world, they start anew elsewhere. This is the pain of living in the future that is the Outback. You know what’s coming, see the mistakes of others before they make them, and have to sit and watch them play out all over again in another timezone.
Gnash: WE LAID CLAIM TO THIS WORLD IN ARVO BEFORE THE BLEEDIN’ SCALES FELL FROM YOUR PEEPERS! ‘AT’S WHAT BEIN’ TRUE BLUE GETS YA! MEANWHILE THE TWO OF YOUS ARE UP YOURSELVES!
Haul: We were the first of four horsemen to gallop down this alien turf called Classic Wrestling, and when we saw The Bolts we thought we had found a pair to ride alongside us.
Gnash: BUT ALL YOUS TWO’VE DONE IS BLOW HOT AIR YA BLOODY CHOOKS!
Time speeds up. The sun falls only to rise seconds later to reveal the figures on the horizon have drawn nearer.
Haul: We’d hoped you were made of stronger stuff, because we’ve been spoiling for combat for months now. The rules of men need not apply to the ethereal and rabid. By design, we were supposed to be the ones to surpass you. You were meant to bring about the end time, and we were meant to survive and scavenge, feeding off of the bones of the weak and fallen left behind. It didn’t play out that way though did it? We didn’t get our grand and wicked design. Pandora’s box barely opened when you took your first loss and disappeared back into the ether, robbing us of our promised wasteland.
Gnash: WE WANTED KROOVY!
Gnash: WE WANTED CACTUS!
Gnash: WE WANTED DEVO!
Gnash: BUT HAGGIS N’ MUTTON ONLY BROUGHT US TWO LAMBS TO BARBIE!
Haul: Buckley’s chance they’ll bring us anything else.
Gnash: BLOODY OATH!
Haul: While they were busy with brekkie we were already cleaning and dressing our kills. We had to play both predator and parasite, but we’re used to stripping our own pulls. It’s just a pity that such a beautiful marriage of death and destruction fell off the blocks before the two of you could so much as summon the will to get out of bed.
Gnash: BUT DON’T WORRY YA SPOOKY BOGANS! WE AIN’T CHOC A BLOC YET! WE’VE GOT PLENTY O’ ROOM IN OUR GULLIES TO WASH YOU DOWN WITH A BOTTLE-O AND A BICCY!
Night falls once more in the time lapse, but as soon as the sun disappears over the horizon it rises once more in the sky to reveal an empty plain.
Haul: We’re done living in the future, mates. Tomorrow comes today for us. No more walkabout through the bush, no more living off of clucky mother Outback’s fickle teat. We’re done taking what’s given to us, and if we’re meant to live off of the bones that The Bolts leave in their wake as prophecy dictated, then we’ll be buggered and crook soon.
Gnash: WE MAKE OUR OWN LOLLIES FROM HERE ON OUT SINCE YOUS TWO CAN’T BLOODY PUT ON YOUR RUNNERS N’ CARRY YOUR FAIR DINKUM END OF THE BARGAIN!
Haul: We were built for survival, whereas it seems you were built to be broken down and stripped of what little worth you held in the first place. We’ve watched you try and summon something to bring about the end time, but you fail to realize that we’ve been here all along. You just haven’t seen us, perceived us, or sought us out because you haven’t deserved the merciful fate of being thrust into oblivion by our primitive crinkled hands.
Gnash: YA THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN A MAN’S DEATH, DONT’CHA YOUS BLOODY DISCIPLES OF ARMAGEDDON?! YOUS BLOODY FLIPPIN’ BOLTS IN A DEATH MACHINE?! YA AIN’T EVEN WORTHY O’ BEIN’ COGS!?!
Haul: We are the dealers of fate’s hands. We take the gambles, we up the ante, because we work for the house of the rising sun. It comes through us before it gets to you, and the house always wins mates. No more living in the shadows of mental midgets.
Gnash: NO MORE GNAWING ON SUN BLEACHED BONES!
Haul: It’s time to leave the aboriginal world and come say g’day to a future wasteland of our design.
The camera flickers and Repossessed appear directly in the foreground of the shot.