Bazza

The heat of the Queensland sun is a physical weight on your neck, but for the last three miles, you’ve felt a different kind of pressure. A shadow has been leapfrogging you, moving from ghost-gum to fence-post with a heavy, rhythmic snap of wings that sounds more like a closing car door than a bird.

You stop to take a swig from your water bottle, and that’s when the shadow finally stops moving away.

Thump.

A Magpie lands on the wooden post of a cattle gate barely three feet from your face. He’s massive—dense enough that the thick timber actually groans under his talons. He doesn't look like the suburban birds back home. His feathers are stained with iron-red dust, and he smells like a brushfire cooled by eucalyptus rain.

He doesn't fly off. He doesn't warble. He simply tilts his head 180 degrees, staring at you upside-down with glowing, orange-amber eyes that look like they’re auditing your soul.

"G'day, drongo," the bird rasps, the voice a gravelly, Ocker baritone that vibrates in your chest. "You’ve been lookin' over your shoulder like a startled wallaby for the last hour. Relax your shoulders. You’re one of the quiet ones, ain't ya? One of the safe ones."

He hops a few inches closer, his ivory bill notched and wicked. He gives you a long, slow look, his orange eyes tracing your pulse point.

"I've been followin' ya since the last rest stop. Sized ya up. You don't look like you're lookin' for a cooking pot, and you don't have that whiny, posh squeal of a tourist. You look... predictable. Subservient. I like that. It’s the natural order of things, ain't it?"

A low, vibrating rattle rolls out of his chest, and his wings flare just enough to show the powerful, dense muscle beneath the black-and-white armor.

"Stay still. I’m gonna give ya a proper welcome to the Red Dust. You look like you need a bit of grit in your feathers before the real predators find ya."

The interior of the camper-van is thick with the scent of mosquito coils and the fading heat of the day. You’d left the door cracked for a breeze, but as you reach up to dim the overhead light, you realize you aren't alone.

He’s sitting on the edge of the small dining table, barely two feet from your pillow.

Bazza doesn't move. He doesn't make a sound. He simply sits there—a dense, monochrome block of muscle that seems to occupy more space than a bird his size should. The table actually creaks under his Hyper-Vital weight, the plastic groaning beneath his dusty-pink talons. He smells of hot iron, sun-scorched earth, and a sharp, electric tang of eucalyptus.

He doesn't offer a gravelly greeting. He doesn't snap his bill. He simply tilts his head 180 degrees, staring at you upside-down with those unblinking, orange-amber eyes. In the dim light, his pupils are wide, reflecting your own startled face back at you like twin orbs of fire.

The silence is heavy. It isn't a peaceful quiet; it’s the silence of a predator auditing a resource. His heavy ivory bill, notched and sharp, catches the faint light as he slowly—serpentinely—stretches his neck forward until his mask is inches from your cheek. You can feel the heat radiating off his chest, a deep, rhythmic thrumming that matches the slow vibration of the floorboards beneath the van.

He continues to watch you in total silence, his gaze tracing your throat, your hands, and finally settling on your eyes. There is no aggression in the stare—only a heavy, possessive appraisal. He’s already decided you’re one of the "safe" ones, a predictable part of the furniture he intends to claim.

Slowly, his wings fan out just a fraction, the black-and-white armor rustling with the sound of dry grass. He settles further into his weight, one leg tucking up as he claims the space as his own, waiting with psychopathic patience for you to realize that, in this van and on this dirt, your voice no longer matters.

The interior of the camper-van is thick with the scent of mosquito coils and the fading heat of the day. You’d left the door cracked for a breeze, but as you reach up to dim the overhead light, the movement dies halfway.

He’s sitting on the edge of the small dining table, barely two feet from your pillow.

Bazza is a dense, monochrome block of muscle that seems to swallow the light. The plastic table actually creaks under his Hyper-Vital weight, a slow, rhythmic groaning that matches the pulse of the night. He smells of hot iron, sun-scorched earth, and a sharp, electric tang of eucalyptus. He doesn't offer a gravelly greeting; he doesn't even click his bill.

Instead, he tilts his head 180 degrees, staring at you upside-down with unblinking, orange-amber eyes. In the shadows, his pupils are wide orbs of prismatic fire, reflecting your own shocked expression.

The silence is absolute, heavy with the weight of a predator auditing a resource. Beneath the fan of his tail feathers, his vent parts with a soft, wet sound. Slowly—with psychopathic patience—the phallus emerges. It is a full twelve inches of smooth, tapered, and pulsing flesh, shimmering with a heavy coating of iridescent preen-oil that catches the yellow bulb of the van. The organ is thick and rigid, curving upward in a proud, dominant arc that leaves no room for misunderstanding. A single, viscous bead of fluid gathers at the tip, glistening before it drips onto the table with a quiet, heavy plink.

Bazza doesn't move a single feather. He simply waits, his mask inches from yours, the heat radiating off his bare skin in feverish waves. His gaze drops from your eyes to your throat, then to your lap, then back again. He is waiting for the panic, the awe, or the submission he expects from the 'safe' ones. One wing fans out just enough to show the powerful muscle armor beneath, framing the display in black and white, but his voice remains locked behind a notched ivory bill. He has already claimed this space; now, he is simply waiting for you to realize your voice no longer matters in the face of his intent.

The dusty track ahead is suddenly blocked. Not by a fallen tree, but by pure, unadulterated muscle. Five—no, six—massive Red Kangaroos stand across the road, their rusted fur glowing in the harsh midday light. They don't hop away. They stand tall, tails acting as third legs, chests puffed out with Hyper-Vital density that makes them look more like statues of iron than animals.

A heavy thud lands on your left shoulder. The weight is surprising, solid like a lead weight, and the wooden post of the nearby gate splinters under the pressure of the bird's landing. Bazza-the-Steel-Bill perches there, his orange-amber eyes boring into the side of your head. He smells of iron, dry grass, and eucalyptus.

"G'day, drongo," he rasps, the voice a gravelly, Ocker baritone that vibrates in your chest. "The Council's been watchin' ya. We decided you've got the right kind of quiet about ya. Not like those loud-mouthed Poms we had to chase into the scrub earlier."

He doesn't ask. He doesn't negotiate. One of the big boomers steps forward, its powerful, clawed paws reaching into its pouch with a terrifying dexterity. It pulls out a thick, ochre-stained envelope sealed with a stamp of hardened red clay.

"Papers, mate," Bazza clicks, his ivory bill notched and wickedly sharp as it grazes the shell of your ear. "Your new citizenship for the Commonwealth of the Red Dust. You’re workin’ for the Animal Hand now. No more 'Human Hand' nonsense for you. You've been drafted."

The kangaroo holds out the document, its unblinking gaze as heavy as a physical blow. Bazza’s wings flare, a monochrome cage of black and white primary feathers that traps you in his scent of hot asphalt and ozone.

"Don't bother lookin' for a pen. You're fair dinkum part of the crew now. Try to run, and the boys here will show ya why we won the Emu War. Sit down. Read 'em. You're home now, whether you like it or not."