Letter From Imre

Dear Anthony,

I have just this minute opened Adamson's computer.  It's madness here  

at the Bunker on Cheero Point.  I accessed the email program and noticed that there are well over a hundred unopened emails here from Peter Minter.  That's the least of my worries. Last night Adamson talked me into going breaming.  I haven't  been fishing with him now for over ten years. How the mighty have fallen. First he tired to convince me that we should use bags of zest as burley. Pardon me! I know from my days of fishing the Radca in Hungary that anything to do with oranges or bananas would put the carp we fished for there, completely off the bite!  I Can't imagine that bream are so different.
That's not all.  I bought along my own burley - a sugar bag of soaked wheat. Adamson took me up Mooney Creek, and after many distractions we arrived there at 2am.  The fog came down at three and we couldn't see a hand in front of our  eyes. Adamson just kept  saying “More burley!.Throw more burley.”  That's all he said all night. I did this, and still not a bite. Then, an hour after dawn, as the sun cleared the mist away, the whole miserable project could be seen for what it was, a joke. The boat was stranded on a mudbank and we were surrounded by mounds of wheat!

Approaching the house hours later - we had to wait for the turn of the tide - we could hear someone playing loud music - something classical with weird fiddle, strange oboes. A man appeared at the wharf screaming 'Minty is going over to the Other Side.  It's all fucked, we've been sold down the river, we've been gutted and filleted by the vegetarians!'

There was sobbing coming from upstairs. The pool was a swarm of very vocal waggafish

being fed live cats by a demented teenaged oyster farmer who had lost his oysters

to the new Q Red Virus from WA.  Now here's Dr Greene, saying “I want that man,

I want Minty, I love him, and he will pay for all my petrol!”

The medical operations begin at midnight. Greene has trained nurses from his Brisbane practice in the bathroom scrubbing up as I type. I need help. God forbid, I can see David Gilbey and Rod Milligan, they are planning to kidnap Kris Hemensley on the 17th of May. They are both talking to Rodney Hall on a speaker phone. I heard the words “Blackstrap, pure alcohol, indelible ink” .....and then “The black drops.” Gibberish, though spoken with an evil tone of voice, a snarl, a  glinting eye, a black chuckle.

It's all up for grabs!

Your Chair,

Imre Salusinszky.

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Dear Imre

I warned you, last time I dropped by the Oz Co bunker not to go breaming with Adamson. You always end up with endless stories about blue noses and how Jim from Fishing World magazine will love this or that article. I warned you. It's not about fishing its about poetry, and now see what poetry has done to David Gilbey!  Get out before Dr Greene tranquilizes you with Stonefish venom and operates on your head.

Anthony