The Wild Bunch - an encounter. This was a written account of an interview by intrepid reporter Fred Who-Lives-On-A-Mountain. He arranged a meeting with several members of the Wild Bunch in the Valley of Large Prawns in the Two Show Ranges. He has since disappeared and is known by the name of Fred Who-Lives-Under-A-Mountain. This written form of the interview found its way into the hands of a young woman known as Yappo Nik Chee Chee Wop in the town of Dry Shit near Gum Gooloo Gum Jublet. My first question I directed to a crazy old man who kept throwing small animals into the campfire. “How,” I said rather cleverly, “do you justify your chosen profession, namely that of thieving, murdering and generally being a nuisance. “Fuck off,” he said. After that line of questioning ended I turned once again to the leader of the group who was by this time fairly well on his way to being plastered. “Mr Peros,” I started. He laughed at me before throwing a fluffy teddy bear at me and taking about half a bottle of absinthe in one go. “Mr Peros,” he mocked, “It’s Mr Ultyssa actually. Now fuck off.” I was rather discouraged by this and tried instead to make him tell me about his life. “Fuck off,” he said once more. “Now wait here,” I said, “that’s not very nice.” The group responded by belching La Bamba all at the same time. “Now,” I said again, “that’s really not very nice.” I turned to the old woman who was sitting on the steps of the caravan. I had heard her called Freaky Gypsy and was very interested in her and her crystal ball. I sat beside her and flipped out my trusty notebook. “Miss Gypsy,” I began, only to be interrupted yet again. “It’s Mrs Gypsy,” she said while caressing her crystal ball, which was going various shades of pink and red and purple. “Ah, so you have a husband?” “Yes dear.” “Well…uh…who is he? Where is he?” “He’s in here,” she said, tapping her crystal ball. “Ah,” I said. “Ah,” she replied. “And…uh…why?” I asked as politely as I could. She looked at me with an expression of suffering patience. “Well it really is obvious dear,” she said annoyed, no, she whined. I blinked. “No it isn’t.” “It is.” “No it isn’t.” “YES IT IS!!!! Are you arguing with me dear?” she smiled. I…well to put it honestly and bluntly I ran away. After this I made my way over to another member of the group, a man known as Fergus the Fungus. He was green all over from working with plants all day long and at this moment in time was tending a pinkish purple sort of flower in a glass box. He looked up at me as I approached and giggled. “Plants,” he giggled out, “are very nice.” I nodded agreement, wondering if I’d found another idiot. He set me with a stare. “This is my new creation. I named it after mother. It is ‘Freaky Fungus’ and it is very nice. “But,” I reasoned, “it isn’t a fungus.” “Yes it is.” “No it is- ah! I get you!” I said, not wanting to be drawn into another argument. He giggled. “Try it.” I did, and now I have no idea where I am, or what I’m doing. I seem to be in a forest and there are lots of shouting pink-shirted men all around me, shouting about their mammies and mole men. I think they are going to hurt me. Yes I think – Here endeth the document. It is now being held in the new police archives at Jail, the base of the new Umbagollian police service. Be warned. These are dangerous men and women.