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I was running late for an early visit to see Angelo at the hospital. I took a tentative peek out of my door. It was about ten metres to the back door of the homestead and another five through the kitchen to the laundry.
I tightened my grip on my towel.
Ten metres to safety from my nemesis. The vigilante wombat that was living under the shearers’ quarters. The wombat that had destroyed the doormat two days ago. The wombat that had stolen one of my work boots, leaving me with my fleece-lined gumboots. The wombat that hated me. I was the target of all its rage and hate.
The coast looked clear.
I could make it across the lawn and retrieve my clothes for the day where they sat in the dryer.
Hopefully, the marsupial demon was sleeping like it should during the day.
I hopped out onto the top step and slipped on my gumboots. Frost still lay on the ground. I could handle a practically nude run to the house, but I’d rather not deal with frost on my feet.
I shut the door as quietly as I could. The old hinges squealed a little.Must oil them today,I thought, pausing to see if the four-legged ball of hate had emerged from its burrow.
Nothing.
I descended the five stairs. As soon as my gumboot crunched on the frost-covered grass, I heard the snuffle.
Shit. The Bastard of Pure Hate and Zoomies was awake.
The wombat shot out from the steps and took off towards the lower paddock. I shook my head and adjusted my towel.
But the wombat wasn’t done.
He reversed and picked up speed towards me. Too late I realised I was on a collision course. The wombat cut me off from the kitchen and charged my gumboots, knocking me to the ground.
I landed with a grunt. Shit, that was going to bruise my hip.
Next thing, it was very cold around my, ah, private parts, which were not so private anymore. With a growl, the wombat pulled and tugged on my towel, thrashing its head from side to side. I gave up on modesty and grabbed a corner of my towel, finding myself in a tug-o-war with the Warrior King of Wombats.
“Let go, you evil bastard!”
But the wombat shook its head, pulled the towel out of my grip and took off on another zoomie run, the towel flying behind him like the victory flag of battle. The back door slammed shut, and my gaze flicked up and locked with Rosie’s. Of course I was naked in nothing but gumboots.
She slowly blinked, holding two steaming mugs, the steam rising in plumes around her shocked face. The aroma of coffee tugged on my attention away from the wombat.
“What are—” Rosie began.
“It’s not me, it’s him!” I pointed to the wombat, but it was too late.
The hate-fuelled, towel-stealing, mat-chewing digging machine on four legs was racing towards me, head down, and charged my crotch.
The howl I let out was ungodly. The pain made me see stars. I clutched my dick and balls; my eyes clouded with tears. The last thing I saw was the wombat huff and strut back to its burrow, my towel still locked between its teeth.
“Tom, are you—?” Her face contorted between horror and amusement.
“I’ve just been headbutted in the dick, Rosie. I am not okay! Thanks for asking.”
I was a eunuch now. There would be no further generations of Turners from the youngest brother. The wombat had broken my dick. I’d assumed a foetal position, not caring about frost on the ground or how I was shivering.
Bloody hell, I didnothave any of this on my bingo card for my final year of uni.
“Come on. Take my arm.” Rosie stood over me, offering her forearm. I reluctantly let her help me to my feet and limped back up the stairs with her help to my bed.
I also didn’t have Rosie being my nurse, fetching me a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel to hold against my now-swelled-up balls, on my bingo card. Nor did I have on my bingo card to have a visit from my sister’s boyfriend less than an hour later to stare at, and then cup, my swollen balls in latex gloves to check if I had a testicular rupture.
“So. You were naked when the wombat head-butted you in your genitals?” Harry had his notepad out and gloves off.
