The council, a cluster of scheming vultures, were plotting in the shadows, their insidious agenda still a mystery to the vigilant eyes of Breakfast Beach. "It's a fucking travesty of human rights," declared Hellen, the saintly savior of Pelican Park's vagabonds, who she lovingly referred to as her guests. The council was prepping their stage for a weekend Triathlon, transforming the tranquil sanctuary into a playground for the bourgeoisie. Hellen was sounding the alarm, her voice a shrill siren in the wilderness. "The pigs will be crawling all over the place," she warned, her words laced with a bitter truth that echoed in our ears.
"You reckon it's a no-go, Hellen?" Doug asked, his voice barely concealing his concern.
"Better to lay low this weekend. Big Bear is safer," she advised, her eyes holding an intense gravity.
Meanwhile, our resident trucker, Big Bear, was preparing to hit the road, his eyes set on the distant horizon of Perth. His debt to Vanya Vitto, a mere $20, had been settled, freeing him to leave Pelican Park behind.
"I paid Vitto, the bloodsucker," he grumbled, a satisfied grin stretching across his face, "I'm rolling out tomorrow at dawn."
Our four-legged companion, Samual, was handed over to a more stable home near Pelican Beach. His departure left a quiet void in our midst. Doug, the rugged biker, bore his absence like a stoic, his silence a testament to his unspoken affection.
"So, Samual's gone?" I asked, breaking the silence.
"Yeah," Doug mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You did right by him, Doug," I added, patting him on the back, "Under the circumstances, you treated that dog with love and respect. He was a blessing to all of us here at Pelican Park."
"Yeah," he replied, his eyes misty but unshed, "He was a good dog."
