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Good luck Hearts. I hope everything works out for you. Take care of yourself alright?

Kyle is suited up and ready to save people here!

Kyle Kirkland || Australia || Training for Dover Straight

“Well that didn’t take long, you must’ve been desperate.” Kyle’s words were good natured, but carried a glint to them that had been missing up till now. He really had thought that Wes would take more time to eulogize over his present, giving the Australian more time to eat all the Pavlova. As it was he’d only managed to consume a quarter of it before his cousin’s return. “His name is Dafydd. Welsh.” He explained pointing to the sheep in question. “Will eat anything that you give him and everything that you don’t.” That pretty much summed it up.


Kyle was sparing Wes the whole lecture on animal responsibility, because he knew that his cousin could and would take care of his pet. Right down to giving Dafydd little sheepy manicures when his hoofs got worn down. Though Kyle would still probably have to shear him when summer rolled round, Wes was still in kindergarten scissors stage.


The sheep seemed to be the only present they had at the moment. Wherever Matilda had hidden the others would probably be revealed when they hauled the decorations back up to the attic in another six or maybe seven days’ time. Actually, better make it eight. There were a lot of decorations to haul. The delay did not bother him. Kyle was well past the age of Christmas present frenzy and it would not kill him to wait. Wes however was still mentally young enough to be excited. He would ensure that the two of them uncovered all their missing gifts by New Year.


Now for more pressing matters. Wes was eating his pavlova. This could not be allowed. Kyle searched his mind for an appropriately subtle comment to kick-start their most important and sacred Christmas tradition, pavlova warfare. “I’m glad you like the pav” was his chosen statement, as casual as a comment about the weather. Then… “We Australians make the best pavlovas after all”.


And with that, chaos was ensured. Kyle lent back in his chair and waited.

There were many ways that people paid homage to the fallen Diggers on April 25th. Some got out the full brass. They showed up for the dawn service at the War memorial, with Grandad’s medals on one shoulder and a bright red poppy on the other. Later on they would walk in the parade and would make speeches about things like “birth of a nation” and “mateship” without having the faintest idea of their meaning. Others chose to commemorate the ANZAC boys by having an all-day piss up and the local pub. They would talk about football and cricket and play many spirited rounds of Two Up, a betting game rather like an elaborate version of ‘head or tails’. If the fallen soldiers of the Great War were mentioned at all then it was the general consensus that they were “top blokes” who had been ordered by the “bloody poms” to the shores of Gallipoli to be killed by the “Johnny Turks”.


Kyle’s own practices were somewhere in the middle. He wore a red poppy as a mark of respect and took the day off work. Mornings were spent quietly in the house with coffee and ANZAC biscuits (the traditional kind). And evenings were spent at the pub losing a few dollars on a bet and drinking VB. This year was no different, except that he was in a pub on the other side of the world, with Wes.


Sure the kid might be underage, but it was only a few months until he was legal. And on April the 25th age limits were more of a guideline than a rule anyhow. In the interest of safe drinking practices they had brought along Matlida and Daffy as their sober friends. With these safety measures in place Kyle doubted that even the “Johnny Turks would be able to inflict much damage.


The barman had obviously planned well ahead for this day, this was Kyle’s sixth round of drinks and the supplies of imported antipodean beers were still going strong. The place was crowed, presumably with Australians, but Kyle still managed to get back to his table without spilling anything. “All righty, schooner of VB for me, stubby of Speight’s for Wes, packet of chips for Matilda, packet of pretzels for Daffy.” He sat down and picked up his drink. “Any last words Wes”

Over the years Kyle Kirkland had been informed by several reliable persons that he had no instinct for self-preservation. If those people could see him now they’d have undeniable proof that this statement was true. Moreover, all of them would be telling him what a stupid idea this was, and how would he ever be able to look at his fellow countrymen in the eye ever again? A few of the braver ones might try and stop him, even thought that would be placing themselves at risk of losing face. And what was this risky and desperate idea that Kyle had?

He was going to see a Government person.

One of the greatest skills of Australians had ever developed was the ability to avoid persons of political affiliation. This avoidance strategy went as far as building a whole new city for the politicians to live in so the rest of the country could avoid them more effectively. The instinct was so strong, that when the first federal election occurred in 1901 no one had turned up to vote. And it was this very instinct that Kyle was battling when he walked into the Heart of Westminster. There were only two things in this world that would make Kyle take such drastic action. One was his cousin and the other was his patients, in this case it was the latter.

He knew animal trafficking to be a problem. In his student days he had been a part of some colourful demonstrations against the practice. Now he was taking part in the conviction of these money hungry tradesman, through his work with the SIS. His job was identify and catalogue all the animal they’d seized in a raid and get them well enough to be returned to their home counties, those that were too far gone to be treated were to be put down with as little pain as possible.

Many of the creatures they rescued had been in a bad way. The bastard of a keeper had not provided heat for the reptiles or a cooling system for the mammals. The cages had been too small, the water stale, the young separated from their mothers… but the Burmese Python in his arms was by far the worst off. At some point during her imprisonment she had been burnt on her left side, most reptiles respond to this by shedding the damaged layer of scales; but for some reason this one hadn’t. Nor had she reacted when a stranger’s hand had picked her up and placed her in the carrier. For what was supposedly a wild animal this was a very bad sign. Kyle knew himself to be a half decent vet, but in this case he was going to need some advice. This lady python was going to need specialist care and he was not a specialist. Which was why he was on his was to meet with the Phoenix herself.

Kim-Ly Thi Nguyen’s reputation preceded her. Kyle had been told that she was harsh, fiercely intelligent and tougher than the digging claws of a wombat. But more importantly she was from Vietnam, there were whispers that she had spent her childhood in a village, a farming one, with rice-paddies and other wet places where Burmese pythons liked to hang out. It was on these whispers that Kyle was taking the gamble that she would know something that he could not find for himself in a journal. He knew from his own childhood that there was more to be learnt from the outdoors than what books could tell you. Anything that Kim-ly could tell him might just give him the edge to save this snake’s life.

To his credit Kyle remembered to knock on the door before he tumbled into the Justice Department, it was the waiting for an answer part that he forgot about. “G’da-err hello” He greeted to the office in general and continued speaking without pause for breath “Has anyone seen Ms Kim-Ly Something? Tell her I’ve got a Burmese Python here who’s really crook and I’d appreciate it if she had any grouse knowledge about them and umm, and I’ve brought flowers. Red ones.”

The red flowers had been an afterthought. Kyle did not have the faintest idea on how to visit a politician without getting his head bitten off, but flowers seemed like a good start. He’d had some experience with South East Asians before and knew that they generally liked the colour red. Ergo red flowers. No he did not know what sort of flowers they were, what did he look like, a flippin pansy?