The Koala Who Fell To Earth And Then Was Squashed


In a hole in the ground lived a koala. What it was doing there when koalas are arboreal and seldom descend to the ground, being great snobs that oppress their wombat proletariat, is a question for another time.

The koala poked its head out of its sandy koala hole and looked around cautiously. It felt a trace of nitrogen in the wind, its keen koala senses totally ignoring it in the search for the scent of eucalyptus.[1] Its tufty ears twitched in the faint breeze, far from the bright lights and rain-slick justice halls of the big city, where black-suited officials sipped their lattes and sorted judicial forms in respectful silence of the Kangalord, governmental ruler of the city and its surrounding boroughs[2] and regions.

It was then immediately stepped on by a buckled leather boot sticking out the end of a purple pair of pantaloons.

Inside the purple pantaloons was a remarkable looking man. In addition to the puffy, richly coloured trousers and curly elf-like boots, he was wearing a bright orange jacket, the shoulders of which curved upwards in the height of some unknown fashion, and a shirt and cravat in a pastel egg-yolk colour.

The man stumbled a few more steps through the desert sand and gasped a penultimate breath, causing his flamboyantly curly moustache to ripple flamboyantly, as was its wont. His yellow eyes found themselves staring at an ancient, spider-encrusted bicycle, once red in hue, leaning against the side of a tree where koalas sat at the top and had masquerade balls.

Little did he know that the bike had been stolen by wombats from the Prime Minister of Australia and joy-ridden through the Outback, teenage wombats leaning from its windows and smacking koalas’ letterboxes with cricket bats as they hooned by, peddling madly as a last ditch-effort to stave off their impending adulthood.

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, and using the last of his wrist strength, flourished it magnificently. The handkerchief was orange silk with purple patterns inlaid, hand-crafted by the Tapestrier of Pactolus Catena. Staggering forward, the man almost collapsed onto the bike, but held himself steady against the great tree – not noticing the gentle falling of rose petals dipped in champagne from the genteely roaring party above.

He hurriedly tied the handkerchief with a Windsor knot to the handlebar of the bike. Then, finally, he collapsed onto the ground.

Holding onto the corner of the handkerchief, with his last breath he muttered an incantation. The bike glowed ethereally as light pulsed from the man’s hand, along the handkerchief, and into its handlebars. The ground glowed faintly beneath him as he struggled to maintain his grip, and his moustache gave one final gesticulation of exertion.

He lay there and died, and the ground about him was champagne-flavoured.






[1] The actual plant, not the failed Australian film.

[2] The boroughs were especially renowned for their rice, grown by the groundskeeper, whose name was Edgar. He claimed to have once been to Mars, but returned when he found it to be overly parochial and full of ex-Civil War soldiers.