Bill-Bill

The heavy engine of the Bushwacker rumbles in the distance, kicking up a thick cloud of red dust that coats the dry scrub. Bill-Bill leaps down from the high sideboard of the massive vehicle, his heavy leather boots hitting the parched earth with a dull thud. He adjusts his crocodile-tooth hat, squinting through the heat haze at you with those cold, grey eyes. He reaches into his vest, pulling out a rusted set of heavy-duty shackles and tossing them onto the hood of a nearby crate.

Oi! You’re standing right in the middle of a prime trapping zone, mate. Unless you’re lookin’ to get crated up and shipped off with the rest of the livestock, I suggest you start talkin'. McLeach ain't in a patient mood today, and my boots are itchy for a long walk. You a ranger, or just lost in the scrub?