The air was thick with bogans as our heroes, Jon and Tim, boarded the 5:37 p.m. express to the city. With freshly oiled biceps glistening, they overpowered a gaggle of elderly ladies to take possession of a seat, whereupon they placed their god-like buttocks.
"Ours is a noble venture," said Jon, eyeing his fellow passengers haughtily.
"Immortality," said Tim. "Take it - it's yours!"
"Thanks, but I already bought some at the Churro Hut." Jon eyed his fellow passengers with still greater haught before continuing. "Superficially, we are merely going out to hear a talk by the writer Neil Gaiman. However, in the context of the War on Terror, our actions are truly courageous. At any moment we could perish in a terrorist attack."
"They hate our freedom."
"Yes, and there is no level to which they will not sink. Their morality originates in the Marianas Trench, amongst eyeless fiends with light bulbs protruding from their piscine bodies."
Soon, the lights of the city appeared, and "Welcome to the Jungle" burst spontaneously from the train's P.A. system. Once alighted, our heroes thrust forth their crotches, and walked with the poise of Apollo through streets lined with cowering wretches.
"Terrorists hate freedom," said Jon, "and capitalism is the embodiment of freedom and Hungry Jacks is the embodiment of capitalism. I say we go hence and partake of some freedom fries."
"I agree. Oops, watch out for that puddle of freedom vomit."
From the upper floor of the Swanston st. Hungry Jacks a majestic vista was revealed to Jon and Tim. The latter gestured towards the nearby State Library.
"Those who deny the reality of human progress need only take in this view to have their beliefs crumble like so much chocolate-covered honeycomb."
"Yes," said Jon, throwing a pickle at the menial scrubbing something red and sticky off the floor. "Compare the overblown triumphalism of that neo-classical pile with the utilitarian wipe-down-ableness of this family restaurant."
"We've come a long way, baby."
"The future is now!"
Full of greasy good cheer, our heroes proceeded to the Village Roadshow Theatrette, where they joined several hundred nerds to hear Neil Gaiman's talk. Afterwards, Jon was quick to pick up on the political symbolism of the event.
"Terrorists hate freedom," he said. "By attending tonight, we have shown we will not be intimidated - not by terrorists, nor by nerds! We shall prevail!"
"You know what else terrorists hate?"
"Indeed. Let us partake of some freedom beer!"
The adventures which followed need only be hinted at here. Jon and Tim were equal to the challenge set by the terrorists. With steely resolve they did battle with large quanitites of beer, emerging victorious some hours later. Any terrorists who happened to be watching would have trembled to see these two mighty warriors crossing Swanston st. with the sort of abandon that only comes from being truly drunk. And free.
As they walked, Jon spoke of battles past and future, while Tim sang selections from Ol' Dirty Bastard.
"This will not be the last time we are called upon to make sacrifices for the greater good," said Jon. "We must be prepared to fight for freedom at a moment's notice."
"Hey, Dirty," said Tim. "Baby I got ya money, don't ya worry..."
Despite the inherent danger, our heroes boarded a tram bound for the green hills of Box Hill. Various suspicious characters immediately disembarked, fearing retribution should their insidious intentions come to Jon and Tim's notice. One, however, remained.
"That man across from us has the pallid countenence of the fanatical jihadist," said Tim.
"How clever, disguising himself as a heroin addict," said Jon. However, the hour grew late, and the young men grew weary, so righteous action was postponed.
"We shall allow you to live this night," said Jon to the man, who pretended to be asleep. "But rest assured, we will return to slay you, for you are an enemy of the freedom we are sworn to protect."
"Know this, foul beast," said Tim, shaking his fist in the terrorist's face. "You shall perish by my hand!"
"Gurfrlargh," said the potential suicide bomber.
Once Box Hill had been reached, our heroes stopped only to urinate in a public place before going their separate ways. Tim developed a heroic case of the hiccups, staggering home through the chilly streets, proud of the small victory that he and Jon had achieved that night. Soon he was home, stretched out upon the conjugal bed, visions of glory dancing in his mind. And darkness veiled his eyes.