A tired old swaggie is trudging along one of the dusty backroads, back o' Bourke. She's just gorn 2 o'clock, about 110 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, the blowies are shocking and his swag feels like a bag of wet wheat. His back aches, the sweat is pouring off him and the soles of his one pair of boots have more holes than leather.
And now, from way behind him in the distance he sees a ball of dust approaching along the road at great speed. The swaggie stops, lays down the swag and wipes his brow as the car pulls to a halt beside him.
It's a brand new ute driven by the biggest property owner in the district – the only bastard in two hundred mile who smokes cigars. He winds down the passenger-side window as the swaggie savours the sudden lovely cool of the ute's air-conditioning running at full blast.
"Hop in, mate," says the filthy-rich Cockie, "Too hot to walk. I'l give yer a lift."
The swaggie pauses, slowly looks the car up and down, then turns his gaze on the driver and says, "Nah. Open your own bloody gates."
[Peter Fitzsimmons, The Sydney Morning Herald, 15 May 2016]
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