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Once upon a time there used to be a racecourse at Eagle Farm.

Now its just a series of charcuterie stations.

You don’t know what charcuterie is you uncouth bastards do you?

That’s why you’re not in The Society.

I bet you’re a gambler too. One of those grotty bastards who walk around racetracks with a form guide stuffed in your back pocket, a wad of grubby lobsters in one hand and a betting slip in the other. You probably drink beer as well, and wear jeans.

Peasant.

What do you think this is? A race track or something?

That was years ago ingrate, and things have changed around Eagle Farm. We’ve moved upmarket, not that you’d know anything about that.

We don’t want your kind on our rooftop.

Come anywhere near our flowing bubbles buddy and we’re calling the pigs.

achar