Beyond the crest is what the crowd came to see

As the Studebaker crested the hill with all the glorified commotion of its era, our eyes were struck with the image of hicks gaping in wonder at a newly discovered hole.
Not a peculiar or uncommon site for these parts. Puzzling though was that the hole being gaped and gawked at by the unwavering crowd, who incidentally seemed oblivious and impervious to my ferocious work on the cars horn, was not made by the absence of dirt as most are. This was a hole straight from heaven, or that’s how it appeared, ablaze with the streaming light of an afternoon sun pouring down into my lounge room through what used to be my houses roof.
“To be fair, the roof makes the hole look quite impressive. If the roof weren’t so fancy I probably wouldn’t be staring at it.” An old farmhand offered as some sort of compensation. He was met with steely silence from myself and gaited polite awkwardness from the gathered crowd. “Think about it.” He added as if id missed the funny quip hidden somewhere in the nonsense.
“If it were up to me well first I’d gather a posse, drink rye till we are thinking clearly, then drive around smashing letterboxes until someone gets a something done” remarked a man in quite a state of intoxication who was by all rights aiming at the highest order of dishevelment I have ever seen or even contemplated. His achievement of delivering his verdict and sentencing now completed he passed out there and then, the last syllable to roll from his tongue seemingly being the only thing to keep him from a whisky fueled slumber. But being they were simple country folk they were forgiven for arrogance and retribution. A cultural thing of difference it was once explained to me. No man alive in the town would be hung from the highest tree for there thoughts, well no man this side of the tracks as far as history was concerned.
I’d fix the roof in the morning; the locals would clear by the weekend.