Greg grabbed his keys. He was a landlord, not a plumber, but times were tight. A plumber would cost $400 just to show up. A Bunnings snake? $89.
Greg cranked the handle. The snake bucked, a live thing fighting back. He leaned his weight into it, sweat beading on his forehead. Grind. Twist. Shove. The steel groaned. The pipe made a sound like a dying cow. He gave one final, furious shove.
A geyser of black, chunky, unspeakable sludge exploded from the pipe. It hit Greg square in the chest, sprayed up his chin, and decorated the cabinet doors in Jackson Pollock patterns of pure nightmare. The smell— oh, the smell —was a biological weapon: rotting food, stagnant dishwater, and something ancient that had been quietly composing itself for years. bunnings snake drain
The snake went slack.
But deep down, he knew the truth. The Bunnings snake had won. Not because it cleared the drain—it hadn’t, not really. But because it had taught him a lesson only Bunnings can teach: some jobs are best left to the experts. But if you’re too stubborn for that, at least buy the onion on your snag. You’re going to need something to take the taste away. Greg grabbed his keys
Then it erupted.
Greg sat frozen, dripping in liquid filth. A Bunnings snake
Finally. The rental property’s kitchen sink had been backing up for a week, and the tenant, a retired nurse named Margaret, had started leaving polite but firm voicemails. “The water’s taking on a personality of its own, love. A brown, lumpy one.”