Cryptic Transmissions on Mystery Hill

Atop the far plateaus of Mystery Hill and east of the chambot fairways, the thick woods were slowly being carved away for the growing Wicewudu settlement.
  Malinconico, Bancroft, and Gass-Boy trudged through the future Court of Glen examining the fresh red clay underfoot. Around them was the natural — rough white quartz chunks Bancroft held up for inspection — as well as the unnatural: domestic detritus churls had seen fit to discard before even a groundbreaking had yet to commence.
  Dirty cardboard, shattered plastic — even an old chequebook from the local khan was amongst the litter in the once-quiet woodlands.
  ‘This is as bad as the Shakamaxon slobs trashing Town Bank on their holiday weekends,’ lamented Malinconico to himself.
  An electronic chirp interrupted the dull silence. Bancroft drew the kōmori-otoko transceiver from his rucksack and flipped a switch. A blurt of static hissed for a second before a voice came forth: “Hello, Daffodil!”
  The young men looked at each other quizzically.
  “Did someone activate the komatsugumi handset?” asked Malinconico.
  “No, the transceiver counterpart is drained — it’s back in the garage in Nottingham,” Bancroft explained with a shrug.
  “But whoever that is has our frequency,” said Gass-Boy.
  “Hello, Daffodil,” the transceiver squawked again.
  “It’s shimin band radio — everyone’s on those frequencies, you dorf!” Bancroft snapped. “Who is this?” he barked into the device.
  “Hello, Daffodil,” the voice repeated.
  “What if it’s the Farmer?” Gass-Boy worried.
  “No, he’s on the other side of the fairway near Horseshoe Canyon,” Malinconico explained somewhat unconvincingly. “Plus, he wouldn’t be sounding so friendly.”
  Gass-Boy, always one to stir things up, leaned over the transceiver.
  “Hey, Farmer! Blebby bleh! Inda gritz! Tee eff gur’eyemz!”
  What the heck was he channeling?
  “Cut it out!” Bancroft snatched the instrument away. “You’re gonna make him madder than Weasel’s pop!”
  “I find these shenanigans to be quite taxing,” sighed Malinconico. “Let’s get outta here.”
  The young men left the clearing and disappeared into the woods.
  From behind some nearby yew bushes a pair of eyes watched the boys depart. A weathered hand quietly deactivated a transceiver.