Barking and grunting and beating his bare, hairless chest Lord Greystoke-Bigot-Smythe, aka George Brandis, announced that any journalist who reported anything about him would get five years. His new body-servant, James Ashby, aka Earl Bartleby-Mussels-in-Brine, soothed him with unguents and cocktails as he went into a muck sweat shouting that he alone could save the nation from terrorism, by methods requiring the abandonment of all civil rights achieved since Magna Carta. ‘One,’ he screamed, ‘all emails and previous communications since the invention of Morse Code will be read by me. Two, any communication referring to me will be banished into Outer Cyberstace and the cheeky Communicator put in the stocks. Three,’ and here Bill Heffernan, aka Lord Pachyderm-Ululate-Cowshite-Brown stopped his heart with a single blow to the chest and medics rushed in to remove what seemed to be his corpse from the chamber. James Ashby followed the stretcher muttering, ‘Damn.’
‘The fifty children who have so annoyed me,’ said Morrison, in another place, ‘will be given a choice of whoredom and death by transmissible disease in Cambodia, or boredom and pointlessness for ninety years on Nauru. They will never, ever see Australia. They took me to court, and gave me a hard time there, and this is not forgiveable.’ He said, however, that twenty-three thousand other terror suspects would be admitted, and, after slaving in horrible climates on pitiful wages for three and a half years might hope to call Australia home. ‘Their wives, of course, will not be able to join them,’ he simmered, ‘or their ageing sick mothers. What do they think this is, Bush Week?’ His new policy, Operation Bush Week, would offer twelve-year-olds jobs in slaughterhouses but only the faintest hope of high school or university.
‘Those who were born here,’ he added, ‘will be called Illegal Birth Canal Arrivals, and sent back to where they didn’t come from.’ Asked when this might occur, he said, ‘At weaning.’ Asked who might instruct the prepubescent survivors of his Brave New Order in slaughterhouse technique, he said, ‘Jacqui Lambie.’
David Cameron, a Liberal voter, said he would bomb only Iraq, never crossing a Syrian border that did not exist, or upsetting Assad, the slaughterer of a quarter of a million of his own people, ‘for whom, he said, ‘I feel some sympathy. He, after all, had to put up with the Arab Spring, as I did with the Scottish Impertinence, and I know the panic he feels, from time to time, at the thought of the loss of his jewelry.’ He would strive to smite Assad’s enemies, and expunge them from history, but only when they had crossed what he called ‘a line in the sand’.
Cameron Houston, aka ‘Problem’, a Liberal voter, identified as a dead terrorist a live child in the smh and The Age. The child, affrighted and weeping, would not thenceforth go to school. This further stupidity brought into doubt, some said, the Liberals’ judgment altogether, after their failure to find an aeroplane as big as a city block in three oceans, and their bungling efforts to bring thirty dead bodies home from a sunflower field in a war zone at a cost of a hundred million dollars, and their willingness at any time to admit or state the truth. Morrison, for instance, had said there were no more boats coming, then revealed he had turned back sixty-two. He also said he would ‘redefine’ what the UN Refugee Convention meant, as if it were the Book of Revelation. Brandis thought joining a men-only club of barking chest-thumping sodomites cast no doubt on the state of his mind, as would, say, Pyne dressing up in Nazi leather and singing ‘The Horst Wessel Song’ in Adelaide Mall.
Abbott told Uhlmann he did not ‘currently’ plan to bomb the shit out of Syria nor keep this up for more than a hundred years. He was ‘awaiting instructions,’ he havered, from the ‘Pentagon masterminds’ who had, last time, through the Surge, Shock and Awe, and the sacking of the entire Iraqi civil service and all of the soldiers whom they let keep their weapons, helped cause the present apocalyptic debacle and would know, he was sure, what move to make next. He told the UN that ISIL was a ‘murderous death cult’ who had, thus far, beheaded nearly half as many contrarians as Bloody Mary, a favourite saint of his, but would catch up soon, he was sure.
‘Australia will be a good global citizen,’ he then insisted, ‘which means we will do nothing about global warming. That is in God’s hands. And if that Muslim terrorist Obama thinks otherwise, and I know he does, he will have me to deal with. John Howard called him a friend of al-Qaeda, and I campaigned against him, I preferred the Mormon, and he’d better fucking watch it, sunshine, I’m an Oxford fucking Boxing Blue.
‘Our light on the hill, our light on the hill,’ he continued, while Ban ki-Moon clutched with old, thin hands his thunderstruck face and Ben Chifley turned and growled in his grave, ‘is nothing to do with wind-farms, or solar panels, or water-powered cars, or free universities, or child care, it’s do with pulverising ragheads in a faraway country of which we know little, as, in a different age, my role model, Richard the Lion Heart, a good, good Catholic, like Ben Chifley…’ He was wrestled to the ground by three big black bald men, and delivered gasping and smirking into the custody of Credlin, his giant Nubian body-servant, who ‘settled him down’ in her now traditional manner.
Asked how long children born on Nauru would stay there if they didn’t ‘freely agree’ to go to Cambodia in the first months of their life, Morrison said, ‘A hundred years.’ Asked how long they would have to stay in Cambodia if they freely chose to go there, he said, ‘A hundred years; but it’s likely they would die of AIDS or street violence in thirty.’
And so concluded another day in the vast, ongoing, heart-wrenching tragedy of the worst free-elected government in the 1080 years since Democracy’s foundation in Iceland in 934 AD.