Blood In The Water


 

Journalists hunt in packs, and now there was blood in the water. And the Prime Minister was being dismembered, limb by limb, press conference by press conference, one disastrous headline after another.

The entire country was experiencing a severe case of schadenfreude, the pleasure in someone else's misfortunes. The worst things got for Good Old Albo, the more everyone was delighted.

For the most hated, the most incompetent, the most dishonest Prime Minister in the nation's history. 

Meanwhile his own head had flipped into some kind of crazy, sad, mad, struggling to keep a lid on things; emotional, even, though he had never wished to feel anything. Emotions of any kind, oh how the programming had evolved, were something he had never been comfortable with. 

Travelling across the country with his brother; who, there was some speculation, was dying of cancer, had done him in. The man wasn't well. He was barely mobile, him and his walking stick; and could barely walk. Fifty metres was a struggle.

Out there on the great plains, out there in that harsh, beautiful country, there in another caravan park, this time Penong, a tiny place in the midst of giant wheat fields, the voices said to him: it sounds strange, but just do it. 

And so he spent the night, with tractors or the power of mind, burying crosses under the park. How did that make sense? It didn't.

What does it mean? He asked.

And the answer came: It means you must choose between good and evil.

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