At least the Chinese didn’t forget Tasmania. And according to Paul, that’s the first place they’d target. In- breeding enhances compliance, and it started off as a Prison Colony anyway. Plus ca Change!
In a twist of fate more telling than Paul Keating’s dumping on the AUK-WARD Treaty, our heroes find themselves once again in hot water. Hot water of the Sophie, (‘I have more publicly funded sinecures than you have’) Mirabella type.
Last time we looked in on our heroes were cocooned inside the stationary Rotodyne as it was being encroached by menacing Highland Villagers. We saw Sophie, as is her nature, clobber her Sophie look alike with forty kilos of anchor.
A pause ensued and from the reactions of the natives, we must assume that the displacing of their version of Sophie may not be such a bad thing. And the suggestions, tenuous at the very least that they may prefer the new Sophie as their undisputed priestess, goddess, and leader.
Telling AUK-WARD partners which way the loo is.
Is it too soon to tell, or do the natives know something about our Sophie that the rest of us don’t understand? Perhaps their native intuition? Or the legacy left behind by Rolf Harris who allegedly gave them the gift of civilisation and the superb and undervalued ‘Two Little Boys’ as a talisman of Australian Culture. We can only conjecture. But if you hold on tight all will be revealed in the next few paragraphs, to lead us to who knows where? An addenda to the AUK-WARD Pact, an insight into the overcooked Lehrman Higgins fiasco? Or even just an insight into why the water goes down the plug hole clockwise in the southern hemisphere, and anti-clockwise in the northern hemisphere.
Synchronise your clock wises as the story is re booted. Courtesy Robodebt V.2
‘Jeez! , that’s torn it’.
Three pillars of INTEGRITY. The Anglosphere stands FIRM!
Terry, always a man of understatement let out a deep sigh infused with Camel and the acknowledgment that Sophie had what it took to quell the bloodlust of restless natives. ‘She sure knows how to handle a crowd. You bet, and the way the other Sophie looks, we wont be getting any more trouble outta her’. And sure enough barely after the priestesses downfall, our Sophie had picked up the necklace of shrunken skulls, the Bird of Paradise head gear and all the accoutrements of the native priestess and adorned herself with the finery. And then, picking up the sceptre of sorts, fashioned as a knockberry with another skull she raised it, her jackboot firmly planted on the stilled torso of her victim and screamed in the most bloodthirsty and incomprehensible native argot of supreme triumph. We had no idea what she was saying, cept to acknowledge that she had clearly at some stage in her celebrated and decorated career, learnt many colourful languages.
Wasting no time, over her victory, she pointed to the cauldron, and motioned for the native host to gather the lifeless body of their former leader and place it in the cauldron. For Sophie that was all pure instinct. She had what it took without the inhibiting emotional register of fear, empathy, compassion. She just knew what she had to do. ‘Jeez’, Quent enthused, ‘if Harry and Migraine did things this way they’d be running the chook- shed they call ‘Windsor! Too right! And the pommy aristocracy would just have to stick it up their chinless noses’.
‘Dead right’, proffered Ces, ‘she really has the right stuff’.
Always a GONG in the offing for a well-licked BUM!
The natives busied themselves with carrying and unceremoniously plonking the priestess in the cauldron and then under the incandescent glare of the fire, which burned very brightly indeed they witnessed Sophie, raised upon a palanquin of sorts offer a another native as a sacrifice.
‘Jeez she’s only been here five minutes and she’s got the whole bloody culture sorted. She’d be a shoe- in for a spot on the board of the NDIS or the ABC. She’d shut the do- gooders up in five minutes and they’d be so bloody scared they wouldn’t ‘complain about the biscuits at tea breaks or their roster, or time in lieu entitlements. WE need people like Sophie back in Government’.
These sub genre films always start happy
No sooner had Terry said that when we noticed a change in the tempo. The priestess was cooking nicely, and they reassured themselves they felt safe. But with Sophie, ‘safety’ was just a notion handed out before the long knives were unsheathed. And sure enough, from the gloom and the fiery incandescence, they saw her raise her ghastly machete like knife and her skull adorned sceptre and direct her attention to our heroes. The tempo of the drums changed. She let out another hideous and altogether bloodthirsty wail and the natives, sensing their orders, rejoiced in a similar display of savage beastliness and made it beyond doubt. The menu tonight, according to their new unassailable Priestess was to be the former Priestess augmented with traces of our trio.
‘Don’t like the look of this’, suggested, Terry. ‘Nor I’, said Quient. ‘This could be it’!
Turning to Ces, they both pleaded, ‘Fer Chrissakes Ces, think of something’! To whit Ces grabbed another Camel, and puffed furiously as every atom of his being thought of an escape clause.
Is there an escape clause? Are they more remote than a sanity clause?
Till reality kicks in.
As Chico famously said; ‘I donna believe in a Sanity Claus’’. Only the next few moments can tell, and time has a problem with reliability. Find out in the next episode; ‘the stopped clock tells the correct time at least twice a day’, or, ‘If its ticking and dangerous, it’s either Tik Tok, or Tok Tik, which is Chinese for ‘Dont touch the bloody thing and RUN’!