David "The Pope" Farrier, the Holy Pontiff of Journalism. Photo / Rob Holysz
David "The Pope" Farrier, the Holy Pontiff of Journalism. Photo / Rob Holysz
OPINION
MONDAY
The frontier town of Dodge was quiet.
It liked it that way.
It didn’t much like noise and had a general distaste for anyone making a spectacle of themselves in the name of truth, democracy, and the New Zealand flag, on the grounds that many people involved inthese pursuits were right-wing crazies.
But now it had to reckon with Sean “Six-Gun” Plunket.
He woke up every morning a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’ from on top of a board he’d laid over two hay bales in an obscure part of town.
He called it his platform.
“I got me some documents,” roared Six-Gun. “Many, many documents, all of ‘em very damaging to David ‘The Pope’ Farrier, very damaging indeed, including one document dated 1971, proof that he has inflicted pain and suffering even a-fore he was born!”
David “The Pope” Farrier, the subject of Six-Gun’s dreadful wrath, sat cross-legged inside a glass tower with smoking incense and softly chiming bells as he busily and piously set down more and more edicts for the practice of newsgathering from his most high and lofty position as the Holy Pontiff of Journalism.
The Pope was revered in an echo chamber in an obscure part of town.
The left-wing crazies who gathered there thought of him as a kindly soul who took to heart the interests of anyone who felt triggered by anything.
But now he had to reckon with Sean “Six-Gun” Plunket.
Sean “Six-Gun” Plunket woke up every morning a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’. Photo / Dean Purcell
“I will fight these untruths,” whispered The Pope, forcing the left-wing crazies in the echo chamber to lean closer to catch each pearl of wisdom, “with the best legal minds that an inexpensive subscription service to my papal edicts can buy.”
And then he engaged in a round of soft interviews to promote his new travelling medicine show.
The townsfolk did their best to ignore him.
WEDNESDAY
Six-Gun continued to rant and roar from his platform.
But no harm came to The Pope.
The Pope continued to insist he would hire legal minds.
But no harm came to Six-Gun.
THURSDAY
The Pope continued to insist he would hire legal minds.
But no harm came to Six-Gun.
Six-Gun continued to rant and roar from his platform.
But no harm came to The Pope.
FRIDAY
At the end of the day Six-Gun hung up his six unloaded guns, and lay down to rest.
He was tired.
He was very tired indeed.
It took a lot out of a man to hoot and holler at such volumes and with such vehemence, and to attempt to bring down a fellow broadcaster for no apparent reason and with scant cause or evidence.
“Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it,” he said in the dark.
At the end of the same day, The Pope hung up his hollow papal hat and lay down to rest.
He was tired.
He was very tired indeed.
It took a lot out of a human to be accused of heinous misdemeanours somewhat lacking in proof and reality by a fellow broadcaster, and to generally come across as Jesus.
“The way things are going,” he sang in the dark, “they’re going to crucify me.”
The frontier town of Dodge slept.
It did its best to ignore noise and spectacle, and its best was good enough.
