William Bunter struggled to pull the goggles down over his eyes. Bloody things. Mind you, it wasn’t an easy thing to accomplish when stuffed inside a giant cannon. Finally, and breaking the habit of a lifetime by pulling his head in, the far-right leader managed to wiggle the damn things into place.
What had possessed him to agree to this completely mad photo op? Drink was the short answer. He had apparently announced to waiting media at the Rich Bastards Club that he would beat his rival, Jack Bolshie – that appallingly woke leftie – into the PM’s office on the ninth floor of the Beehive “even if it means shooting myself out of a giant cannon”.
Now, just a week before election day, with his party desperately down in the polls, he agreed with his advisers: time for the giant cannon.
With five minutes until the thing fired him towards the ninth floor, and into political oblivion or glory, he broke another habit of a lifetime and began to pray like he meant it.
“Lord, please forgive me my wild policymaking on the hoof, excuse my verbal gaffes, and pardon my shameless campaign stunts, for I knew not what I was doing.”
He knew not what he was doing when he forgot to turn off his microphone after a live interview on Radio Right Wing. During what was supposed to be an off-air chat afterwards, the radio host had sneered: “This country has now become a third-world banana republic.”
“Indeed,” Bunter had agreed, “we’re a poxy little nation populated by woke idiots and inbreds.” What had possessed him? Not a surfeit of good sense, that’s for certain.
Now here he was. Inside a giant cannon. Bunter ended his prayer with a heartfelt “amen” just as he heard his press secretary begin the final countdown: “Five, four, three, two …” The last thing Bunter registered was the roar of the crowd. Then, everything went black.
All tied up
Bolshie sighed. Why was he nervous? Possibly because he knew that if that godawful Bunter survived his harebrained campaign stunt of being fired out of a giant cannon and actually managed to land in the PM’s office, he’d probably win the bloody election, too. The bastard. Why hadn’t Bolshie thought of it? Or his staff? That’s what he paid the grovelling no-names for. Instead, after he made that spur-of-the-moment promise – that if he was the next prime minister, New Zealand’s GDP would be double Australia’s by Christmas – they had organised this ludicrous photo op for him: boxing a kangaroo in a makeshift ring in front of the Australian High Commission in Thorndon.
What if the kangaroo won? He’d be the laughing stock of the nation. He had an idea. He’d put his famous oratorial talent to good use. He’d trash-talk the damn marsupial into submission.
“Bet you can’t tie me down, Sport,” he bellowed at the ‘roo as the bell for the first round went. The last thing he heard was the roar of the crowd, and then everything went black.
Hold the front page
Howler opened his eyes and tried to focus. How much had he had to drink last night? It felt like something had crawled into his mouth, spent some time doing its business and then died.
For the nine millionth time he promised himself he’d finally give up the drink. Then he’d get some NZ On Air money and make a documentary about giving up the drink so that everyone knew he’d given up the drink.
His eyes cleared enough to get the lie of the land. Woozily, he realised he was lying on his back under a table at The Backbencher, the Wellington pub where hacks and politicians practised consensual bootlicking. It was the morning after … something.
So why was it still dark? He realised that someone had placed a folded newspaper over his face, as if covering a corpse. It was the latest edition of the Daily Vomit.
The byline for the front-page lead read “By Shameless Howler”. That was him. The headline was his as well. “Double Splat!”, it read. His story began, “Political rivals William Bunter and Jack Bolshie died yesterday in separate campaign stunts gone wrong, throwing the election into chaos.”
The Bunter stunt resulted, he read in a story he must have filed from under this very table, in the complete demolition of not just Bunter but the entire Beehive.
Bunter had been launched towards the PM’s office all right. Unfortunately, before getting there, he bounced off a bronze statue of former PM Helen Clark, which killed him instantly. It was an ignominious way for a lifelong Conservative to go: death by leftie. If he hadn’t already been dead, he’d have died of shame, particularly after what happened next. Bunter’s enormous weight somehow toppled Clark’s statue, which had gone through the wall of the Beehive into the kitchen of Bellamys, setting off a gas explosion that levelled the entire building “like a doughnut skittling a mighty tōtara and starting World War III”.
A nasty, silly campaign
Howler had no recollection of having written any of this. But, jeez, he was good. He was gonzo, man. Hunter S Thompson eat your heart out.
Howler’s stuff on Bolshie was even better: “The leftie leader twirled his waxed moustaches with characteristic panache. He stood defiantly in the boxing ring, as upright as the bristly toothbrush he resembled, before demonstrating his famous oratorial talent: ‘Bet you can’t tie me down, Sport.’”
It was the last thing Bolshie said. The roo threw a right. Then a left. Then kicked Bolshie out of the ring and through a top-floor window of the Australian High Commission, causing a diplomatic incident and a big stain on a carpet.
“If he’d still been alive,” Howler had concluded his story, “he’d have ‘roo-ed’ the day he made a wild promise he could never keep”.
This would get Howler another media award for sure. Pride surged through him followed by nausea, then pride again, then nausea. It made his swollen head swim.
What had Bunter and Bolshie been thinking? Christ, he didn’t have a clue. He wasn’t a bloody psychologist. But what a nasty, silly election campaign this had been. Howler’s disgust gave way to another wave of nausea. He chucked up into his copy of the Vomit. He heard the cleaner groan. Then everything went black. l
All names, characters, and incidents portrayed are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living, dead, or half alive), are intended or should be inferred.
