Arise, Sir ScoMo, Miracle Man
Ladies and gentlemen, all rise for the President of Australia, ScoMo the First!
ScoMo strolls into the chamber of the House of Representatives. He has adopted Prince Philip’s royal gait and demeanour, his hands clasp together, behind his back, his head tilted slightly downward as if he fears he might step into a cowpat. There is a touch of the regal about his appearance.
Members and senators are packed into the chamber. It is a joint sitting of Parliament. The press and public galleries are packed to overflowing. They are now all on their feet, including a group who arrived in wheelchairs, here to protest about the inadequacy of the NDIS.
President ScoMo moves past the line of government front-benchers and heads for the raised Speaker’s throne that overlooks proceedings. A slight twitch of his head gives Speaker Tony Smith the nod that he is to vacate his chair.
ScoMo looks with some satisfaction around the chamber and sits. The Usher intones: “You may now be seated.”
The President looks slowly around the chamber, up into the press gallery, across to the public gallery where his subjects are crowded like canned sardines. His presidential eye locks a moment here and there with the eyes of faithful retainers.
There is a collective holding of breath by the 600-plus witnesses to this solemn ascension to power. That’s a lot of breath. It may affect the ratio of carbon to oxygen in the vast chamber and hence have some impact on climate change. ScoMo pays no heed to this possibility. Climate change is not on his mind. He has more important matters to deal with.
ScoMo is the first president of his nation. Until now, the leaders have all been prime ministers. He appreciates the gravity of his task. And the delicacy. His people must be lulled into acceptance, not bullied. He must be cognisant of the threat that his name might pose for some of his subjects.
ScoMo … he is one of the “O” people — national leaders such as Franco, Tito, Musso, Sukarno, Mao — all of whose names ended in O, all dictators. They were all hated and reviled by a lot of the people they ruled.
ScoMo must tread carefully. He smiles that boyish smile which breaks down barriers. “I am here today,” he says, “to speak of miracles. I can do this with some authority, for I am both a miracle-worker and a miracle.
“And I want you to know I will be totally even-handed, while I am president, on the matter of miracles. I will work a miracle for each and every man, woman and child in this great country of ours. I will be working miracles for everyone, not just the people who raised me to this great office.
“I pledge that by the year 2025, no child will be living without a miracle.
“I announce today that I will create a Department of Miracles. The Minister for Miracles will be part of my inner Cabinet. Barnaby Joyce, who is something of a miracle, will fill that portfolio.”
Barnaby, sitting on the back, says rapidly, nonsensically: “Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby.” ScoMo looks at Barnaby sadly. Has he made his first mistake? ScoMo allows this negative thought to slip into the dormant recesses of his mind. He has what the commentators call political capital. He can do what he likes and get away with it.
“I also announce the establishment of another new portfolio, Minister for Truth and Compassion, and I can think of no better person to fill this role with deep integrity and care for her fellow human beings than Michaelia Cash.”
A hush comes over ScoMo’s audience. ScoMo really does believe in miracles. It will be an interesting first sitting.
UNCLE CURMUDGEON
(A gratuitous advice column)
Dear Nigel: Temper, temper, Nige. If you don’t like banana and salted caramel milkshakes, we’re pretty sure the protesters will consider different flavours next time they shake you.
Dear Bob: If you can hear us, wherever you are, can you please let us know your post-mortem thoughts on the hereafter, you old agnostic. Sorry to see you go, old mate, but we’re glad you missed the May 18 debacle.
Dear Scott: About those tax cuts, Messiah, have you put them on the never-never? Also, please take care of what you say in phone calls with Donald. When the madman talks of war with Iran, he’s just as likely to carry out a pre-emptive strike. Last thing we need is another conflict in the Middle East.
Dear Tanya: A very wise decision, Tanya. You’ve had a ringside view of what the Neanderthals of News Corp can do to Labor leaders. And the misogynists are still on the prowl.
Dear Donald: We know you really can’t help yourself, but would you please take a couple of happy pills and lie down for a month or two.? And have a haircut so you no longer look like a croissant sitting on a beetroot.
Next post we will feature guest columnist RICHARD ROE. Richard is a veteran writer who now lives in an aged care place. He created a stir a few months ago with a heartfelt Good Weekend article about coping with life when you’re waiting for death. You really shouldn’t miss Richard’s thoughts on Kicking the Black Dog. But for now, a gruesome tale in our short story series …
TRUE FICTION
GAY BLADE
By Mick Barnes
It’s come back. The creature is upon him before he’s opened his eyes. It
crawls over his flesh, into the pores of his skin, takes hold of his body. Saturates his mind. You’re mine, it’s telling him, mine until blood is spilt,
a body-load of blood.
It’s always like that. No warning, but also no pattern. It doesn’t depend on
a full moon, the movement of the tides, the seasons, anything like that. It’s simply there, enveloping him, when he wakes in his tiny bed-sit at the grubby end of Riley Street. Daniel doesn’t try to fight it. He welcomes it. Welcomes the return of the part of him that’s been dormant, the part that demands retribution. Only death will satisfy the beast.
His slit eyes check his room. Everything in place … the wigs, seven of them in all their colours; the rack of his special clothes, tight-fitting gear he’s bought from the gay joints in Oxford Street; his make-up kit on the dressing table beside the mirror.
He lies in bed absorbing the fury of the beast … and its icy calm. Voices from the past have already started.
Now Daniel, this is our little secret. We don’t want to cause worry to anyone, do we? We wouldn’t want to worry your parents.
The sharp edge of anticipation honed by the whet stone of memory. That edge will stay with him until he identifies his target, tracks him, slaughters him.
What we are doing is love, my son, a great gift of love coming straight from God. We are special people in the eyes of the Lord, Daniel. You are a special, special person, blessed by God. We wouldn’t want to boast about our good fortune.
Sugar-coated treachery. He closes his eyes, lies perfectly still, surrendering completely to the beast. Soon he will become the hunter. The beast will guide his every movement until he lures his prey, bleeds him like a butchered animal.
Why are you crying, Daniel? Did it hurt? You know I love you, love you more than any boy in the school. Here. Here’s something to make you smile.
Across the room, each of his wigs is mounted on a milliner’s block. A row of faceless people. One of these faceless gargoyles will kill tonight.
Father Murphy is our friend, Daniel. We’re privileged to have him in our home, as our guest. Now what did you want to tell me?
It doesn’t matter, Dad.
The clock is ticking. The countdown to justice. Daniel climbs out of bed, goes to his wigs.
You filthy-minded little brute. Evil little boy. Get out of my sight! Get away from me! I don’t want you around. You will be punished for this, Daniel. After all Father Murphy has done for us. I’m ashamed to call you my son.
It always comes down to the moment his father abandoned him. He eases
a mousy blond wig from its block, drags it into place over his hair. A sudden shock of recognition. He knows the face in the mirror. He brushes the hair, changing the style, chasing identity.
Got him! The witness at the royal commission. A youngish priest who wept and begged forgiveness … “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I feel so ashamed”. Whispered, almost inaudible. The one who molested a dozen boys, who confessed as his victims sat stony-faced and silent, staring him down. Boys now grown into men. Broken men, men with a part of them missing. Men who wouldn’t, couldn’t, forgive. Two of their schoolmates missing. Suicides. Missing because of this man of God.
The parade of evil-doers seeking forgiveness for the unforgivable. Human jackals who thought words could assuage their guilt. Bless me, father, for I have sinned … say three Hail Marys and a Lord’s Prayer. As if years of abuse and betrayal could be extinguished by a teary public confession.
Daniel had sat through weeks, months, of the hearings. A small hunched figure in the public area, absorbing, reliving the horror of his childhood, told through other eyes, other shattered lives. His father thrashing him with his heavy leather belt. Out of control. Screaming as he seared Daniel’s bare behind. “You are no son of mine; you are in league with the devil!” Daniel with his head buried in a pillow, hiding from the hatred in his father’s eyes. Sent to boarding school, where for a moment he thought he had found love. The abandonment, the love turned to hate, the naked shame of being shared by a gang of holy men, cornered and debased on sacred ground, hunted through the bush as a sex trophy in a gruesome game of hide and seek; the beatings when he rebelled, his tortured time in solitude which could only end one way — with more abuse, more degradation.
He didn’t give evidence. He just wanted to understand the enormity of the thing. How it had infiltrated organisations across the country, not only his own church. He wanted to know why it had been allowed to flourish through generations, how the worst of the predators had lived their twisted lives unpunished, some of them buried as honoured citizens.
He watched and listened and prepared his revenge. Justice would be done. His justice.
Daniel flicks hairspray across the wig and works at it. He’ll be in character tonight. He’ll be that paedophile priest sanitising his city, cleansing it of human vermin. He enjoys the irony. He runs a line of lipstick across his upper lip. Just a touch, a hint of colour, that’s what excites them, subtle, a come-on. How does the song go? I am what I am. Gay and proud of it. He slides into skin-tight black leather trousers which bulge where they’re meant to bulge, like a ballet dancer’s leotard; slips a matching leather waistcoat over a vivid rainbow satin shirt. He’ll be the gayest gay on Oxford Street.
He makes a moue of his mouth, throws a kiss at his reflection. Blood lust tempered by the cool calculation of the hunter. He studies his map on the wall — the city area and inner suburbs. Nine little flags puncture the map. Nine strikes. The serial sex slayer. That’s what the tabloids are calling him. And the television news. They’re outraged. Their circulations and ratings are soaring. They splash his bloody rampage across the front pages, run half-hour specials on his reign of terror. Thirteen atrocities in six months. Hate crimes. The thrill killer who hates gays. The Gay Blade … who carves up his victims. What are the police doing? Sack the commissioner.
The media are lying. Daniel’s tally is nine. They’re either beating it up or there’s a copy-cat killer abroad.
He opens the make-up kit, goes to work on his face. Tonight. he’ll be the image of that penitent priest, as close as he can remember. He plans his strategy. At twilight he’ll trawl the target area, slowly up and down Oxford Street, like a fisherman spreading burley. Past the Stonewall, the Midnight Shift, the Tool Shed. There are always predators on the lookout. The word will go out … someone new on the block. He might drop in for a drink. But no alcohol. He needs to stay razor sharp.
Razor sharp! Daniel smiles at himself in the mirror. The Gay Blade must stay razor sharp. He laughs at his own joke. He hates them all, hates the word. Gay. It used to mean happy, carefree, brimming with life. To Daniel it means misery, betrayal, filth, humiliation. Daniel doesn’t distinguish between gay and paedophile. He doesn’t buy that. To Daniel every gay is a potential predator. He’s certain of that, no matter what the apologists say. They all deserve to die. He’ll kill as many as he can. Does it matter if there’s a copy-cat killer abroad? Let there be more; let there be dozens, hundreds of copy-cats. He’ll lead an avenging army.
It’s 10.30. He’s done his reconnoitre. It’s a perfect evening. The city swarming with low-life. It’s a week out from Mardi Gras, when the enemy take over the streets when they flaunt their warped sexuality, when prancing, mincing deviants strut their defiance of society. And more often now, where society bows to their in-your-face pressure. Daniel is lying on his bed, calming himself before the hunt. He watched last year’s Mardi Gras. It sickened him. He retched in the gutter. Tonight, another reveller will be eliminated from the coming parade.
He reaches under the bed for his gutting knife. It’s a butcher’s blade, thin, honed to a hair’s breadth cutting edge. It slices through human flesh without pressure. Daniel opens the zipper at his ankle and slides it into its scabbard.
He hits the play button on his sound system. It’s already loaded with La Mer. The moody Debussy masterpiece sets him up for the evening. The shifting moods of the sea — silken calm, violent turbulence — the moods he must bring to his task. Impending violence hidden under a cloak of calm.
On the street he retraces his footsteps of this afternoon. He strolls, he’s in no hurry. His pick-up spot will announce itself, it always does, there’s an electricity in the air. It’s Friday night and the rent boys are out in force.
“Are you right, sir?” The kid can hardly be 16. Thin face, smiling but looking haggard, anxious. He’s hanging out with a bunch of his comrades, all of them teenagers.
“Yes, I’m okay.” Daniel spares the rent boys. They are victims too.
He buys a drink at the Stonewall. Beside him a middle-aged man is putting work in on a fresh-faced American tourist. The man is dressed in sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, which reveal his sculpted, muscle-toned body. His approach is not subtle. He clutches the visitor by the crutch and says, “Where are you staying?” They go off down Oxford Street. Daniel mentally marks muscle-man down for the future.
The beast stirs inside him. It wants action. He moves off along the street. He must stay calm. Bouncers checking the entrance to a noisy bar are sharing the festive mood. “Right royal party tonight,” one of them tells Daniel, “Henry the Eighth and all his queens.” He laughs at his own feeble joke. Daniel stays in character, pushes past him.
Festive air. The place is packed. It’s strip-tease night. A small raised platform is at one end of the oval bar where a stunning trannie will shed her clothes to reveal she’s a man. Daniel’s seen the act before. She’ll have an enormous penis, sometimes erect, sometimes not. The crowd of drinkers will go wild.
A young man at the other end of the bar attracts Daniel’s attention. He’s tall, well-dressed in a light tan suit, neatly knotted tie. A lawyer, perhaps, or an accountant. His first time here. He stands close to the bar, drinks his beer in small, nervous, frequent gulps. A pack of older men is behind him, watching. He won’t be short of offers tonight.
Daniel sweeps the crowd with his eyes. This is the tricky bit; how to choose. He eliminates drinkers bunched together. Too dangerous. If he takes one of them, they might remember slight details, clues for the homicide squad. No, he’s looking for the lone wolves, predators on the prowl.
He feels his left hand taken in the grasp of two warm hands. A once-beautiful face is close to his. Its owner is wearing a full-length steel-grey cocktail dress. She’s smiling into his eyes. “Got anything important on for the weekend?” she says in that throaty voice of the professional transvestite.
Daniel is taken by surprise. “Nothing special,” he murmurs, and she moves on to a team of drinkers farther along the bar.
“One of the original stars of Les Girls,” a man standing nearby informs him. “One of the great survivors.” Daniel’s informant is a dark-haired man dressed in business suit and tie. Aged about 40, perhaps 42. He empties his glass and says, “Let me buy you a drink?” They are on their second round when he starts in on his story. His young lover has just walked out on him. They’d been together seven years when Phillip decided he wanted a younger man.
“He just packed his bags and left without even a goodbye kiss.” The man looks at Daniel with moist eyes. He’s heartbroken, vulnerable. This is going to be easy. Daniel tells him he’s only just come out, realised his homosexuality. It’s one of his stock stories, one that gets them in.
“I’ve been thinking about it a long time,” he says. “I think I’ve reached the moment of truth.”
“You mean you’re still a virgin?” The man can barely contain his excitement.
“In the gay sense, yes.”
He slips his arm around Daniel’s waist. And draws him closer. This is the part Daniel hates. But he must do it. He must play the part.
The man dips his head down to Daniel’s ear, whispers, “My name is Martin. I can feel the chemistry already.”
Martin slides his moist lips across Daniel’s cheek, he finds Daniel’s lips and kisses them softly. Daniel parts his lips and accepts Martin’s tongue. It’s a lingering kiss, Daniel feels it in his guts. The beast is raging, it wants to kill. Now.
The kiss seems to last forever. Daniel squirms out of it. He’s getting an erection. He feels a deep shame. Ashamed to be part of it. Ashamed of his body. Unwanted thoughts come rushing back. How his body betrayed him even as the priests defiled him. How it had a mind of its own. How it responded to abusive advances even though his mind rebelled. How his hatred of Father Murphy was tainted by a lingering love. Martin will pay for the indignity of his kiss. It will be a painful death.
Martin whispers in his ear again, “Let’s not wait for the floor show. You’re horny, I can feel it on your lips. Let’s go. I can’t wait to have you sitting across my knees.”
They don’t have far to go; Martin has already booked a room in a nearby hotel. He slips the plastic card into the slot and opens the door. It’s a standard hotel bedroom, spacious, dominated by a king-size bed. Daniel slips quickly away from him.
“I’ll just use the bathroom.”
Martin smiles at him. “Don’t be long, darling. I’ll be waiting for you.” He has stripped off his suit coat and is working on his tie. A strange smile is playing about his lips.
Daniel shuts the bathroom door behind him. He opens the zipper at his ankle, pulls out his knife. He’s baffled by Martin’s smile; as if they share a secret. And the kiss. The Judas kiss of the hunter. Strangely, tonight he feels himself as the one betrayed.
Daniel strips off his clothes. He mustn’t get blood on them. He rips off his wig. He catches sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He’s a naked avenger, the Gay Blade. The beast has taken over, it’s in control — quickly, quickly.
He swings open the bathroom door, steps into the bedroom, the butcher’s knife in his right hand. Martin has his back to him. He is naked but for boxer shorts. He’s putting his clothes on a bedside chair.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” the beast in Daniel murmurs. “I hate you … I hate all you filthy fucking paedophiles.”
Martin turns slowly round to face Daniel. He has a knife in his hand. It looks very much like Daniel’s knife.
(© Michael John Barnes.)
The newspapers and digital media are just picking up on ScoMo’s tactic to win the election by morphing into Hawkie’s persona … the lovable larrikin. They would have known weeks ago if they’d read their Curmudgeon Blog. See archive feature for May 3.
