Dear reader,

once again, we return to our saga.

A saga that seems to have more twists and turns than a PWC contract or perhaps a submarine contract in the making that’s not really a submarine contract but just an open ended; “please can I be on your team” cri de Coeur. A ‘cri de Cooee’ from an isolated colony that looks to the west and averts its eyes from the east. Because it is too insecure to realise that Empire of the white Sliced bread type is over.

Kaput.

FINISHED!

That’s why we gaily invade our hinterland, so as to effect what BP did at Mafeking.

What Elphinstone did at Kabul, (briefly in 1842) and what Gordon tried valiantly to do in Khartoum, and that is keep the flag flying.

Yes folks  the mighty imperial flag of the white empire. The white colonies and the White Queen who imperiously sent good men to their doom knowing that they were custodians of the imperial façade. And though it may be tattered, worn and found only in op shops it’s all that remains of the world’s greatest empire and the insistence that in the end there is only one voice and that is the voice of white man. That’s why God’s white.

And his voice, the only voice comes from white lips, parched by desert sands and that voice is custodian of white bread approved by educational establishments the world over and its co-sponsored by CSR, and Bex powder.  Refiners of whiter than white goods for good families, who say ‘grace’.

But what grace awaits our heroes?

We can only conject.

We know one thing, that they’re doomed.

Doomed by fate. By circumstance and whatever they do. The System always gets its way. Systematically speaking.

So let us return to the cave, the cauldron, the pit, the black hole, and see how they’re getting along.

Our three heroes and the two sidekicks. The ‘odd couple’; Benny Boy Roberts Smith, Australia’s greatest and most noble decorated soldier Ever. And his sidekick Julian (is Bell Marsh the worst you can do’) Assange, and their burden.  None other than the most exalted head of Anzackery Inc, the billion dollar makeover, and custodian of the ‘Benny Boy Roberts Smith light and sound display’ at the AWM.

And for those who don’t know and AWM is. It’s the Australian War Memorial.

Secular church for those whose religion is ‘Anzackery’!  Bloody sacrifice and the legacy of those noble wars across the Empire to spread pinkish hues and the boons of civilisation. Their quest is eternal and like the holy grail in Valhalla, adoration and their apotheosis as GODS await.

But back in the tunnel it’s all pretty mundane, and rather, (as there is little lighting) drab.

We return to our heroes:

 

‘I dunno, if it goes down any further we’ll end up in China’!

Ces and Quent laughed in a hollow sort of way. Quent punctuating the sound of shuffling and the scraping of the improvised stretcher in which Julian lay trailing into the dust behind them. Sinister and melancholic echoes, where  the souls of countless generations of naked savages had adorned the walls with their primitive scrawls and incoherent, scrubbings. Our talisman, Benny Boy, holding his Bayonet which shone an eerie light, our inly illumination and being a natural hero, we followed.  Down and further down.

‘Spose if we get to China, they’ll wonder what we’re doing with Australia’s most noble soldier and Julian., Do you think they’ll like Julian? Would they use him as a prawn’?

 

Quent laughed, ‘don’t you mean a pawn, I mean he has a knack for getting secrets’.

 

‘Yeah;, said Ces reassuringly; ‘only he leaks more readily than an AUKWARD TREATY sub or a colander. They’ll probably do what they all do with tricky people. What’s that? asked Terry.  ‘Just kill him and harvest his organs for senior party members’.

There was a silent interval as our heroes digested the fate that awaited those with re- useable organs.

‘That’s a bit crook’ said Terry. ‘I mean look at him, his organs are pretty shot. Did you see the complexion, I wouldn’t touch his organs with a barge pole, I mean Bellmarsh aint doing him any good. Yeah’ Ces Chipped in;  “But at least he gets a regular feed’.

 

‘And telly’, Quent enthused, ‘it aint that bad, No waterboarding, and from what I’ve heard even though he’s doing chokey he can still get a shag’.

We all agreed that it can’t be all that bad for Julian. ‘And besides’, chipped in Terry; ‘there’s other advantages, ‘he gets free heating and he’s not homeless, which is more than you can say for any Australian who hasn’t got on the ladder of prosperity’.

Yes’ Quent confided, ‘home ownership seems to be a thing of the past for young Australians, Julian seems to have that sorted. Yep, Terry replied, it aint a home its more an institution, but from what I’ve heard they’ve got telly’s swimming pools and gyms and everything.  Who said Crime doesn’t pay’?

They all agreed, that Julian wasn’t doing so bad, and with Brenny Boy still unconscious they felt reassured that they had a measure of security. Something they could count on as a bargaining chip or just as Crown Resorts had shown they could get off, if they knew the right people. ‘Just as the management of PWC had’. Terry Quipped, ‘Yep’, Quent affirmed, ‘they get connections, people in high places may save us yet’?

With that thought, they continued their downward trudge, and resigned themselves to whatever the thunderous pulse, the beat that sounded from deep below, they had a measure of security, ‘cos even the Chinese government Ces opined, would find Brendan Nelson, even in a vegetative state would be worth something’.

Through all this thought and conjecture they trudged, caring not what lay below only happy that they’d survived and for the moment escaped the wrath of Sophie Australia’s exalted Fair Work Commissioner.

But in all their euphoria they had failed to notice one singular thing. Benny Boy who carried the inert form of Brenny Boy Nelson like a sack of Wet mice and pulled the stretcher with Julian Assange behind had not said a word. Benny Boy was uncharacteristically stone quiet. They only noticed after an hour or two, whereas usually in the past he’d open up and describe with some lucidity rolling wops of cliffs, now he was as if a mask had concealed his voice and rendered him mute. He still held the bayonet like a shining white sepulchre, but for the rest of us he was uncommonly cold and quiet. What had happened to Benny? What had stilled this giant of a man?

We could only guess.

But were afraid to ask.

And fearful at this new silence, we trudged onwards, into the dark and only benny’s bayonet to light the way, An antichrist, a superman, a dark knight, only time would tell.

 

Find out in the next implausible episode: ‘When the Anzac Cracks’, or ‘Anzackery or the Knackery in two easy steps’.