This stunning episode is bought to you by the Twittersphere. Upholder of Twits the world over.
As the famous writer Donald E Trump said in his most famous ‘Make America Grate’ speech to an adoring crowd; ‘it was the best of times, it was the worst of times’.
Our heroes have suffered imprisonment, kidnapping, summary arrest, involuntary detention and worst of all, as a consequence of who or whom defiled their tea lady Ms Culthorpe as she endured an internship in Australia’s parliament, they are no closer to finding out who the evil oppressor was…
GREAT MEN ! With a singular vision in making America GRATE AGAIN!
It’s downhill ever since it stopped being uphill and a thankless task. Now after being entombed beneath Australia first ever underground city, “Radium Springs” and then, escaping only to fall in with the nefarious duo Benny Boy Roberts Smith and His sidekick Julian,(he’s not the messiah he’s just a very naughty boy’) Assange both in the employ of that master mind of criminality Angus (Cayman Island Fund) Taylor, they are on the move to escape from the most organised and powerful criminal gang of them all. The Firm aka, the crime gang who puts fear into the hearts and minds of the colonies, and even the Russian Kleptocrats take heed; The Windsor’s!
Will Gina get her peerage through siphoning off Australian mineral assets in the form of gold ingots to King Charles the turd?
Or had Brenny-Boy Nelson got another ace up his sleeve? Whilst his sidekick Nev, the Power makes big money on the Gas-led recovery.
Find out in this next chilling episode, ‘Ice Cold in Alex Downers Spy ring’, or; ‘Funky fascism, bought to you by Exxon, Woodside and Victoria Police’,
Where’ Fake News” (To quote from his deceased speech writer) ‘where freedom’s just another word for nothin left to lose’…
We return to our saga.
They looked up.
The scrub, the desiccated twigs of long dead trees, the derrick of the oil rig, the bits of tin, and the three humans, were tossed about by the downdraught as the Rotodyne hovered above.
It made the physical act of smoking one of the last of Terry’s Camels a feat of endurance. In spite of it they took one last drag, threw the butts to the wind and waited for the Rotodyne to descend. And with its landing, another determination upon their fate. Were the Gods with them? And if they were, were they Gods of the old grey bearded patrician type of the Greco-Roman model? It was too early to tell, but in anticipation, they knew just one thing. That when the rotor blades stopped whirring it might be all over. No reprieve. Not even a Zac Rolfe’s chance of redemption. Just by pleading redneck- ism, stupidity, xenephobia and bravado wouldn’t be enough. There was nowhere left to run. Precious little cover in which to hide, and no point in worrying about it either. This was their dead end.
Our pcbycp North Carolina Office is swept up in the thrill of another Trump presidency.
‘Spose this is It’, Ces mused as the Rotodyne hovered. The air was rent with the turbos on the blades whining in a high-pitched scream. ‘If it’s Gina it’s all over, unless she’s off at a republican fund raiser, and if its Nev he’ll slot us just cos he can. If i’ts Brenny boy there’s a chance, and if it’s Clifford we’ve got about as much chance of Brexit in pulling through and making sense of it’.
In Victoria, only one man can save us from oblivion. He likes TRAINS. He likes to travel on trains ALONE!
With a change of pitch the Rotodyne began its descent inch by inch, foot by foot. It descended and the seconds felt like hours, as time dragged on and on…. This was beyond suspense. It was sheer agony. It was worse than the Coalition’s deliberations on Climate. Or the creation of a Federal ICAC or even and without a hint of exaggeration worser still than the deliberations of the Kumanji Walker inquest and Zac Rolfe’s duty as a god fearing patriotic Son of ANZACKERY! There was just too much dust to see who was flying it. But they could make out this much, a steely and determined hand guided the mighty craft, and that could only mean one thing. A powerful force was behind the wheel.
Within seconds it completed the last plunge and bounced upon the dusty ground. For a moment they could see mothing, it was all dust and desert sand. And the swirling vestigial outline of a roptodyne as its mighty engine’s still oscillating and beating a piercing, ear splitting roar began to change gear and de- activate. Whatever, Whoever, However, this object was being piloted, it was driven by a hand so ice cold in its calculus of power that even the desert itself seem to quail and recoil in fear for the presence cocooned within that aluminium and alloy exoskeleton. An exoskeleton burnished white by the iciness of whatever guided it.
A forlorn hope looks like THIS!
Whichever way you look at it, a free Rotodyne to every Victorian Citizen may be cheaper in the long run than the planned, sub orbital, astro navigational compass space port rail network planned for the (Seattle World’s Fair), Melbourne for the year 2085
Will it lead them out of their perilous pit of peril or punish them for thinking of a forlorn hope?
Find out in the next prospective episode; ‘Gina’s with the Republicans on establishing a resource rent tax free banana republic”, or ‘how many banana’s does it cost a failed state to get a unemployed Vice-royal a decent job’? And is ‘vice’ a prerequisite?