Some time having passed since my visit from the Kindness and Wellbeing Police in the very hard on the eyes shapes of officers Hagar and Rawsprat, your intrepid eyewitness was beginning to feel that it was high time that the Flyspy listening device was again pressed into service on behalf of the citizens of the People’s Republic of Our-Tear-Roar.
I was, therefore, very pleased when my informant in the Central Politburo in Wellington informed me that the PM, Justinda Ardeau, was shortly to communicate with her favourite Politburo confidant, the Minister of Sausage Rolls and Economic Destruction, Grunt Robbingson. As face to face meetings are currently verboten, haram, Bèi jìnzh? and zapreshchennyy, the meeting was to take place, as usual, in Grunt Robbingson’s office, as these rules are, as everyone knows, not applicable to the elite Inner Party to which these individuals belong.
Accordingly, the Flyspy was waiting, recently cleaned and polished, with new battery and nano-memory card installed, on the ceiling, poised and ready for action. At the appointed time, Justinda burst buoyantly into the office, where Grunt was finishing off his third sausage roll of the morning.
“Grunt, Grunt,” she called excitedly, “They love me, they love me!”
“Who loves you, baby?” exclaimed Grunt in an appallingly bad Kojak voice, sweeping a pile of pastry crumbs into the nearby waste bin.
“Everyone, Grunt,” cried Justinda. “You must have noticed. I’ve heard that people are waiting by their televisions for hours waiting for my daily updates. They believe everything I say; they’ll sacrifice their very freedom because I tell them to. This is so exciting Grunt, now I know how Kim Jong Un feels if he’s still around. I’ve always admired Stalin and Mao of course, as you know, but to actually feel the power, is so exciting.”
“Well, yes, it’s true,” said Grunt grudgingly. “But remember, this Chinese, rather, non-Chinese flu is being used for the cause, not for individuals. We want everyone to be equal, remember Justinda.”
“Oh, pshaww,” ejaculated Justinda. “What nonsense. The Inner Party is never equal, Grunt. Our subjects need us to be apart, high and lofty over them. They crave direction, especially in times of crisis, such as we now experience. Remember, they are my foolish, pliable children, and I am their huggy, sweet and kind mother, ready to hug them better. They actually want us at the top to be rich, and live well, so that we can guide them in how to best adapt to their new poverty… rather, equality.”
“Ah, yes Justinda,” Grunt said, “but remember that I have promised that we will use this crisis to equalise everyone. The rich must give up their wealth for the greater good. I haven’t quite worked out where the money will come from to keep the people happy, but I’m sure it will turn up.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Maybe we can print some more, maybe borrow, it’ll work out. Other countries have managed it well. The Soviet Union, Cambodia, Cuba, Venezuela to name but a few…” His voice trailed off as he gazed vacantly into the distance.
“Yes, yes,” snapped Justinda impatiently. “ It always works out well. Nicolás Maduro isn’t starving is he? So don’t worry. If he can stay… well, shall we say sleek, then so can you.”
“Of course,” nodded Grunt, cheering up noticeably. “By the way, how did your encrypted conference with Bill Yates, Uncle George in New York, and Joe Hiden, go?”
Justinda’s buoyancy evaporated in mercurial fashion. “Well, not too well, actually Grunt,” she said warily. “The only bright spot was the fact that Joe thought he was in a meeting with the Kindergarten Association of Delaware, and talked to me about how children love to sit in his lap and watch the hair on his legs stand up. He seemed to think I was a Kindergarten teacher. He’ll make a great President though,” she added with some enthusiasm. “But he kept talking about being Vice-President to Michelle O’Llama. I couldn’t quite get what he meant.”
Grunt nodded wisely. “Probably there for comic relief,” he said. “But what do you mean, it didn’t go too well. Sounds like a real rib tickler.”
“Once Joe fell asleep, it was quite worrying, Grunt. Uncle George and Bill Yates sounded a bit annoyed. Apparently there are not enough deaths from the Trumpflu. They blame him for it of course. They asked where were the eighty thousand deaths and seven million cases I promised them that Our-Tear-Roar would deliver. Apparently they’re concerned that if it turns out to be not as bad as expected, they won’t be able to use it as an excuse to vaccinate and surreptitiously micro-chip everyone. Bill Yates was quite nasty, actually.”
“Well yes, that’s normal,” said Grunt, knowingly. “But it’s out of character if Uncle George wasn’t.”
“Oh, yes, he was,” emphasised Justinda. “But I must admit, I’m nervous Grunt. The hospitals should have beds out in the car parks by now. And only old people are dying. I mean, that’s good,” she added hastily. “Saves on Superannuation. But why are younger people recovering? It’s not what should be happening. We need more deaths, Grunt. We have to have an excuse to keep people at home until the economy is beyond redemption.”
Grunt looked cheerfully at her. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he grinned. “We’re there already, just need a couple more weeks to make sure that there’s absolutely zero chance of a recovery. Won’t Uncle George be happy with deaths from starvation? Surely a death is a death.”
“It’s not the same,” replied Justinda despondently. “They want them now, not in a year or two. The only bright spot in all this, is that Greta is so desperately scared that she’s been forgotten that she’s had to make a video. Heh. Now Grunt, I need a more stable environment. I’m going back to my office.”
With that, she swept out of the room, leaving Grunt reaching for another sausage roll, and your intrepid eye-witness rubbing a thoughtful chin.
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