A few days ago, I, your intrepid eyewitness, was proceeding on my postprandial stroll, picking my way cautiously through the deadly Omicron’s victims’ corpses, which lay scattered around the footpaths, right in place where they had been struck down by the virulent virus.
As I strolled I mused on my wrongthought, as I had in the past ridiculed the computer modelling and advice of Michael Faker, Moby Pink, Rashly Broomfield, all the other members of the Committee of Public Fear and other government supreme experts on Coronaviruses, and decided that if I came upon any of them still alive, I would go down on my knees before them and beg their forgiveness (which I knew I was unlikely to receive) for doubting their hallowed word.
My thoughts were interrupted by a truck crawling down the street and the hoarse cries of “Bring out your dead!” from the team of former Auckland Transport lycra-clad desk jockeys who had been forced to reluctantly do some actual useful work for the first time in their lives.
As the truck slowly overtook me, I asked one of the above-mentioned parasites, why they weren’t picking up the corpses from the footpaths and streets.
“Not our department, mate,” he responded impatiently, through his spacesuit-like apparel. “We only do the inside corpses. Outside corpses are the Parks and Roads division. There’d be ructions from the union if we touched an outside corpse. And by the way, where’s your mask?”
I mentioned in some detail various possibilities for the placing of said mask upon his person, were I ever to find it; he shrugged, and said in true Auckland Transport spirit, “Well I hope the deadly Omicron hunts you down and kills you, and you will spend eternity in a hell of AT cycle lanes that go nowhere and AT public transport waiting for the Great Barrier Island bus that never arrives.”
I shrugged, wished him the identical fate with a side dish of being eternally chained to Phull Troff, and onwards ambled, lost in thought. After negotiating a particularly gruesome enclave of Omicron-stricken corpses, which proved to be a small collection of Newshub ‘journalists’, I espied in the distance, my friend, the professor, of whom I have written in the past. He was sauntering along, looking preoccupied, occasionally pausing to prod a corpse with his umbrella before continuing on his way.
As we drew closer I hailed him in Bertie Wooster fashion, knowing that, as a fan of P G Wodehouse, this would attract his attention. “What ho old lozenge,” I called and, as anticipated, this stopped him in his tracks.
“Is that you Bertie?” he called, somewhat incredulously.
“Dash it all old bean,” I rejoined, “don’t you know who I am?”
“Oh, of course, it’s you,” said the Prof, sounding rather disappointed.
“Aren’t you taking a risk being out in public, with all these Omicron-ridden bodies about?” I asked concernedly.
“Not at all, dear boy,” he responded. “I am completely unmedicated with any of the Pfkaiser Klouse’s concoctions and therefore my greatest risk is of a minor head cold and total immunity. But the vaccinated,” and he looked around at the carnage that surrounded us and gave a sympathetic shrug, “that is, as you see, a different story.”
“I’m pleased to hear that you’re untarnished,” I replied, “I also have resisted the psychological warfare, and remain unsullied by the vicious vaccine. Fortunately, I was in a position to avoid it, but I have the utmost sympathy for those who had no choice but to accept it. May those evil Ardeauistas who caused this end up in the Auckland Transport offices designing traffic speed bumps, plywood road-block cubes and cycle lanes for all eternity.”
As we conversed further, I noticed two familiar shapes approaching, which I recognised by their bullying swaggers as Officers Hagar and Rawsprat, and as they drew closer I could see that they were resplendent in their uniforms; brown shirts, brown ties, jodhpurs, shiny jackboots and brown caps.
“Oh, look here Hagar,” sneered Rawsprat oleaginously, arriving in front of us. “It’s Mr Thoughtful Thinker again. Out and about without a pass I should think.” His apelike features assumed a vicious appearance. “Vhere is your pass, you contaminated anti-wax svine! And yours too,” turning and addressing the prof.
Hagar rubbed his hands together gleefully. “He won’t have one,” he chortled. “Not his sort. I’m going to enjoy this.”
The prof rather surprised me at this point, by pointing his umbrella threateningly at Rawsprat and shouting, “Get away from us, you contaminated beasts. Do you not know that this is all over for you fascist thugs and your owners. Go home, and don’t add to your long list of crimes. How many times do you wish to hang?”
Rawsprat looked apoplectic and took a stride towards the prof, but stopped in his tracks and sneezed several times. “I don’t feel too well”, he remarked to Hagar, who also sneezed and turned pale.
“It’s Omicron, we’re doomed!” cried Hagar. “The head cold from hell!”
“There’s a funeral parlour just up the road,” said the prof, waving his umbrella. “But make sure you have your pass, as they won’t let you in without it, dead or alive.”
As I looked at the professor in admiration, he slowly seemed to dissolve and disappeared, until, like the Cheshire cat, only his triumphant smile remained, before it too faded away.
I realised at this point that I had emerged from one of my rare dreams, probably prompted by the head cold and dry throat which had sent me to bed with a hot toddy, and a couple of paracetamols. I felt quite bucked up by my dream and knew that I was on the mend, and would be back on my job again in a day or two. And I would be permanently immune to the dreaded Covid. I too emulated the Cheshire cat.