At least one of my several readers may recall that the last time your intrepid eyewitness reported, the meeting of Klouse Swab and some of his collaborators in the literal bowels of the parliamentary septic tank, had just finished.
After the meeting, I tottered out of my office stunned by the perfidy I had witnessed and the irrefutable knowledge that our beautiful country was in the poisonous paws of perfidious politicians with treason in their depraved, satanically-inspired souls.
In my despair, I failed to notice that I had accidentally set my spyfly device to ‘free range’, which enabled it to randomly proceed wherever its sensors indicated that action was taking place. Later when I reviewed the videos of its activities, I discovered that it had stayed for a few minutes in Justinda’s office, where it captured Hellish Quark having a few post-meeting words with Justinda.
“Well done Justinda,” boomed Hellish, “you didn’t toadally refute the premise of anything Klouse said, nor did you say anything toadally imbecilic. Only because you obeyed my orders and said nothing of course, but credit where it’s due. Interesting about the Goebbels reference. I’ve often thought that you could be the result of a genetic experiment using Goebbels’ DNA. I’ve frequently thought you could be twins. Perhaps you are.”
“Well, I do admire Joseph immensely,” squeaked Justinda excitedly. “I’ve learned so much from reading his techniques about sustained propaganda and I want to do everything that he did but bedder.”
“Well, he did poison his six children with cyanide, and commit suicide with his wife at the age of forty-eight,” replied Hellish, with a slight smirk. “Good-bye for now Justinda.”
With those words, she swept from the room, leaving Justinda with a worried frown and mumbling “they didn’t tell me that” to herself.
The vortex created by Hellish’s exit sucked the spyfly along with it, and it narrowly avoided being sucked up by a parliamentary cleaner trying desperately to reduce the flow of the river of filth which surged down the corridors. It was, fortunately, able to regain controlled flight in time to avoid this fate, and spotting an open door it flew through just before it slammed shut.
As it settled in a prime position on the wall, after elbowing aside a few dozen real flies which were awaiting the disposal of the scraps from several buckets of KFP (Kiwi Fried Puapua) which were being voraciously devoured by the occupants of the room, I could see that it had flown into the office of one of the Elite Mouldy Ruling Aristocrats, wherein sat half a dozen or so of this motley crew.
Willy Relaxin’ had just entered the room, fresh from his meeting with Klouse and the other traitors, and all eyes were upon him, awaiting his report.
“Well, how did it go?” demanded Nanaia Matooter snappishly. “Did you negotiate ownership of the air, the vegetation, all minerals, gas and oil, the water and everything else as you said you would, as well as our complete takeover of Te Whare Pi [the Beehive] and the total disenfranchisement and forced emigration of all non-Mouldy white colonialist scum? You told us that Klouse would be terrified to stand up to your amazing negotiating skills.”
For a fraction of a nanosecond, Silly Willy looked slightly embarrassed, and then his natural hubris and conceited vaingloriousness took control. “Oh yes, I told him alright,” he said pompously. “I told him he’s a nanenane porangi [stupid goat] and that if he didn’t watch his step we indigenous superhumans will sell his shrunken head on TeBay after tattooing it with images of you, Nanaia. That showed him, I can tell you.”
He sat back triumphantly and, being a ‘useless Maori‘ and narcissist, he now actually believed that events had happened as he had described.
“I’ll wait for Klouse’s confirmation,” said Matooter dubiously, no doubt having had experience of Willy Relaxin’s self-important pompous fantasies in the past.
At this point, the door opened and the spyfly, no doubt its sensors overloading with the smell of kanga pirau koroniara [colonial fermented corn], made its escape and winged its way down the corridors. As a door opened, the sausage roll and pie alert was triggered and the spyfly performed a UFO-like instant ninety degree turn without slowing and entered the doorway from which the odour was emanating.
The spyfly had been programmed to associate the smell of these delicacies with the likely presence of Grunt Robbingson, the Minister for the said morsels. Nor was it mistaken as was soon evident as it settled on the wall and observed Grunt Robbingson sitting with the unsuitably named Vegan Woulds at Grunt’s desk, with a large tower of sausage rolls and pies in front of them.
“So you’re having a little bit of trouble with the power supply?” said Grunt, taking a huge bite from a half-metre sausage roll.
Vegan swallowed a Big Gerry mince and cheese pie in two bites, and beamed at Grunt. “Yes, I’m so happy,” she said proudly, “that cold snap came at just the right time. Demand soared and we couldn’t generate enough. Oh for more global cooling.”
“Well, it is winter,” said Grunt, chewing rapidly and looking more like Billy Bunter than ever. “No doubt you have power blackouts planned?”
“Oh yes, lots,” said Vegan, reaching for another pie. “Especially when you release the funds to finance the seven new wind farms every year. We’ll close down Huntly, and rely on the wind. That should do the trick, and people will soon get used to power being a two hours a day luxury.”
Grunt smirked. “I won’t be providing funding for the wind farms,” he guffawed, “but I think you should close down Huntly anyway. Two hours per week should be enough power for the peasants.”
“Oh yes!” shrieked Vegan, “let’s do that!” She sprang out of her chair and danced a jig in her excitement.
This was too much even for the inanimate spyfly, which escaped at high speed under the door and sped to its safe space in a nearby broom cupboard.