Lot's Wife Edition 1 2017

“Don’t worry about that Charlie, Dreyfus has got his best lawyer
on it. There are more immediate concerns. We’ve got about eight
seats that are so close you could measure the margin on Danby’s
dick, and without any more money we won’t just lose them to the
Libs but also the op shop combing north-side seats to the Greens.”
“Give up on em’ Kim, the bookies are saying Batman will be
worse than Bennelong. Fuck that gaff-prone fool Feeney anyway,
he deserves to lose to an academic. Cut him loose, redirect the
volunteers, save yourselves some clams.”
“This is bigger than Batman, Charlie!”
“Time for the hard-ask. Hold the line Kim, lemme anaesthetise
before you close the last stitch.” I ventured back over to the minibar
to refill my drink.
“I’m back Kim, go for it.”
“Alright, I’ve already hit the Krauts, the Lebs, the St. Kevin’s
crowd and even the Church but it’s not enough. They’re telling me
a Porcine Magnate known to you has boarded himself up in Potts
Point with a Polish dancing troupe, word is they’ve got enough
cocaine on call to keep the Bolivian monopoly going for another
few years, at least. This is the break we need Charlie, his secretary
isn’t taking calls and you have his private cell number. The cash you
secured for us in ‘04 kept the Victorian chapter alive, he seemed
very-”
“He’s turned his sails to the hard-right since then Kim, the
prospects of a $50 billion tax cut bodes well in his circles. I doubt
he’s willing to part with so much dirty cash in this political climate.
We don’t know who’s going to win this fucking election. Bill’s run
and Bus across Australia only succeeded in revealing his Keynsian
leanings and its done well to alienate the Reinhart ilk. More budget
deficits means less income tax cuts! He won’t give up the money
Kim- no matter the ludicrous coke-to-blood ratio.”
“Charlie, the Reds may be relegated to the campuses but the
Greens are thriving in suburbs. If the ALP vote crashes through
in this election we’ll lose all credibility and may never recover in
Victoria. What happened in the UK this morning is a sign of things
to come; the centrists are losing their shine. We’re entering an era
of extreme promises and hard consequences. These new Millennials
coming through are fucking the status quo, the game is changing
and the ALP is still scrambling to figure out what the damned game
is anymore. If you don’t get this injection for us the Greens will be
the only seller on the market. Once they get hooked into the inner-
North, Labor will never be welcomed back, believe me, friend.”
“Every call I get from you Kim, only works to hammer in this
perception that Australian politics is headed for crisis. The Dam is
quickly reaching breaking point; it can only sustain so many gallons
of blasted tripe before it bursts. I’ll give it some serious thought and
get back to you this afternoon. Does Shorten known about this?”
“This entire call is on his instruction.”
“I’ll be in contact Kim.”
I put down the phone with rancorous haste. His reply had deeply
unnerved me. The hurried lighting of a cigarette on my balcony
calmed my angst, but in that mix of smoke and humidity emerged
rapid introspection. Bill Shorten had instructed the most senior
left-wing Senator in Victoria to milk his contacts for an emergency
slush-fund to save Labor’s vote from a fatal and awe-inspiring selfinduced
wound. The immediate parallel to that morning’s Brexit
vote astounded me. Cameron had used Western democracy’s most
powerful structure-shifting mechanism (referendum) as a quick fix
to quell party room dissent, only to fall on his sword spectacularly.
Then, in Australia, the Labor party had taken advantage of a natural
friend of the left, the environment, to not only wastefully produce
tonnes of useless paper fucking pamphlets but to also squeeze dry
the last drop of cash in Baby’s College Fund.
A phone call such as this, then in that silence when the receiver
touched its base revealed something that I had not known nor
could escape. I am as pained by, but persist in the political apparat
as I do my sunburn. A life-time membership to the Royal Australian
Political Theatre grants the commentariat unparalleled privilege
over other private citizens, a privilege that dooms me to watch
empires collapse and see old friends turn dirty. Such a burden it is
to trade secrets in this era of Murdochracy. But alas, it puts me by
pools and sends me to the tropics.
That’s all for now, Menthol Charlie.
I’ve divided my advance towards the next issue
with the diligence of an accomplished jurist. Half
for Mint Juleps and the other for Ibogaine. No
other pharmaceutical interaction could mimic
the extractive capacity of a dreamcatcher so
effectively. After all, the boorish editor of the
Telegraph had the cajones to run a piece on Bill
Shorten and a certain Gentleman’s club on King
Street. This calls for serious reflection, especially
because that motherfucking Labourist hasn’t
squared our debt from that evening…
article & photography by menthol charlie
creative/comedy
50-51