Larry is wearing a white cloak, pale yellow top and leggings and a wide black belt. He is riding on a white horse at the head of a troop of knights. He holds a sword in his right hand, whilst behind him another rider carries a lance which is held upright. A yellow pennant hanging on top of it flutters in the wind as the horses trot forward in formation.
Then an opposing army of foot soldiers dressed in red uniforms marches over the brow of a hill ahead. Larry turns to face his own men, and shouts “This is no time to be making shit gravy, mates! It’s Melbourne or the bush! Charge!”
He waves his sword forward in the air and leads his men towards the enemy. It doesn’t take long for the two armies to converge and suffuse. During the confusion of the melee, Larry finds himself and his steed cut off from his comrades. He is surrounded by opposing foot soldiers.
“Flaming hell! It’s all going down the gurgler.” he mutters to himself. “Looks like I’m gonna have to get as busy as a bricklayer in Baghdad and start sinking the slipper”.
Then he quickly dismounts and pulls a wooden cudgel out of his saddlebag. “G’day boys!” he shouts as he waves it above his head. “Anyone for cricket?”
He immediately strikes one of them across the head and the victim drops to the ground. He is quickly followed by another, and another, and another.
“Any more of you larrikins fancy big noting yourselves?” he challenges the few remaining soldiers around him. “Because I’d say you've got two chances – Buckley's and none!”
He menacingly lurches towards them and their spirit breaks into smithereens. They’ve seen enough and they flee for their lives.
Larry shouts after them. “Go and dip your eyes in cocky shit, you bunch of two pot screamers!”
His work done, he flops down, exhausted, and is approached by one of his own men, who says admiringly “Well done mate. I thought you were gonna come a gutzer there, but you were game as Ned Kelly”.
“Yeah,” wheezes Larry. “I shot through them like a Bondi tram, didn’t I? But now I’m more tired than a one armed bill sticker in a big wind”.
The soldier helps lift him to his feet and they both rejoin the fighting. The battle is soon over and the enemy flees the battlefield. His troops celebrate their victory, triumphantly carrying Larry on their shoulders. He smiles down at the soldier who’d helped him up earlier and says “You know what mate? I reckon that was just about the most fun you can have with your strides still on”.
It was the next afternoon when Humvat opened his eyes. He was lying where he had fallen, facedown on his bedroom floor. His head was throbbing and thoughts milled around his mind like a school of fish swimming blindly through the murky depths of a stagnant pond. He winced and decided he was going to give today a miss. The world would have to wait until tomorrow to make an appointment to see him. He closed his eyes again and within seconds he was quietly snoring and hugging a pillow as he dreamed of the monumental glory of another embrace with Kipdip.
Hours later in the stillness of the night he awoke again with a start and sat bolt upright. He hadn’t really filmed that extra scene, had he? Maybe he had. No, he definitely hadn’t. He was simply imagining he had. Oh Shit. The memories were real, not imaginary. He rubbed his still throbbing head and winced again. He was going to have to get that film destroyed before it came back to haunt him. Then he turned over but was unable to get back to sleep.
Early next morning he spluttered down the telephone. “What do you mean, you sent the film off to be developed?!”
There was babbling from the other end of the conversation.
“When will it be ready? This afternoon? Okay, I’ll come and collect it”.
More babbling.
“What do you mean, wear some form of disguise?”
Apparently the newspaper reviews of the second episode of One Great Guide, One Great Nation savaged it as a national disgrace, and everyone in the city was up in arms. Humvat sighed, replaced the receiver and searched for his cloak with the hood before going out.
Later that afternoon he returned to his lodgings with the film cassette. He was thankful for the protection of the hood, for he detected an uncomfortable, tense mood settling over the city. He opened the front door, walked in and surveyed a small box on the floor. He carefully prodded it, wondering how it had appeared in his rooms while he was gone and the front door was locked. He cautiously lifted the lid, peered inside, saw the charred remains of a flag and instantly understood. Presenting someone with a burnt South Jefestan flag is the ultimate Siminite protest message. It accuses the offender of disgracing not merely themselves but also the entire nation, and demands them to admit their guilt and make restitution. If this is ignored the next stage of protest will be less predictable, but would likely involve the removal of limbs. Somebody out there somewhere, probably some disaffected lunatic with an imagined grudge, had discovered his whereabouts. They had left this little gift to let him know the limb removers were circling and locked doors were an irrelevance. He was in deep trouble now. He sat down and deliberated over the options available to him and the answer gradually became clear. There was but one course of action left open, and that was a direct plea for clemency and protection from the big man himself.
He hid the cassette beneath the sofa, put the hooded cloak back on and furtively made his way to the royal palace once again. He banged his fists against the huge doors and begged to be allowed inside. “I seek an audience with the Great Guide! I insist on it!” he cried pitifully.
“You know the Guide speaks to no one!” growled a surly, burly guard from behind the door. “Especially insolent dogs like you. Now be away with you, before I lose my patience and shoot your head off!”
“But my name is Humvat Virit. I have been playing the part of the Guide on television in the story of his life! I must see him!” he shouted, as he glanced around and nervously removed the hood to reveal his face.
There was the scraping sound of a shutter sliding. A head poked out and smiled condescendingly. “Oh, it’s you. We all wondered how long it would take before you made an appearance here. In fact we’ve been running a sweepstake”.
The shutter slid shut again and there was a period of silence. This was broken by the chinking sound of a bunch of keys, then the rattling of these keys turning in a number of locks, one by one. The door slowly opened and the full image of the guard appeared before him. “Apparently he’ll see you.” he sneered. “Come inside. He’s probably been waiting for you to turn up here as well”.
The mighty palace doors creaked open and Humvat entered again, but this time with the meekness of a desperate refugee rather than the swagger of a superstar.
He was met in the grand entrance hall by a member of the palace staff dressed in the ridiculous yellow and white uniform favoured by those who follow the orthodox sect of Baqra. He sniffed at Humvat, indicated he was to follow him and walked away briskly. He spoke over his shoulder. “You realise normally the Guide entertains nobody? You do realise this is a great honour for you? In fact it’s unheard of, particularly for a sinful serf”.
Humvat nervously nodded his tacit understanding of the gravitas and fought to keep panic at bay. His imploring speech for clemency, carefully prepared and rehearsed during his walk through the city, was fading from his mind like water pouring out of a leaky bucket.
The servant led him up and down corridors similar to the ones he had drunkenly stumbled along the other evening, until they stopped outside the very stateroom he had sullied. He motioned to Humvat to knock on the door and, without waiting he withdrew back down the corridor. Humvat steeled himself, drew another deep breath and tapped lightly on the door.
“Enter!” boomed a voice from within the room. Humvat pushed it open and, fighting the temptation to bolt back down the corridor himself, entered the anteroom and closed the door behind him. A bodyguard from the Public Defence frisked him and took his shoes, while another bade him to open another door and enter on his own. He slipped thr
ough the door and he was back in the stateroom, alone again. He walked alongside the huge table and admired the various historic mementoes, religious relics and works of art which littered the walls.
Then the swivel chair, which was facing away from him, swung around without warning to reveal the Guide seated in it. He was sitting in the same seat, at the same table where Humvat had slovenly slouched before Parvark’s camera. It served to make him feel even more uncomfortable than he already was, if that were possible. The Guide surveyed him as Humvat instinctively stood rigidly to attention and stared into the distance. He knew there was a protocol to be observed, though he didn’t know what the protocol might be. Nobody had bothered to tell him, so he was unsure of the rules; who should speak first and when and so on, so he stood stiffly in respectful silence waiting for something to happen.
Eventually the Guide stood up and walked across the room towards him. He carefully looked him up and down. “So,” he beamed. “I’ve been looking forward to finally meeting you”.
He circled around Humvat, closely inspected his features and continued. “It isn’t often I get to take a look at myself as others might see me”.
Humvat was well aware he bore no resemblance to the Guide, so these words confused and baffled him. His curiosity could no longer be contained. Ignoring any of the protocol, he bent down, took the Guide’s hand, kissed a ring upon his finger and nervously stuttered “But your majesty”.
The Guide withdrew his finger and wagged it in the air. “Young man. I fervently believe there should be less formality and more progress in our society.” he lectured. “Inside this stateroom at least, you may address me simply as Great Guide”.
“But Great Guide…” he stuttered, his gaze falling down upon the floor. “When I look at myself I do not see you at all”.
“Similarity does not have to consist of a physical, cosmetic likeness.” the Guide replied vaguely. “I fervently believe the truth also lies in what exists beneath, inside people’s thoughts”.
Humvat grew even more confused and looked back up. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand”.
The Guide ambled back over to the table. “You should understand it wasn’t due to mere chance you came to play the part of myself. It was brought about by the certainty of logical reasoning. You were carefully chosen for this task”.
Humvat’s eyebrows furrowed at this ever deepening mystery. He shook his head and absentmindedly muttered to himself. “Reasoning? What reasoning?”
“You were selected because you ask questions, because you don’t accept answers and,” the Guide intensified the moment with a pause as he looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot. Then he whispered. “Because I have been told you wish to light a wildfire”.
Humvat pondered to himself. Light a wildfire? What wildfire? When did he ever say he wanted to start a wildfire? Then the penny dropped and his heart leapt. Holy Baqra! This was unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable. Kinbus had been right all along. Somebody was eavesdropping on their conversation with Kipdip that day when they were returning from the temple to the theatre, Baqra knows how long ago. And of course, this being South Jefesta, the spy only reported half of the conversation. He firmly and categorically stated at the time he did not want to start a wildfire, and he still felt the same way.
The difference was that in those earlier days he was playing upon a stupid Hollywood dream, whereas now he was playing for far more serious stakes, namely his life. But he seemed to be on the verge of making a powerful friendship with the Guide, and it would be disastrous to admit reticence at this moment. He had no choice but to play along with the misapprehension. He smiled what he hoped was a smile which said he understood they shared a secret never to be spoken of.
The Guide settled back into his seat. “Let me tell you something young man. Back in the days when I too was young and idealistic, I fought battles for the freedom of this country. I fought for democracy. I fought for the people. I fought against corruption and I fought against ignorance, prejudice and injustice”.
Then he vacantly stared into space and sighed to himself. “And look what I’ve ended up with. I’m stuck half way between a bunch of religious crackpots and a crowd of half-baked expansionists, each side continually plotting against the other”.
He looked up, forlornly. “I didn’t realise that when you start a revolution you never end up with the type of government you think you’re going to get, the one you think you’re fighting for”.
He paced the room and continued. “There are always too many egos and too many opportunists out there to ever permit a true freedom to exist, yet alone flourish. All they want is the chance to seize power for themselves because if they allow true freedom the people are beyond their control. What have I really achieved in my lifetime? And I don’t have much more time….”
He drifted away for a few moments before his concentration returned. Then he looked back up towards Humvat. “But I still have hopes for this nation to fulfil its rightful destiny. My desire is to remove the corruption, for the corruptions of nationalism and religious dogma are worse than any other forms of corruption. I want to replace it with the power of the common people. And you know what? I think lighting a wildfire might just be the way to do it”.
If Humvat was feeling uncomfortable before, then he was really becoming acquainted with the condition now. He didn’t understand where this conversation was headed, and what’s more he didn’t want to understand it. The Guide was turning out to be a far more frightening character than the monster he had imagined him to be. He sounded like an evangelist who wanted to change the world with a wildfire which would end up getting them all killed. Whatever had possessed him to ever start that stupid, stupid conversation with Kinbus?
At the same time he was trying to think on his feet, come up with whatever gift, knowledge or morsel he might be able to use as barter, something which might conceivably save his life. Then he had a sudden brainwave, the sort of sudden idea only a pallid hangover produces. Perhaps a confidence might suffice.
“Please forgive me Great Guide, for I have a confession to make.” he began. “In the heat of a moment I made a blasphemous film about you and I’m afraid I said some terrible things on your behalf. I am but a worthless sinner and I beseech your indulgence”.
The Guide looked intrigued. “What did I – you – say exactly, in this film?”
“I pretended to be you before the camera and I accused you of all sorts of failings as a leader“.
The Guide looked crestfallen. “Well, I haven’t been as good a leader as I would have hoped for.” he murmured. “So this is probably a true enough allegation. I can’t disagree with the substance of it”.
Humvat winced. He was going to have to offer up more information than he desired. “And then I claimed you have been deceiving and humiliating the entire country for years because you were really a Semonite from the North”.
Intrigued, The Guide raised his eyebrows. “Why on earth did you say such a thing? It would cause rioting on the streets, at an absolute minimum“.
Humvat shrugged. “In truth my portrayal of you has not been well received by the critics. I was feeling miserable and bitter.” he said with honesty, then for good measure added a white lie. “I have been following a school of acting called method. It teaches that you are supposed to allow the part you are playing to inhabit you, and I suppose I was lashing out at the one whom I felt closest to”.
He sensed that, for some unknown reason The Guide had taken to him, and he was now going to have to pursue this sponsorship and clutch it to his chest, using all his acting experience as his harpoon.
The Guide snorted with derision. “Damn those critics to Hell! What do they know about me?”
He made a note on a sheet of paper and continued. “Tell me, what has become of this piece of film you made?”
“It’s on a cassette which is hidden beneath the sofa at my lodgings. I’ll destroy it, I swear I will, as soon as I retur
n home”.
“No – don’t destroy it. Don’t waste a bargaining tool you might possibly require later. Hide it somewhere safe and keep it in case you have need of insurance”.
The Guide arose once again and patted Humvat on the shoulder. “You should go now. Come back and visit me again soon. And don’t worry about your misfortunes, particularly the burnt flag”.
Humvat bowed his head, turned and left the stateroom. As he walked outside the building he became puzzled. He didn’t remember mentioning the burnt flag.
He returned home and reached under the sofa to retrieve the film. If it was as valuable as the Guide suggested, he was going to have to find somewhere more secure to store it. He strained his arm and patted the floor but couldn’t locate it. In a fit of impatience he finally moved the sofa aside and bent down to pick it up, but there was a problem. The cassette was no longer there. It had disappeared.
He frantically called Parvark to come over, and together they sifted through the lodgings without success.
Humvat started to panic. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do? If it falls into the wrong hands, I’m dead!” he howled.
“Oh stop worrying.” admonished Parvark. “You’ve just misplaced it. It’ll turn up sometime”.
Some days later the Executioner of Entertainment sat at his desk in his office. There was a knock on the door and a subordinate entered.
“Executioner,” he smiled. “Something has come into my possession and I think it may be of interest to you”.
He dangled a cassette in the air. “Let me set it up and play it for you”.
The Executioner looked thoughtfully at the screen and rubbed his chin as drunken Humvat sniggered “I’m actually a Semonite dog and I’ve been ruling over you for 28 years of deceit. Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Then a background voice muttered “If you weren’t going to get shot before, you are now”.
The screen went blank and the subordinate switched it off.
“Hmm” mused the Executioner. “Not particularly good acting, but at least he’s managed to achieve a consistency, I suppose. Who does the other voice belong to?”
“One of our cameramen named Parvark Laska, excellency”.
The Executioner continued to rub his chin. He was at the vanguard of the expansionist wing of government, so he possessed no great love for The Guide to begin with. And this love hadn’t exactly been touched by the debacle of the botched assassination attempt which was supposed to spark the invasion of the North. He’d lost a lot of credibility within the Party and the General still wasn’t speaking to him. And the constant patronising and provocation from The Guide’s secretary and his staff had really begun to irritate. They’d also ruined that plan to replace the ancient Siminite language with modern English according to Shakesbeard. So here was the opportunity for a perfect revenge which would certainly cause The Guide and his cronies embarrassment, maybe even a great deal of trouble. Hadn’t his secretary eagerly claimed authorship of the pathetic piece of dirge? And if it all went wrong again, Humvat and Parvark could be blamed for everything.
He turned to the subordinate. “How easy would it be to tag this onto the end of the final program in the series?”
“Relatively easy, excellency”.
“Organise a committee immediately then. And make sure the security classification is EXTREMELY SENSITIVE. I don’t want a word of this getting out. I’d like it to be a surprise”.
Two weeks later, in lurid bold lettering, the newspaper headline screamed out its latest thundering missive. “Last Episode Tonight, Thank Baqra!”
Humvat thumbed through the pages, briefly scanning them. The basic gist was that One Great Guide, One Great Nation was being waved away with the sort of smile normally reserved for a departing hated relative. The happiness even seemed to have oozed its way into the populace. You could almost feel the militant mood which had pervaded the city slowly subsiding, and thus far he was still in possession of all his limbs. Maybe he could even take a chance to leave his lodgings and venture out amongst the public for the first time in ages. He put on his cloak, pulled the hood over his head and sneaked out into the darkness of the night.
Parvark was sitting in his living room, watching television, when there was a knock on the door. He opened it and let Humvat in. They exchanged greetings.
“I just had to get out of the house.” explained Humvat as he removed his cloak. “I was beginning to go mad, sitting on my own, staring at the same four walls all day and night”.
Parvark looked upon him sympathetically and admitted “I just count myself fortunate nobody knows who I am”.
He pointed towards the television set. “Your final performance is just about to start. It’s about time you watched yourself. I’ll get us both a drink”.
Humvat grimaced. He had successfully managed to avoid viewing himself, but seeing as it was his last opportunity to clutch despair, he sat down and succumbed.
Carbet’s theme music blasted into life, the introduction credits rolled for a few seconds and then there he was, in all his majesty. Humvat The Guide. It was the crowning ceremony in the main temple. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat while his two dimensional self ranted and raved a challenge to the congregation that any one of them was welcome to take his place on the throne if they were brave enough. He pretended to look down at the floor as his alter ego led his people off into battle in order to free them, yet again, from the tyrannical yoke of the Semonites of North Jefesta. He inspected his fingernails as he instructed his fictional son and daughter in the ways of the world. And finally, thank goodness, he and Kipdip – both heavily made up to look much older - came out of the palace to be greeted by a happy crowd and the two of them departed on the symbolic balloon ride in the symbolic balloon. Then the closing credits rolled past the screen as Carbet’s musical score played for a final time.
“Oh well.” he sighed. “At least the madness has come to an end. Now we can all hopefully get back to leading normal lives again”.
“If you don’t lose your head first.” reminded Parvark.
Humvat pursed his lips and nodded agreement. “If I don’t lose my head”.
Suddenly there was a flash of light on the television screen, a garbled, crackling sound, and a picture appeared of Humvat dressed in uniform and sloppily seated at the state table.
He and Parvark glanced up at each other.
“Oh shit!” they sighed in unison.
His screen image boorishly burped and scowled “Right you lot. Great Guide here. Of course I don’t actually need to introduce myself, because you all know me well, don’t you? Or do you really know me at all?”
Humvat desperately lunged across, switched the television off and stood quaking before it.
“Switching it off doesn’t change anything you idiot!” scowled Parvark. “There are millions of other televisions all over the country still switched on!”
“I just can’t stand to look at it any more.” mumbled Humvat. “Making this program has completely ruined my life”. Then he looked up, the realisation draining the colour away from his face. “Or are we dead men now?”
“Speak for yourself.” muttered Parvark. “You might be dead, but I’m very much alive!”
He defiantly turned the television back on, just as a voice off camera muttered “If you weren’t going to get shot before, you are now”.
He quickly turned the set back off and blankly nodded, the colour draining from his own face. “Yes, we’re dead men now.” he whispered.
Humvat started to panic. He knew he should be doing something, but he didn’t know what. His instinct was to head straight for home. If he was going to die, he didn’t want it to happen in a strange house. He wanted to die in his own bed. So he hurriedly put his cloak back on, pulled up the hood and disappeared back into the night.
He walked down the unlit streets and could feel the menace rising in the air. There was the odd distant roar of menacing crowds, the vague sou
nd of glass being broken and a whiff of burning smoke tinged the air. Making sure to pick his way through the darkest, quietest shadows, he safely made it back home.
Once inside he poured himself three glasses of brandy, knocking each one back in a single gulp. Having consumed enough alcohol to ensure an easy route to slumber and protection from nightmares, he wound his way to his bed. He lay there for a moment, thoughts racing through his mind. He would definitely have to revisit the Guide in the morning. He’d use every weapon at his disposal to build up his friendship. He assured himself he was a good actor. Then he fell into a drowsy sleep.
He awoke. He didn’t know what time it was, but it was pitch black. He stirred. There had been a noise but what was it? Then the same sound, the shattering of a window in the kitchen made him jump. He crept out of bed, picked up a shoe – of all things – for protection and warily made his way towards the closed kitchen door.
He slowly opened it, and squinting through the crack he noticed a flickering light in the corner. Then, as he opened it more fully he could make things out more clearly. It wasn’t a light at all. It was flames. Somebody was trying to kill him! He dashed back into the bedroom and pulled on his clothes, but was unable to find one of his shoes. He cursed, then realised he’d left it by the kitchen door. He retrieved it, grabbed his cloak and ran out of the back door and into the courtyard. He clambered over the wall and dropped down into the alley which ran alongside. He hurriedly glanced around and seeing nobody, he pulled up his hood and crept away from the scene of the crime.
Adrenaline pumped thoughts raced through his mind as he strode, head carefully kept down, along a street. Small mobs formed. One was chanting “Death to the Guide!” Another mob shouted “Burn the traitor!”
He passed an angry group of young men who were burning an effigy of the Guide, a placard fixed around its neck pronouncing “Semonite Pig!”
He gulped, tightened his hood and stealthily moved onwards. He was on his way to seek sanctuary earlier than anticipated, and offered by a man he had thoughtlessly betrayed. He arrived at the palace and tapped quietly on the door, anxious not to draw attention to himself. There was no response, so he tried again, this time banging loudly. He heard something stirring within, and a guard pulled open a shutter and blearily stuck his head out. “I need to speak with the Guide.” hissed Humvat. “Immediately”.
The guard rubbed his eyes. “He’s sleeping.” he yawned. “Nobody disturbs the Guide when he’s asleep. Not unless they want to die”.
“But he’ll see me. Tell him it’s imperative I see him!” shouted Humvat, momentarily losing his cool and forgetting the need for silence. “I need to see him now”.
The guard shook his head. “Go home and come back in the morning”.
“I don’t have a home to go to! Someone just burnt it down!”
“Then go to someone else’s home.” grunted the guard, closing the shutter with a thud.
Humvat pondered for a moment and headed in the direction of Parvark’s house. The restless mobs out on the streets were now growing more numerous and more vicious. They were chanting hate, they were breathing venom and they were demanding retribution. He went to go past some particularly malevolent people when they blocked his path.
“Hey, you!” jeered one of them. “Why the hood?”
“Yeah, what’s the secret?” growled another, poking him in the chest.
A third man leant across and casually pulled the hood back. The three of them looked at his face and momentarily froze in disbelief. Humvat wasn’t about to hang around and wait for them to regain their composure. He ran for his life.
“It’s him from the television program! The one who insulted the nation!” shouted one of the mob.
“Come on you lot!” another one exhorted those around him. “Let’s string him up!”
And with that they gave chase.
Humvat fled down one street and turned up another. He could hear the baying mob not far behind him. He ran for what seemed like hours, the sound of the following crowd never ceasing. Panting heavily he ducked into a side street and then spotted a large bin. He hesitated. He was thinking about hiding in there, but it was possible they’d discover him. On the other hand he was so exhausted he couldn’t run any further. So he hauled himself into it and covered himself with the stench of rotting meat, vegetables, fruit, fish and god knows what else. He heard voices, held his breath and sat motionless amongst his new possessions.
“Where.. Did.. he.. go?” gasped one of the men breathlessly.
“Dunno.. think we.. lost him...” gasped another.
“Check the bin.” wheezed a third. “He.. might.. be.. in there”.
He heard the men muttering their bad intentions towards him as they sat around regaining their breath. Then he heard footsteps approaching and a voice above his head. “Doesn’t look like he’s in there”.
Another voice said. “He may be hiding underneath it. Put your hand in and find out”.
“I’m not putting my hand in that shit! You put your hand in!”
There was a pause. “No. He won’t be in there. He’s given us the slip. Come on, let’s go and find something to burn”.
The voices trudged away into the dark distance, but Humvat remained quiet and still for a further thirty minutes before he dared emerge from his hiding place. He shook off most of his armoured suit of rubbish, but was forced to wear the wet stains and the sticky stuff he couldn’t remove.
He looked around. He wasn’t familiar with this part of the city, so he searched for a landmark as he wandered back and forth along the street. And then he found it. Kinbus’ house. He knocked on the door and Kipdip opened it.
“Can I speak to Kinbus?” he groaned.
“He’s not here”.
She paused for a moment as she surveyed him, curiously. “He’s gone away for a few days. It’s something to do with the stage school.”
“Can I come in then?” he pleaded.
She looked at him and sniffed the air. “Not smelling like that, you can’t”.
She brought him some of Kinbus’ clothes to wear while she washed his own filthy clothing and he told her his tale of woe.
“I didn’t even bother watching tonight’s episode.” she admitted. “I haven’t watched our program for a while now.”
Humvat sighed. “Funnily enough it was the first one I watched”.
He grimaced.
“Me and Parvark are now marked men. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go home. I can’t go outside during daylight. I can’t even go onto the street during the night. This has all turned into a terrible mess”.
Kipdip gently stroked his shoulder in the way women do to comfort each other and offer moral support, but which men more often than not misinterpret as a sexual invitation. “Don’t worry.” she soothed. “You can stay here tonight”.
Then, just as Humvat’s hopes were rising, she added. “You can sleep in father’s bed”.
The next morning Kipdip volunteered to visit the palace on Humvat’s behalf. At first he was insistent she was putting herself in danger. After all, she’d played the part of the Guide’s imaginary wife, the princess Medina. But she produced a wig and some glasses and convinced him she had already spent time walking the streets quite happily, unrecognised. He said if that were the case, could she collect Parvark and bring him back to the house with her? She gave him the sort of look which warned him not to take liberties, but one which also confirmed she would do as requested.
Several hours later she returned with Parvark in tow.
“Well?” demanded Humvat. “What happened? Did the Guide speak to you?”
Kipdip took off her coat. “I mentioned your name at the palace gates and he gave me an audience. He seems very fond of you”.
She hung the coat up on a rail. “He said you and your friend Parvark will be marked men now”.
“As if we didn’t know that already!” snorted Parvark.
“He sa
id the Execution of Travel can supply you with tickets to get away from South Jefesta, and the Execution of Finance can provide you with some money to help you when you get there”.
“Tickets? Get where?”
“He said wherever you want. It’s up to you to choose”.
Humvat and Parvark looked at each other. “Wherever we want?”
“Yep”.
They exchanged whispers.
“Okay then,” said Humvat. “Go back and tell him we want tickets to Hollywood, in the United States of America”.
Heather Surning sat down beneath an old and battered palm tree on the beach. It looked to be suffering from terminal disease, yet here and there remained green sprigs of life. She felt a comforting message of hope flow around her whenever she sat in the vicinity of this eternal tree. She opened her laptop and started typing rapidly. She’d done a lot of research for this piece and already knew what it was going to say. The words flowed.
“The proud flag of our American NeoEmpire is firmly planted in the bedrock of a land of corporations. These are both evangelist and explorer, spreading our message of capitalist hope to distant shores and returning home bearing untold riches. In the United States alone they employ more than 70,000,000 people, giving them their comfortable lifestyle much envied by the rest of humanity. And what’s more, our corporations are owned by their shareholders, namely the American people. We are the golden generation who will realize the much vaunted American Dream, because corporations now make up more than half of the largest economies in the world. They are greater in size and richer than most countries, and the citizens of America are the owners of this NeoEmpire. Thanks to these mighty institutions we shall inherit the earth, but without them we’d be stuck halfway between hell and Mexico”.
“That’s the way corporations would like us to see them and many people do, but why should many others see them as purveyors of pure evil instead? Well, the dictionary definition for the word corporation is ‘A body of people acting jointly, for administration or business purposes, and who are recognized by law as acting as an individual’. So, as far as the law is concerned, a corporation is not an organization - it is actually a person, a Corporation Person. Thus corporations have the same human rights as you and I, including the right to place their own interests before the public interest. They can give their money to whichever political party they choose in return for legislative favors. They can offer people vast quantities of cheap convenient food without concern that it might be unhealthy. Later they can charge the same people extortionate amounts of money for the drugs required to treat their obesity, heart or cholesterol problems. They can offer home mortgages to people, knowing they won’t be able to keep up the repayments. They can then offload this financial poison onto unsuspecting international customers and cause a global financial crisis when the clock stops ticking and the bomb goes off. Finally they can plead the Fifth Amendment when charged with wanton neglect. For the sole obligation this Corporation Person has to society is to make money. They do not care about issues such as human rights, financial collapse or the environment because they don’t have to. All they care about is generating profit, and this Corporation Person our legal system has created is starting to look like a sociopathic monster”.
“The reality is that Corporations themselves aren’t all bad and have become a necessary part of our future anyhow. The problem is that individuals within a corporation become part of a faceless collective and any sense of personal morality or responsibility gets covered by the all-consuming whitewash of the corporate raison d’être, which is that profit is the only thing that matters and it must be made at any expense. Corporate employees routinely deal with abuses of power which would horrify them if they had to perform the abuse themselves. But hey, it’s not my fault, it’s not your fault, it’s nobody’s fault. It’s just the way the corporation works. It’s the way it’s always worked. Back in the 19th century politicians, railroad barons and land grabbers saw profit to be made in the American West and drove out any native inhabitants who got in the way of making that profit. In the process they did more than anyone else to create modern America, but at what cost? Meanwhile corporations are still doing more than anyone else to make America the global economic force it is today, but once again, at what cost? They are still robbing and raping the rest of the world and bleeding it dry, all in the name of supplying the American people with goods they don’t need but, somehow thanks to the power of advertising, cannot do without. In the meantime we stagger around filling and emptying our pockets like money junkies”.
“The most dangerous gift we have given our corporate monsters is total personal freedom by allowing them to buy political influence and get laws changed to deregulate previously regulated markets. We must help them change their ways by revoking this privilege. They should no longer be allowed to interfere in domestic politics, nor send out missions to foreign states. These are jobs for government alone. And, most importantly, a four letter word beginning with F should be entered into the statute books when it comes to making a profit, and that word is fair. Corporations are too important to us to allow them to be controlled by self-interested gamblers, and should be run instead by the people. We’ve tried deregulation and it failed spectacularly, so it’s time for our representatives to act (corporate bosses are hardly likely to fire themselves!) to regulate markets and change the letter of the law. A corporation is not a person because it has no conscience”.
She scanned through her words, nodded her head with satisfaction and closed the laptop lid shut. She was creating a solution.
Chapter Eight
Wild About Larry